My Life

Beyond The Pale

Azeez AlKalidy

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 My Life
Beyond The Pale

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 My Life
Beyond The Pale

I’m not a writer. I don’t offer you an imaginative novel with charismatic
heroes or malicious villains. I’m writing down my life changing events.
I give you a story of humans that were presented unwillingly to the
inequity of life. And it’s unbearable odds that ended up defining them.
We’re Only as good as we’re allowed to be. There are those, who had
to commit unforgivable acts. Now bearing forever burning guilt of
knowing they don’t deserve any forgiveness.
What you do doesn’t only defines you. It is a heritage for you, and
everyone around you.
This story is my heritage. You’re free to judge me by it. And you can
never tell what you might do if you were born in these circumstances.
Have I done things differently provided with the same awareness
and logical insight? We all work according to our logic. And even
our mistakes sounded like a good idea at the time. For most of those
events, I might have just didn’t know any better.
No, I’m not here to make excuses. It’s a confession that I hope I can
release out of my mind and into these words.

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Beyond The Pale

Chapter One: For What It Was Worth.

Waking up in the morning, pushing the sheets while hoping to push
the uneasy feeling from my stomach. Getting back to sleep won’t work
this time because I’ve done it many times already. I slept early, had
many random dreams where I’m always working on a problem to solve.
Unsure if I spent the whole tim
e sleeping or just in a trance state between dreams.
I want to escape this life into the another. A dream world where I’m
never the same person twice. Because I stopped trying to be happy
even knowing that I could.
“What will you do without me?”, Said my youngest brother,
Mahmood. Trying to embarrass me into saying something sweet.
“I don’t know, never noticed you anyway.” I replied, jokingly, “I
was thinking about getting a dog.”
“Asshole,” he snarled, “You’re an asshole!”.
“That’s just stating the obvious.” I said, then continued, trying
to be more serious, “Now hurry up, You need to be at the airport two
hours before your flight. I’m excited to know if I’ll ever miss you.”
Couldn’t help myself from making a joke at the end.
He tried finding something intelligent to say, but couldn’t. So I
continued,
“You need to call her again,” paused for a second, before saying
the next sentence because this is happening, and I can’t change it, “for
the last time, before getting on the airplane. Don’t forget”.

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Beyond The Pale

“Yeah, I know, I will.”

He was going to take the money and leave no matter what I do or say.
God knows I’ve been trying to convince him to wait for me for the last
month. I could physically force him to stay, or I could take my half of
the money. But as I was trying to talk him out of it, I realized how bad
I want to leave, myself. And knowing there is a chance of a new life
but just out of reach, every day is torture. And with his depression, he
can end up with suicide, or a failed attempt, for the second time. And
I can’t risk that. So if he’s leaving anyway, I’m letting him go with a
clear conscience.
“You know you’re a better person than I am,” I said while we’re
walking down the stairs, about to close the door behind him, “Smarter
and more resourceful. There is nothing you can’t do. So don’t be afraid,
you can do this.”
“I know,” He said, trying not to cry.
Opened the door and he hugged me awkwardly, I didn’t expect
nor planned to do that. “It’s ok, good boy, now go.”
“I can’t!”, Said twitching his face. I decided to spare him the
embarrassment of seeing him cry and said: “Get out of here, be a man!”
And he quickly carried his back and started walking. I took few steps
up and watched him with his weird walk, leaving.
I’m now completely and utterly alone. The fact that I spend my life
taking care of other people made no difference.

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Chapter Two: Born again.

I feel I’m reborn while fighting myself for longlasting seconds. Heavy
breathing, Paralyzing anger turning into a will to scream. Rose my
chin up to face a bright white light, over illuminating concrete, white
painted walls. Three sofas, one of them cutting the large living room
in half, and a TV at the corner. The other half is the entrance to the
house with the stairs on the right. It’s where I’m planning to run after
saying my peace. My mother is in front of me holding my two years
old brother and yelling at me
“Go away!! I don’t love you. I love Mahmood”. It was supposed to
be a joke or something to make my brother feel “Better about himself.”
Or maybe a wrong way to show her love to him.
I’m holding the words that I thought of saying them for so long. It
wasn’t the first time it happens. But it was the time I decided not to
just “take it” anymore. I screamed with all my will to live and the sense
of injustice a four years old could have,
“You never loved me ever since I was born!”.
But it wasn’t in a harsh way that I imagined it would sound. Instead, it
was with overwhelming emotion that manifested as tears.
It wasn’t her fault since she didn’t realize the early awareness I might
have developed. Sounding like an older person, is a trade I had ever
since I can remember.
My mother started hugging me while laughing. Admiring the first
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serious words for her little boy.

I’m trying to pull myself away from her while she’s holding on to me.
Then she said with a smiling face, “I’m sorry.”
It was the first time I hear her apologizing to anyone. I’m just a kid,
but I knew what “sorry” meant since I had to say it from time to time.
Maybe more than my other siblings. And for a second, I almost noticed
a sparkling tear in her eye. It was then that I stopped moving. I’m no
longer mad at her.
Seeing with the side of my eye my father, as he’s silently observing us
at the end of the room.
It’s my first memory. It was while I was living in Diyala, north of
Baghdad, 1994.
It might have been a good dinner story for them, from the way it
always repeated.
My mother, her story and the direction it took, is what pushed mine
to make such a deform shape.
On a winter night, while we were sitting around a stove, heating an
Iraqi bread, she baked herself. While telling us the sadness she felt for
marrying my father. We would have had blue eyes, she joked. But what
a woman’s choice is to this society but an act of rebellion. Obliged to
accept that she doesn’t own her life, alongside millions of other women.
They say marriage is fate and chance, but it’s her father who decided
which blind opportunity to define the direction she takes.
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Beyond The Pale

He, standing heartless, her father, her master and the master of the
silent mother standing next to him, with a point of his finger, ordered
her to marry my father. Ending her life as a sixteen years old high
school student living in Basra, south of Iraq. Hoping to become a
medical student to take care of her mother. What can she do against
a power imposed by a thousand years old tradition? Can she scream
in protest of these traditions that defined her, and her father and gave
them a reason to live?
Didn’t love nor wanted my father. He’s not a good-looking guy, but
that’s hardly the reason why. He has no education but elementary
school. Working as a truck driver, with reddish and hairy skin and a
thick mustache and a small (big) belly. Over ten years older than her,
tall and polite. His manners and shyness got him where he is in life.
It was more than what he deserved, intellectually speaking. His family
knew my grandmother. Also knew she had a lot of girls, Seven, to be
precise. They knew her husband wouldn’t refuse them.
They were right about that since no one bothered to ask my mother.
Although, she gave them an answer anyway by taking all the pills in
the house to kill herself. It didn’t work, and it was kept a secret from
her father out of fear.
I have just one picture of her while she’s 16 years old. You never aged
a day, people say to her. She’s standing with a big and beautiful smile
and a cute curly hair that reaches her shoulders. My father is standing
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Beyond The Pale

next to her. If I didn’t know her, I would have said she’s happy. The
sadder she is, as long as she hasn’t yet shed any tears, the wider and
more vivid her smile becomes. Perfect, as it was the day her life ended
along with any dream of the future she might have.
What made it worse is a month after the wedding, her father left the
country to Saudi Arabia. Taking the last string of hope she had that
she may be able to abandon my father.
Now, 14 years after, she’s a mother of three boys and one girl. First my
brother Khalid, the storyteller. My sister, Zena, wouldn’t shoo a wolf
biting off her arm. Me, Azooz, troublemaker. And my younger brother
Mahmood. Harmless as a dove. It is fitting because he wished to be
one.
If someone loves you, is it cruel not to love them back? And is it a sin
to even hate them?
The more she hated my father; he became attached to her. Which
made her hate him even more.
He brought her a red Damask rose from the garden. With a confused
smile, she Slowly extended her hand to him.
”Thanks.” He smiled and went back to care for the garden. While
she started laughing angrily and shaking her hand as soon as he’s
walking far enough not to hear her comments about how lame he is.
“He thinks I want a flower? What a waste, it will just die”.
Continued while filling a glass of water and putting the rose in it,
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“It’s much more beautiful just to leave it where it was in the

garden.”
Perhaps it’s her way of refusing to feel for him. Not when she’s smart,
open-minded and eloquent. Everything he’s not. He didn’t know that,
of course. All he knew is she loves him as much as he does. From what
I’ve seen, confirmation bias is worse than blindness.

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Chapter three: Change.

“You can’t change people. You either accept them or leave.”

It was clear how she tried to change him anyway. Sometimes with
books, other times with conversations. Maybe by taking him to Haj.
When that failed, there are material things like when she bought him
a car. Kept trying to fill his mind but it stayed empty.
Since that didn’t work, she was always looking for a way out. Even
being called, god forbid, divorced. Not that her father would accept
such a thing. It is unspeakable to go back and live with him. And no,
we don’t have government welfare programs for that in our socialist
system. But most of all, he still hasn’t done anything wrong. All his
flaws are not things he can do anything about. It would have been
easier if he mistreated her. Maybe she’ll have a reason to say it to him,
saying “I want a divorce.” Now, it’s never even hinting that she doesn’t
want him. It was Pity, not love, that kept their relationship. But pitying
someone is the cruelest thing you’ll ever do.

Because my grandfather left the country, he wasn’t affected by the time

when Iraq went through an economic Sanctions against it. We were
rich from anything sent to us by him. At least more than most people
around us. You will not die of hunger if you are willing to work hard
enough and save the crumbs of bread and eating fright dough with
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sugar for sweet. Nevertheless, it was not rare for anyone to die from
the lack of medicine and everyone knew someone who had a child that
didn’t make it for that reason.
It’s past breakfast time, and I just woke up hot and sweaty under the
sheets over the loud sound of a conversation in the kitchen and the
radio with “Studio 10” is on. The late morning light filling the house
since all the curtains are off. I’m washing my face then strolling to the
kitchen while still listening to my mother talking,
“it is Saddam government’s doing. If people do not fight, they’ll
be executed or have their ears cut off. We don’t WANT war! We
just finished one. Now, after the Kuwait war, the world issued those
Sanctions that won’t hurt the ruling class and their lavish parties, in
another word, those responsible for the war, but the average people who
lost their children because of them. No one cares about that though”. I
believe the conversation is directed to my father who looked confused
but pretending that he doesn’t care enough to answer.

“If it lasted for those before them, it wouldn’t have gotten to

them,” Khalid said, “No matter how many times we say “God preserve
him” after every mention of his name at school.”
“He’s here for more than twenty years,” My father said, “So it
must be working.”

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“He won’t stay for much longer,” My mother replied as if she said
the words with enough anger, or simply making it as loud as possible,
it can somehow come true. Then continued “God will not let him.”

It is one of many conversations she had while my father just nods

and say nothing. It was a very memorable day to Khalid because my
mother was astonished by his replies. Repeating it to us many times
with little to no variation was not a problem to him. Then starting a
political debate with her, that begins with, “Guess what my teacher
said the other day,” was like a Friday morning ritual.
He, like my father, are both working so hard to win an affection she
couldn’t give them. Every time she lay her eyes on them, It reminded
her that her fate is sealed.

Taking us with her while traveling is a yearly tradition. To Jorden,

Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. Only this time, she left the Kurdish babysitter
“Ronak” with us and went with just my father.
It was a very short visit since she came back after one week. Mahmood
is crying so hard, seeing her for the first time in a while. Maybe
remembered how much he misses her. Can’t blame him since I’m feeling
the same way, only I wasn’t someone to easily cry. Telling her how
much Khalid was bullying me for no reason. Slowed down noticing
the blank stare I’ve never seen before. Why isn’t she with us, I wonder.
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She is in shock, I later learned, because her father kicked her out of
his house for wasting money traveling. I believe the real reason is he
did not want anyone. Maybe didn’t want to feel the guilt of seeing her
with my father, or perhaps once a year is not long enough for him to
miss her.
That year, she had both Diabetes and blood pressure. Started to take
pills, when she used to hate them. Quickly moved to needles and began
to inject her arm every day with insulin. How funny to her, the topic of
how she feels pain touching any part of both of her arms. Everything
painful to her is an opportunity to make a joke out of it. Although, she
can fool herself awake but not asleep.
Depression has taken its toll on her. As we were once sitting in the
living room, just talking and kidding around, we turn to her with tears
in her eyes and heavy breathing while trying so hard to smothers any
sound of weeping. The more we pressured her to tell us, the more she
forced a smile saying she’s just kidding. My father didn’t do anything
to hurt her, but he doesn’t have to. Just his presence would be enough
for that.
“Mom,” Khalid said with a concern yet serious voice, “Why do
you hate him?”.
“I don’t hate him,” my mother replied, stopped for few seconds
then continued “I hate the day I met him.”

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Chapter four: Demons

I’m sorry I don’t have a full story. That’s not how memory works. It’s
even more so when you’re a kid. All I have left is little snippets spread
in my mind like light particles that flow from time to time into a
rational narrative. And sometimes not even that, but it feels like a
distant dream that only feels as if it happens. Like the time she is
waking up at night screaming that someone is pinching her arms. My
father turns the light right away, and everyone gathers around to calm
her down. It won’t take more than few minutes before she gets back to
sleep.
Other times, someone in the room wanting to hurt her. What’s strange
is she remembers it the next day and believe it happen. We thought it
to be true since the existence of Jinn is present in our culture. Looking
at it now, I think she’s started to lose her grasp on reality. No matter
what we did to stop this from happening, it didn’t matter. Not making
her sleep while the light is on, and not slaying a chicken inside the
house, as superstition applies we should do. But it was decided that
It’s a haunted house. Didn’t help the fact that my bed is in her room,
so this carried on to my phobia from the dark, which was triggered by
the similar nightmares I started to have. The worst part is, I wasn’t old
enough to know the difference between dreams and reality. Maybe it
doesn’t matter anyway since I realized now that nightmares are much
more pleasant since you’ll always wake up from them.
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Even though she is a very logical person when it comes to arguments,

it didn’t stop her from believing in the unseen as all Muslims do. I
remember her saying once about me, “He has a strong instinct. When
he was a baby, he rarely cries unless something bad is about to happen.
Like the time the rocket was about to hit close to us”. I believe this
is called pigeon superstition. When two things are occurring so, they
think the first is because of the second one even though both of them
are unrelated. When they give a pigeon food while it’s flapping its
wings, it will believe that’s why it got it.
That’s why she took me seriously when I said, “I was hearing knocking
voices in the bathroom.”. I told Khalid, “But every time I get down the
bed and try going there to see who’s doing that; my mother tells me to
get back, it’s your father.” She is starting to pay attention to me while
I’m telling the story, “It didn’t sound like that. It was three knocks as if
they were calling for someone. When I got back to bed, a woman with
a sinister laugh started to shake me”. Then I uncovered my back and
asked him to see if she left any marks.
Before long, she started to talk about moving into another house,
believing this one may have an evil presence. She was right; there was
the worst kind of demons in the house, the type that is impossible to
banish for they of bad memories and trauma. When you embody them
into demonic shapes, they become less scary since you don’t have to
realize that, in reality, they are not only inside you, they are you.
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Chapter five: After the war.

“Donkey!”
“Hush! Never say that about him. He’s your father.”
“I hate him.”
“We still have to respect those we hate.”

I once saw my siblings around me screaming “He smells like cake!”

because my father bought me dates biscuit. A respected actor is standing
in Baghdad’s streets selling toys on a wooden table. Young students
to gray-haired elders, sitting at a corner of every street hoping that
someone would call them up for some work. The twenty-five dinar
my father takes to the market, now given to me to buy chewing gum.
Not unusual to see trays of food sent in the hands of kids to any house
that thought they might not have enough. One time my sister met her
friend that way, switching food trays in the middle of the road. With
what the economy is turning into, a “good job” has become “Any job.”
But my father had two. A government employee as a truck driver. And
a taxi driver when he’s not on his shifts. Using the car my mother
bought for him with my grandfather’s money. It managed to sustain
us just above the water, while people are drowning in poverty. The
problem with that is everyone knows what he does for a living, when
he’s working and when he’s not. You just have to check the truck near
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the house. If it’s gone, that means so is he for at least a week.

The stove is burning in the middle of the room like it always does in
these cold, windy nights. We’re watching the midnight movie on one
of the only two channels we have In the country. My father is at work
and won’t be back for days, Khalid and Zena retired earlier since they
have school in the morning, Mahmood is sitting next to my mother,
and I was pretending to be asleep under my blanket, with a big enough
hole to watch it with them. Since it was a horror movie, I wasn’t allowed
to do so. But my brother is too young to understand what’s he’s seeing.
And he’ll fall asleep on my mother’s lap soon enough anyway. It might
have been “A Nightmare on Elm Street,” though I’m not sure.
Small wiggling in the picture followed by a sudden white noise
indicating a disconnected signal from the antenna. My mother waited a
bit, then started messing around with its setting, followed by a decision
to go to the roof and check the antenna.
I jumped from the bed screaming,
“Don’t go, Don’t go!”
“Why are you still awake?”
“Please, Don’t leave.”
She turned on all the lights in the room so I won’t be afraid. Put a
cardigan on her shoulders saying “Go back to sleep; I won’t take long.”
We were watching a horror movie so being left alone isn’t something
I wanted. But I wasn’t afraid for myself. I just didn’t know how to
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express that while watching while my mother is heading up the stairs.

Our houses are cubic shaped. Unlike triangular western ones. I stood
near the first staircase looking up to; while taking few seconds to open
the three large locks of the heavy metal door to the rooftop. My mother
took the first step out to the dark, cloudy starless night. Saw the wire
been cleanly cut. She understood what it meant and headed back to
the house pretending she didn’t while muttering words like “Khalid,
what did you do this time.” Hoping to reach the door, realizing she’s
not alone. Each step felt like an eternity. Just a few more and quick
closing of the door would give her enough time to call for help. Only
one more, a hand held her mouth from behind.
“Shhh, Don’t...”.
He didn’t finish the sentence as she interrupted him with a bite on his
hand followed by a hit with her elbow that pushed him few steps back.
Ran to the door to close it, but he hit it with all his power making
a sound alerted everyone in the house. Pushing her down the stairs,
falling on the glass window. But she hasn’t been injured thanks to the
red, thick curtains. Went running to the kitchen to find any weapon
while he’s chasing her and slipping on the glass from the window and
falling down the rest of the staircase. We all started to scream
“Thieve, Thieve!”,
He stood up with the blood oozing from his head and down his ear,
and his neck. For one second we all saw him. Looking in his thirties,
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skinny, confused and afraid as his disguise using a “Keffiyeh,” an Arabian

headwear, has fallen. My mother brought a knife, but he quickly ran
up the rooftop before she was able to see him. She went after him so
that she closes the door after him.
She went back screaming,
“Everyone, come here, she took a pill with a glass of water, and
we all sit there. Afraid, praying nothing would happen to her. Like
most houses, we didn’t have a phone to call the police. And my mother
wasn’t in any condition to go anywhere.
A few minutes later, a knock on the outside door with a familiar voice,
“Um, Khalid! It’s me”,
“Come back inside” My mother yelled on Khalid who went to the
door so she wouldn’t have to.
“It’s me, Abu Sanaa” We instantly recognized him. They’re the
Kurds living right next to us, “I have the police with me, please open
the door.”
It was just an officer with a thick mustache and Abu Sanaa. Asked
about my father first, then you can see the shock on their face when
we’re taking him through the house. The expression started to change
into admiration while we were telling them what happened.
“We caught him,” Abu Sanaa said, “He was trying to cross over
our house,”
“it’s true,” said the officer, “We took him in, though we still need
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you to identify him.” Looked at us, then continued “You don’t have to
do this now, you, and your children can rest, you can honor us with
your visit at any time tomorrow.”
“No! It’s ok”, I don’t know why my mother said that. As if she
didn’t have enough this night, “I’ll come with you.”
“Mom!” Said Khalid.
“Take care of your brothers. I’m leaving Ronaq with you. Be good
to her”.
“Ok, I’ll go and call her,” Said Abu Sanaa, Ronaq is his younger
daughter. The first one, Sanaa, is married.
They had several men in front of my mother in the lineup,
“Which one is he,” asked the officer.
“It was too dark,” she said, “covering his head with a Keffiyeh,
“How will you identify him?”
“I know he smells like Insect repellent.”
“Go and smell them,” Said the officer to another cop in the room.
He looked surprised and not sure; it’s even harder to hide a smile while
the officer couldn’t stop himself from doing so
“Yes, go… and smell them!”.
He got closer, sniffing them one by one. Then got back saying “They
all smell the same.”
The officer looked at my mother.
“You do know what Insect repellent smells like.” She said, but the
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cop didn’t respond, “I bit the thief ’s hand very hard. The bite marks
must still be there”.
“Go and check their hands,” The officer said to the cop.
He checked them one by one. When he got to the guy, He had to drag
the hand out while the thieve trying to hide it behind him. It wasn’t
just a bite mark. His hand was still bleeding, along with his head.
“With what you did to him,” said the officer, “I think he’ll think
twice before breaking into someone’s home.”
We stayed up all night waiting for her to get back. As soon as we heard
the door, we all started hugging her and asking her to tell us what
happens.
“I think you stayed up long enough,” she said with a quiet, soothing
voice, “It’s nearly morning, Khalid and Zena have school tomorrow.”

his name was Sattar, the same as my father’s name. Then we found out
he’s a relative to a family living in front of us.
This happening sealed it. We have to move from this house, my mother
thought.
Days later, my father got back with an accident of his own. He was
driving down the high way at night when a red Volkswagen car driven
by a drunk old man hit the side of my father’s truck. The small distance
he took before stopping painted the tired red. But the driver was ok. A
Highway Patrol officer saw the whole event. But the old man insisted
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on calling the police. He went walking to his house as it turns out to

be not very far. Asking the patrol officer not to let my father leave.
Half an hour later, my father saw a group of at least 20 men coming
with bats and small weapons. It’s clear they are a member of his tribe.
The officer told my father,
“Go, I saw what happen. If you stayed here, you might get killed.”
“And you,” Said my father.
“They wouldn’t dare.”
After arriving at his department, my father had many warnings before
about him replacing and selling part of the truck. This incident was the
straw the broke the camel’s back. His options are as follow,
He’d mortgage his house to the government. Anything happens to the
truck; they take the house.
He or someone he knows should deposit 10 million dinars in the bank
as insurance.
He’s fired.
Well, he was fired.

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Chapter six: Every day is a new day and a new life.

“I dance to forget. The more I sweat, the clearer my head gets”.

“Your head must be so clear, then.”
“Not at all, why do you think I keep dancing.”

I am riding my tricycle so fast under the grape vines in our front yard,
raising my foot as I reach a higher speed, excited for my first day at
school tomorrow. While Khalid is pushing my sister, Zena on a swing
made of a thick rope and a pillow. He kept saying, “You’ll hate it soon
enough.”
It is a long dirt road to get there. Zena came with my father and me
as she was going to the same school. I am walking faster than they are,
stepping on my father’s shadow and laughing with the cold morning
air hitting my face. While he is saying in a grumpy voice, “Don’t!”
After dropping me to the class, everyone is already there, so I sat in
the first seat while the teacher is speaking and I am curiously checking
everything in the room. Noticed everyone is whispering while talking
to each other. As I am turning to the kid next to me asking him about
that, I got the answer as a slap in the face by the teacher. I started
crying and screaming because no one treated me like this. Her way of
calming me down was threatening to hit me a second time If I don’t
stop crying.
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“Villainess,” I screamed at her! I don’t know why that word came

to my mind. Probably because of all the cartoon I used to watch. Which
made her slap me for a second time. I got out of class to ran outside
the school but was held and taken to the principal’s office. She brought
me water. I drank a bit and kept crying. Then they called my sister,
“Azzoz, this is normal,” My sister said to me, “This is what’s school
is.”
“You were right,” I replied, ”I do hate it.”
“That’s ok; it’s just a few hours then we’ll go home.”
“No, no! I will not go back in there” I started to cry when she
calmed me down saying,
“Don’t worry, stay here until my father comes back.”
I don’t understand. All the teachers, even the one that hit me seemed
so lovely in that room. Giving me cake, speaking and laughing with
me. It’s like she’s not the same person tormenting me an hour ago.
Where I live, School is where the students are beaten, insulted and
degraded by teachers. It might be the reason why most Arabs have an
extreme reaction to any reading material.
It is the same day; we are eating dinner in the dark in a large rounded
tray on the floor, with few dishes inside it. Sitting around it as the
custom in Iraq with people rarely eat on a table. A lantern is shining
a wiggling yellow soft light in the middle, contrasting our discontent
faces from eating the same meal every day. Khalid said,
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“Next to my school, a mob went to the Department of Energy

with clubs and bats and forced them to turn the power on.” It is a
made-up story, but we didn’t mind letting him continue, especially
there is no TV for today because the power is off even more than usual.
While we are eating pomegranate as a dessert, my mother said, “Why
don’t we sell the house and buy a small farm. The economy has gotten
so bad that no career can sustain us any longer.” She looked to my
father who is shaking his head in disapproval, “Why not? Working as
a taxi driver can hardly get us through the month. Things are getting
worse by the day. If we have a farm, even when we are not selling
anything from it, we will not starve while we can plant it. We can
survive on dates and bread.”
The idea was not that crazy since my father is initially a farmer. Not
to mention that farming, is the primary profession in our city. Soon
enough, we found one, but when the owner noticed how much we
want it, he started to increase the price. As he did that, my mom
started selling everything she can get he hands on. As big as the car,
the furniture, and the house and small as my blue electric watch she
got me from her last trip. She bought the two thousand sq. m. Farm
for 14 million dinars (5,600$) at the time, with some help from my
grandfather.
You can’t miss it. Just follow the river from Baquba through the main
street, then its stream on the left next to a gas station. About twenty-
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minute walk, through a dirt road that can barely fit one car, the river
on your left, the palm trees on both sides and small doors on the right
for other farms that have clay, and occasionally, brick walls.

It’s the last ride in this car as the deal was we would use it to bring all
the stuff to our new home before giving it to them. It will be a long
walk for us later on.

I love our new house “Albistan” as we grew to call it. It is huge with
enough space to do whatever I want. Stopped for few minutes after
entering the gate, as we are admiring it, my mother said to me, “Race
you to the house.” I won, of course, even that I never ran that far in
my life at once, as we never play in the street. Entering the door to the
farm with the thick trees and random palm trees makes it impossible
to see beyond few meters. Except for a pathway that leads to the other
side where another metal door leads to the creek that every farm owner
uses it to water their plants. A piece of heaven with a clear air that has
a little bit of moisture and the smell of trees. Perfect and blue sky, It
sure outmatches the gray one we have in the city. But it looks like it
requires many repairs. Not to mention the animal’s smell wasn’t easy
to ignore. However, it’s a trade I’m willing to take for all the trees I can
climb and the countless places to hide.
The first honored guest was a snake I discovered in the animal’s house.
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It was dark so I thought it to be an empty plastic Flour bag. But when

It moved, I knew what it was. Went out screaming “A snake! A snake”.
My father tried to kill it with not much luck. The neighbors started
laughing at us, city people. Telling me, “Snakes are vengeful creatures,
they remember you if you hurt them, and get back at you when you least
expect them.” I turned to my mother and was wondering if it’s true. “I
don’t know,” she said, laughing and sharing the joke at my expense. I
knew I’m going to hate this place as much as I’ll love it. It’s not going
to be easy, but as a start, I’m never sleeping on the floor ever again.
And I was right. A few days later my mother found another smaller
one curled up under her bed, seeking warmth. Probably thinking she’s
our roommate.

My grandfather took a particular interest in it. That is why he sent my

mother a lot of money to make everything at its best. Even buying
them a new, cheaper car to make it easier to bring the construction
materials. We planted new trees, flower bushes on both sides of the
walkway, as my mother promised them, they’ll be walking on roses
when they visit. Brought new soil and even turned the animal’s rooms
into another house. So there were two houses on one farm. My mother
made detailed drawings and sent them with each message. He replies
with whatever adjustments are needed. While the construction workers
are losing their minds because of the non-conventional instructions
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are asked of them. Like every door needs to have an ark above it, this
ark would be a glass window with the wooden door under them.
My mother’s depression is still there though. Sometimes you’d think
it seized to be with the new found passion. Helps my father on the
farm, paint the walls or do all kinds of heavy lifting. Other times just
sit in her room for hours. When she feels better, she sometimes dance
at every sunset with the songs on TV, then go praying and reading
the Quran. Like she’s drowning and always trying to hang on to some
straw. And we’re still there to do anything to help her push that rock
up the mountain. I even agreed to go to a new school. She convinced
me by saying,
“You already read and write while other’s can’t. You know math,
and they don’t. No teacher would have a reason to hit you if you just
behave yourself ”.
My brother laughed saying, “Exactly! And you don’t need your rights
unless you get arrested”.
“Shut up Khalid!”, My mother said, “Don’t mind him. You’re
smarter than him. Don’t waste it”.
Well, I’m smart enough to realize he’s right. Not there is anything I
can do about it. Just twelve years of school then I’ll go to college. No
one would dare to abuse me then.
It wasn’t easy for Khalid as well. The students and even some kids his age
in the neighborhood were bullying him all the time. To them, Khalid
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was the closest thing to “The rich kid” they can have some revenge on
him. Since the others have a family member in the government, so no
one dared to touch them. Khalid wasn’t subtle in his way of dressing
or even talking. And always had a lot of money to spend, that got
it by non-conventional means. Wouldn’t think twice about insulting
anyone if felt like it. It’s the reason why no one cared to be his friend.
My mother was always harsh on him than any of us. Though she never
hit me, him, was another topic. She once beat him up so badly his nose
started to bleed, in which he said “I’m bleeding you whore,” which
made her beat him even harder until my father came and saved him
from her. Then said to me, “Zenah failed at math too, and she didn’t do
anything about it.” I believe It was a sincere question and not blaming
her. Wondering, why him? What did he do so wrong that got her to
hate him like this?

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Chapter seven: The visit.

It’s a year later and my grandfather who’s also named Khalid came to
visit us with other plans to rebuild it as his new house in Iraq. It was
kind of him. As kind as a guy who says something like,
“If one of his two daughters got divorced, they should have a
place to stay.”
My mother promised him a flowered walkway, but he’ll have to settle
with one made of dates because It is the harvest season. Walking with
my grandmother carrying many bags filled with gifts that made up
of mostly clothes. With my grandmother strolling with him as she’s
nowhere as healthy. His two daughters came to see him as well. Maison
the older and her two sons. Zainab and her seven daughters and one
son. The house never seemed so full as 18 people are staying there.
You think he’s the coolest person when you see him. An old man with
a massive body and shaved head walking with ten grandchildren that
Always follow him everywhere while supervising the construction
workers. Wearing a “Dishdasha,” a long robe with short sleeves.
“Thank god, for he fed us, gave us enough to live, sheltered us.
No one can give enough nor shelter us as he did. ”A prayer we always
recited after him when we eat. After we finished, He asked me about
which surah in the Quran I memorized. Taught me to pray, even came
to my school once. Thinking my mother was just saying good things
about me because I’m her son. While expecting some lazy kid with
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bad grades, it was surprising to him because all the teachers loved me.
They might have exaggerated as they never seen a foreigner before.
From that day forward, the school always looked at me as the rich
kid. Because of the way that he was wearing his Saudi Arabian formal
dress.
My oldest aunt, Maisoon isn’t her real name. It was Buthaina; they
named her after her older sister who died while she was two years old.
But later on, they decided it was “Bad luck” to call her that. I don’t
know why my grandfather used to like her the least. She reminded
him of his first daughter. The one he still feels responsible for her
death. Maybe falling short of all the hopes he had for her since she’s
the only one to marry someone she wanted, instead of him forcing it
on her. Used to always conspire against him, Saying this will be the
time she’ll confront him. By how he treats her mother or her. Maybe
that’s why she married the first person to ask her hand. Yes, he was
abusive, but all fathers are in this culture. Hitting your kids is a form
of love they exercise to teach them. The main point she wanted to talk
to him about was why he left them, and now they’re trapped here in
this dying country. Every time she opens the conversation with him,
he changes it. And she won’t have the power to persist.
“Baba,” she said, “Why didn’t you take us with you back then?
You could have easily done so”,
“I told you many times. I didn’t have the money for it”.
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“But you did!” She said to him, raising her voice so this time, he’s
unable to change the subject, “My mother gave you all her savings, all
her gold for this exact reason.”
“You accusing me, after all, I’m doing for you, all of you?”, That
night I saw him with a red face and eyes and a large vein on his forehead.
Screaming and trying to reach for her, as the grown woman with two
boys. But my father and her husband are restraining him. “You want to
talk about money? Let’s talk about what I’ve sent to your sisters, and
you took for yourself.” Everyone was shocked, he’s not just calling her
a thief, he’s turning everyone against her.
He used to send her money so she would give a salary to her sisters.
He learned that she was taking some for herself. We (the kids), were
all hiding in the backyard watching from behind the window.
He calmed down after a few minutes, then said to my mother, “You,
you would be the one to give them the salary from now on. I would
trust you with it. Not Zainab, not Maisoon”.
“No,” My mother said, I believe it’s because she wanted to stand
with her sister. Or perhaps it’s her way of demanding his respect.
“What?”
“I’m too sick to travel,” Said my mother, with a less firm voice
than before, trying to make excuses” I can’t go to Basra every month.”
Of course, it’s not safe to send money in the mail. And the government
is watching everything, which is why the most reliable way is to give
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it personally to them.
“If you were born as males, you’d be the ones providing for me. But
I still thank Allah anyway. Even if you’re married, I’m still not done
taking care of you.”
“You wouldn’t have to if you just took us with you.”
Maison quickly stood up and pointed at him while talking to my
mother “Why do you think he sends anything? It’s to have an excuse
when he finally stands in front of Allah.”
It was at that moment; he rose, broad shoulders and taller than my
aunt. She backed away for one step while just about to turn when he
started hitting her on her back with both hands.
The day ended with her deciding to leave. It was clear; they’ll no longer
be together under the same roof. And my mother agreed to be the one
responsible for the money.
Maybe it was her husband who took some of the money, and she
couldn’t bring it back. Or perhaps miscalculation that wasn’t able to
resolve. Anything that would have been understandable if it wasn’t for
my grandfather’s rage. Things have changed after that. It wasn’t fun
like before since we started to avoid him out of fear.
My grandmother wasn’t as busy or eventful as he was. It is why we
spent most of our time with her. She just likes to walk in the gardens
telling stories to my older brother Khalid. In almost all of those tales,
we notice how peaceful and loving she is. One story involved her not
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eating dinner for days because she used to wait for him to get back
from work, then she would be too shy to dine with him. Other story
involved her telling my grandfather she lost her earrings, when in fact
she sold them because the shopping money wasn’t enough.
“Why didn’t you just tell him you sold them?”
“I’m afraid he might think it’s a way for me to ask for more money.”
Hard to believe, but talk to her for few minutes, and all these stories
would make perfect sense. She grew very fond of Khalid and his
school’s tales that he used to make up so she would smile. My mother
told him to do that. Not that she needed to since he craved for an
audience. Trust me; You would regret laughing at one of his jokes.
It would help her sickness though. She had high blood pressure and
diabetes like my mother. That and hemiplegia. She wouldn’t ask for a
glass of water from anyone. Instead, she would struggle to get up and
get it herself. I remember now that once, my grandfather asked her to
get up and get him one, too. It was so unconsidered of him since she
can hardly walk. And we would’ve been glad to do it for him.
My grandfather went back to Saudi Arabia after a month he spent
befriending the whole town. He promised them to build a second
mosque in the village the next time he will visit.

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Chapter eight: A train to Basra

“I hate him!”
“It’s forbidding to say one letter to offend your father, how about
a five letter word?”

It is 8 hours’ drive to Basra. But my mother and I decided to go by

train since It’s the safest. My father used to be the one to deliver the
money, the past three years. But he’s too busy this time since It’s the
harvest season. It’s a big deal because this is the first time she travels
on her own.

We arrived at noon to the station, bought the tickets and set waiting
for the train. Using the bags as a cushion to rest our backs on. And
four large apple bags, we picked from the farm as a gift. Didn’t carry
heavy luggage because we didn’t want to attract any attention. Staid
under the sunshades on a hot summer day where the floor is radiating
the heat back up to the sky. Not a single cloud, but the atmosphere is
far from clear. My mother brought food, but it is now cold, and water,
which is now hot.

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“If you’re hungry, I can buy you a sandwich from that carriage,”
My mother said,

“Ew, they make it with their ‘hands,’” I said in disgust.

“How else will they make it?” said laughing, “Such an owl!”.
“That’s not what I meant,” Yeah, I came up as a total douche, I
thought.
“If you’re not prepared to eat anything, then you’re not hungry.”
People are slowly filling the sunshades while arriving at the station.
Then a train comes, and it’s empty again. My mother went to the
ticket seller and asked,
“When does the train to Basra arrives? It’s way past its time”.
The ticket seller looked at us with a “Do they don’t know what they’re
doing?” look.
“It’s already gone!”, looked at me, then to her and said: “Where
were you?”.
“It said it arrives at 4 PM; no train arrived at that time”,
“That’s because you’re waiting at the wrong gate!”, Said the ticket
seller, “It even arrived an hour early today.”
“We can’t go back,” Said my mother, “We came from Diyala, not
Baghdad,”

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“Is this your first time?” He said concerned, but my mother didn’t
reply. “ Never mind, it’s ok, Wait here,”
Yes, It’s her first time, so don’t judge. But this is not an acceptable
excuse since we’re not worrying about the apple bags. It’s the amount
of money, dollars, nevertheless, my mother is carrying in her purse.
I’m not sure how much but it’s three months’ salary for two families,
with some extra for Zainab since she sent us a letter highlighting a
circumstance they had. So you can imagine, it’s quite a lot.
“The next one will arrive at night,” the ticket seller came back
saying, “But it’s fully booked. The one afterward will arrive at dawn.
You either wait, I can replace your tickets, but as you’re only two people,
there is another way. I can find you a family which you can travel with
at the same cabin”.
So it’s going with a family we don’t know or waiting alone at the station,
the whole night long.
“Can you excuse us for a second?” My mother said, moved a bit
farther and got a bottle of water out for me, and another for herself.
“What are we going to do?” I asked,
“Let’s see what fate has in stored for us,” My mother replied,
trying to comfort me, “It is unlikely to find a family who is willing to
share their cabin, which means it’s a sign to wait until dawn.”

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“Or a sign to get back home,”

“No, there is another sign for that,” said laughing,
The ticket seller called for us from afar, gesturing for us to come to
him. While standing next to a family of four, an old man, old woman,
their son and a daughter with down syndrome.
As we’re walking closer to them, they appeared as they’re from the
south. Not only poor but from the remote countryside. My mother
whispered,
“What do you think?”,
“They look harmless,” looking at their daughter.
Not long after, the train started to whistle, and it started rumbling as
it’s decades old models.
“We have the oldest and slowest trains in the world; it’s faster
to go running,” joked the old man. “But, my daughter (Referring to
my mother), I love it. It makes it easier to enjoy the beauty of our
lands. This nighttime, the sound of the train, this is my favorite part of
traveling”.
Of course, it’s hard to enjoy “The beauty of our lands” when his daughter
(Real daughter), won’t stop farting in this small cabin. Not sure if I’m
tired or the toxic is reaching my brain. It seems like it’s natural to them
since they aren’t noticing.

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“Mom,” I said leaning closer to her while the whole place is has
gotten smaller with all the luggage that it’s hard to move, “I need to
go to the bathroom.”
“Yes! Of course, you do!”, Said my mother, with an optimistic
voice. We squashed ourselves out, and my mother continued “What
took you so long? I was trying to gesture for you, but you weren’t even
looking at me”.
“I was trying not to pass out,”
Took me to the end of the carriage opened the doors and yes! Finally,
fresh air! I first made an exhale trying to let out all the toxic air from
my lungs before making a big emit.
“It smells nice!” I said,
“Any smell would be an improvement,” said to me while trying
not to laugh. But we both did since we couldn’t hold it. “But I do
love this smell,” She said with a nostalgic voice, “It’s called Cedar rice.
These areas are well known for planting it”.
I remembered my brothers and thought, for the first time in years, I
won’t see them for few days.
“Khalid, Zena, and Mahmood would have liked this place,” I said,
“I know, but they have your father,” She first meant it as “He’ll
take care of them,” but then couldn’t help herself from laughing.

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I laughed too, then said, “Yeah, I feel bad for them too. But you have
to admit, if my father is here, this wouldn’t have happened. I’m pretty
useless in comparison.”
“Don’t say that about yourself. Unlike all your siblings, you’re
nothing like your father. Which is why I took you with me”.
We stayed there for few minutes, not talking but just enjoying the
scenery changing from wide empty fields to pine trees surrounding the
train track. And their leaves are softly brushing the sides of the train.
I think I understood what the old man was talking about. These lands
aren’t dying. They still hold a beauty that is hard to see when it’s much
easier to notice the bad.
I felt a chill with a sudden realization, “Mom! Did you bring your
purse?”,
“You scared me!” She said with a censure voice, “Of course I have.
You think your mother is stupid?”,
“No, but we did miss the train,” I said mockingly, “Now we have
to share a gas room,”
“I wonder if it’s a bit suspicious that I’m keeping the purse with
me at all times.” Then dismissed the idea saying, “But I guess leaving it
is not an option. Let’s go back to the cabin”.
“I’ll stay here for a while, I’ll follow you,” I said,

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“Ok, but just for a little while,”

I stood there for about an hour. Leaning on the handrail, wondering
why far away lights seems like they’re moving with us. While the closer
ones away from us. Thought of asking my mother, but first, I’m going
to the bathroom since I know I’m not going out for a bit. Didn’t feel
like doing anything since it was too filthy, good thing I have some
Kleenex tissues in my pocket. Spread them on the seat. But no, the
train is moving, better hold it until we arrive. Got out and everyone in
the carriage was out from their cabin and looking my way! “What did
I do?”, I thought. It turns out they came for me outside the carriage
and since they haven’t found me, the most logical conclusion was I fall
off the train, which is why everyone panicked. It was one of the most
embarrassing memory in my life.

The train stopped because of some mechanical issue. We all opened the
windows and the cabin doors for air. The people next to us came and
introduced themselves and said jokingly “We smelled the apples,” so
my mother opened one of the bags and started giving everyone around
her. I don’t exactly remember what happened, but one of the engineers
had an accident, and we saw the wound is so deep, you can see the
bone, and blood everywhere. He was close to our window, they asked

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for anything to stop the bleeding, so my mother opened her purse and
got everything out, and gather all the tissues she had and passed it to
them from the window. They were all red in a matter of seconds. The
paramedics arrived and stopped the bleeding, people took him back
to the train, lights are back on, and we started moving. My mother
whispered in my ear,
“I think they saw the money.”
Of course, I know it’s inside an envelope, maybe it’s our paranoia, or
perhaps everyone is looking at us. We got more suspicious as those
people started insisting that we should sleep.
No way, I thought. Haven’t closed my eyes for a second and neither
did my mother. It’s true that they seemed like good people, but they
appeared poor as well. And who knows what the “Need” can force you
to do. In a way, all Iraqis have fallen from the grace of freedom and
pride, the honor and all the trades an Arab can be proud of, from the
bountiful life they once lived, to the slavery under Saddam’s system.
And those who refused were hanged in public squares, some still in
their sleeping pajamas, and paraded as traitors.
“Why are the both of you going to Basra?”, Asked the mother.
“Just visiting a family member.” Said my mother, “My sister, I was born
in Basra.”

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“Really? From where exactly?”

“Ashar, they’ll be meeting us at the station,” Said my mom,
suggesting that we won’t be alone for long.
“Why didn’t anyone come with you, daughter?” Said the old man,
but my mother didn’t say a word. Just gave them a look of “You’re
asking too many questions.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the mother, “We didn’t mean to intrude. I
just thought of inviting you in, first. We have a relative in Sa`d sq. You
can stay there with us, eat lunch together, then we’ll drive you where
you want to Ashar”.
“I was born there; my sister is much closer. So that won’t be
necessary”, said my mother, in a ‘hell no’ kind of way, then adding,
“Maybe you should come with us.”
It was a mistake by my mother’s side. It’s clear that she panicked.
Feeling surrounded by them makes it hard to breathe.
“What do you say?”, Said the old man to his wife.
“I think it’s a great idea,” She replied,
“Then you’re all welcome!”, said my mother, unsure of what else
to say.
My mother has pushed herself into a corner. It was an easy slip up
since she’s latterly sitting in a corner. Then I remembered Khalid once

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said he scared a teacher just by mentioning my mother’s uncle to him.

Finally! All the stories he made up has come in handy for once.
“Mom, will uncle Razak be there?”, I said,
It made her smile. Her eyes lit up that I thought she’ll kiss me.
“Yes, definitely!” she said, “He’s already there by now since he drives
instead of going by train.” Looked at the father and continued, “He
loves him so much! Gave him a dog, you see. Not to mention all the
stories he tells him about baba Saddam”. All their expressions have
changed. I can almost swear that even the daughter’s appearance has
altered by hearing those words.
“How so?”, The mother asked.
“He’s very high ranked in the Ba’ath Party,” said my mom, “He is
the Director of the Country Command.”
Yeah, I don’t know what does that means either. In fact, we kept using
that terms because it sounded fancy. We’re not even sure what Razak
does precisely. Not only because he can’t tell us, but everyone with this
kind of job, always moves from one rank to the next. Some are better
than others.
They haven’t said anything to the end of the trip. Feels like we’re the
ones who pushed those people into a corner this time. We got off from
the train, said goodbye. After apologizing that they won’t be able to

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come with us, we started walking to the exit while noticing the old man
following us, “What does he want this time,” whispered my mother.

Changed direction for a bit, just to make sure, but no, he comes after
us. We exited and raised our hands to the first taxi we saw. Got our
luggage in the car, and the old man started helping us do so. Went to
my mother who set in the back seat. Looking at her from the window
and said,
“Take care of yourself, daughter,” Looked at her purse, then to
her, “The good times have ended, these are bad times for someone like
you to travel alone, take good care of yourself, and your son.” Then the
taxi drove away from him.

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Chapter nine: Basra

We got close to my aunt’s house. It’s a town with a lot of old churches
and Christian families. The streets are about four meters wide with
dirt roads and a century-old architecture called “shana’sheel|, or
“Mashrabiya” that consist of houses with no front yard, But a garden
in the middle, and a wooden balcony that gives the house its signature.
Some of these houses are over a hundred years old; it shows how the
Jewish were master builders.
She didn’t call saying she’s on her way because we didn’t have phones
back then as not many people did. We entered their alley, and a woman’s
voice said from behind,
“FREEZE!!, We are bandits”. Of course, no bandit would say
such a thing, I think. So it’s a joke. My mother replied, “If you need
something, I might be able to give it to you, you don’t need to “freeze
me” for it,” We turned, and it was a tall, Christian woman with three
boys. We just passed an old church that is now their home.
“What are you doing here?” asked the woman.
“Oh, I’m just here to visit my sister “Zainab,” My mother replied
with a light voice,” We’re from Diyala.”
“It can’t be! You’re Omaima!! Zainab’s house(Family) told us all
about you”.
They sat and chatted for half an hour and my mother never complained
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about how tired we were because of the sleep deprivation we had to

endure on the train. Then gave them one of the apple bags she brought
with her, before walking us the few meters to my aunt’s house.
My aunt’s family were the unlucky souls for buying a house built to be
sold as soon as it’s finished. Though to their credit, the modern design
made it hard to detect its real quality. But the decision was regretted
with every sight of every crack in the walls.
It was unusual in this country to have the walls and door so low you
can see the inside. Their way of fixing it was big ugly metal patches
and atrocious Gypsum with some broken glass at the top of the brick
fence. The neighbors call it, and I kid you not, “The house of glass.” It
must’ve been with some miraculous intervention to have such divine
comedy since our culture isn’t familiar with the reference. It had the
kind of repulsiveness that makes you look three times, First time you
think, “God this is ugly,” the second, “Those people are so freaking
poor!”. And for the third time, you’ll think, “They must be trying too
hard to hide something.
Oh, the nauseating chemical smell of the lousy soap was like being
punched in the nose as soon as we entered the house. And I thought
this is just their smell only when they visit us. As soon as my nose is
numb by the smell and my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, I was in
shock of how empty it is. No TV, no furniture, Not even a clock! The
only way to know the time was to ask their father since he’s wearing
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the only watch. Making due with the few mattresses they had. It turns
out; the house has made people suspicious. Or maybe it was just the
epidemic across the country. Since a week earlier while they were
sleeping on the roof, some burglars came and wiped the house clean.
Which bring us to the reason why we’re here in the first place. Giving
them enough money to help them stand back up on their feet.
They were very friendly if you asked me. My uncle (Aunt’s husband)
was a depressed alcoholic who used to beat his wife from time to time
and still be loved since he’s a good father when he’s not drinking if
there is such a thing. I quickly understood why when every second of
his time is spent singing and joking with his kids. How can a substance
turn a man into the cruel monster that I’ve heard about? I thought. A
family made up of seven members, My aunt, as hard to believe; she
was as shy as her mother. Her husband, four girls and one boy in the
middle. He was the victim of being spoiled by his parents. My mother
asked me to stay away from the youngest two because they have lice.
Not that I listened since I’d utilize any chance at my disposal to play
with someone my age.
First, there was an equally hilarious and disgusting accident of a mouse
jumping on the lunch tray, to the grave, then outside the room while
we were eating, rendering us all “Not hungry.” My cousin swore this
had never happened before, too bad too since my mother helped them
cook with her legendary talent. Then I was busy trying to find every
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way to climb to the roof. It made it a long, eventful, and enjoyable

day. I am now ready to sleep on the roof instead of inside the house to
avoid the power outage in the unusually hot weather of this city.

The next day we headed to our next destination, the house of my second
aunt, Maisoon.
My aunt Zainab decided to come along with her only son, Ahmad
and two of his sisters. This time the welcoming was entirely different
because they were expecting just two people. Not that they weren’t
welcoming, far from it. But everyone hates Ahmad as he has a unique
talent to ruin anything. The shortest way to describe him is he looks
like a human version of the devil at the end of “Panic! At the Disco
Emperor’s New Clothes” music video. With one of his front teeth
broken, giving it a sharper look, and his lower teeth has black spots on
them. The reason he’s hated is the entitled attitude he’s been molded
into because he’s the only male born in the family. He’s going rapidly
out of control the older he gets. Something unconsciously encouraged
by his mother since she thought it to be a way for God to punish her
husband for all of his misconduct. I’m sure that will never backfire in
any way. Didn’t mind that, and thought of him as a friend. Even as he’s
five years older than I am.
Maisoon has two kids. Something my Aunt Zainab should have tried.
The oldest name was Khalid, Another desperate attempt to please
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my grandfather. And his younger, more playful brother, Rahman.

Everything is expansive in the house. It made it harder for us to do
anything to enjoy the day. Other than playing Super Mario for few
minutes, then interrupted by the adults wanting to watch TV. Because
of that, I asked my mother if I could get back with my aunt Zainab
and spend the rest of my time with them instead. There is a first time
for everything, and this was the first decision I regret.
I woke up with the early morning sunlight that I’ve been successful of
avoiding with merely covering my eyes. Then the flies started to wake
up singling that here, no one sleeps past 8 AM. Eating an Egg sandwich
and drinking a cup of tea-milk, which was more tea than milk for
economic reasons. Followed by a 9 AM morning cartoon that never
took place as I used to because they no longer have a TV. I intended
to make the best of my last day in Basra, so I asked Ahmed to take me
to see Shatt al-Arab. He asked his father and he was glad to take us. A
wide river, formed by the combination of the two rivers, Tigris and the
Euphrates. One side consists of thousands of palm trees, fishermen,
and swimming kids. The other side with hundreds of statues Each one
had a name of a martyr from the Iraq/Iran war. All pointing at Iran, so
we would never forget who’s the enemy, jihad explained.
They’re all gone now, our current government and its allegiance to Iran
wouldn’t allow such a thing.
We ended our tour with the last statue, Badr Shakir al-Sayyab. The
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most influential modern Arab poets of all time. Jihad stood in front of
him and started reading the engraved poem.
“The sun is more beautiful in my homeland. even the dark is
beautiful there. It embraces Iraq…”
I looked at jihad, still reading the poem, he really is a good man. What
left of him, anyway. Passionate, emotional and melancholic. What
happens to him, I wondered, that pushed him this far? I look at him
and there is no clear white in his eyes. Like he spent the last decade
mourning a life he never had.

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Chapter ten: Lost

My mother is supposed to come and gets me this afternoon before

we finally get back to Diyala. So I decided to spend time with Ahmed
until then.
“Who’s the whitey?”, asked one of Ahmed’s friends, referring to
me. They weren’t used to see someone this pale.
“He’s my cousin, from Diyala,” Ahmed replied, introducing me to
every member of his gang. The Christian kids I met before were there
too. They exchanged few lines in the Armenian language with Ahmed,
which only he understood. They taught him because he is their long
childhood friend. And Christians don’t call just anyone a true friend,
but when they do, they invite him into their home to be no less than a
family member.
Some of them were kids my age; others were his, and some even older.
They were all Gathering to play with marbles. The way they play, it
required skills and accuracy like none I have ever seen. It wasn’t just
a game, It was an organized tournament by the neighborhoods that
even some adult were gathering to see it.
After the game has ended, he suggested that we rent a bike.
Took us few more minutes before reaching a man named “Abu Chaheel.”
Not sure if his real name since it’s a name of the head of a fiction
criminal gang on a favorite TV show at the time. He’s a carpenter, but
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has few bikes sorted next to his shop door. He’d rent it for kids just to
the end of the street and back. Or set a timer, if you had the money for
it.
“We want one for two hours.” Said Ahmed, with a weird smile on
his face.
“What are you, crazy?”, Said Abu Chaheel, like he just heard a
dumb joke. “Want me to bend over, too?”.
“Not in front of our guests,” said Ahmed, moving few steps
forward, placing his hand on his shoulder and said, “Want to ruin our
reputation in Baghdad?.”
“ Frankly, I don’t give a fuck. As long as you pay.” The sudden
change in the tone of voice was strange, to say the least.
Ahmed started whispering to him, then got back saying, “I have to go
home and bring more money, you wait here with him.”
I know the house is less than half an hour away, but perhaps I shouldn’t
have been as agreeable in this situation.
“Please,” Abu Chaheel said pointing at a wooden chair.
“No thanks, I’m not tired,” I replied, it was inside his shop so I
didn’t feel like it.
“How is Baghdad?” he said.
“Diyala,” I replied, polite but uninterested way. This is getting
unnerving.
I felt a relief when he went inside, and I started checking the road
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thinking if I can find my way to my aunt’s home. I follow the river,

but which alley to the left should I go through. Not that Ahmed has
taken too long to come back, but I didn’t like the situation I found
myself in. Thought nothing about it and I started walking, checking
every corner, eager to find a familiar road that can bring me back. If I
got lost, I could always follow the river back again. Fond few kids that
look younger than I am, also playing marbles,
“Excuse me, do you know Ahmed jihad?”, I asked, genuinely
thought everyone knows him from the way he always made it sound.
“No, what school is he in?”,
“Thorah,” I replied. That much I know, remembering him talking
about it.
“No one here goes to that school,” Said one of the kids, “It’s too far
from here.” Ok, so I’m in another town. I later learned that this place
called Nadran. It meant that I strayed way too far. I had to go back, but
kids in this kind of neighborhoods are like territorial animals. They are
unforgiven of a stranger trespassing on their borders, moreover, one
that sticks out as I did. First, they started pushing me, they weren’t
powerful, and I wasn’t the pushover that I looked like it. Take down
the strongest one and worry about the rest later. Then they quickly
changed their tactics by throwing rocks from afar. They were little kids,
but they were too many. They ran as soon as I chase after them, and get
back when I turn back but never too close. I chase after them just so
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they’d turn back and as soon as they did, I did the same and ran away
from them. I was able to lose them. With just a bloody nose and a dirty
turndown shirt.
I’m not in any pain though, but I was afraid of what my mother would
say when she sees my shirt. It wasn’t my first fight, but it was my last
good shirt. I was even holding the buttons with me so she would sew
them back…. Wait, there was a mosque right next to a church. If I’m
able to get to it, I’ll be able to reach the second older church behind it
where the Christian woman lives. Don’t remember any of their names
but I’m sure people will recognize it. I traced my steps back and saw a
woman watching her kids from the window.
“Excuse me, aunty,” as it’s the way of addressing an older woman.
“Yes Habibi,” She said checking me with a concerned look on her
face “Are you ok?”
“I am fine, thank you,” I replied, pretending this is just another
day for me. “I’m not from here; I’m a guest at my aunt’s house. But I
seem to have lost the way back”.
“What are they called?”
“Abu Ahmad’s house,” Maybe I should have mentioned that
[Abu] means [The father of ], I said knowing she wouldn’t know who
they are. “Their house is close to a mosque.”
“This town has four.” She replied, “You remember the name?”.
“No, but there is a church right across the street.”
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“Oh Al Zuhair mosque!” She quickly replied, eager to help. “You

see that bridge over there? Keep walking pass it, then go to the first
ally to the right. Go straight ahead, at the end of it just ask anyone
there, they’ll point you in the right direction”.
“Thank you so much!” I said happily, I knew I could do it.
“Wait,” she said. Then went inside and opened the door, and gave
me cold water to drink. Then a large pot of water to wash. I needed this
so bad. Maybe I’ll be able to say I just fall if it wasn’t for the buttons.
“Are you a Christian?” She asked,
“No.” I replied to her, but with the wondering and disappointed
look on her face, I continued, “My grandfather was. But converted to
Islam.” I lied.
“Oh! That explains it.” She said. “Memorize the road on your way
home. If you got lost, come back to me, and I’ll walk you there”.
The first part of the directions was straightforward to follow. Even got
used to people staring at me. The fight signs even repealed the other
kids that might try and pick another fight with me.
This time I tried asking a man standing in their front door smoking a
cigarette, maybe waiting for the power to back on. Didn’t worry much
because of my last experience with asking an adult, and the feeling
that I’m getting close.
“Excuse me, do you know where is “Al Zuhair mosque”?”
“What the hell happen to you, kid?” He asked looking at my
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dirty, torn clothes. “Where are your family?”.

“Next to Al zuhair mosque,” I replied, worrying about what my
mother would say, seeing me like this. But also hesitated to say I’m not
from here, so I continued, “We just moved here, and I’m still not used
to it.”
“So you lost your home?” He asked.
“I’m afraid so” I replied.
“I’ll walk you home. Let us sew your shirt first.” He said, “Don’t
you think they’ll beat you if they saw you looking like this?”. He does
have a point, I thought.
“I still have the buttons with me; you think you can fix them?”
“Of course I can!” he said eagerly, “Come right in.”
Ok, I was tired, beaten down and haven’t eat anything from breakfast,
worrying my mother could get angry with me if she saw my shirt, and
frankly just wanted a place to sit in. So shoot me. He pointed at the
first room, and I entered. Then set next to me saying “Let’s see how to
fix you up.”
He fixed my shirt, the buttons, and my pants. I was so grateful to him!
“Now give a kiss to uncle.” He said.
You should understand that kids, kissing an adult on the cheek is very
typical in our culture. Even what he said, “A kiss to uncle,” wasn’t the
first time I hear that phrase. So he held my hand as in shaking it, and
I kissed him on the cheek. He kissed me, then the next one. Giving a
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kiss left and right, even more than one time is also standard. Adults
do it to those dear to them. But when he started getting closer to my
mouth, I immediately knew there is something wrong. I let go of his
hand and headed to the room’s door trying to call up to his family.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” He said, “No one’s here.”
My heart contracted. I didn’t think anything can happen to me because
I never thought the house to be empty. I went to the door, Tried opening
the lock but it was stuck. Too strong for me to open.
He came up to me saying, “Where are you going. I’m not going to hurt
you.”
“Get the fuck away from me” I replied.
I ran in circles inside the old-fashioned house. Rooms all around a
large square garden in the middle. Trying to get as far away from him
as possible.
He started saying things like “Don’t you want to get home,” or “I told
you, no one’s here.”
I didn’t know what to say, instead of screaming “Help me,” I started
yelling “Thieve!! Thieve!!”. The memory of that fateful night has
surfaced to my mind. From the way all houses designed, and even
with the double thick walls, the neighbors can still hear you. I can see
the panicked look on his face. As of now, I became a problem for him
to solve. He tried to hold me from behind but couldn’t. Maybe afraid
of touching me because then he’ll have to explain it to the people
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breaking through the door. However, it didn’t come to that. I went

back to the front door and this time pushing it before pulling the
lock, and it came right off. Ran to the streets, with the sound of the
mosque’s loudspeakers, “Allah Akbar,” it was my saving calls. Was my
the beacon of hope. If it’s not the mosque I’m looking for, it will be a
place I can find help. Found it, and then my way back home.
“What the hell were you thinking to leave him with Abu Chaheel?”
Said Nosah, my cousin, smacking Ahmed on his head, “You know very
well what he is.”
Then turned and started questioning me if he was the one that did
this to me. Or if he ever touched me. Silence falls on all of us as soon
as jihad arrived, bringing my mother with him. She can never find out
about this. Hiding it from her, blaming my look on just “kids being
kids” was much more comfortable for everyone.
I concluded from this journey is I never want to set foot in Basra ever
again. Not alone, anyway. My mother saw how miserable her sisters
were. Zainab is poor even by our standards. Who knew that this is to
happen when you have seven children with a depressed alcoholic father.
Maysoon’s husband is also alcoholic, but working in the ministry of oil,
and having only two kids, can make all the difference. He not only has
no respect for her but can be very abusive as well. He once raped her,
she told my mother. And no one did anything about it. Treating it as a
joke since to them, a husband cannot rape his wife if they’re married.
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she said to me while we’re on the train on our way back,

“This will not be my life. I can use what I have to make the best
of it.”
“Ok, how?” I said,
“I’ll start with albistan.” Then continued, “It’s not the largest farm,
but I’ll make sure to make it the envy of everyone ever lay his eyes on
it”.
She’s explaining to me all that she’ll do. All the trees she’ll plant,
adjustment she’ll make. Planning which room Khalid will occupy when
he gets married. I can hardly understand what she’s talking about as I
just sat there, everything is going quite in my mind, even her voice, I
can only see her face lighten with a passion she found.

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Chapter eleven: Spring to the autumn.

Whenever spring arrives, the hollow trees regrow their leaves. The
garden blossom with all types of roses. Damasks, Jasmine, Syzygium,
and Queen of the night. The palm trees become heavy with the yet
green dates. We even have banana trees. Planted many Rhamnus trees;
she got their seeds for from her last trip to Basra. We had no idea how
fast it will grow in the heat!
Bought dozens of books about farming which made her notice the
many wrong tradition people are following. This has become more
than just work for her; it’s an obsession to deal with her depression.
Our neighbors who are farmers descended from other Farmers would
ask her how she managed to make some trees grow in this climate.
The spring also single an inferno with the wave of heat that won’t take
long for it to arrive, and we have to endure it without electricity.
For a while, we had somehow of an ordinary life. While My grandfather
is befriending the neighborhood, he introduced us to everyone around
us. People loved to visit us every night when the power is off since
our house was the largest in the village. Spending hours telling stories
and folktales, sometimes just talking. It was a sense of community I
have never seen before. Everyone in the town are blood relatives of
each other. Except for us, of course. Always been the case to our farm,
because it never had one owner for more than five years, so much, so
it’s believed that it’s cursed. Its fruit was the sweetest in all the village,

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but that’s how it tempts people into it.

It ruins every family that lives there. And we’re next. It wasn’t a big
deal until we found a sort of a “confirmation” for it. As we were digging
a foundation of the new walls, replacing the old clay ones, They saw
my dog trying to dig something out. A shape of an ancient work of
sorcery buried deep in the garden. A Half date tree trunk, wrapped in
white clothes, white plastic bags, and wires. It is meant to resemble a
buried corpse. The same way we bury our dead, not with a coffin, as it
is in the west.
Maybe it’s the projection of our believes and thoughts into this, I mean
what happens to those families came before us. One thing for sure, as
we burned it, my parent’s relationship started to fall apart, more so
than before.
It started with a letter from my aunt in Jorden, telling my mother
she’s divorced, and she’ll be living with my grandfather back in Saudi
Arabia.
That gave her a motivation of not having to accept him anymore. That
same night, they started the first of many fights to come. Arguing
about the car, which he crashed, then about some money, which she
kept asking him. I can sense that she’s about to say “I want a divorce,”
only to back out in the last minute.

She used to only take me with her. Sometimes to the neighbors.

They once tricked us into eating rabbit meat thinking it was chicken.

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Other times just go to the markets, a carnival or have dinner at some

restaurant, then go back home walking for hours on the muddy road
alongside the small river at night.
“Don’t worry; I’m following your footsteps. Every foot placement,”
She said as while walking behind me.
I got so nerves that I almost forgot how to walk and started heading
to the mud, which made her do the same.
“Come on! Now, look what you did!” She said laughing, “You
ruined my shoes.”.
“it’s not just your shoes you ruined,” I said laughing, “Your clothes
as well. Let’s see if my friends would still think you’re a doctor looking
like this”.
“Good, because I’m not. I’m a farmer.”
“The best one of that.”
I never saw her this happy before.
I think for some reason, I was her favorite. And perhaps that’s why my
father disliked me the most.
We also used to get many visits from my mother’s uncle, Razak. He was
married to a Syrian wife who has a significant interest in witchcraft.
Had three sons, one is an officer, two in college, and one girl who’s two
years older than I am.

She opened the subject with him first,

“You know what my father is like,” Said my mother, sitting next

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to him, alone in the living room, while he’s watching TV, and everyone
is outside. Everyone but me, of course.
“What do you want? Omay’ma”. He said, not trying to sympathize
with her. I can see this is not the first time they had this conversation;
he knew what she’s saying.
“I want a divorce,” Said my mother.
He turned directly to her with glaring eyes, “You know what people
would say if they heard you? They’ll say you already have one under
your arm”.
“How can you say such a thing?” Said my mother with a furious
tone. Only slightly, as she still needs him by her side in this.
“If you can’t accept it from me, how will you accept it from
strangers?”, said, expecting her reply.
“My sister Mona…..”
“Your stupid sister doesn’t live in Iraq.” Said intercepting her, “I’d
break his arms and legs if he mistreated you. I’d help you if you needed
any help.” Stopped for a second, “This will not help you. Neither it is
what you want”.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know more than you do. I know in life, we don’t get to make
all the decisions, neither do we have to live with all of them, but this
is something you have to live with. It’s no longer just about you. It’s
about your kids.”
My mother stared blankly at the ground weighing his words. He saw

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how it affected her and continued, “Everyone is relying on you. Life is

not just about what you want; it’s a series of commitments”.
“Easy for you to say,” She said, “You weren’t born in a prison.”
He has a lot of power, giving his position, but wouldn’t use it bend
the law. What I’ve seen from him, he likes to ask people if they ever
needed something and comes to their aid when they do.
He gave me a puppy a few years back that my mom insisted on naming
him, Lucy. I know, a girl’s name, but what can you do. I once trapped
Lucy in the outside bathroom for few hours, after I released him, he
saw me entering the bathroom and came to sit next to the door. To my
surprise, he starts hauling as if he would bite me when I try to leave.
I was smart enough not to mess with him because I bled many times
by him when he bit me. Most of the time was when I get close to him
while he eats. However, did not tell anyone so they wouldn’t take him
away. I tried getting out using the high, small window as I always do, I
was halfway out, turned around and froze in position, shocked to see a
giant wasp’s nest few centimeters from my face. I retreated very slowly
because I knew how much it sting hurts. Not to mention that I tasted
its pain twice in my eye. Many times in my body. I still have one big
mark until this day. I stayed there for over an hour. That’s before my
father chased him away.
I don’t think you can hide anything for long from a mother. She figured
out he has bit me; she told my father that he’s to be chained up. And
that’s only after an hour of begging that I’d still keep him. It was a

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very long chain, though staying like this for months has made him
unfriendly to anyone. It’s almost as hard for me too. Begging my mother
every day to let him be free for few hours which she always says no. I
came to play with him one afternoon and saw only the chain that he
finally managed to get out. I followed him to the farm, forgetting that
I’m still holding the chain in my hand, which startled him. And he bit
my hand so hard that I screamed, followed it with a bite to the thigh.
If I weren’t wearing very thick pants, I think he would have taken a
mouth full. My father came running to my screams and scared him
away. He held me while I was limping back to the house. Then took
a big sickle and ran after him with blood in his eyes. I followed him
as fast as I possibly can with my current state and found him beating
up the poor thing, left and right to his head and mouth; his tongue is
cut, before long, he stopped moving, while I was crying and screaming
trying to stop my father. He only stopped when I hugged Lucy crying
over him. He let out his last breath on my arm. I was bleeding, but
most of the blood on my clothes are from Lucy. I’m hugging him and
crying. Terrified of the sheer imagery that stuck in my head of my
father, killing a helpless creature, while he screams of pain, made me
see a side of him that never thought existed.

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Chapter eleven: Our winter.

“Stop treating me like a baby.”

“You’ll always be my baby. When I die, you’ll be an old man.”

I didn’t talk much to anyone for a while. I can see myself, nine years old
wearing black shorts and climbing a pipe to the roof of the guesthouse
to build a tent so will not have to live with my family. It’s where I saved
my rarest and most valuable treasures. Marbles, strange looking rocks,
buttons and the best of all, a giant magnet. Sitting in my hideout on
the roof, listening to my parent’s fight, again.
In the afternoon, the lion king was on, have never been so obssesed
with a disney movie such as this one. I saw the death of mofasa when
my mother changed the channel thinking this is too dark for me, there
were some songs on so she started dancing, wearing one of her two
favorite dresses. One is red, the other is identical, but yellow. She’s
been dancing a lot lately, I thought.
The power is out that night, as we were sitting next to the stove,
wondering when my grandmother will visit us next.
“Next week” Mahmood, said. We all started to laugh.
“If she came,” my mother said, “ you have a special gift from me.”
My father is sitting a bit far from us, quiet. I was trying to study, and
he said “Shh…Don’t bother your mother”.
My mother asked Khalid to go the next day and ask the “Sheikh” about

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a dream she had. She was wearing a wedding dress while dancing
under a red sky when it suddenly started raining blood. She was able
to hide, but some of the blood got onto her. It was a big deal for her as
she never tends to ask for such a thing.
We were all afraid that the nightmares could come back and hunt her
as it did before.
“Are you sure you weren’t sleeping on your arm?” He asked that
because her arms always hurt from the needles.
“You all have school tomorrow,” she said, changing the subject
“All of you, go to bed.”
I used to sleep on a couch in the living room, same as Khalid, but few
meters away from him. Didn’t take long before they started fighting in
their place, continuing the one they had this afternoon. Again about
the car he crashed. Everyone is asleep already, but I was still listening
to my mother’s muffled voice that I can only make some of it out,
“I’m not afraid anymore. I want a divorce. I never wanted you. Is
this what you want? What did you do with the money?”
The overlighten lantern in the living room made the smoke fill its flask.
Making it go dimmer and dimmer. until the place became pitch black.
I woke up at dawn with Khalid’s voice coming from the other room.
“Azzoz!”, He was calling for me. But I can see him still sleeping
not far from me. I realized I was dreaming, but before I laid my head
back on the pillow, I heard the same voice again,
“Come here, you bastard.”

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I didn’t stay to question anything and went to my mother’s room and

slept on her bed. Closed my eyes, only to wake up with the voice of my
father telling me it’s time for school.
“Can you heat some water for me first?” I asked my father, not only
because it’s cold in the morning, but also to steal few more minutes of
sleep.
“I already have,” He said, with a weird cat-like smile.
It was a good day at school. The teacher started a conversation with
me in front of the class asking about my mother. She saw me with her
from afar and wanted to say hi, but could not make it. Teachers don’t
usually have a casual conversation with students, so it was a big deal
for me. Then my friend told me he saw her too. Ask if she’s a doctor
because she looked like one. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell my
mother about it.
I’ve always been the first to get back from school because mine was the
closest. Not to mention a shortcut off the road and within the farms
that can take about ten minutes from the half an hour walk. From
about two hundred meters from the house, our neighbor, Nabil, Saw
me. It’s like he was expecting my arrival. He was five years older than
Khalid, However, he didn’t go to high school. He raised his arm a little
saying with his eyes to the ground,
“come here, Azzoz.”
“What is it?” I asked. He didn’t say anything but wrapped his hand
around me, walking me home for just a few steps. Then fall behind

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while I’m walking in front of him, seeing my father sitting on the floor,
with his back to the door, crying. I came close to him and asked,
“What happen?”.
I felt like I knew what happened. As there is only one thing that can
cause something like this. It wasn’t a big surprise. My mother was
sick. She passed out once, while Zainab was with us. She kept coming
in and out of it. The whole house was screaming and crying until the
ambulance arrived.
“The house has fallen .” He said, still crying.
“What do you mean?” I replied. But he kept saying the same
words over and over with tears in his eyes. I understood what it meant.
Entered the house and started crying for about ten minutes behind
the door. Then I walked toward the house. Tried to come through the
front door but it is locked. I went to the roof, to the outside stairs, Then
through the palm tree, to the middle yard, and then to the house. It was
dark. But I was able to see it was a mess. This is not how I left it. Came
close to the to her room’s door, I saw blood everywhere. My mother is
sleeping half on the bed, and the other half on the floor. Like she didn’t
have the strength to climb all the way to the bed. She’s wearing her red
dress. Only it was the yellow one, but it’s painted red with the blood.
So much of the money is spread everywhere in her room. Someone
got it out of the closet where she used to keep it. With all the clothes
and everything on the floor. I don’t remember feeling anything. I was
just…. Observing.

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I’m heading toward the door when someone pushed it hard from the
outside. It’s my brother, Khalid, with the police and my father. He
came and saw my mother but quickly went to Nabil, who was standing
next to him, held him and started crying on his shoulder. They didn’t
even notice that I was already inside the house. As soon as Khalid
heard the voice of my father, he turned to him yelling,
“It was you! I know it’s you!”. But everyone was holding him left
and right. I went outside and saw Mahmood. And asked him,
“Where were you?”
“I was with the Mukhtar (sheriff ).” He replied.
“What did Khalid mean that it was my father?”
“It was him. I saw everything.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. I don’t want to lose both parents on the
same day. “You’re mistaking. You saw someone else and thought it was
him”.
As we were talking, my sister came. Didn’t know what was going on.
“What took you so long?” I asked her,
“I was held by “Um Hakki” (The Mukhtar’s wife), Didn’t want
me to come home. She kept asking me to have lunch with the girls,
and she’ll walk me home later. But I said, my mother, is waiting for
me”.
“Come on kids, you need to leave” Said Nabil, and asking us all to
go to the farm. They just pushed us there and closed the door behind
us. They were going to get my mother out.

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“What is happening?” My sister asked me, “ Why are the police

here?”
“A thief attacked my mother while she was alone,” I replied.
“Oh my god!” She screamed, “Is she ok?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, “Let’s pray that she is just passed out.”
I had an uneasy feeling while saying it. Before we’d do anything so my
mother wouldn’t pass out, now that’s the best we can hope for.
We stayed there with little talk and many prayers. Zenah, didn’t ask
me a lot of questions because it was like she didn’t want to know much.
She didn’t’ want me to say anything, fearing that it may come true. She
just sat crying, sitting on her school bag. They opened the door, and we
got out seeing my father in handcuffs, held from his arm by the police.
He saw their car and stopped, refusing to get in, until they forced him
in. The Mukhtar took us to his house, Brought us dinner. His wife, Um
Hakki, is crying all the time. But not me, or Mahmood, just Zenah
and her. I feel dizzy, It is afternoon now, and I haven’t eaten anything
all day.
Khalid didn’t come with us but went with the Muktar to follow my
father to prison. Came back a few hours later and called Razak,
“My father, kill my mother.” that word, [Kital] means both killed
and hit.
“Shut your filthy mouth” Razak replied. He thought it’s a domestic
violence issue.
Everyone we know has come to see us, while we’re sitting in the poorly

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lite old room that Al Mukhtar has made as his office.

“What happened exactly Mahmood? “, Said al-Mukhtar, “Tell
them everything you told me.”
And my five years old brother started talking, while a room full of
people, men and women, listening to him.
“I was asleep; my mother got for her morning pills, my father
came wearing a [Keffiyeh] (That Arabic red headwear). He hit her
from behind with a large pipe that had a piece of Concrete at the end
of it. We had it before; it was used, as others like it, to fix the grape
vines. My mother fell and quickly came into the room and locked the
door. My father Brook the door and came to her. She backed away
from him, fall into the ground and crawled on her back, backing away
into the corner when he hit her on the head, she was still alive, so then
he brought out a sickle and started hitting her on her chest. Turned to
me and tied me up, covered me with blankets. I was able to hear that
he stayed for a while. When he left, I uncovered my face and saw my
mother trying to get on the bed. She asked me to bring her a glass of
water. I was able to untie my ropes, when I got back to her; she was
already dead. I went out to ask for help when I found the Mukhtar,
then we went to the police.”
Most people there started crying. When he finished speaking, there
were moments of silence. Then everyone started saying things like,
“He was the most peaceful person we know.” Or, “What excuse
could he possibly have to do something like this.”.

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His stupid plan was to make it look like it was a house burglar. He hid
the weapons, stole the money and made it look like the burglar looked
for it first. Put the money in a large bag, and went to his friend’s house
saying “Keep the money with you unless it is me, or my wife comes
to it.” Many people saw him on the way holding a large bag on his
shoulder. It’s because the car was broken down. They asked him, and
he said he is taking it to the tailor to fix it.
A thought has come to me, made me lay my head on the mattress as I
felt I’m about to pass out, this is all my fault!
Women wail, man yell, others already reading Quran in her name.
And we were just sitting there, unsure if we’re the one who died, and
this is our hell.

To be continued...
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