by Jennifer Roy
She is feisty, like Shireen.
“I—” I say. “I used a can. N-not the street.”
I stutter. Because I am talking to a girl.
In my country, girls are a foreign species.
“Can you tell me how to get to the new high school?” I ask, glancing at the older girl. She has long blond hair like her sister, but she wears it loose down her back.
“There’s no school anymore,” the little girl, Shirah, says. “It was supposed to be my week to be teacher’s helper. I waited forever to be a helper.”
“I know,” I tell her. “I live near there. I’m trying to get home.”
“It’s not hard,” says the older girl. She points and then gives me directions.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for your kindness.”
“What’s that in your hand?” asks Shirah.
“What?” I look down. I didn’t realize. I’m still clutching the piece of steel.
“It’s a treasure,” I tell the little girl. “Here, you can have it.”
“It’s pretty!” Shirah says, taking it from my hand. “Look, Aisha, it’s a bed for my doll!”
“You don’t have to . . .” Aisha frowns a little, then relents. “All right, Shirah. But where are your manners? Tell the boy thank you.”
“Thank you, boy,” says Shirah, and she skips off.
“It’s Ali,” I say, more to Aisha than to Shirah, who is already too far away to hear.
Then I turn and run. And run, following Aisha’s directions, until I make it to my neighborhood.
Pitfall Harry survives!
“I’m going to kill you!” My brother Shirzad’s voice carries down our street. “Where were you? You were supposed to walk straight home.”
I don’t say a word. I am too out of breath.
“Ali! You stupid . . . I covered for you with Mama. I told everyone you were with Mustafa.”
“Sorry,” I pant. “I need water.”
I head through the entry gate, Shirzad right behind me.
“That’s it?” my brother demands. “Do you have any idea what it would have been like if anyone knew you went missing out there? Doesn’t Mama have enough to worry about?”
A rush of memories flood my brain. The professor, the boys coming after me, the policeman and the eight men . . .
“I said I’m sorry!” I yell. “Now lay off! I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Okay?”
Shirzad is quiet.
“Okay?” I repeat.
“Baba and his unit are missing,” Shirzad says softly.
“What?” I say.
“Not officially,” Shirzad amends.
“Mama’s cousin Gilad is here. I overheard them talking in the kitchen when I was looking for you. Gilad is wounded and he just came back from the oil fields. He saw Baba’s medical unit on his way in. On his way back, he went to the unit to get treatment, and they were gone. The area had been scorched.”
“So what?” I counter. “They probably picked up and left.”
“There were bodies,” Shirzad says, so softly I can barely hear him.
“Boys!”
I jump. Mama opens the front door and sees us talking in the yard.
“Boys! Where are the rations?” she says. “You did get them, yes?”
“Yes, Mama,” says Shirzad. “They are over there, under the tree in the shade.”
“Well, bring them in,” Mama says. “It’s almost time for dinner. Cousin Gilad is here.”
She shuts the door.
Eighteen
“I WASN’T PLAYING AROUND,” I PROTEST. “I GOT LOST.”
“That’s even more stupid!” Shirzad growls at me. “You can’t even remember the way after how many times?”
I’m about to explain that a small mistake has turned into a horrifying one when the front door opens.
It’s my cousin Gilad.
“Shirzad! Ali! Hello!” Gilad smiles. I don’t say anything at first. Gilad doesn’t look the way I remember him. First, he’s in a soldier’s uniform. Second, he’s thin, almost gaunt, and he has a shaved head. Worse, there are stitches in places on his head. One ear looks like a chunk is missing . . . and one eye is covered with a white bandage.
“Hi!” my brother and I say.
The three of us go into the house and make our way to the kitchen.
“Finally!” Mama says. “Let me see what we’ve got here. It will be a special treat for our special guest.”
“I’m not a guest, Ammah,” says Gilad. “I’m family.”
Shireen races into the kitchen and comes to an abrupt stop.
“Do you remember me?” Gilad says to her gently. “I’m your cousin Gilad.”
Shireen puts a finger in her mouth and shakes her head.
“Last time I saw you we were at Grandma and Grandpa’s, and you were much smaller,” my cousin tells her. “And I had back then . . . Wait, I know.” He bends down and says, “Camelback ride!”
Shireen takes her finger out of her mouth. “Cousin Camel Hump!” she shouts, and jumps on his back, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“You do remember!” Gilad says. “Because my name, Gilad, means camel’s hump!”
“My name means sweet!” Shireen says. “Now, take me to the playroom, slave camel!” She strikes him with an imaginary whip.
“Gilad, maybe this is too much for you?” Mama says. “You should be resting . . .”
“Do not worry, Ammah.” Gilad smiles. “Laughter is the best medicine.”
Gilad marches off with Shireen shouting directions.
“Go on, boys,” Mama says.
So Shirzad and I follow our cousin downstairs.
“Did you know,” Gilad is saying, “that I used to carry Ali and Shirzad the same way when they were small?”
“Ali is still small,” Shireen says. “Some of my friends are almost as tall as him.”
Shirzad snorts. I feel my face turn red.
“I’m sure he’ll grow to be really tall,” Gilad says. “All right, mistress, the ride stops here.”
Gilad eases her arms off his neck and lets her slide down his back.
“Look out for my hump!” he says.
I remember that. My cousin always said the same thing after giving us a ride.
Shireen runs ahead and climbs back up the stairs. Gilad, I notice, walks slowly, holding on to the railing. Shirzad and I exchange a look before following him.
Ahmed is in the playroom, lying on the floor surrounded by action figures.
“Don’t mess with my setup,” Ahmed tells Shireen.
My sister knows just the thing to say to annoy Ahmed.
“I wouldn’t touch your dolls,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“They’re not dolls!” Ahmed yells. “They’re action figures! Oh . . .” His voice trails off when he sees Gilad.
“Cousin Camel Hump!” Ahmed’s eyes go wide. “Cool!”
Gilad sits down on the floor, careful not to touch Ahmed’s action figures. While everyone stays to talk, I slip out of the room.
I go to my bedroom and lie down on my bed. I miss my bed. I am sick of sleeping in the safe room. I close my eyes. My mind is spinning. Visions of the day haunt me. Being called a dirty Kurd. The policeman. The shootings. The men dropping to the ground. The girls helping me. And Shirzad bossing me around. Feeling small and powerless. I’m too tired to cry. I open my eyes and they land on my favorite thing.
My comic book collection. There they are, neatly lined up in a box. I think about my favorite, an early Superman in which Clark Kent gets bullied and teased by his coworkers. And then he transforms into Superman and saves the city. I shut my eyes . . .
I’m inside the Superman video game. A bridge is out, one that connects the city to the rest of the civilized world. I’m in a Superman outfit and I’m flying over the city to the bridge. It is Lex Luthor, my nemesis, who has destroyed the bridge, but somehow his face is that of Saddam Hussein!
I fly around, capturing Saddam’s minions and avoiding
the kryptonite Saddam has released.
I succeed! I capture Saddam Hussein and put him in a prison. I race into the nearest phone booth and turn back into Clark Kent. Then I go back to my job at the Daily Planet, where Lois Lane is waiting for me. But Lois’s face is that of the girl I just met on the street. The older sister. To win the game, Clark Kent must kiss Lois Lane.
I can’t do it. I’m too scared and shy.
Game over.
“Ali! Wake up!” Shireen shakes my arm. “Time to eat.”
I roll off the bed and stumble to the bathroom. I pee in the jar that stands in for a toilet during war. I leave it there for now and go downstairs.
Nineteen
THE DINING ROOM TABLE IS SET AS IF WE WERE ABOUT to have a fancy dinner. The good china plates and the shiny silverware are laid out.
“You did not do this all for me?” Gilad frowns.
“Yes,” Mama says, carrying a serving dish. She lays it on the table. “Today we enjoy a meal with my sister’s beloved son.”
I cannot believe it. On the platter is a feast. Eggplant, rice, orange slices, and pita triangles! And—chocolate!”
“Mama—how?” Shirzad asks.
“I had a few things tucked away for a special day,” says Mama. “Sit. Eat.”
We sit.
We eat.
The richness of the eggplant and rice, along with the sweet orange and warm pita . . . it’s indescribable. I chew slowly to savor the flavors, and it seems that the next bite is even more delicious.
Finally, my stomach has something better to do than grumble and growl.
And then my food is all gone, except for the square of chocolate. I look around the table. Everyone has saved their chocolate for last, even the little kids.
Gilad picks his up and peels off the wrapper. Mama does the same. That does it. All four of us kids rip into our chocolates and . . . wow! Sooooo good!
Before the war we ate sweets all the time, and took them for granted. But today, one small piece of chocolate is heaven.
I see Mama give her square of chocolate to Shireen. Gilad gives his to Ahmed, who looks happier than I have seen him in a long time. With a smudge of chocolate on his face, he is actually smiling.
For a few more moments, the mood in the room feels light.
And then my cousin says something that changes things.
“Shirzad,” he says. “You should be sitting here. It’s your father’s seat, right? You’re the man of the family now.”
Gilad gets up. He walks behind his chair and pulls it out, then gestures to it. My older brother, older by just one year, gets up and walks over. He stands in front of the chair, leans forward as he puts his hands under the seat, and pulls it forward as he sits down.
I look at Mama. She is sitting quietly.
“Wait!” I say. “That’s Baba’s seat.”
“Baba isn’t here,” says Mama.
“But he will be!” My voice is rising. “Baba will be back.”
“Sit down, Ali,” Shirzad says, from his new place at the table.
“When is Baba coming back?” Shireen asks. “I miss him.”
“We don’t know,” Mama says matter-of-factly. “But Gilad is right. Shirzad is the head of our house until Baba returns.”
“Ali,” Shirzad says again. “Sit down.”
“Come on, Ali.” Gilad walks over and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Sit back down. I have some good stories to tell.”
I lower myself back into my seat. But I’m glaring at Shirzad. And when Gilad tells some funny stories about his dog and pet bird back home, I barely hear Ahmed’s and Shireen’s laughter.
Why did Gilad tell Shirzad to sit in Baba’s seat? Does he know something about Baba that he’s not telling us? If Baba is dead, why won’t he tell us? This is war! People die!
“Is Baba dead?” I blurt out. Everyone turns to look at me. The laughing ends. “Is that why you came here, Gilad? To tell Mama that my father is dead? Is it?”
“Ali!” Mama says sharply. “Stop!”
“We deserve to know the truth,” I insist.
“You’re right, Ali,” Gilad says. “The truth is . . . I really don’t know. I was leaving Kuwait City on my way back to Baghdad and saw a portable medical unit that said BASRA on it. I got out of my friend’s vehicle, walked over to it, and asked if they knew my uncle, and I was surprised to hear that this was his unit!”
“Really?” Ahmed says.
“Did you see my Baba?” asks Shireen.
“As I told your Mama, no.” Gilad shakes his head. “I did not. He was busy out somewhere in the field. My buddy and I drove around looking for him. But it was too hard to see much through the smoke. So we went back to the Basra unit and . . . and . . . it had been shelled. Bullet holes were everywhere. Some people had been killed.”
My mother covers her mouth, suppressing a small cry.
“Your father was not one of them,” my cousin says hurriedly. “I did not see my uncle.”
“You’re sure?” I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I let it go.
“Yes,” says Gilad. He stands up and holds out his hand to me, making clear that he is being honest. I shake it.
“Auntie,” my cousin says. “Thank you for the wonderful meal. I have to be leaving.”
“Already?” Mama frowns.
The call to prayer sounds from outside. Then a honk of a car horn.
“That’s my ride.” Gilad gives Mama a hug.
“How did you get a ride?” Shirzad asks.
I was thinking the same thing. There are so few cars on the road—only the highest-ranking people get gas rations.
“One advantage of growing up in Baghdad is that there are lots of Saddam’s relatives around.” Gilad grins. “I went to school with one of his nephews. Great guy, moved to Basra. He’s taking me home.”
Gilad gives us a mock salute and we follow him outside.
There’s a black sedan with government license plates and a guy’s head sticking out the window.
“Yo, Gilad!” he shouts in American English. “Let’s rock and roll!”
Gilad gets in the car and waves. The car speeds away, leaving us standing on the front steps.
And then I feel a kick on my shin.
“You thought Baba was dead!” Shireen says to me. “You’re so stupid!”
Everyone disperses—Mama and Shireen-the-shin-kicker to the kitchen to clean up, and Ahmed and Shirzad up the stairs.
I make my way across the floor, passing the stairs and the parlor and the guest bathroom.
I stand at the door of my father’s study. I’m not allowed in there without permission. But Baba is not here. I take hold of the handle and push the door open. Shelves of books, piles of paper, framed pictures on the wall, and the faint scent of a cigar . . . It’s as if nothing has changed in here. The room is the way it always was, waiting for my father to return at any moment. He’s only been gone for a few days, but it feels like much longer.
I wander over to his desk, where a globe stands beside his pens and ashtray and paperweight.
I turn the globe to Iraq. My country is small compared to most. Will it exist after the world stops bombing us? Will it take the destruction of my country to get rid of Saddam?
I put my finger on tiny Basra and Baghdad and start to turn the globe again. I trace a path along the same latitude. Straight across . . . just above the 30 degrees latitude mark.
I land on Los Angeles, California, United States of America.
Huh, I think. We are on the same line as the movie stars. And all it took to get there was a quick spin of the globe. But that’s just a fantasy. Ha.
In real life you don’t go from Iraq to America. The closest I’ll ever get to the United States is a finger on the globe, and I twirl it bitterly. As I leave my father’s study, I can hear the world still spinning.
Twenty
Tuesday, January 29, 1991—Day 14
I’M LYING ON MY BED READING MY
SUPERMAN COMICS. Since yesterday, I’ve spent a lot of time in here.
“Ali!” Shirzad bursts into my room without knocking.
He’s the reason I’ve been stuck in my room. I’m hiding from him. I did not succeed.
“The garbage needs to go out,” says my brother.
“So?” I grumble.
“Take it out now,” he says. He holds out a small trash can.
I put down my comic and get off the bed.
“Yes, Dictator.” I stand stick straight and salute him. “Sir,” I say with a huff. Then I march stiffly past him and out the door.
I drag myself down the stairs. I’m not joking when I call Shirzad “Dictator.” Our head of household is letting power go to his head.
Shirzad is right behind me.
“Then the bathrooms need cleaning,” he says.
“What?” I stop at the bottom of the stairs and look up at him. “Bathrooms aren’t my job, that’s for—”
The housekeeper. Mama. Shireen. In the past, cleaning duties have gone to women.
“Make Shireen do it,” I say.
“She’s helping Mama all day,” Shirzad says.
“Ahmed,” I say.
“He’s helping me tidy up the safe room and bring in wood,” my brother counters.
“Well, I’m going out for a little while before I do it then,” I tell him, and start walking.
“No,” says Shirzad. “You’re grounded.”
I’m what? I stop dead in my tracks. That’s something we see on American TV shows. The kid does something wrong and the parents ground him as a punishment.
“You can’t be trusted to leave without getting lost,” says Shirzad calmly.
But I am not calm. “You don’t know anything! You can’t make me! You’re not the Saddam of our family!” I yell.
Then I punch Shirzad. I’m aiming for his face, but he moves and I get his shoulder.
I expect Shirzad to hit back. That’s what we do. We fight until Mama or Baba breaks it up.
Shirzad doesn’t hit back. Instead he says, “Grow up, Ali. Go take care of your responsibilities.”
And he walks away.
That’s it? Who does he think he is? I’m steaming mad as I go to the kitchen to get the trash container.
Mama is grinding a small mound of grain. The lack of decent food is starting to get to me. I’m hungry. But I don’t complain. I just go do my darn chore.
