Wounded (3 page)

They stop when they see me, and they drag their rifles closer to hand, even though I am Iraqi, and just a girl.

"What are you doing here, girl?" one of them growls. "It is dangerous. You should be home with your mama and papa."

I ignore their stupid questions. "My brother..." My voice is soft, too soft. I strengthen it. "My brother ran away to fight. He is only twelve years old. I need to find him."

They laugh. One of them does not, and he speaks to me. "I saw a boy. Hours ago. With some other men. He had a rifle, and he was shooting it at the Americans. He hit one, too, I think."

"Stupid boy," I mutter under my breath. "I need to find him," I say, louder.

The one who spoke shrugs. "Good luck. I only saw him the once, very quickly. He was off to the west."

I look around me, having no idea which way is west. "Can you show me?"

He stares at me, then lifts one shoulder. "I could."

The others are watching me, a look in their eyes that makes me nervous. I want to get away from them.
 

"Please show me? He is just a boy. He should not be fighting."

"If he can shoot a rifle and kill the infidels, he is a man," one of the others says. "You should go home to your mama and let the boy do a man's work."

"We have no mama or papa. They died. He needs me. Please, help me find him."

The strange, hungry look in their eyes strengthens when they realize I am alone, all alone. Their gaze travels down my body, from my ripped hijab to my old dress, my small girl's breasts and my thin legs, the triangle between them visible when a breeze blows my dress flat against me. I know what they want. I know that much. I have seen what men do with women, and I know I do not want it to happen to me with these men.

I edge away, watching them. They do not move, and the one who said he had seen my brother nods, ever so slightly.

"I need a drink!" he says, a little too loudly, and the others forget about me as they head off in search of alcohol.
 

They traipse off into the night, and the kinder one looks back at me. He is older; perhaps he has—or had—a daughter my age. Perhaps he too knows what would happen to me, and is seeking to spare me in the only way he can. I nod at him, a silent thanks. He flicks his fingers near his knee, a quick, quiet gesture telling me to go.
 

I turn and run through a side street, turning blindly until the sound of their laughter fades. I stop running, turn in place to find my bearings. The buildings are all the same, tan walls dark in the moonlight, shop fronts shuttered and barred closed. The city is deserted, it seems. It is not, though, not really. People are shut in their homes, where they have at least the illusion of safety.
 

Alone, lost, I have no such illusion. I walk aimlessly, toward noise, toward the light of fires. I pass clumps of men with the ever-present rifles. I stay away from them this time, searching the groups hunched over orange tips of cigarettes for a smaller figure.

I pray to Allah, even though I promised myself I would not. "Allah, the all-compassionate, the all-merciful, please, let me find Hassan. Let me find him alive, please, Allah."

Perhaps it is luck, perhaps it is Allah answering my prayer, but I find him. He is pretending to be a man, hanging his gun over his shoulder by the strap, the awful weapon almost as tall as he is. He stands with a group of men, laughing at a joke someone has told. He does not get it, though. I can tell by the way he looks around to see if everyone is laughing, stopping when they do.
 

I march up to him, fear forgotten beneath the river of white-hot anger. I grasp him by the shirt back and haul him around. I snatch the rifle from his thin shoulder and shove it into the arms of the man next to Hassan. I slap Hassan across the face, once, twice, as hard as I can.

"You foolish little boy!" I scream, loud. "You ran away, you little idiot! I have spent the entire day looking for you."

The men are laughing, and Hassan is angry, embarrassed.
 

"Leave me alone, Rania! I am a man, not a boy. I do not need you for my mother. I am a soldier." He takes the gun back from the man beside him and shoulders it resolutely. "I am a soldier. I have killed a man today. I shot him. I, Hassan. I will drive the infidels from our land, and you cannot stop me."

I take him by the ear and twist it, pulling him into a walk. "You are coming home. You are not a soldier—you are a twelve-year-old boy."

He wrenches free and slaps me across the cheek, hard enough to spin me around. "Fuck off!"

I stop, touching my cheek, stunned. "Hassan! What would Mama say if she heard you talk like that?"

His eyes fill with angry tears. He does not stop them. "I do not care! Mama is dead! Papa is dead! There is only you, and you are a girl. And Aunt Maida, but she will die soon—"

"She died last night. While you were gone. I had to deal with it
alone
."

He has the decency to look chagrined at least, deflating. "I am sorry, Rania." He sees the relenting in my eyes and puffs back up, dashing the tears from his eyes at last. "She was already dead. She just did not know it. Her body had to catch up to the rest of her. I am still not coming home."

One of the men crosses the circle and draws me aside, speaks to me in low tones. "You will not win this way, girl. You have gotten him angry, and he cannot back down without losing face. Just go home. We will take care of him. He is a good boy. He will be a good soldier."

"I do not
want
him to be a soldier!" I say, too loudly.

The man only shrugs. "You cannot stop it. It is war. He is willing and able to wield a rifle, so he becomes a soldier. If you drag him home now, he will just run away again as soon as you are asleep."

    
I slump and draw a deep breath. He is right, and I know it. "He is my brother. I have to protect him."

The man shook his head. "You cannot. He will live, or he will die. You cannot change it. At least this way he gets to choose his fate."

"So I am just supposed to walk away and let a twelve-year-old play soldier?"

"He is not playing. He shot real bullets from a real rifle at real soldiers. Real bullets were shot back at him. That makes him a real soldier in any book."

Hassan comes over to me, his hands in his pockets. He looks like a strange cross between a man and a boy. The look in his eyes is serious, with that distance and coldness of men who have seen war. His posture, however, is that of a boy, hands in his pants pockets, foot kicking the dirt with the toe of his battered shoe, yet he has a rifle slung on his shoulder, casually comfortable with the weapon.
 

"This is my choice, Rania, not yours," he says, not looking at me but at the ground between his feet. "They will feed me and give me somewhere to sleep. Less for you to worry about, right?"
 

"What will I do?" I hate how petulant I sound.
 

"Take care of yourself. I do not know." He shrugs, a gesture clearly picked up from these other men. "Stop worrying about me."

He turns away, clapping me on the back as if I was a friend rather than his sister. He is trying so hard to be a grown-up. I push him away.
 

I am just a girl, dismissed.

I stalk away, not looking back, angry, fighting empty tears for the brother who will likely die soon.

"Rania—" Hassan's voice echoes from behind me. He knows me well enough to see the anger in the set of my shoulders.

 
I do not stop, but fling the words over my shoulder, still walking. "Be a soldier, then. Get killed. See if I care."

He does not respond. I hear one of the men slap Hassan on the back. "She will come around, son. Give her time."

I keep walking, knowing the man is wrong. I will not come around. Hassan is right about one thing, though.

Only having to feed myself will make things easier.

I make my way through the dark city, gunfire silenced for now. I am not sure exactly where I am going, but I eventually find my way home. The small box that is my home is dark and smells of death. There is no food, no coffee or tea, only running water in the tap and gas from the stove.
 

I collapse in bed and let myself cry for my brother.

*
 
*
 
*

Days pass. I do not hear from Hassan,
 
or see him. I spend my days looking for work, some way to earn money so I can eat. I find nothing. No stores want to hire a girl, or they simply cannot afford to pay another person. I find an old woman who gives me money to help her do her laundry and clean her house. That sustains me for some months. It is pleasant. She has me come to her house every other day to wash her clothes in her little sink and hang them to dry, and wash the floors and sink and toilet, and then she give me a little money, enough to buy food until the next time I come. I begin to have hope that I will be okay. And then one day I go to her house, and she is lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her dark eyes are cloudy and still, her sagging breasts still, her hands still. I stand in the doorway of her bedroom and stare at her body, yet another person who has died.
 

I push away my guilt and rummage through her apartment. I find some money, some clothes, some food. I pack it all in a little bag I find in her closet and walk away, leaving her lying on her bed. Guilt draws me back. I knock hesitantly on the door across from hers.
 

A middle-aged man with a thick beard and a yellow-stained white sleeveless shirt stretching over a fat belly answers the door. "What do you want?"

I reel back from the stench of his body odor. "The woman who lives there," I point at the door behind me, "she died. I washed her laundry for her. I came today, and she was dead. From being old, I think."

"Did you take anything?" he asks, squinting at the bag on my shoulder.

"No," I lie, proud of my calm voice.
 

"Hmph." The man stares at me. "You are lying. That is her bag. I saw her with it when she visited her daughter in Beirut."

Panic shoots through me. "Please. It is just some food."

He waves his hand at me. "Go. She will not need her food, will she?"

"No, she will not."

The man waves his hand at me again, pushes past me, and closes his door behind him to shuffle across the hall and into the old woman's apartment. I watch him for a moment, then turn and go home.

The money lasts me for a long time. I am able to live off the old woman's money for many months, eating a little, stealing a little where I can to stretch it. And then, one day, the money is gone. I do not know how long it has been since I have seen Hassan, since Aunt Maida died. A year, maybe more? I do not know. I have looked for work, laundry to wash, someone to cook for, someone to clean for, but no one wants any help. They all want to stay in their houses where it is safe. They want to pretend they don't hear the gunfire, see the trucks rumble by with hard-eyed soldiers, hear the airplanes screaming overhead.
 

I am growing desperate. The hole of hunger in my belly is growing. My house is bare of food again. I have no money; I cannot find any kind of work. I roam the city, stopping in shops to beg for food or work.
 

No one relents. No one cares. I am just a girl.
 

I go farther and farther from home, until one day I cannot get back before dark. I huddle in a doorway, watching the darkness seep across the buildings like hungry fingers. I am nearly asleep when the smell of cooking food wafts across my face. I hear laughter, male, loud, boisterous and drunk. I stand up, scan the streets. I see the orange flicker of a fire on a rooftop, and before I realize it, I am creeping across the street, through the blackened doorway and up the creaking, rickety stairs at the back of the building. I do not have a plan, or any idea what waits for me up here, but the smell of roasting meat is enough to drive caution from my mind.

There are several men sitting on crates and buckets and an old couch, all dragged around a fire built inside an old metal barrel of some kind. There are eight men that I can see. Their rifles are on the ground or propped against the half-wall rimming the rooftop. Bottles of alcohol are being passed around and swigged from. One of the men half-turns to take a proffered bottle and sees me. He nudges the man next to me and points at me with the bottle.

"You should not be here, girl," he says.

"You have food," I say, barely above a whisper. Like it explains everything.
 

"Yes, we do," he says.
 

"I am hungry. Please, can you give me some?" I do not step forward when he extends a foil packet to me. I can see meat in it, and my stomach growls loudly.

"Come get it," he says. "I will not hurt you."
 

I am not sure I believe him. He has the hungry look in his eyes, the raking glance over my body. I want to turn and run, but the hunger in my belly holds sway over me. I inch forward. The other men have gone still and silent, bottles set down, eyes narrowed and watching the exchange. They do not even seem to be breathing.

One of them tightens his fingers in the fabric of his pants by his knees. They are all watching me. Fear pounds in my heart, but I cannot turn away. The foil with the roasted meat is within my grasp. I need it. I have not eaten in days. My stomach growls again, loudly enough for them all to hear, and the one holding the food smiles. It is not a humorous smile, a laughing smile, but a triumphant one.

I reach for the packet, and he lets me take it. I want to gobble all the succulent, juicy meat down as fast as I can, like an animal, but I force myself to go slowly, nibble, watching the men. I take a bite, chew carefully, nearly moaning in relief. Another, and I almost forget about the men.

Almost.

A hard, big hand latches around my wrist. "Nothing is free, girl." The voice is low and rough and hard.

I look up to see beady brown eyes leering down at me.