Who took care of our Garden

“Based on True Story”

A Simple Question That May Not Need Much Thought: Who used to take care of our home garden? After the death of our father in the summer of year 1969, we purchased a beautiful new house with large yard to be converted to a garden. We hired a Gardner to take care of that.

Ridha was a young man, about twenty years old, when we made an agreement with him in 1969 to take care of our home garden, which was approximately 500 square meters. Thanks to our mother and Ridha, It became a beautiful garden, with a sizable green lawn in the center, surrounded by vibrant and diverse flowers on all sides, and about twenty citrus trees like sour orange, orange, and lemon.

Ridha lived in the city of Kadhimiya, while our house was in Eastern Karrada. We were on the opposite ends of Baghdad, Kadhimiya in the far north, and Karrada in the far south. He would load his gardening tools onto his bicycle and go from house to house, despite the bitter cold of winter and the unbearable heat of summer. Ridha would be drenched in sweat while working in our garden during the peak of summer afternoons, especially when mowing the lawn with his manual machine.

 My mother, may God have mercy on her soul’s, never overlooked this. She would prepare a full tray of food for him: rice, stew, yogurt, watermelon, tea, chilled water, everything and more. For her, it wasn’t a matter of casual or occasional, it was consistent, as if she had providing lunch included in the contract with him. What was offered to Ridha, not a leftover from the previous day or just bread with a little food. No, he was treated like a guest, perhaps even a guest of honor. Time passed, and my mother passed away in the winter of 1973, in the prime of her life, she was not yet forty years old. We couldn’t comprehend her death, but life had to go on, and we carried on with all our strength. What helped us greatly was my maternal grandmother moving in with us. O’God, what a blessing that was. As a family, we talked about everything, except about my mother. I couldn’t speak about her, although she was with me, her image before me with every heartbeat. Perhaps this is the first time I have spoken of her after her passing fifty years later.

1973 was a year full of events. The Egyptian army crossed the Suez Canal and liberated it from Israeli forces; the war was called the October War. That same year, Iraq completed the nationalization of all foreign oil companies, followed by a massive increase in oil revenues. Part of that was invested in developmental projects known at the time as the “Explosive Plan,” which brought many foreign companies to work in Iraq. This, in turn, led to a labor shortage and a sharp rise in prices, despite the influx of millions of foreign workers, especially our Egyptian brothers. During that time, I noticed that Ridha had bought a motorcycle to replace his bicycle. Then, he upgraded his manual lawn mower to one powered by gasoline. Instead of visiting us three times a week, it became two, then eventually reduced to just once a week.

That worried me. I feared that the charm and beauty of our garden, which had been an icon of our mother, would fade with time. So, one day, I spoke frankly with Ridha. I objected to his reduced visits and offered to raise his wages from three dinars to five dinars a month. His response, with tears shimmering in his eyes, was: “Uncle, don’t you worry about the garden. A garden like this nowadays wouldn’t be serviced for less than fifteen dinars a month, but I don’t want any increase. This garden is a trust left to me by the late lady, may God bless her soul, and I will look after it with my own eyes. I will never neglect it.” Thank you, Ridha, the hardworking, noble young man who was moved by the bond of shared bread, salt, and kindness. And thank you, Mother, for looking after our garden, for so many years, years after your departure.

ِAll Illustrations are based on AI Application

Mohammad Hussain Alnajafi
Editor-in-Chief, Afkar Hurrah (Free Thoughts) Website
www.mhalnajafi.org
www.afkarhurah.com