by Jennifer Roy
“Shireen,” I say. “With Saddam as our leader, we always lose.”
Mama says she has a headache and needs to lie down.
“Come on,” Shirzad says. “Let’s go outside and play tag.”
“Even me?” says Shireen.
“Sure,” my brother says. “You can be it first.”
We go outside. I automatically look up and search the sky for bomber planes.
A temporary cease-fire, I think. No planes for now, if the cease-fire holds.
There is a slight breeze, which makes the smoky haze less of a problem. We play cautiously at first, giving our sister a chance to keep being it, but soon we are our full-out competitive selves.
“Tag! You’re it!”
“No, you didn’t get me!”
“Cheater!”
Shirzad grabs my shirt to tag me, and something inside me just snaps. Pent-up energy converts to sudden rage. I whirl around and punch him in the stomach. Next thing I know we’re in a fist fight, pounding on each other.
I’m small but I’m quick. Shirzad has a longer reach and more strength. We’re both landing some good blows and dodging others.
“You are not the boss of me!” I say, emphasizing my words with my fists.
“Yes. I. Am.” Shirzad hits back.
“Dictator,” I sneer.
“Idiot,” he says. “Baby.”
“I’m not a little kid,” I say. “And you’re not my father!”
I yell those last words at the top of my lungs.
Shirzad freezes. I misjudge my next move and punch air. I’m knocked off balance and fall to my knees.
“You’re not my father,” I repeat, but quietly. I look down. Drops of blood from my nose are forming a pattern on the ground. I hear my sister whimpering.
“I kept you safe, didn’t I?” Shirzad yells. “Didn’t I?”
I don’t want to answer, to give in.
“Do you think I wanted this? I’d give anything for Baba to be back. I— I—” my brother’s voice cracks. He lets loose a few curse words and runs away. I think I hear him crying as he goes.
I am an idiot, I realize. I’ve been thinking only of myself. It didn’t occur to me that Shirzad might be hurting as much as I am.
I pull myself up to a standing position and pinch my nose to stop the bleeding.
“It’s getting dark out,” I tell Ahmed and Shireen. “Let’s go inside.”
“I’m telling Mama you boys were fighting,” says Shireen.
“No, you aren’t,” Ahmed says. “If you tattle, there’ll be trouble. Get it?”
Shireen rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything.
I head inside. I go straight to my room. My nose has stopped bleeding, and my physical pain has lessened. But a new pain stabs my heart. I see my collection of comics.
They are listing a bit to the right, instead of standing straight between the bookends. Three comics. My mother took three from the middle of the series.
They are not my top favorites, but they’re not my least favorites either.
I had enjoyed collecting them, individually, but more important, as a full set. My collection. Now incomplete.
“Ali!” Shireen knocks on my door. “Dinner is ready!”
Who cares? I think.
“ALI!” Shireen’s big mouth screeches.
“I’m not hungry!” I yell back. That, of course, is a lie. Of course I’m hungry. We’re all hungry. But I can’t face my mother yet. I’m still too angry.
“Aaaugh!” I kick my bookcase in frustration. “Owwwww!” My toe!
My comics wobble, but they stay in place. Only one book falls out—my English language workbook.
I lean over, pick it up, and hobble over to my bed. I lie down, foot throbbing.
Intermediate English. My workbook is only half done, since school has been canceled. I get up and grab a pencil and fall back onto my bed.
Prepositions:
at
after
around
before
I begin filling in the blanks on Practice Questions #1–#15.
I look (at) my comics.
(After) my mother burned my comics, I was mad.
I walk (around) my room.
(Before) today, I had a full set of comics.
I continue writing English sentences. I’m up to #12 . . . when there is a soft knock (on) (#10) my door.
Twenty-Eight
“WHAT?” I SAY.
The door opens.
“It’s me,” says Mama. “I bring a peace offering.”
She comes over and sets a plate down on my bedside table.
“Is that . . . ?” My eyes bug out.
“Lavash,” Mama nods. “With tahini!”
I can’t believe it—on my plate are two large pieces of flatbread slathered with tahini spread—a creamy butter made from crushed sesame seeds!
“Wha—? H-how?” I sputter.
“The governor’s wife sent her maid over with the ingredients this morning,” says Mama. “She also sent this note.”
My mother hands me a fancy card embellished with a gold monogram of the governor’s initials.
Dear Um Shirzad,
It was lovely talking with you on New Year’s Eve. Thank you to your family for attending our celebration! I hope to meet again when circumstances permit.
I was thinking about your charming children and thought they might enjoy these special treats. My son sends his best wishes to your two eldest.
Sincerely,
Um Qusay
I look up at my mother.
“I spent some time talking with the governor’s wife about her concerns about her children’s education,” Mama said. “And gave her some advice. She was very kind. And evidently, you and Shirzad made an impression on one of her sons.”
The kid who shared his video games! I knew he was cool!
“Wow,” I say, with my mouth full. I couldn’t help but dig into the food before my mother stopped talking.
“I’ll let you eat,” said Mama. “But first, I want to apologize. I did not realize how important those comic books were to you. I knew you had read them, so I assumed you were finished with them.”
I swallow and look down.
“How could you not know,” I say quietly, “about my favorite thing in the world?”
“Ali.” Mama sighs. “It is not easy being a working mother. Sometimes I was so busy paying attention to other people’s children that I lost track of my own.”
I don’t know what to say.
“I thought cartoon paper would be easiest to burn,” she adds. “I guess I should have used your math book instead.”
I look up. Mama’s mouth is serious, but her eyes are twinkling.
My mother joking about math?
I can’t help it. I smile.
“Now enjoy your dinner,” Mama says, and she leaves my room and shuts the door behind her.
Mmmmm. Yummm. The tahini melts perfectly into the warm bread . . . wait!
I sit up. Warm bread? I am a dummy. My mother ran out of gas and wood to light the oven. We were all so hungry. And then a gift of food shows up at the door.
I see it from my mother’s perspective. The chance to feed her children good hot food versus a few highly flammable comics.
I look over at my comic collection. I’m sad about it.
With a mouthful of delicious food, I pick up my plate and my bottle of Coke. I go downstairs. Everyone is still in the dining room, looking happier and more relaxed than I’ve seen them look in a long time.
The conversation stops as I walk in the room.
“I-I . . .” I say. “I think that Superman saved the day!”
It’s good to hear everyone laugh. I join in.
I open the Coke and hear the satisfying hiss of carbonation.
I relish every sip and every bite.
Twenty-Nine
Thursday, February 28, 1991—Day 44
“WAKE UP!” WORDS AR
E INVADING MY EAR AND POKING at my sleep.
“Ali! Wake up!” It’s Shirzad.
“What?” I say, eyes closed.
“Shhh . . . get up! You have to see this!” My brother yanks off my blanket.
I open my eyes. I see Shirzad’s feet. I’m sleeping on the blanketed floor of the safe room with the rest of the family. We still don’t know if we are really safe. The war has not been officially announced as over. I follow Shirzad to my room, which overlooks the front yard. Down on the street is a man. A soldier in Ba’athist uniform. He is walking past our house, not in the brisk soldier way but slowly.
“And over there.” Shirzad points.
Two soldiers. Down the street. It looks like one is leaning on the other.
“They were just in front of here,” my brother says. “It looks like one injured his leg and the other is carrying him along.”
“Who are they?” I ask. “Where are they going? And wait . . . they don’t have any guns.”
What good are soldiers without weapons?
“I’m going to go find out,” Shirzad says, and races out of the room. I take off right behind him.
I run down the stairs and gain ground on Shirzad. Before he can open the front door, I’m standing in front of it.
“I’m going out with you,” I say. And then, although the word almost sticks in my mouth, I add: “Please.”
“Come on,” my brother says. I step away to let him unlock and open the door. We both race outside, into the street and up to one of the soldiers.
“Excuse me,” Shirzad says. “Sir.”
The soldier stops. He stares blankly at us.
“We were just, uh, wondering . . .” Shirad falters.
“Where are you coming from?” I ask. “Where are you going?”
“I’m coming from hell,” the soldier says. “I’m going home.”
He starts walking away from us. When he’s out of hearing range, I say, “That was creepy.”
“I think he’s shell-shocked,” Shirzad says. “Not right in the head. Hey! There’s more!”
A new pair of soldiers is on our street. We run up to them.
I ask the same questions. “Where are you coming from? Where are you going?”
“Got a cigarette?” one soldier asks.
“No, sorry,” Shirzad responds.
“We’re coming from Kuwait City,” the other soldier says. “We were in our tank, part of a convoy, moving north along Route 80 when the enemy planes showed up and bombed us to pieces.”
Route 80. Also known as the Basra-Kuwait Highway.
“It was crazy, man,” says the soldier who asked for a cigarette. “We had to walk miles, and everywhere we saw burned vehicles and burned bodies . . .”
“These are just kids,” the other guy reminds him, referring to us.
“And the smell of the oil wells and the charred corpses and burning gas . . . it was a highway of death. Yes, a highway of death.”
“We’re lucky to be alive,” the other soldier says. “We just want to get home. We’re a little lost. Which way to Baghdad?”
Shirzad gives him basic directions to a route that leads to Baghdad.
We wish the men luck.
Then we run into the house to find Mama.
Over weak coffee, we tell her what the soldiers said.
“They’re coming home,” my mother says. “Our soldiers are leaving Kuwait and coming back. This means they’re in retreat. The war is really coming to an end.”
“Baba may get back today,” says Shirzad. “Those men made it. Baba could too.”
We sit in a silence heavy with hope and fear.
“It’s going to be hard to sit around and wait,” admits Mama. “Let’s keep the younger two busy. We could do chores . . . or play a game.”
“Game!” my brother and I shout quickly.
And no game lasts longer than Monopoly.
By the time Ahmed and Shireen wake up, the Monopoly board has been set up, the money has been sorted, the cards are in place, and we’re ready for Go.
Even Mama joins us in the playroom. The game gets competitive fast.
“Boardwalk!” Ahmed yells. He purchases it and eyes my properties. I own Park Place.
“No trade,” I tell him. It’s my turn. I roll the dice. I move my piece and land on Community Chest. I take a card.
“You have won second place in a beauty contest,” I read. “Collect ten dollars.”
My brothers jeer at me.
“I won first place,” Shireen says.
“Okay, okay, just give me my money,” I say to Shirzad, the banker.
It’s Mama’s turn.
“Free parking!” she says, scooping up the money in the middle.
The rest of us groan.
Ahmed picks up the dice and shakes them. Just as he’s about to toss them . . .
“Who’s winning?” A voice comes from the doorway.
“Baba!” Shireen shrieks and jumps up, knocking the board into disarray. Ahmed drops the dice.
My father is home! He’s alive!
Thirty
WE RUN OVER TO HIM, TRIPPING OVER ONE ANOTHER to hug him.
“Baba, where were you?”
“Are you all right?”
“Come get a cup of coffee and something to eat.”
That last statement is from my mother.
We disentangle from Baba and walk downstairs with him. Mama tells us to set the table—the head of the table—with the good china and silverware.
When we sit down, I let out a big sigh. What a relief to have Shirzad at his regular place—a kid’s seat, and my father as the rightful head of the family.
“Lavash!” My father says. “And Coca-Cola? What a wonderful welcome home!”
Mama tells him about the governor’s wife while he eats. I watch him. He looks thin and tired. He is covered in soot. But I don’t see any injuries. After he swallows his last gulp of Coke, he burps. I can’t help but giggle, mostly out of pure release of tension.
“Excuse me,” Baba says, smiling.
“I’ll try to tell you everything,” he says. “But first, I am fine. I was moved to a hospital, where I was forced to stay and treat the injured. But it worked out well for me, because the hospital was on the outskirts of Kuwait City, not so close to the oil wells or the main fighting.”
“And you made it!” says Ahmed.
I look at my younger brother. I see some of that spark coming back into his eyes. Shireen can’t stop bouncing around with excitement. And my mother is looking at my father with affection.
I shoot a look at Shirzad. He grins at me. I know it’s childish, but I stick my tongue out at him. Ha, ha, you’re not my boss anymore. He replies with a rude hand gesture.
Yes. Things are getting back to normal.
“Kids,” Baba says, “what I am about to tell you, before we go anywhere or do anything else, is very important.”
“Should we . . .” Mama motions toward Shireen.
“She needs to hear this too,” Baba says. He pats his knee and Shireen runs over and climbs up on his lap. My father strokes her hair as he talks.
“First, I am profoundly grateful that each of you is safe. The joy I felt walking up the stairs and hearing you playing Monopoly . . .” Baba wipes his eyes. “It made my heart soar. Thank you for your hard work and patience and sacrifice. I came home to a house and a family that were well taken care of.” He stops and looks at Shirzad.
“Shirzad, you have made me proud. You all make me proud.”
My father smiles at each of us.
“And I know that you’ll continue to make me proud, as our country and our friends move forward into the next chapter of our lives.”
Wow. I admit it. This speech makes me sit up straighter. And maybe that’s a tear in my eye . . . I wipe it away before anyone can see.
“However, first we need to close this chapter.” My father frowns. “Just because the war is ending, it doesn’t mean our troubles are
. I’ve been hearing that most of the electricity and energy plants have been destroyed. Our roads and bridges have been bombed out. We can’t communicate with our friends and family in other cities. And it may be a while before we’ll be eating good food again on a regular basis.
“But we will get through this. We are strong. And we are together.”
“The war is over!” shouts Ahmed. “Hurray!”
“Finally!” says Shireen. “It went on forever!”
Shirzad and I crack up. The war with Iran lasted eight years. This one was only about forty days.
“I was fortunate enough to be part of one of the first groups of people to make it back from Kuwait,” my father says.
“Did you come up on Highway 80?” I ask. I almost say “the highway of death” but catch myself in time.
My father looks at me sadly.
“Yes,” he says. “And there are many, many men behind me, now that Saddam has ordered the army to pull out of Kuwait. The Basra-Kuwait Highway is the only route back, so nearly everyone will be passing through or around Basra on their way home. I will be busy treating injuries and helping our soldiers. But for right now, I’m going to take a nap. So, no loud noises.”
“Yes!” screams Ahmed. Shireen punches him in the shoulder.
“He said no noise!” she yells at Ahmed. The two of them start to bicker.
Everything is getting back to normal, I think to myself. Or at least the new normal. Whatever that will be.
Thirty-One
WE ARE BACK IN SHIRZAD’S ROOM, FORMERLY THE SAFE ROOM. But this time, we are not hiding. We are moving out. Everyone can sleep in their own room tonight.
“You’re doing it wrong, Ahmed!” Shireen is getting back to her bossy self rather quickly.
“Then you do it yourself,” Ahmed says, and he drops the corner of the rug he was rolling up. Ahmed runs and jumps on Shirzad’s back. “Attack!”
Shirzad spins Ahmed around a couple times and dumps him onto the bed.
“Counterattack!” my older brother says, and pins Ahmed down for a few seconds before letting him up.
