I felt sick. What was happening to us?
It was unbelievable. And there were more and more stories like that. Where was the freedom and democracy we were promised? This wasn’t freedom. Not being able to walk to school, to go to the market, to have a head uncovered, to be proud to be Christian. Layla, my best friend, who I’d shared everything with for so many years, was scared to sit next to me in class or at dinner, because I was a Christian, and went with my head uncovered.
I felt anger and frustration grow in me. My head ached with it. I wanted to scream and cry. Stamp my feet like a two-year-old until somebody promised it would all stop.
When Ali came to talk to Papa the next day, I listened at the doorway. He said we could no longer walk to school together, they could no longer be seen associating with us, us Christians, he couldn’t risk them being persecuted.
Persecuted by who? I wondered. Not the Americans. By our fellow Iraqis? Extremists? Fundamentalists? I didn’t know where these people had come from – it was as if they had been locked away somewhere, and when the Americans came, they brought the key to let them out.
Something else had been taken from me. Something so simple: a walk to school with a friend. There were no words in my head to argue. There was no explanation.
Before the war most people knew little of who was what religion; Sunnis would marry Shia and live alongside Christians. I didn’t understand why it had changed but I knew Christians were not wanted nor welcome in the city; they were attacked, homes ransacked, death threats given. Employers told them to leave, afraid of what might happen if they were seen to be friends with one. We lost friends, smiling neighbours and respect. And it seemed I had lost Layla.
But I did understand her father’s fears.
A few days later, while I was out with Papa, and wearing a pair of trousers and a shirt, my hair blowing around, we stopped at a second-hand shop. I don’t remember the excuse he gave, but I knew what he was looking for as he peered through the dusty glass.
I heard someone shout behind me and I turned. A face running towards me, something in his hands. I frowned, confused as to what was happening, not understanding who he was shouting at, who he was running for. But it was me. And suddenly I was on the floor, trying to figure out what had happened.
I felt the wetness seeping through my shirt, felt it clinging and burning at my skin, the pain eating at me as Papa dragged me through the streets. And as Papa pulled me back home, ordered me into the bathroom, I realised acid had been thrown over me. Why? Because of how I was dressed? Because I’m Christian? I didn’t know. A warning maybe? I was lucky – only my scalp was burned, my arm blistered. My face had not been touched – I had turned in time. And Papa removed my shirt in time. But I trembled as I stood in the bath, pouring water down my front over and over again; I could still see his face, that look in his eyes.
When I re-emerged, Papa handed me a long skirt and a hijab. And I didn’t argue.
Within a couple of weeks, Papa had a new job.
When he told me what he’d be doing I felt sick to my stomach, my hands shaking in my lap, my head spinning. The shock of it, even though so much time has passed, still burns through my veins.
Papa stepped into the house with a stack of papers in his hands, put them away from my view and asked me to sit down.
He sighed. “I’m going to be interpreting for the Americans,” he said, “for the troops.”
In silence I stared at him, waiting, hoping for him to tell me it was a joke.
“Sometimes I’ll travel around with them, sometimes I’ll be with them when houses are raided, sometimes when people are questioned.”
My head was filled with such disbelief I couldn’t find the words to reply. Unbelievable wasn’t the word. Unthinkable, perhaps. I didn’t understand his decision. I didn’t understand why he would want to work for them. The air was thick with rumours of what the troops were doing to civilians. Why did Papa want to be a part of that?
I hoped they were just rumours, that there was no truth in them. But still, the danger he was putting himself in was... was... what? Appalling? Unbelievable? No, they are just words, and words didn’t do justice to what I was feeling inside. I was scared for him. And for myself. I didn’t want him to be hurt. I didn’t want him to see the things I had heard of. He shouldn’t be in situations where he would see death and suffering and pain. But then… wasn’t that what everyone in this country was seeing?
But I wanted to keep my papa safe. I wanted him home with me every evening. I wanted to cling to him and not let him out of my sight. Some days the fear in me was so great, the worry that I would come home and he wouldn’t be there any more, that I wanted to stay out, put off going home, unwilling to face what might have happened.
“It’s a good job, Lina, pays well, and we need the money,” he said.
I tried to keep the tears from my eyes, and stop them stinging my cheeks.
“I’ll see a lot of Baghdad. Probably visit the police stations and the prisons. See… see the people inside.”
And at that, there was nothing left for me to say.
Though I understood, I shook my head at him and left the room.
For Papa’s first few weeks of his new job, he would recount his day to me over the dinner table. He started off telling me how well he got on with the soldiers. Some had shown him photos of loved ones back home, and he had shared with one of them what had happened to Mama. He told me many were just young boys, scared of the situation they were in, jittery when nervous, a little trigger happy; desperate to prove their worth to their colleagues and superiors. Sometimes he came home with things they’d given him. Some cigarettes he could sell, some chocolate he’d give to me.
Perhaps I’ve been worrying too much, I thought. Perhaps this job will be fine for him.
But gradually he spoke less and less. His shoulders drooped lower and lower, and his face aged, the lines and contours deeper, a little greyer, dustier.
And I would ask him how work was, but he had no answers for me. And I saw blood on his shoes. I heard him crying in his room. I worried about him more than ever. I worried about our future.
I heard the footsteps first. Two sets, I thought, heavy boots across the garden, moving closer.
I saw the shadows next, two shadows passing the kitchen window. Then a knock on the door and I turned and saw uniform through the frosted glass, a soldier’s uniform.
I felt sick.
I glanced at the clock in the kitchen – it was too early for Papa.
My heart pounded in my chest, but I didn’t move. I held my breath, and I waited. Should I answer? Should I run? Should I get Papa’s gun and point the barrel through the window?
I was alone, and there were soldiers outside. And that fear and that worry held me motionless as I watched the door handle ease down, the hinges creak and sunlight stream through the gap.
I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t shout, I couldn’t even move.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, tried to swallow away my fear, tried to imagine them gone. Whoever they were.
And when I dared to open my eyes again, I saw Aziz first. Then