The Basra Port was large and messy with rusty steel container strewn about the place. Hasan had never been inside the premises, it was dirty, noisy and he had been warned that a lot of smugglers and drug dealers plied their trade there.
But as he entered, he could already see signs of change. There were whites everywhere, speaking loudly and authoritatively in English. There was a hustle and bustle which he had never noticed from the outside, as if some great work was being done.
There were long queues of locals winding into rudimentary looking contraptions that had doors and windows. These were probably the temporary offices that the new American overlords had set up.
As per the ad, that he still had clutched in his hand, he was supposed to report to the Strategic Planning Office, but all the boxy temporary offices looked the same to him. So he stopped and tapped on the shoulder of one of the men lined up in a queue and asked him in Arabic, "Brother do you know where this Strategic Planning Office is?"
The man had a languid expression on his face as he chewed something...probably Khat. He looked at Hasan and then shrugged. Hasan sighed in frustration and looked around to see if he could accost one of the whites for help. But they were all rushing around looking interminably busy.
Finally he decided to seek the help of the only whites who looked unoccupied, the scary looking American soldiers. Despite his revolutionary ideals, Hasan was terrified of these foreign soldiers. They had all kinds of expensive looking gear, and had large black rifles angled in front of them with one hand near the trigger at all times. They wore dark sunglasses and chewed gum as they observed the goings-on continuously.
But he had come here for a reason and he would not leave before that. So he walked up to one of the soldiers and said in his heavily accented English, "E...excuse me."
The soldier didnt seem to hear him so Hasan cleared his throat and said loudly, "Excuse me!"
The American looked at him and said, "Yeah bub?" He sounded like one of the cowboys in the Western movies his Baba had taken him to see as a child.
"Ummm...I am looking for the Strategic Planning Office."
The soldier looked him up and down before replying, "And why d'you need to find the Strategic Planning Office bub?"
Hasan was indignant that this soldier was treating him like some kind of hostile. He held out the crumpled leaflet but didnt say anything.
The soldier took the leaflet and scanned it before nodding, "Take a right and just keep heading straight. It's the blue coloured cabin next to the water. Cant miss it bub."
"Thank you," said Hasan relieved and surprised that the soldier had ultimately been helpful.
"No problem buddy, break a leg!" The soldier said drawling the word problem into 'praablem'.
There was no queue outside the large blue cabin. Hasan tepidly knocked on the door once and then harder again a few minutes later.
"Come in already, sheesh!" came a muffled voice.
Hasan stepped out of the baking heat and into a cool, dimly lit, air conditioned room with a few whites and very few Arabs stationed around desks.
There was huge white man seated behind a desk close to the door who was staring at Hasan expectantly.
"Uhhh I am here about the translator job...sir," said Hasan hesitantly holding out the leaflet.
The man's eyes lit up and he grinned broadly, "Finally! Another one! Sit down, sit down buddy. Take a load off."
Hasan sat down in front of the man, he struggled with the chair awkwardly and winced as it screeched across the metal floor of the cabin. He was feeling inordinately anxious around all these whites. He had only seen people of other races on TV and newspapers before. He hadn't realised they would be so big or loud.
His English tutor had been an old Indian man called Vaswani. When Hasan had asked him why he was in Iraq, Vaswani had laughed and said it was because he loved dates. Only later did Hasan realise that the old man was joking. Old Vaswani had been born in Iraq when it was a British protectorate, part of an Indian trading community that had dwindled once the Arabs had taken the country back.
"Names Hewitt," said the white man extending a large paw across the table. Hasan took the hand surprised at the man's lack of callouses.
"Hasan Majid sir."
"I'm not British Hasan, I'm american. You dont need to be so formal," Hewitt replied grinning.
Hasan nodded seriously.
"So...you got a resume or...'see vee'?"
Hasan clumsily drew out an envelope from his back pocket in which had folded a typewritten CV. There wasnt much on it. It had his education details and his newspaper experience. He was embarrassed by it. It was also a little damp from his sweat.
Hewitt took it and grimaced a bit, "Errr hot day outside is it?"
Hasan chuckled self consciously and nodded.
Hewitt spent the next few minutes poring over Hasans CV as Hasan sat there feeling self conscious.
"You're a civil engineer and excellent grades by the look of it Hasan," began Hewitt in a serious tone. "How come you ended up in journalism."
"Sir, I spent six months after graduating looking for an engineering job. But I had no luck. It is tough....especially for a Shia," Hasan said firmly. He had had this conversation many times before and he stopped caring much.
Hewitt nodded, "Yeah we were given a heads up about the situation before we came here. I get it. Its damn unfortunate though, you would have been perfect for the project officer role."
Hasan nodded bitterly.
Hewitt put Hasan's CV down and looked him in the eyes. "Look Hasan I mean you're probably overqualified for the translator role. But without experience in engineering I cant put you in a project role. So I'm thinking we start you out in translation, if you impress I'll push management to give you a chance in projects. Does that work?"
Hasan was stunned, "I've got the job?"
Hewitt nodded, "Yeah of course."
Hasan controlled his giddiness and asked, "But how much does it pay?"
Hewitt located a loose sheet of paper from his desk and presented him with a typewritten table with Hasan's starting salary written out on it. Hasan's eyes bulged when he saw the figure. It was almost ten times what he earned at the newspaper. It was almost as much as he would have earned as an entry level engineer.
Hasan held out his hand, "When can I start?"
November 1979 - Basra
The previous few months had been the most hectic of Hasan's life. He quickly became the most in-demand translator in all of Basra Port. What the Americans hadn't realised was that it wasnt enough for the translator to speak English and Arabic if they had no concept of engineering or logistics. It was an exercise in frustration to first explain things to the translator properly and then have them explain it to the workers in turn, all the while hoping that it didnt turn into Chinese Whispers.
With Hasan it was different, he had the theoretical knowledge but also had a knack of getting exactly what the project officers were trying to convey. In some cases he also made suggestions to the project men which improved their ideas. He was in demand and constantly shuttling from one end of the port to the other.
He then discovered a wondrous concept called 'overtime' in which if he worked beyond his contracted hours in a day, he would be paid at double the usual hourly rate. Overtime swept him off his feet into a world of exponentially increasing bank balance. Within a matter of weeks he began dreaming of purchasing a small car in which to traverse the new four lane highway that went from the Port to the city of Basra.
Hasan was so enthralled by his work that he didnt notice that he hadn't seen any of his old colleagues or friends in months nor that the Ayatollah had taken over in neighbouring Iran. He was least bothered when the hostage crisis broke out even though his new American colleagues became very grim faced.
All over Basra Hasan spied a new energy and enthusiasm. It felt like all of the men either worked for Bechtel at the Port or Siemens on the new commercial railway line that Saddam had grandiosity called the Spine of Mesopotamia.
Unlike what Hasan had expected, no one cursed the Americans and surprisingly people stopped cursing Saddam too. Nobody praised him but the evening abusive sessions at the cafes led by the rickety old sheesha smoking men stopped. Those sessions stopped because there was no one left to attend those evening sessions. Even the older men found work. No one had time for the old timers to bitch.
But Hasan continued to hear the Americans complain about being unable to fill the vacancies.
"Hasan please put the word out...we need forklift operators."
"Hasan ask your friends or cousins if anyone would be willing to learn how to operate a JCB."
"Hasan...dude...we need more translators."
Hasan once asked Hewitt what the big rush was for. Hewitt slammed his hand on his table in frustration and said, "If we finish erecting crane. no. 3 by Christmas we get a 30% bonus. 30% Hasan! I can buy my kid that goddamn millennium falcon he wants and have enough left over to put a downpayment on that new Chevy I've had my eye on."
Later that evening, Hasan replayed that humourous exchange for his family. They all chuckled except for his sister Noor who said seriously, "I want to be a translator too."
Hasan looked to his father who simply nodded and said, "Okay. Hasan take her along tomorrow."
All hell broke loose as his mother and father rowed all night. Noor has learned English with Hasan from old Vaswani. But opportunities for women had been non existent...until now.
So Hasan took his little sister to work the next day and introduced her to Hewitt who looked like he might cry in joy.
Hasan was worried about his sisters safety but the Americans seemed to have made her wellbeing their priority and made it clear to the local workers that any disrespect of her because of her gender would be a violation of Bechtel policy and would result in immediate termination of their employment. No one wanted to lose their fat pay packet because they couldn't keep their sexist shit off the tips of their tongues. So the worst Noor faced was glares and resentful looks which she ignored with aplomb.
Hasan felt immense pride..for the first time in his life.