The White Zone

by Carolyn Marsden

  Text copyright © 2012 by Carolyn Marsden

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise— without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Carolrhoda Books

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 U.S.A.

  Website address: www.lernerbooks.com

  The image in this book is used with the permission of: Front Cover: © John

  R. Kreul/Independent Picture Service.

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Marsden, Carolyn.

  The White Zone / by Carolyn Marsden.

  p. cm.

  Summary: As American bombs fall on Baghdad during the Iraq War, ten-year-old cousins Nouri and Talib witness the growing violence between Sunni and Shiite Muslims.

  ISBN: 978–0–7613–7383–4 (trade hard cover : alk. paper)

  1. Iraq War, 2003—Juvenile fiction. [1. Iraq War, 2003—Fiction. 2. Muslims—Fiction. 3. Violence—Fiction. 4. Cousins—Fiction. 5. Baghdad (Iraq)—Fiction. 6. Iraq—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M35135Wj 2012

  2011021227

  [Fic]—dc23

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 12/31/11

  eISBN: 978-0-7613-8724-4

  BLACK CAR,

  WHITE COFFIN

  Nouri covered his eyes against a blast of blowing sand.

  When the gust had passed, he opened his eyes to the al-Salam cemetery. Stretching as far as he could see, the flat ground was punctuated by the tombs of the Shiite prophets. The air was cold and Nouri shivered in his new black suit.

  In the distance, the glittering gold dome and minarets of the mosque rose into the dusty sky. But Nouri stared only at the white coffin beside the hole in the earth where his uncle would soon be locked away forever. Never again would he smile at Nouri or kick a soccer ball his way.

  When the market had been attacked last week by the Sunni martyr, thirty-four people had died. Nouri’s uncle had been among the dead.

  As the white coffin was lowered into the ground, Mama and A’mmo’s other female relatives slapped their faces and wailed in grief.

  Nouri’s younger cousins, Anwar and Jalal, remained dry-eyed. They were busy bouncing a small rubber ball behind the backs of the grown-ups.

  Nouri hoped his cousins wouldn’t see the tears wetting his cheeks. Anwar and Jalal hadn’t been as close to Mama’s youngest brother as he had. They’d never gone with A’mmo to the glassy building in the Green Zone where he worked as a bank teller. They’d never ridden in his black car, which was small, but very shiny.

  Nouri had loved that car almost as much as he loved his uncle. Even though the corner store was an easy walk away, A’mmo always drove him there to buy pencils and candies. The kids of the neighborhood had circled the shiny black exterior, running their fingertips over the chrome.

  Now everything was different. Baba had driven the family to A’mmo’s funeral in that car, traveling the three hours to Najaf City from Baghdad.

  Gradually, A’mmo Hakim’s relatives made their way to the line of cars that had driven in the convoys from Baghdad and Mosul.

  While Mama leaned in to kiss her relatives on both cheeks, Nouri bit his cheeks against the tears building in his throat. A’mmo Hakim was really gone.

  Mama climbed into the front seat of the black car and Nouri got in next to the back window. His little sister. Shatha—a large black bow in her hair—scooted to the middle, making room for Mama’s sister.

  A’mmo Hakim’s once-shiny car was dusty now. Tomorrow, Nouri told himself, he’d get up early to clean it. He’d make this car his. Surely, since he’d been A’mmo’s favorite nephew, A’mmo would want him to have it.

  Nouri wouldn’t be able to drive the car for years and years, but he knew it would be waiting.

  As they drew closer to Baghdad, the sky ahead burned with the green flash of tracer fire. Explosions rocked the night. Baba drove straight into that war, the one they lived with every day.

  As they passed a group of motorcycles stuck behind a horse-drawn cart, Baba patted the steering wheel and said, “We should get a good price for this car.”

  Nouri leaned forward to hear better, pushing against his sister, who elbowed him back. How could Baba suggest such a thing?

  “You’d sell it right away?” Mama lifted her arm, her bracelets jingling.

  “Why not? We need the money.”

  “It’s something to remember Hakim by. . . .” Mama’s voice trailed off.

  Mama was right—the car was all they had left of A’mmo Hakim. “We could use this car,” Nouri said firmly.

  Baba shook his head. “Cars cost money to keep. Buses are good enough.”

  Nouri leaned back, breathing in his aunt’s thick perfume. If only A’mmo Hakim could be alive again, tugging at his smooth white cuffs with the sparkling cuff links. Because of a stupid Sunni, he now lay in a white coffin, dressed in his white suit.

  All over Iraq—even before the American soldiers had arrived—Sunnis and Shiites had been at war. Even though they were all Muslims, they found reasons to hate each other.

  Up until now, Nouri hadn’t felt any bad feelings toward Sunnis.

  Now he thought of Baba’s elder brother, who’d married a Sunni. They had a son his age—his cousin. Talib was half Sunni, half Shiite, but Nouri had never thought anything of it before. He and Talib had grown up happily together.

  But now, when Nouri pictured Talib—his curly hair and narrow eyes—it seemed like a shadow passed over his cousin’s image.

  Because of a stupid Sunni, Nouri had had to ride to the cemetery in Najaf City in A’mmo’s black car. And now Baba was about to sell that car, the last remains of Nouri’s beloved uncle.

  ALLAH IS GREAT

  With a low, grinding sound, an American tank drove into the neighborhood. It filled the narrow street, scraping against a wall, crushing rocks as it moved. It stopped right in the middle of Talib’s war game.

  What luck, Talib thought, to have a real tank right here. The American tanks cruised into Karada every now and then, but it had been a while. The tanks traveled slowly and usually never hurt anyone. Talib eyed the dull green metal and the long treaded wheel that moved the tank forward.

  “The infidels kill children,” whispered his cousin Nouri, crouching. “They break down doors and kill whole families.”

  Talib shaded his eyes and studied the tank again. “But sometimes they give out candy.” He put down his gun and got up. With a chance to get close to an American vehicle of war, how could his cousin act so cowardly?

  “But your mother . . .” Nouri glanced toward the house, his straight black hair swinging across his forehead.

  Mama worried endlessly about nothing. “She’ll be all right. We soldiers do what we have to do.” Talib hopped over the wall and slid into the space between the wall and the tank. Today he felt as tough as the tank itself. He went up to it and banged on the metal side. He called out: “Hello, Mister!”

  A few yards down the dusty street, Nouri clustered with their other cousins, Jalal and Anwar. Two years younger, they stood only as high as Nouri’s shoulder. The three whispered together.

  They always let him be the brave one, Talib thought.

  There was no sign of life from the tank. “Hello, Mister!” Talib repeated more l
oudly. In spite of his bravado, his stomach tightened. Was Nouri right? Every week there were stories of American bombs hitting the wrong target, killing civilians. What were the soldiers inside the tank doing?

  Just as Talib took a step back, a soldier poked his head out the small window. He had a round, sunburned face.

  Talib waved and the soldier smiled.

  “Candy! American candy!” Talib hollered up in English.

  The soldier drew his head back inside. A moment later, he lowered a combat helmet down the side of the tank.

  Talib stood on tiptoe. He jumped up to see, but the helmet was still too high.

  The soldier laughed and dropped the helmet. It fell with a hard plunk. Two red cans of Coke rolled into the dust.

  Talib scrambled to grab the cans. Soda—especially American soda—was a rare treat. He picked up the heavy helmet and put it on. He heard giggles from his cousins. With real army equipment like this, he’d be more of a real soldier. He looked up at the window, but the solider had retreated inside. Maybe he didn’t care about the helmet. With the Cokes in his arms and the helmet on his head, Talib hopped back over the wall.

  He heard the soldier calling after him. Although he couldn’t understand the English, he knew the words were rough. Talib paused. Allah wouldn’t approve of his taking the helmet. The soldier needed it for protection. But it would be too shameful to turn back now.

  Talib crouched in the thorny bougainvillea, head down, the cans against his chest, the helmet low over his eyes. That soldier wouldn’t dare get out of his tank. He peeked up to look at the big gun. What if it turned in his direction?

  The other boys joined Talib in the shadow of the wall.

  “That took guts,” said Anwar. He eyed the helmet on Talib’s head.

  Glancing at the tank, Nouri reached out to touch the helmet.

  “Are you going to share the Cokes?” Anwar pointed to the cans.

  Talib adjusted the helmet to see better. “Should I?” he asked. “You didn’t help me get them.”

  “You should share,” said Jalal, looking at the others.

  “Is that an order?” Talib asked, smiling.

  “Yes,” replied Jalal.

  “If you don’t share,” said Nouri, “we won’t play with you. After all, you’re a Sunni.”

  Talib pressed the hard cans to his chest, his smile fading. “You know I’m not completely Sunni,” he protested. “Only my mother is.”

  Anwar scooted closer to Nouri and Jalal saying, “You can’t be Shiite if you’re half Sunni.”

  “But Baba is a Shiite like you,” Talib protested further. “He’s your uncle.”

  Anwar shrugged.

  With white bougainvillea flowers dropping like soft bombs, Talib’s three cousins—his very blood— suddenly looked at him with the hard eyes of enemy soldiers. He’d been braver than all three of them put together, but now that meant nothing.

  He knew that Nouri’s uncle had just been killed by a Sunni bomb. But that hadn’t been his fault.

  Talib handed over one of the cans. “You three can share this. The other’s mine.”

  Jalal popped the tab, and Talib popped his. The soda, shaken in the fall from the tank, shot out and sprayed them with warm, syrupy sweetness.

  Anwar laughed, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.

  “What about the helmet?” asked Nouri. “We each want to try it on.”

  Talib hesitated before handing it over.

  Just as Nouri was placing the helmet on his black hair, the muezzin called, ordering them to prayer— Allah is great! There is no god but Allah!

  Talib didn’t like the fact that it wasn’t a real muezzin calling, that it was only a recording blasting from the tower. He pretended the call came from a real man, a man whose heart overflowed with the love of Allah, the way his own heart overflowed.

  Talib drained the last of his Coke and tossed the can aside. Even though his cousins ignored the muezzin’s call, he never missed prayers. In order to be pure for Allah, he needed to wash. But since there was no water, he’d have to use sand.

  As he stood up and reached for a handful, he caught sight of Nouri looking out from under the helmet, still seated.

  As Nouri passed the helmet to Jalal, Talib finished rubbing sand between his palms. But he couldn’t pray with a clean heart without giving the helmet back.

  Talib lifted the helmet off Jalal’s head. He jumped over the wall. He hoped the soldier wouldn’t shoot him. Laying the helmet below the window of the tank, he called, “Mister!”

  Back on the other side of the wall, Talib turned in the direction of Mecca, knelt, then bowed forward, pressing his forehead to the dust. He sank into the earth: Allah is great. There is no god but Allah. . . .As he bowed down, everything vanished from his mind— the tank, the fight, his cousins. Allah is great. . . .Even the sun, the sky, the very ground vanished as Talib let Allah’s sweet presence fill his being. Allah was as close as his own breath.

  KERPOW YOURSELF

  “Time to eat!” The voice of Nouri’s mother sailed through the air.

  Nouri led the way into the courtyard where A’mmo Hakim’s car was parked. “Don’t touch it!” he ordered his cousins, glaring at Talib.

  Beyond the dry fountain, the smallest cousins sat on the flagstones making mud pies, their hands red with cold.

  Nouri pushed open the door into the big room off the courtyard. The members of his Shiite family ate together every Sabbath. Inside were gathered A’mma Hiba, his aunt, and many more aunts, uncles, and cousins from all over the city. Because of A’mmo’s death, they wore black.

  Baba stood, his hands on his hips, talking with A’mmo Murtadha. Baba’s face was red, as if he’d been arguing.

  Nouri held the door wide for his cousins, but his grip tightened as Talib passed into the room. Talib wasn’t really welcome. Not after the bombing.

  Talib’s mother was the only Sunni here, and Talib was the only person of mixed blood. They came only because A’mma Fatima had no relatives of her own in Baghdad.

  They came without her husband and Talib’s father, A’mmo Nazar. On the Friday Sabbath, when many liked to shop, Nouri’s uncle tended his bookstall on Mutanabbi Street.

  Mama stood near the table of food, her silver bracelets clattering on her wrists. She directed the other women: place the dishes here and there, over there.

  “Smells good,” said Jalal.

  “But it’s not what she used to make,” said Anwar.

  Anwar was right. Before the war Mama would have served minced meat with nuts, raisins, and spices, and quzi, roasted and stuffed lamb. Now she offered less expensive dishes like dolma, tomatoes stuffed with rice. But at least there was always food since Baba had a good job as a security guard.

  Before the war they’d all dug deep with the big serving spoons, piling the fragrant food on their plates, covering it from one edge to the other. But lately on these Fridays, there was only enough for everyone to take a little.

  There wasn’t really enough, Nouri thought, for Talib and A’mma Fatima.

  Nouri spotted Talib’s mama in a pink head scarf, black curls showing around the edges of her face. She was sitting with the small girl cousins. Usually she ate with Mama and Hiba and the other women, chatting and laughing. But today she sat, like a children’s nanny, in the corner. That was where she belonged.

  From behind him, Nouri couldn’t help overhearing a conversation between Baba and two of his uncles.

  “The Sunnis are working with the Americans now.”

  “Over in Anbar Province.”

  “First those Sunnis betray us with Hussein, and now they do a double cross and go over to the side of the occupiers.”

  “Instead of offering jobs and other bribes, the Americans should clean out that nest at Anbar . . .”

  “Shhh,” A’mmo Murtadha said, glancing at Talib’s mama. Anbar province was the home of A’mma Fatima’s Sunni family.

  But Nouri found himself hoping that A’mma
Fatima had heard. A Sunni had bombed the market where A’mmo Hakim had died. A Sunni like Talib and his mother. And Nouri felt they should pay.

  Mama handed down a plate of cubes of braised lamb, saying, “Share this among yourselves.”

  Nouri took three pieces and passed the plate to Jalal and Anwar, who also took three. Only when there was one bite of lamb left did Nouri offer the plate to Talib.

  After the meal, while the men smoked and talked, the women cleared the dishes, then spread out blankets and pillows for napping.

  Nouri led the way to the large room where Mama kept her potted orange trees in winter, where sunshine spilled through the glass ceiling. Pigeons flew in through a broken pane, darting in the muted light.

  “Kerpow!” Jalal shouted, making a pistol with his hand, his index finger pointed at Talib.

  “Kerpow yourself,” Talib retorted, standing motionless.

  “Aren’t you going to play?” asked Nouri. Although part of him wanted to play as they had all these years, pretending to be enemies, another part of him felt like it wasn’t so much a game anymore.

  “He’s going to sleep like an old person,” said Anwar, pillowing his head on his folded hands.

  Nouri watched as Talib sat down on the cement floor and scratched patterns in the dust. When the twig broke Talib tore off another.

  A mortar shell dropped somewhere in the city, the loud blast rattling the panes of the glass room.

  In the orchard of potted orange trees, the smaller cousins began to play hide-and-go-seek, crouching beneath the glossy leaves, slipping behind a large dusty tapestry. They shrieked whenever someone was found.

  “Let’s play that too,” said Anwar.

  “That’s a little kids’ game,” answered Nouri.

  “What are you going to do then?” Jalal asked.

  Nouri gestured toward his uncle’s black car, covered in dust in the driveway. “Clean it.”

  “Can we help?” asked Anwar.

  Nouri shook his head and walked away, leaving his cousins behind. He didn’t want anyone else to touch his uncle’s car.

  Taking one of Mama’s kitchen cloths, he wiped off the dust, his straight dark-brown hair, his round chin reflected in the black finish. Wiping, he noticed dings in the paint he’d never seen before, including a long scratch along the bottom of the passenger door.