by Jennifer Roy
My family is not religious. We are Christian, but we don’t go to church. I have friends who are Muslims and Christians and atheists.
I guess I don’t believe in God, but what if I should? Which god should I pray to? Muhammed? Jesus Christ? Would it do me any good to pray for peace?
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar . . .
La ilaha ill Allah . . .
And so another day begins.
Everyone gets up and goes to their room to get dressed. Mama and Shireen put breakfast on the table. Day-old bread and weak coffee.
Shirzad turns on the radio and takes Father’s customary seat at the head of the table. It bugs me that he’s considered the man of the family now, but I don’t plan to listen to him. He’s not my father.
The announcer is spouting off about “our great leader!” And how we are “destined for victory!”
No one says a word. My mother gets up and moves the dial, then sits back down. A different announcer is speaking. It’s the Voice of America in Arabic. The Voice of America wants to reach non-English-speakers with a point of view that’s different from what our state-run stations air.
“This is a new kind of war,” says the announcer. “Gone are the days of newspaper reports hours—even days—later. Thanks to modern technology, this war has become a group event. Families, restaurant-goers, even college students gathering around the television. Not for a football game or a popular show, but for a war . . .”
“It’s crazy,” says Katie Putnam, a college student at New York University. “I thought we’d see soldiers and blood and stuff, but it looks, well, like a fireworks display.”
The Voice of America resumes: “The bombing of Iraq is captured by nightvision video cameras. The missiles show up as glowing dots of light, arcing against a background of greenish Iraqi skies. Some have dubbed this ‘the video game war,’ because that’s what it looks like.”
My mother gets back up and snaps off the radio. She is frowning.
I meet my mother’s eyes and shake my head as if to say I can’t believe it either. A video game? Our damage and deaths and daily terror look like a video game?
Ugh.
I finish my breakfast and leave the table still hungry.
“Ali,” Ahmed says. “Want to go treasure hunting?”
“Nah,” I say. “Not today.”
My brother frowns, then runs out of the room. He’s going to scour the streets for spent shells or pieces of bombs.
I go to my room and lie on my bed. I woke up not long ago, but already I feel as weary as if I’d put in a full day.
I should be sort of happy. I mean, I could be going to school right now dressed in my school uniform—white shirt, dark blue or gray pants and a red cravat. Instead I’m in a gray T-shirt and jeans with a hole in the knee.
On a normal weekday, I’d be on my way to the middle school. My school is not in the best part of Basra. It’s in the old city, which is crumbling and rough—more like an ancient city. I usually ride my bike to school, crossing the narrow part of the river on the pedestrian bridge that links our nice neighborhood and the ancestral town.
Our day at school starts at eight in the morning. We stand in group formations in the parking lot for ten minutes while the school principal conducts our daily quiz.
“What is the Ba’ath Party slogan?” the principal shouts.
In one voice our entire school replies: “Unity! Liberty! Socialism!”
Next the principal asks, “What are the Ba’ath Party’s goals?”
Us: “One Arabic Nation with an Immortal Message!”
Then we march military style in a single line to our classrooms.
Classes begin. We stay in the same classroom while the teachers rotate in and out. Classes last 45 minutes. My favorite, of course, is English. History is okay, although it focuses on Iraqi history. I would like to learn a lot more about the rest of the world. Math? Ugh. Science—meh. Twice a week we have art class, where we draw themes of the Iraq-Iran war—Iraqi tanks, airplanes, soldiers killing the Iranian enemy. Art class might have been enjoyable if I had an ounce of artistic talent. I do not.
Physical education is nothing more than a PE teacher handing us a football and having us play in an open space outside.
I’m not a bad football player, but there are a few guys who are aggressive and prone to cheating behind the teacher’s back. So my game focuses on staying out of their way.
Our school is all boys. Back in grade school, the boys and girls were in the same class together, although we stayed on opposite sides of the room and weren’t supposed to talk to each other.
But middle school and high school are completely segregated. I miss glancing over at a cute girl. I wonder if the girls miss us? Probably not.
Anyway, earlier this winter, President Bush gave Saddam’s regime a January 15 deadline for withdrawing from Kuwait. In the weeks leading up to that day, no one could talk about anything but imminent war. Some kids said their families were leaving the city, going to stay with relatives who lived on farms.
At the final bell on January 14, though, we were uncharacteristically quiet. We said goodbye to each other, shaking hands or giving high-fives.
I wonder when—and if—school will start again.
I stay on my bed, my mind restless, my body not moving.
That night I toss and turn on my rug. The safe room feels anything but safe. My thoughts and heart race faster with every new sound I hear.
What was THAT? A bomb? How close? Am I going to die?
BOOM!
“Aaaugh!” I yell, bolting straight up.
In the dark I hear Ahmed and Shireen giggling.
“That was the bathroom door, dummy,” says my sister. “Mom just went in.”
“How was I supposed to know?” I grumble.
I do not like feeling so jumpy. There must be something I could do to stop feeling so . . . scared. I lie back down and shut my eyes. Behind my eyelids, an image appears.
A . . . bucket? Suddenly, I relax. I recognize that bucket. It’s from my video game Kaboom! My hand instinctively curves around an imaginary paddle controller as I start to play.
Bombs begin dropping from the sky on the screen. Oh no! The mad bomber! I “move” my bucket back and forth, catching the bombs before they explode on the ground. My imaginary game play continues as I gain points and extra buckets while more and more bombs descend faster and faster. Got it! Got it! I rise up levels until . . . yes! I win! I WIN!
Somehow, fighting against an imaginary enemy calms me down. Take that, mad bomber! You can’t kill me!
Eight
Sunday, January 20, 1991—Day 5
SADDAM SOUNDS TRIUMPHANT. AS WE SIT AT THE breakfast table, eating our bread with date jam, the radio blares out the news. Saddam’s army has shot down and captured two American soldiers. They’ve been paraded around Baghdad and shown on American television. Saddam says they will be used as human shields.
“Today,” Mama says, as she turns off the radio, “Shireen and I will clean the house, so you need to get out.”
Shireen groans while we cheer. Shireen is often spoiled, but she is also the only female besides Mama, so she’s stuck helping Mama cook and clean.
Ahmed races out of the house, with Shirzad and me jogging behind. Our day is spent exploring. Our neighborhood is basically intact; other places, not so much. Luckily we don’t find any injured or dead people, but there’s a lot of damage.
No houses are completely bombed, but some are missing chunks of walls.
“Run!” Ahmed shouts, so we all pick up the pace. We race, dodging obstacles like bricks and stones and rubble. We leap over pieces of metal that could be parts of bombs or cars or whatever. Jump! Dodge! Run! Around lunchtime Shirzad yells, “Race you home!” and we all muster up every bit of energy we have in hopes of being the one to finish first.
Lunch is rice. The regime has started rationing food. All Mama got from the store was coffee, lentils, cookin
g oil, and rice. I like rice, but as a part of a meal—not as a whole meal. Ugh.
“Thank goodness your father stocked up on wood,” Mama says. “Although it is not going to last forever.”
“The war won’t last forever either,” Ahmed observes, and shrugs. He looks around the table for someone to agree with him.
I don’t want to think about how this war will play out. I mean, we’re going to lose. But for how long will Saddam hold out? Maybe, hopefully, not too long. But probably he’ll stay the stubborn leader he’s always been and pretend everything is perfect!
While we get bombed to death.
You have to be patient in war. I learned that the last time, when we fought against Iran. It’s not only about battles and bombs. There’s a lot of just waiting.
Waiting in food lines. Waiting for leaders to make decisions. And always, waiting for the war to end.
When the war with Iran ended, I was eight. I’d imagined the scenario so many times, and I always pictured a big celebration with food and music and people cheering.
The reality was anticlimactic. The war ended and nobody had won! Our country and Iran agreed to a cease-fire. They announced it on TV—“The war has ended!” Mama went to wake up Baba, who was taking a nap between his hospital shift and leaving for work at his clinic.
We all watched together as the camera showed Saddam “making heroic decisions.” Or that’s what the broadcast said.
“Do you really think this is the end?” said Baba, shaking his head. “This is not the end. This man does not want peace.”
Instead of holding a celebration in the streets, we were a nation of mourning. We had lost hundreds of thousands of our people. During the final thirty-six hours before the cease-fire, Saddam had sent waves and waves of soldiers into combat. So many died in a matter of hours.
There seemed to be no street or alley left without a mourning sign, a black piece of cloth with the name of the deceased in yellow and white. Some homes had more than one loss.
And on TV, they kept replaying our heroic leader “celebrating” our successes. Even a kid like me knew that this was horribly wrong.
Soon afterward, the massive reconstruction began. Over the next few months, foreigners—mostly from India—poured into our country to rebuild our roads and buildings with efficiency and expertise. And they worked what seemed like magic.
Basra was more beautiful and more modern than ever.
Until last April. When Saddam sent a hundred thousand troops into Kuwait, gouging black scars in the newly paved roads as armored tanks rolled through Basra en route to Kuwait City.
Baba was right. Saddam did not want peace. And though the world gave him plenty of chances to back out, to leave Kuwait alone, Saddam did not budge.
Leave it to our president to rebuild things only to have them ruined again.
Our roads. Our buildings.
Our spirits.
“The war won’t last forever?” my little brother repeats. “Right?”
“Of course,” my mother says. “Nothing lasts forever.”
After lunch I go to my room and nap like a baby. Between the bombing at night and running around all morning, I’m exhausted.
While I sleep, I dream that I am the frog in the Frogger game. I’m hopping over animated bricks and stones and pieces of metal. Then the dream gets weird and I’m leaping over people’s heads—Omar’s and Umar’s and Saddam’s and celebrities’ and grandparents’.
I wake up before I get splatted crossing the road of faces.
Nine
Monday, January 21, 1991—Day 6
FLIP. FLIP.
I’m lying on my bed, reading my Superman comics. I have over one hundred comics in my collection, my most prized possession.
Whenever the real world overwhelms me, I like to retreat into Superman’s universe. I’m trying not to be depressed that I don’t have a new comic to read. On a normal Monday after school I would stop at the corner market, where I would buy the newest issue. But a couple of weeks ago, the comics just stopped coming.
My comics are published in Arabic, but they have the same illustrations and stories as Superman comics around the world. Today I am immersed in an epic battle between Superman and Skyhook.
“Ali!” Shirzad bursts into my room without knocking. “Get up. Mustafa is here. There’s some crazy stuff going on at the high school.”
“I’m busy,” I say, dismissing him.
Whoomp! My brother lands on me. Hard.
My first instinct is to protect my comic. I hold it out, away from the knucklehead who is squashing me.
“All right, all right. Get off.”
Shirzad rolls off me and watches as I carefully insert my comic in its rightful place. I keep my comics in numerical order on my bookcase.
“Let’s go, freak,” Shirzad says.
“Jealous,” I counter. Shirzad wastes his allowance on candy and junk food.
With Superman in his proper place, I throw on a T-shirt and climb into my sneakers. We go out and meet Mustafa, who is hanging out on our front porch.
On American television, the girls are different from Basra girls. American girls wear T-shirts and jeans, just like boys. Basra girls wear dresses and skirts. American girls talk to boys and hang out casually with them. American teenagers date and hold hands and kiss.
In Basra, boys and girls basically stay apart. The only girls I’ve ever talked to much are my sister, Shireen, and my female cousins.
When we pass a small group of girls, I can’t help it. I sneak a peek.
Usually, the girls do not notice me.
As the neighborhoods get increasingly downtrodden, Shirzad, Mustafa, and I begin jogging. People and buildings blur into one another as we pick up speed.
I reach the high school last, bemoaning my short legs. I feel even smaller when I see what’s going on.
At least one hundred, maybe even two hundred high school guys dressed in youth military uniforms stand stiff and straight. They all hold long rifles called AK-47s against their shoulders, barrels pointed toward the sky.
One man stands apart, facing the squad. He barks orders, commands that I don’t know but the squad does.
They spin their rifles, march in place, raise their arms, and shout, “Yes, sir!” At first, it looks so cool. And totally intimidating. I mean, it’s like watching a high school football team in a championship game . . . with weapons. Any one of these guys would have intimidated me if I ran into him on the street.
And then, one guy stumbles. He bumps into the person next to him, who drops his gun. I tense, expecting the gun to go off, but fortunately the safety must be on.
The instructor goes nuts. Nuts! And then, in front of me, the military unity crumbles away. Guys start turning on each other. They shove, complain, or just walk away.
What was I thinking, being impressed by these guys?
The man in charge is no longer in charge. He has given up on yelling and walks over to us.
To my surprise, he slaps Mustafa on the back.
“Look at them,” he says. “A bunch of clowns, right?”
“Ali Ahmed?” I say. “I didn’t recognize you!”
Ali Ahmed is Mustafa’s cousin. All the time he was growing up he came in and out of Mustafa’s house, just as I did. When I was little, he used to throw me up on his shoulders and carry me around. When we played cowboys and Indians, he’d give me hints about where the enemy was and helped keep me in games longer than I would have if I’d been playing without him.
I look around at the armed soldiers. Most of them are teenagers, I realize now.
“Trust me,” Ali Ahmed is saying, “this was not my first choice of assignments, but . . . You! Yes, you! Secure your rifle before you blow someone’s head off! And the rest of you, get back in formation! Anyway, I’ll do my part for the good of Iraq!”
Ali Ahmed salutes us but has one eyebrow raised, like he’s not serious. He half hugs his cousin and marches back to his squad
.
“Let’s go,” Shirzad says. We head home, barely talking. I have a weird feeling in my stomach, like something has been jarred loose.
The streets look different on our way back, as if we’re viewing everything close up through a microscope.
I see a dusty walkway leading up to a crumbling brick apartment building. A small kid in just a T-shirt and no pants is banging a stick on a brick that has fallen—probably bombed—off his home.
I see an elderly woman in a head scarf, waving her arms wildly as she tells a story to a younger woman with wild frizzy hair who is leaning on a broom.
I pass a barefoot man with a bandaged head and a weeping woman with children standing nearby helplessly.
I see grimy, half-shattered windows and debris on the ground.
I don’t smell food cooking. No spices, no sweetly baked treats, no coffee or steeping tea. The welcoming scents of the neighborhood are gone.
I feel weary and a bit sick. We walked all that way just to see teenagers with AK-47s. They were acting tough and brave, but really the brave people are the ones trying to stay safe and get though the day. These are my people.
We leave the older neighborhoods. Now there are yards filled with sand, many blocked off by stone walls. Others have iron fences. Through the black rails I see old men and young boys working together, with shovels and hand drills. Yard after yard, people are working on . . .
“Wells,” Shirzad says, when Ahmed breaks the silence to ask. “The water companies have been bombed. The water pipes aren’t flowing. Didn’t you notice this morning?”
I’d noticed. Of course I’d noticed—the toilets not flushing, the rusty water coming out of our faucets. But, like the messes I left in my bedroom for the housecleaner to tidy, I’d stupidly assumed that someone else would take care of it.
“Yeah, I helped put together an outhouse yesterday,” Mustafa says. “None of us knew what we were doing, so anyone can see in. Here’s my street. See you tomorrow, if the bombs don’t get you first.”
“See you.” I wave to my friend. I walk on with Shirzad, my hands in my pockets.
