In the quiet streets of Irbil, the bitter smell of cardamom-spiced coffee hangs heavy in the air. It’s the kind of day that feels suspended in time, where the weight of loss hits harder than the heat. Women are gathered here—dressed in somber black veils and abayas—to mark the seventh day since Sajida Obaid passed away. She died of lung cancer earlier this month, a life ending just as the shadows of war began to stretch longer across the country. It’s strange, really, how the news of her passing seemed to slip through the cracks, muffled by the sounds of the conflict with Iran, but for those inside the house, the silence is deafening.
She wasn’t just a singer to them. She was a voice that allowed women to forget, if only for an hour or two, the rigid boundaries of their daily lives. I heard one woman, Jaji, describe it through tear-streaked eyes: “At her women’s parties, we danced like we had no worries. We felt free. Truly free.” It’s that memory—the memory of dancing—that lingers, even as the daf drums beat a mournful rhythm from the tent outside where the men sit.
Born in 1957 to a Roma family in Baghdad, Sajida’s life was anything but simple. She started singing at twelve—just a child, really—to keep her family afloat. By the 1980s, she was a fixture, her voice a distinct blend of Kawliya rhythms and the deep, soulful pull of mawal. It was a complicated existence. She was often pulled from weddings by Saddam Hussein’s security guards to perform for his inner circle. You have to wonder what that felt like, being a woman forced into the spotlight of a dictatorship while trying to maintain your own sense of self. Or maybe she didn’t have much of a choice, did she?
Misryoum notes that she didn’t just sing; she pushed. She famously belted out tracks like “Inkasarat al-Sheesha,” addressing the heavy social stigma of losing one’s virginity with a boldness that honestly feels ahead of its time. These women-only parties weren’t just entertainment; they were a sanctuary where a woman could be herself without the judgment of the outside world.
Toward the end, things moved fast. She was in Irbil, living quietly with her brother, Aayed Awda. Even with the cancer diagnosis looming just four months back, she still insisted on flying to Canada for a show. That’s a stubbornness you almost have to admire. She came back, tried the chemo, but the lungs… well, the lungs eventually gave out.
She didn’t have children of her own, and the marriages didn’t last, so she spent her last days surrounded by the noise of her brother’s kids, trying to stay comfortable. When they took her to the hospital that last time—the oxygen, the pale hospital lights—everyone knew. It was the end of the music. Now, there’s only the coffee and the memories.