A Brighter Fear (4 page)

With time on his hands, and with danger everywhere, Papa insisted on walking me and Layla to school, taking turns with Ali.

Before the war, I used to love the walk to school, even on days when I had an exam. Strolling by with Layla and her brothers, the sounds of a city coming to life, the smells from the bakeries, the morning sun prickling out sweat on our brows as we gossiped about fellow students, moaned about homework or bad grades or miserable teachers. I didn’t have to be taken to school every day in fear of kidnapping, attacks or rape.

Now, as we walked with Papa, we dodged through rubbish piling up on streets, counted bullet holes in abandoned cars; Layla’s brothers jumped over charred marks on the pavements where something had exploded or been set on fire.

And as it soon came to be that females daren’t go outside without a male escort, so it came to be that we could no longer dress as we liked.

This was our liberation.

I called for Layla one morning, and felt the change at my shoulder. It followed me, shadowing, eating and destroying, threatening everything I held precious. I looked at Layla and barely recognised her.

She always wore jeans, she always wore her dark hair pinned a certain way, but now? I looked at her, a long abaya covering her body, a hijab covering her head. “
Why?
” I whispered.

“My mother is worried,” she told me. “She doesn’t even want me to go to school. Not even with an escort. This is the only way she’ll let me out of the house. She says it’s safer.”

I thought about her answer, staring around as we walked. I saw the girls, the women. Not one female without a male escort, most with two, all with their heads covered, some wearing abayas, covered to their feet.

How long has it been like this?
I asked myself.
Have I been walking around with my eyes closed? Why have I not noticed?

I turned back to Layla.

“Think about it, Lina,” she said.

Think about it
, I repeated in my head. If I’d said it aloud, the incredulity would’ve been so heavy I wouldn’t have been able to take another step. I didn’t want to be told what I could and couldn’t wear. I didn’t want to wear a hijab, I wanted to feel the breeze blowing at my long hair.

At school that day, I was the only female with her head uncovered. Whatever the religion, the upbringing, the faith, the girls were united by a hijab. At lunch I sat behind a group of girls who were debating something in hushed whispers. Briefly Layla leaned towards me. “They’re talking about Anita. She was kidnapped yesterday. If her family don’t pay the ransom by tonight, she’ll be killed.”

Anita had been my partner in maths class for a year. She had lived down our street when she was younger. She had a large family, three brothers, a sister and a multitude of aunts and uncles. Her mother had asked her and her brother to go to the market. Only the brother came back.

I felt sick. What was happening to us?

It was unbelievable. And there were more and more stories like that. Where was the freedom and democracy we were promised? This wasn’t freedom. Not being able to walk to school, to go to the market, to have a head uncovered, to be proud to be Christian. Layla, my best friend, who I’d shared everything with for so many years, was scared to sit next to me in class or at dinner, because I was a Christian, and went with my head uncovered.

I felt anger and frustration grow in me. My head ached with it. I wanted to scream and cry. Stamp my feet like a two-year-old until somebody promised it would all stop.

When Ali came to talk to Papa the next day, I listened at the doorway. He said we could no longer walk to school together, they could no longer be seen associating with us, us Christians, he couldn’t risk them being persecuted.

Persecuted by who?
I wondered. Not the Americans. By our fellow Iraqis? Extremists? Fundamentalists? I didn’t know where these people had come from – it was as if they had been locked away somewhere, and when the Americans came, they brought the key to let them out.

Something else had been taken from me. Something so simple: a walk to school with a friend. There were no words in my head to argue. There was no explanation.

Before the war most people knew little of who was what religion; Sunnis would marry Shia and live alongside Christians. I didn’t understand why it had changed but I knew Christians were not wanted nor welcome in the city; they were attacked, homes ransacked, death threats given. Employers told them to leave, afraid of what might happen if they were seen to be friends with one. We lost friends, smiling neighbours and respect. And it seemed I had lost Layla.

But I did understand her father’s fears.

A few days later, while I was out with Papa, and wearing a pair of trousers and a shirt, my hair blowing around, we stopped at a second-hand shop. I don’t remember the excuse he gave, but I knew what he was looking for as he peered through the dusty glass.

I heard someone shout behind me and I turned. A face running towards me, something in his hands. I frowned, confused as to what was happening, not understanding who he was shouting at, who he was running for. But it was me. And suddenly I was on the floor, trying to figure out what had happened.

I felt the wetness seeping through my shirt, felt it clinging and burning at my skin, the pain eating at me as Papa dragged me through the streets. And as Papa pulled me back home, ordered me into the bathroom, I realised acid had been thrown over me. Why? Because of how I was dressed? Because I’m Christian? I didn’t know. A warning maybe? I was lucky – only my scalp was burned, my arm blistered. My face had not been touched – I had turned in time. And Papa removed my shirt in time. But I trembled as I stood in the bath, pouring water down my front over and over again; I could still see his face, that look in his eyes.

When I re-emerged, Papa handed me a long skirt and a hijab. And I didn’t argue.

Within a couple of weeks, Papa had a new job.

When he told me what he’d be doing I felt sick to my stomach, my hands shaking in my lap, my head spinning. The shock of it, even though so much time has passed, still burns through my veins.

Papa stepped into the house with a stack of papers in his hands, put them away from my view and asked me to sit down.

He sighed. “I’m going to be interpreting for the Americans,” he said, “for the troops.”

In silence I stared at him, waiting, hoping for him to tell me it was a joke.

“Sometimes I’ll travel around with them, sometimes I’ll be with them when houses are raided, sometimes when people are questioned.”

My head was filled with such disbelief I couldn’t find the words to reply. Unbelievable wasn’t the word. Unthinkable, perhaps. I didn’t understand his decision. I didn’t understand why he would want to work for them. The air was thick with rumours of what the troops were doing to civilians. Why did Papa want to be a part of that?

I hoped they were just rumours, that there was no truth in them. But still, the danger he was putting himself in was... was... what? Appalling? Unbelievable? No, they are just words, and words didn’t do justice to what I was feeling inside. I was scared for him. And for myself. I didn’t want him to be hurt. I didn’t want him to see the things I had heard of. He shouldn’t be in situations where he would see death and suffering and pain. But then… wasn’t that what everyone in this country was seeing?

But I wanted to keep my papa safe. I wanted him home with me every evening. I wanted to cling to him and not let him out of my sight. Some days the fear in me was so great, the worry that I would come home and he wouldn’t be there any more, that I wanted to stay out, put off going home, unwilling to face what might have happened.

“It’s a good job, Lina, pays well, and we need the money,” he said.

I tried to keep the tears from my eyes, and stop them stinging my cheeks.

“I’ll see a lot of Baghdad. Probably visit the police stations and the prisons. See… see the people inside.”

And at that, there was nothing left for me to say.

Though I understood, I shook my head at him and left the room.

For Papa’s first few weeks of his new job, he would recount his day to me over the dinner table. He started off telling me how well he got on with the soldiers. Some had shown him photos of loved ones back home, and he had shared with one of them what had happened to Mama. He told me many were just young boys, scared of the situation they were in, jittery when nervous, a little trigger happy; desperate to prove their worth to their colleagues and superiors. Sometimes he came home with things they’d given him. Some cigarettes he could sell, some chocolate he’d give to me.

Perhaps I’ve been worrying too much
, I thought.
Perhaps this job will be fine for him
.

But gradually he spoke less and less. His shoulders drooped lower and lower, and his face aged, the lines and contours deeper, a little greyer, dustier.

And I would ask him how work was, but he had no answers for me. And I saw blood on his shoes. I heard him crying in his room. I worried about him more than ever. I worried about our future.

I heard the footsteps first. Two sets, I thought, heavy boots across the garden, moving closer.

I saw the shadows next, two shadows passing the kitchen window. Then a knock on the door and I turned and saw uniform through the frosted glass, a soldier’s uniform.

I felt sick.

I glanced at the clock in the kitchen – it was too early for Papa.

My heart pounded in my chest, but I didn’t move. I held my breath, and I waited. Should I answer? Should I run? Should I get Papa’s gun and point the barrel through the window?

I was alone, and there were soldiers outside. And that fear and that worry held me motionless as I watched the door handle ease down, the hinges creak and sunlight stream through the gap.

I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t shout, I couldn’t even move.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, tried to swallow away my fear, tried to imagine them gone. Whoever they were.

And when I dared to open my eyes again, I saw Aziz first. Then standing next to him I saw a soldier, an American soldier, and my eyes flicked over his khaki uniform, his dusty boot, his helmet clasped under an arm, his dark glasses dangling from his fingers.

His hands streaked with dirt, his jacket smeared with blood.

Whose blood?

My breathing came thick and fast, my chest burning, my eyes stinging. I glanced up to his face, so far above me, and into his eyes for just a second before he looked away.

I knew, then, but I didn’t want to know.

The American soldier ran his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, and I saw his chest heave as he sighed. I didn’t want to know why he was there, I didn’t want him to speak, didn’t want to hear anything that he might have to say to me.

I turned to walk away.

“Lina, please,” Aziz whispered, taking my hand in his. “He’s come here to talk to you. He wanted to. He asked to.”

And with a sigh, knowing I had no choice, I did what Aziz asked of me; I sat at the table and the enemy sat down to face me. Aziz poured coffee for us and as the steam lifted into the air between us, I wished this soldier would disappear into it, along with whatever it was he had to say.

But my wish went unanswered.

I could hear his heavy breathing. I could smell his uniform and his war.

I waited for him to speak, for his mouth to open and the words that I was dreading to come out. The brightness of my fear exploded in front of my eyes and burned inside my chest.

I watched his rough, dusty fingers and his clumsy hands that pulled triggers gently brush the edge of his cup. I watched his eyes flicker from the table, to me, to Aziz, to the door, to the window, resting nowhere.

And at last, but with barely a whisper, the silence was broken. “I worked with Joe, your dad,” he said.

No
, I thought.
No, no, no
.

I wanted to put my hands over my ears, close my eyes and make it all go away. My chest was red hot, my hands were shaking. I looked to Aziz, sitting next to me, fear and dread and panic shooting through my body, my fingertips burning with it, my cheeks flushing. I wanted his face to split into that familiar smile or his booming laugh to fill the room. I wanted him to tell me not to worry. That everything was fine.

But he said nothing, and he did not laugh. And as the soldier, this stranger in my home, in my country, began talking again, I felt Aziz squeeze my hand and although my ears didn’t want me to, I listened to the words, listened to him tell me Papa was dead.

And my tears fell and everything else faded away.

I felt everything yet nothing. Anger and loneliness. Hatred and emptiness. Confusion and heartache and shock and denial. My head was in chaos, but my body was numb.

I stood up. I had to get away. Had to get away from this man, this soldier.

My legs buckled underneath me, my strength gone, and I fell to the ground. And I laid there, for a long time, on the kitchen floor, Aziz next to me, rocking me back and forth. Sobbing.

I wished I was dead.

I wished I’d died before I’d been told about Papa. Before it had happened even. My head didn’t want to be filled with those images, and my heart didn’t want to think of life without him; it was barely imaginable. Was I now truly an orphan?

The air drained from me as I sobbed, my lungs burning, and although I wanted to die, my body still sucked in breath.

Could they do any more to me?
my head screamed.
Could they take any more? What have I done for this to happen?

And I felt myself lifted up.

Aziz held me to his chest, sat with me on the sofa, and rocked me like the baby I was in his arms. He stroked my hair and dried my tears and when finally I looked up to him, I saw tears running down his face too. I wanted to run out into the street, shout at it, shout at the city and the country and all the people in it. All the people that made up this stupid war. I wanted to shout and scream at the stupid Americans and their lapdogs, the British, the Spanish, the Australians, the Polish, the Danish. There was so much anger pouring down my veins I didn’t know what to do with it.

It was like when Mama disappeared. I felt useless and weak and pathetic.

“It was a dangerous job your Papa had, Lina. In a city that’s dangerous just to live in.” Aziz sighed.

I dragged myself up and I launched myself at the soldier, arms and legs flailing at him, kicking, screaming, punching and scratching at him. In that split second I wanted to kill him. I wanted to tear his tongue out for telling me, tear his eyes out for watching Papa die, for not helping him, tear him apart for just being there. My anger, my blame focused on the soldier, not the person, in front of me.

But he gently, carefully, held me at arm’s length while my tirade battered him. He lifted his eyes to mine muttering apology after apology as Aziz tried to pull me away. I felt his hands shaking and I thought I saw tears on his face.

I stopped and hung my head in shame.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

I wanted to say I was, but couldn’t speak, whatever emotion, whether grief, confusion, hatred, fear or sorrow, held back the words.

I couldn’t think, didn’t know what to think.

Papa, my papa, was dead?

“I…” began the American soldier. “I… ah… I wanted to tell you about it myself. So you’d know. I wanted you to know… how it happened.”

I stared at him.

“Would you like to know?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes.”

The soldier looked down at his hands. He didn’t look up again, as the words came tumbling out of him, like if he looked at me, he would not be able to continue.

“When Joe arrived this morning, the place was a little different, everyone was busy… some of the soldiers were agitated and nervous, a couple excited. There was like an edge about the place, adrenalin pumping round, y’know? We were being sent to check out the house of some suspected weapons dealer, Joe was to come with us, to interpret, and talk to the guys, keep them calm and stuff. It wasn’t a good district we were heading to, and y’know, I’d worked with Joe for a good while, and I knew when he looked nervous. Hell, I was nervous. We gave him a bulletproof vest. It had an American flag on it, on his chest.”

He paused, tapping his chest to show where it was. He ran his over-sized fingers through his hair, and scratched the back of his neck.

“He didn’t like it. He’d said it before and on the way, in the back of the truck he moaned about it some more. ‘I’m not an American,’ he said. ‘What’ll my people think? It’s like an advertisement on my chest.’

“I told him to pick it off and one of the other soldiers gave him a pin they had stuck in their uniform. Anyhow, they got chatting. Joe was interested in people, y’know? He liked to hear their stories, where they were from, and that. So he sat chatting with Eric. He was from Texas and spoke with such a drawl, you wanted to put a cowboy hat on his head and ask him where his horse was tethered.

“Eric was in a better mood than anyone else, he was heading home in the morning, told Joe he was hanging near the back, taking it easy and looking after him. I listened to them chat like old buddies, about family back home, Eric’s mom and dad, his sister and his little brother, about Joe’s wife, your mom, about you. Eric showed him a photo of his little brother playing in the Texan desert with a toy rifle. Wanted to be a soldier just like Eric.

“Anyhow, when we got there, some of them went inside, I stayed out, marking the doorway, Eric went further back with Joe waiting ’til someone was brought out to be questioned. We didn’t want to take him in, it was too dangerous.

“There was a load of shouting and banging from inside. I looked back to Eric. He looked worried, he lifted his gun to his shoulder, stopped chewing his gum.

“Soldiers came out dragging a couple of men, their hands behind their heads.”

He paused to shake his head and I watched his fingers going round and round the rim of the cup, trembling.

“Two women came chasing out after them, and their voices were, like, so high and shrill. Their arms were flapping around all over the place. Then their neighbours started joining in the noise. You could hear them shouting stuff, but we hadn’t a clue what they were saying, and Joe was picking out some of it, telling us they were yelling ‘innocent, innocent,’ and all sorts of name calling and insults. Soldiers shouted over the lot and it was just a mess, English and Arabic, accents, crying, screaming. Hell, it was just mad.

“And Eric, his gun pointed from one to another, watching for danger. They took the men over to Joe and I saw them look at that flag on his chest, half picked off, flapping as Joe moved. The men were shoved down to their knees in front of him and they babbled through a barrage of questions.

“I saw Joe lift his head to the sky. I’d seen him do that before, like he was looking for some quiet to think. As I looked round again, I saw a young boy, about ten years old maybe, come running out from the building, a gun, a damn big one, to his shoulder.”

The soldier moved his hands away from the cup and his fingers clenched.

“Above everything else, I heard the boy. I heard one word – Papa.

“He pointed his gun at Eric. Next to him, Joe froze. Eric’s gun pointed at the boy. His head cocked to one side, his eyes staring down the sights. I pointed my gun at the boy. But, y’know, he was a
boy
, like Eric’s little brother, playing at being a soldier.

“Eric moved sideways, away from Joe, and the gun in the boy’s hands, a full-sized gun, not a toy, followed him. It was like slow motion and we all seemed to pause forever.

“Then one person shot.” He shrugged. “Then everyone did. I fell to the floor, trying to pick out what was happening through all the dust and noise and bodies everywhere, trying not to hit my own men.

“And as quick as it had started, it stopped. And the shouting and screaming stopped and there was this, this kind of stillness. Everything was a mess. I couldn’t work out what had happened; who’d shot first, who’d shot who. I didn’t dare count the bodies. I looked for my men, and I saw the boy and Eric. Both down. But Joe, he was still standing, he was still alive.”

All this time I’d been watching his hands and his fingers, his untouched coffee going cold in front of him. And now I felt him look at me, and I lifted my head and saw his eyes, his bright blue eyes, and now they held mine as he spoke. And I blinked and the tears ran down my cheeks, but still this soldier held my gaze now. And through the blurriness I saw his mouth tremble, I saw him try to swallow his emotion and I saw him blink away what I felt sure were tears.

This soldier.

“Joe stood up. I shouted at him to get down and take cover but he ignored me. He looked to the boy, then to Eric, and back again. Everyone was shouting at him to get down, but he looked torn, like he didn’t know which way to go. And I’m shouting at the top of my lungs. But he walked, just walked, really calmly, to Eric.

“I should’ve run to him, I know I should’ve. I should’ve knocked him flat but I just stood there shouting at him to get down.”

He paused and took a breath.

“He walked all the way over to Eric, calmly as anything, and knelt down next to him. I started running towards him, saw him put his hand on Eric’s chest and look up to the sky. And then…” His voice lowered. “There was a shot. One single shot and he was down… “He died as I reached him,” the soldier whispered. “It hit him…” I watched him close his eyes, watched his trembling hand lift and his fingers tap his head. “I held him then. I held him while he died.”

I saw the blood on the soldier’s jacket again, and I knew then, that it was Papa’s blood.

My papa’s blood.