The sky hung low, the clouds like wet cement.
Because of the war, there was no electricity. There was no kerosene for cooking, to heat water for tea or to fuel the lamps. While Mama and Shatha huddled in blankets, Nouri collected a pile of rocks in the corner of the courtyard. If the gun battles got close, he wanted to be ready.
Sometimes Nouri peeked down Talib’s street. Bright laundry hung from the lines that squatters had strung in the ruins. Once he heard flute music. It sounded like a trickle of cold water.
. . .
That January night there was no battle. Nouri lay awake, listening to the quiet. The wind, normally sharp, blew like a caress against the windows.
He relaxed into that soft wind, as if into a pleasant dream. Was this A’mmo Hakim coming back to him? Was this Allah’s grace?
An idea drifted in, as if carried by the breath of the wind: he could make up for the harm he’d caused. He could give the black car to Talib’s family. On Mutanabbi Street, A’mmo Nazar could probably sell it.
The next day Nouri would propose the idea to Baba. He’d polish the car until it shone with the light of Allah himself.
THE WHITE ZONE
Allah is great! The recorded voice of the muezzin called at sunrise. Allah is great! There is no God but Allah!
Talib rubbed his eyes.
Instead of getting up, Talib burrowed deeper into the blanket, his breath fogging the cold air. Today was the day he’d sever his connection with Allah forever.
He’d hidden the bus money in the pocket of his coat, along with three wooden matches. That afternoon he’d retrieve the bottle from the bag of cinnamon.
Talib pressed his face into the pillow. He had only enough for a one-way bus fare. How would he get back to Mutanabbi Street? Would he get back? And what if someone had found the bottle of gasoline? What if the bus driver smelled the gasoline on his coat? Picturing the explosion, he squeezed his eyes tight.
Because his coat reeked of gasoline, he’d left it on the stairs. What if someone took it, along with the money?
Talib threw back the blanket to find the room unusually chilled and damp. The light had dawned pale, as though rain was falling. If it was raining, surely he couldn’t go to Karada.
At the window, he wiped the condensation from the glass, then blinked in surprise.
This wasn’t rain, but something else. Something like white cotton. It drifted onto the roofs of the buildings opposite, onto the palm trees. It floated all the way to the ground.
Below, on Mutanabbi Street, people stood gazing into the sky. They raised their arms, as though to embrace the whiteness.
Talib snatched up his wool cap, calling, “Mama! Baba! Look outside!” He ran to the room where the printer slept. “Al-Shatri! Look outside!”
On the stairwell, he grabbed his coat and ran down the stairs. He burst into the street to stand with the others, lifting his face, his hands. This white rain fell so lightly, so slowly. He had no word for it.
“Mama! Baba! Al-Shatri!” he called up to the windows.
Soon Mama and Baba emerged from the stairwell, supporting each side of al-Shatri.
“Look!” cried Talib.
Al-Shatri took off his fingerless mittens. He let the flakes fall onto his open palms, exclaiming, “In my eighty years, I have never seen such weather!”
“It’s so quiet,” said Mama, glancing around. “It’s never so quiet.”
It was true. Today there was no rat-a-tat-tat sound of gunfire. No explosions of mortar shells. The city was holding its breath.
The white kept falling, sticking to the ground like a lacy veil. It covered the chaos left behind by the bombing. Talib wondered if it was covering his blackened home in Karada.
When he reached down and pinched up the fluffy whiteness, the cold stung his fingertips.
The world was moving in slow motion. More people came onto the street and smiled upward. More silent flakes fell.
. . .
“Jabir!” Talib called.
Jabir had emerged from an empty building, blinking. He waved at Talib, then took off his baseball cap, catching the flakes.
Talib imagined people all over Baghdad venturing outside, gazing into the falling white. Talib imagined Nouri standing in his courtyard beside his uncle’s black car, the white flakes settling on the glossy surface.
He thought of the bottle of gasoline, that deadly concoction, stored in the bag of cinnamon. How could he have ever thought to throw such a thing?
The new world was like the white page of a book. The world was like a page with no words, a page ready to be written upon.
A new page in which the war had stopped. In which no bombs fell. In which no guns were shot.
There wasn’t a Green Zone. Or a Red Zone. There was only a White Zone.
“This is a message from Allah,” declared al-Shatri. “We must end this war.”
Talib nodded. Al-Shatri was right.
“Allah has sent a white miracle,” whispered Mama.
“He’s quenching the fires of war,” Baba said.
The delicate white flakes settled on their wool caps, on Mama’s head scarf. They caught in Talib’s eyelashes.
Yet the miracle wouldn’t last forever. As soon as the day warmed a bit, all this beautiful white would be gone. The miracle was only a message.
Looking up at the sky, which was dropping not bombs, but white flakes, Talib understood that he had to end his own war. Somehow he had to let go of his bitterness toward Nouri.
Allah was covering everything in the same white blanket, showing mercy for all. He wasn’t on the side of the Sunnis. Nor of the Shiites. Allah was on all sides.
Allah was reaching out for him, and Talib had to reach back.
He took up a long stick. Balancing it carefully, he wrote in the delicate white layer that had fallen:
[Allah is great!].
It wasn’t the appointed time for prayer. No muezzin called from the minaret. But suddenly, Talib knelt and bowed down. He bowed down to Allah, the one as close as his own breath, the light of the heavens and earth. He pressed his forehead to Allah’s white miracle.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
From 1979 to 2003, Iraq was ruled by Saddam Hussein. Hussein relied upon tactics such as torture, murder, and imprisonment to maintain his hold on power.
In 1991, the United States fought the first Gulf War against Hussein after he invaded the small nearby country of Kuwait. Though he lost the war, Hussein remained in power.
In 2003, the United States again went to war against Iraq. This time Hussein lost control of the country. The dictator went into hiding, was captured, and finally executed by Iraqis.
Hussein’s fall from power was not the end of the conflicts. As a Sunni Muslim, Saddam Hussein had oppressed the rival Shiite Muslims during his brutal reign. After his fall, the balance of power changed and violence flared between the two sects.
Without an effective police force or an army to control the old hatreds, fighting became rampant. Lawlessness spread.
Unfortunately, the war was not only between armies. Iraqi civilians also took an active role. People who had once been friendly neighbors ostracized each other. In an atmosphere of terror, neighbors bombed and shot members of the opposing sect.
One place, however, seemed a refuge from the ravages of war: Mutanabbi Street. This street was the intellectual and artistic heart of Baghdad, flourishing with cafés, galleries, and booksellers. People drank tea, smoked water pipes, and talked politics. On Mutanabbi Street, no one cared who was Sunni and who was Shiite.
Tragically, in March 2007, this peace came under attack. A car bomb exploded in the heart of Mutanabbi Street. The explosion killed thirty-eight people, smearing the pavement with blood. Smoke rose from the burning books. The famous Shabandar Café and other historical buildings were destroyed.
Those who had loved Mutanabbi Street were devastated.
Then in January 2008, a miracle took place. Snow fell in Baghdad for the fi
rst time in anyone’s memory. This wondrous act of nature achieved what the warring factions could not. During the hours of snowfall, a small truce came about. Weapons were silenced and no blood was shed. In the midst of a long conflict— one that is still ongoing in 2012—this snowfall provided a small measure of healing.
GLOSSARY
A’mma—aunt, term of respect for older females
A’mmo—uncle, term of respect for older males
A’nba—pickled mango syrup
Baba—father
Chai khana—tea shop
Daa’bul—a marble
Dolma—grape leaves, tomatoes, eggplants, or zucchini stuffed with rice
Eid al-Fitr—feast which ends Ramadan
The Green Zone—the center of Baghdad where the U.S. occupation forces live and work.
Hafiz—a Persian poet and mystic who lived in the fourteenth century
Infidel—a non-Muslim
Irhabi—suicide bomber or terrorist
Marhaba—hello
Mihrab—an archway in a mosque which faces Mecca
Minaret—tower on a mosque from which the muezzin calls
Muezzin—man who calls Muslims to prayer five times a day
Nabog—a tree with edible white or purple berries
Ottoman Empire—this empire lasted from 1299– 1923. At its height it spanned three continents, controlling much of southeastern Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa.
Pacha—soup made of lamb’s head
Quzi—roasted and stuffed lamb
The Red Zone—the area immediately outside the Green Zone.
Samoon—an Iraqi form of pocket bread
Sana Helwa Ya Jameal—Happy Birthday, Handsome
Shiites—a branch of Islam that believes the Muslim saints, godly men who commit good deeds rule the community, should be the blood descendants of Muhammad. Shiites will pray only on the earth, which is made by Allah.
Sunnis—a branch of Islam that believes living Muslims should be able to select the Muslim saints themselves. Sunnis will pray on man-made surfaces.
Yabsa—white beans cooked with tomatoes
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Professor Shak Hanish for his anecdotes, for his tidbits of Iraqi culture, and for his careful vetting of the manuscript. I am also grateful to my agent, Kelly Sonnack, and to my editor, Andrew Karre, for their faith and guidance.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Known as an “ambassador to children around the world,” Carolyn Marsden voices the stories that most need to be shared with young readers. Carolyn Marsden’s debut novel for young readers, The Gold-Threaded Dress, was named a Booklist Top 10 Youth First Novel and a Booklist Editors’ Choice. Since then, she has earned starred reviews and other accolades for her novels set around the globe. Carolyn has an MFA in Writing for Children from Vermont College. Visit her online at www.carolynmarsden.com.
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