Wounded

by Jasinda Wilder

Perhaps it is because hunger is only a dull ache in your belly, growing sharper as the days move past. You grow more hungry, always more hungry, like a hole in your belly growing ever larger until you think it may swallow your ribs and your heart and your liver and whatever else hides behind the skin of your chest and belly, parts I do not know the name of.

  Thirst, however. . . it is a desperation. You would do anything for one drink of water. To be thirsty is worse than to be hungry. You can eat a bug, or worm, you can snatch a can of beans or a hunk of hard bread from a market stall. But to find water? It is not so easy. A bottle of water is heavy. It does not fit beneath the folds of a dress, or in a sleeve. You get thirstier and thirstier until it is like anger or hatred. Your mouth turns into a desert, dry and sandy and empty, your lips cracked.

  I think this is why thirst is worse than hunger.

  Aunt Maida dies of hunger, but really of a broken heart. She is old, and she loved my Uncle Ahmed for all of her life, since she was a little girl. He never hit her, like many men do their wives. He loved her. When he died, I think she did, too—it just took a longer time for her body to realize her heart and mind were already dead.

  I touch her face, and it is cold, so cold, and hard. Her eyes stare unseeing. She sees Uncle Ahmed in heaven, I think.

  "Do you see Allah?" I do not recognize my voice, or why I am asking questions of a dead woman. "Is He there, Aunt Maida? Ask Him why He does not answer me!"

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  She does not respond, of course, for she is dead.

  I am just a girl, only fourteen, and my arms are weak, but Aunt Maida is so small, so thin like a bird that I can drag her from the house, still stiffened into a sitting position. An old woman watches from an open doorway. Her eyes are like brown beads, hard and cold, and she does not move to help me, or ask questions. I have no hijab on, and she curls her lip in disapproval. I drag my dead aunt through the street, as far as I can. I do not know where I will put her, what to do with her. There is no one to tell, I think. At least, I do not know who to tell. So I drag her as far as I can until my arms and legs and back are sore and empty of strength, and then I leave her, sitting awkwardly in an alley, amid the heaps of trash.

  I stand over her for a moment, wondering what to say to the dead body. In the end, I do not say anything. I whisper, "Goodbye, Aunt Maida," to her spirit, but that is after I am back home.

  A dead body is just a dead body. Aunt Maida has been gone for a long time.

  I am worried about Hassan. I do not expect him to come back, but I keep hoping. I wrap my tattered and torn hijab around my head as best I can and set out to find Hassan, to bring him home and scold him being a stupid boy.

  He spoke of finding a gun.

  I think of that day two years ago, in the wrecked building. I do not know where he got that rifle in the first place. I was gone, looking for food, and I found Hassan huddling in a doorway while gunfire racketed in the streets, dust kicking up, shouts echoing, English and Arabic.

  I hid in a far corner, waiting for the shooting to stop, and when it did, I ran across the street to where he was hiding, tears drying on his face. He was not hurt, and I held him close when the shooting started up again. He was clutching something to himself against the wall, between his knees and his arms wrapped around it, his little body shaking. I was behind him, my arms around his shoulders, my fingers clutching his sleeves.

  An American soldier trotted past us, rifle raised to his cheek. He paused, glanced at us, dismissed us, and continued on, loping away like a wild dog, threat clear in the way he ran, hunched down close to the earth. When he paused, Hassan tensed, and I could feel hate seething from him. They killed Mama and Papa, so he hates them. It is simple, to him.

  I know the bullets that took their lives could easily have been ours, however. Stray bullets do not recognize American or Iraqi. They only know soft flesh and red blood. I cannot explain this to Hassan, though, for he will not care. I cannot explain why anyone is killing anyone, for I do not know the answer myself. Iraq has never been a safe place, but when the bombs began to drop, crumping in the distance and flashing like fireworks, it became even deadlier. The streets filled with men with guns, tanks, trucks with keffiyeh-clad warriors clutching guns. It was sudden, and it has not stopped.

  Death is all around now.

  When the American soldier passed on, we ran, and I pulled Hassan behind me, not looking back at him. Guns crashed and bullets buzzed and ricocheted ahead of us, and I jerked Hassan into an empty building, destroyed by a bomb or a rocket. We hid in the corner and waited.

  And then the American man with the camera came, and he was not a soldier, but still an American. He saw us, and that was when Hassan stepped forward, a gun in his arms, too big for him. I wanted to yell at him, ask him where he had gotten such a thing, but I could not. My throat was closed, and if I yelled, I was afraid the American might have a gun we could not see and shoot us.

  And then the gun went off, the American’s hidden gun. And then I killed him.

  I heard crying, and I knew it was me. I knew tears would not bring back the dead American. I did not mourn him, for I did not know him. But I mourned his death. I mourned for myself, for having killed him.

  I see him even now while I am awake two years later, staring at the spot where he died. His blue eyes are wide and staring into me, but not seeing me. Blood spreads beneath him, seeping from the holes in his belly and chest, pools around him. It stinks, the blood. It smells. . . coppery, and vaguely of shit.

  I let myself think the bad word, since there is no one to care.

  I blink, and he is gone, leaving me with the bad taste of memories and waking nightmares, and always the gnawing mouth of hunger.

  It is a long walk, and it is well past dark by the time I find anyone. I find a knot of soldiers, black and brown rifles leaning against the wall near their hands, or across their knees. There are seven of them, smoking cigarettes. They talk loudly, proclaim their feats in battle, how many Americans they have killed. They are all liars. I can tell by the way they laugh too loud, laugh through the smoke streaming from their noses.

  They stop when they see me, and they drag their rifles closer to hand, even though I am Iraqi, and just a girl.

  "What are you doing here, girl?" one of them growls. "It is dangerous. You should be home with your mama and papa. "

  I ignore their stupid questions. "My brother. . . " My voice is soft, too soft. I strengthen it. "My brother ran away to fight. He is only twelve years old. I need to find him. "

  They laugh. One of them does not, and he speaks to me. "I saw a boy. Hours ago. With some other men. He had a rifle, and he was shooting it at the Americans. He hit one, too, I think. "

  "Stupid boy," I mutter under my breath. "I need to find him," I say, louder.

  The one who spoke shrugs. "Good luck. I only saw him the once, very quickly. He was off to the west. "

  I look around me, having no idea which way is west. "Can you show me?"

  He stares at me, then lifts one shoulder. "I could. "

  The others are watching me, a look in their eyes that makes me nervous. I want to get away from them.

  "Please show me? He is just a boy. He should not be fighting. "

  "If he can shoot a rifle and kill the infidels, he is a man," one of the others says. "You should go home to your mama and let the boy do a mans work. "

  "We have no mama or papa. They died. He needs me. Please, help me find him. "

  The strange, hungry look in their eyes strengthens when they realize I am alone, all alone. Their gaze travels down my body, from my ripped hijab to my old dress, my small girls br**sts and my thin legs, the triangle between them visible when a breeze blows my dress flat against me. I know what they want. I know that much. I have seen what men do with women, and I know I do not want it to happen to me with these men.

  I edge away, watching them. They do not move, a
nd the one who said he had seen my brother nods, ever so slightly.

  "I need a drink!" he says, a little too loudly, and the others forget about me as they head off in search of alcohol.

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  They traipse off into the night, and the kinder one looks back at me. He is older; perhaps he has—or had—a daughter my age. Perhaps he too knows what would happen to me, and is seeking to spare me in the only way he can. I nod at him, a silent thanks. He flicks his fingers near his knee, a quick, quiet gesture telling me to go.

  I turn and run through a side street, turning blindly until the sound of their laughter fades. I stop running, turn in place to find my bearings. The buildings are all the same, tan walls dark in the moonlight, shop fronts shuttered and barred closed. The city is deserted, it seems. It is not, though, not really. People are shut in their homes, where they have at least the illusion of safety.

  Alone, lost, I have no such illusion. I walk aimlessly, toward noise, toward the light of fires. I pass clumps of men with the ever-present rifles. I stay away from them this time, searching the groups hunched over orange tips of cigarettes for a smaller figure.

  I pray to Allah, even though I promised myself I would not. "Allah, the all-compassionate, the all-merciful, please, let me find Hassan. Let me find him alive, please, Allah. "

  Perhaps it is luck, perhaps it is Allah answering my prayer, but I find him. He is pretending to be a man, hanging his gun over his shoulder by the strap, the awful weapon almost as tall as he is. He stands with a group of men, laughing at a joke someone has told. He does not get it, though. I can tell by the way he looks around to see if everyone is laughing, stopping when they do.

  I march up to him, fear forgotten beneath the river of white-hot anger. I grasp him by the shirt back and haul him around. I snatch the rifle from his thin shoulder and shove it into the arms of the man next to Hassan. I slap Hassan across the face, once, twice, as hard as I can.

  "You foolish little boy!" I scream, loud. "You ran away, you little idiot! I have spent the entire day looking for you. "

  The men are laughing, and Hassan is angry, embarrassed.

  "Leave me alone, Rania! I am a man, not a boy. I do not need you for my mother. I am a soldier. " He takes the gun back from the man beside him and shoulders it resolutely. "I am a soldier. I have killed a man today. I shot him. I, Hassan. I will drive the infidels from our land, and you cannot stop me. "

  I take him by the ear and twist it, pulling him into a walk. "You are coming home. You are not a soldier—you are a twelve-year-old boy. "

  He wrenches free and slaps me across the cheek, hard enough to spin me around. "Fuck off!"

  I stop, touching my cheek, stunned. "Hassan! What would Mama say if she heard you talk like that?"

  His eyes fill with angry tears. He does not stop them. "I do not care! Mama is dead! Papa is dead! There is only you, and you are a girl. And Aunt Maida, but she will die soon—"

  "She died last night. While you were gone. I had to deal with it alone. "

  He has the decency to look chagrined at least, deflating. "I am sorry, Rania. " He sees the relenting in my eyes and puffs back up, dashing the tears from his eyes at last. "She was already dead. She just did not know it. Her body had to catch up to the rest of her. I am still not coming home. "

  One of the men crosses the circle and draws me aside, speaks to me in low tones. "You will not win this way, girl. You have gotten him angry, and he cannot back down without losing face. Just go home. We will take care of him. He is a good boy. He will be a good soldier. "

  "I do not want him to be a soldier!" I say, too loudly.

  The man only shrugs. "You cannot stop it. It is war. He is willing and able to wield a rifle, so he becomes a soldier. If you drag him home now, he will just run away again as soon as you are asleep. "

  I slump and draw a deep breath. He is right, and I know it. "He is my brother. I have to protect him. "

  The man shook his head. "You cannot. He will live, or he will die. You cannot change it. At least this way he gets to choose his fate. "

  "So I am just supposed to walk away and let a twelve-year-old play soldier?"

  "He is not playing. He shot real bullets from a real rifle at real soldiers. Real bullets were shot back at him. That makes him a real soldier in any book. "

  Hassan comes over to me, his hands in his pockets. He looks like a strange cross between a man and a boy. The look in his eyes is serious, with that distance and coldness of men who have seen war. His posture, however, is that of a boy, hands in his pants pockets, foot kicking the dirt with the toe of his battered shoe, yet he has a rifle slung on his shoulder, casually comfortable with the weapon.

  "This is my choice, Rania, not yours," he says, not looking at me but at the ground between his feet. "They will feed me and give me somewhere to sleep. Less for you to worry about, right?"

  "What will I do?" I hate how petulant I sound.

  "Take care of yourself. I do not know. " He shrugs, a gesture clearly picked up from these other men. "Stop worrying about me. "

  He turns away, clapping me on the back as if I was a friend rather than his sister. He is trying so hard to be a grown-up. I push him away.

  I am just a girl, dismissed.

  I stalk away, not looking back, angry, fighting empty tears for the brother who will likely die soon.

  "Rania—" Hassans voice echoes from behind me. He knows me well enough to see the anger in the set of my shoulders.

  I do not stop, but fling the words over my shoulder, still walking. "Be a soldier, then. Get killed. See if I care. "

  He does not respond. I hear one of the men slap Hassan on the back. "She will come around, son. Give her time. "

  I keep walking, knowing the man is wrong. I will not come around. Hassan is right about one thing, though.

  Only having to feed myself will make things easier.

  I make my way through the dark city, gunfire silenced for now. I am not sure exactly where I am going, but I eventually find my way home. The small box that is my home is dark and smells of death. There is no food, no coffee or tea, only running water in the tap and gas from the stove.

  I collapse in bed and let myself cry for my brother.

  * * *

  Days pass. I do not hear from Hassan, or see him. I spend my days looking for work, some way to earn money so I can eat. I find nothing. No stores want to hire a girl, or they simply cannot afford to pay another person. I find an old woman who gives me money to help her do her laundry and clean her house. That sustains me for some months. It is pleasant. She has me come to her house every other day to wash her clothes in her little sink and hang them to dry, and wash the floors and sink and toilet, and then she give me a little money, enough to buy food until the next time I come. I begin to have hope that I will be okay. And then one day I go to her house, and she is lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her dark eyes are cloudy and still, her sagging br**sts still, her hands still. I stand in the doorway of her bedroom and stare at her body, yet another person who has died.

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  I push away my guilt and rummage through her apartment. I find some money, some clothes, some food. I pack it all in a little bag I find in her closet and walk away, leaving her lying on her bed. Guilt draws me back. I knock hesitantly on the door across from hers.

  A middle-aged man with a thick beard and a yellow-stained white sleeveless shirt stretching over a fat belly answers the door. "What do you want?"

  I reel back from the stench of his body odor. "The woman who lives there," I point at the door behind me, "she died. I washed her laundry for her. I came today, and she was dead. From being old, I think. "

  "Did you take anything?" he asks, squinting at the bag on my shoulder.

  "No," I lie, proud of my calm voice.

  "Hmph. " The man stares at me. "You are lying. That is her bag. I saw h
er with it when she visited her daughter in Beirut. "

  Panic shoots through me. "Please. It is just some food. "

  He waves his hand at me. "Go. She will not need her food, will she?"

  "No, she will not. "

  The man waves his hand at me again, pushes past me, and closes his door behind him to shuffle across the hall and into the old womans apartment. I watch him for a moment, then turn and go home.

  The money lasts me for a long time. I am able to live off the old womans money for many months, eating a little, stealing a little where I can to stretch it. And then, one day, the money is gone. I do not know how long it has been since I have seen Hassan, since Aunt Maida died. A year, maybe more? I do not know. I have looked for work, laundry to wash, someone to cook for, someone to clean for, but no one wants any help. They all want to stay in their houses where it is safe. They want to pretend they dont hear the gunfire, see the trucks rumble by with hard-eyed soldiers, hear the airplanes screaming overhead.

  I am growing desperate. The hole of hunger in my belly is growing. My house is bare of food again. I have no money; I cannot find any kind of work. I roam the city, stopping in shops to beg for food or work.

  No one relents. No one cares. I am just a girl.

  I go farther and farther from home, until one day I cannot get back before dark. I huddle in a doorway, watching the darkness seep across the buildings like hungry fingers. I am nearly asleep when the smell of cooking food wafts across my face. I hear laughter, male, loud, boisterous and drunk. I stand up, scan the streets. I see the orange flicker of a fire on a rooftop, and before I realize it, I am creeping across the street, through the blackened doorway and up the creaking, rickety stairs at the back of the building. I do not have a plan, or any idea what waits for me up here, but the smell of roasting meat is enough to drive caution from my mind.

  There are several men sitting on crates and buckets and an old couch, all dragged around a fire built inside an old metal barrel of some kind. There are eight men that I can see. Their rifles are on the ground or propped against the half-wall rimming the rooftop. Bottles of alcohol are being passed around and swigged from. One of the men half-turns to take a proffered bottle and sees me. He nudges the man next to me and points at me with the bottle.

  "You should not be here, girl," he says.

  "You have food," I say, barely above a whisper. Like it explains everything.

  "Yes, we do," he says.

  "I am hungry. Please, can you give me some?" I do not step forward when he extends a foil packet to me. I can see meat in it, and my stomach growls loudly.

  "Come get it," he says. "I will not hurt you. "

  I am not sure I believe him. He has the hungry look in his eyes, the raking glance over my body. I want to turn and run, but the hunger in my belly holds sway over me. I inch forward. The other men have gone still and silent, bottles set down, eyes narrowed and watching the exchange. They do not even seem to be breathing.