Because I belong to a generation that never lived through the era of Muhammad Mahdi al-Jawahiri when he was truly Iraqi, I knew him as many others did: from books, from poems, and from the echo of his voice as it traversed decades of controversy and compromise. Yet, I was close to his son, Furat (Abu Ban)—that writer who used to carry his weekly column to me when I supervised the back page of Al-Jumhuriya newspaper more than thirty years ago. As if carrying a fragment of his father’s soul, he would hand over his article like a precious gift to be handled with exaggerated care. He grew fond of me for some reason, perhaps because of how I treated his column, publishing it on the back page as if it were a historical document to be shielded from the very air.

I remember a winter day in Baghdad when Abu Ban walked in unannounced and said, “Come on, Karam, come with me.” I didn’t ask where, nor could I refuse. On the road, as he drove, he told me: “You are the closest person to the doyen of Iraqi music, Abbas Jamil. I am taking you to him; I have something he must hear.” Abbas Jamil’s house was just minutes away from the Al-Jumhuriya building. His wife, Um Faisal, received her guests as if the house itself were a living piece of Baghdad’s memory.

Furat pulled out a cassette tape and asked Abu Tariq to listen. Muhammad Mahdi al-Jawahiri’s poem praising King Hussein bin Talal, “O Most August King,” had been composed by Gamal Salama and performed brilliantly by the Tunisian singer Soufia Sadok. Abbas Jamil sat analysing the melody for Furat, while I prepared to write a journalistic piece about the encounter. But Furat told me he would write his weekly column on the subject, and that was that.

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My distant yet close relationship with Al-Jawahiri did not end there. When rumours spread that he would return to Baghdad and newspapers prepared to celebrate him, my........

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