A Brighter Fear (13 page)

I walked home with a strange feeling in my chest.

England
, I thought.

But what about...? And my head swam with all the
what abouts?
What about Mama, wherever she may be? What about Hana and Aziz? What about Layla? What about all my other friends?

Memories hung around me like flies. They played out in my mind like a film. I could see Mama kissing me goodbye on my first day of school; I could see myself carried on Papa’s shoulders through a market bustling with people, smells and chatter coming from everywhere; I could see the three of us sat at home, laughing at the television. I could see ordinary, everyday memories. Family memories. But of a family that no longer existed.

I cried for what my country, my city, had suffered. I cried for what its people had endured. I cried for the missing, the injured, the dead. For Mama. For Papa. I cried for the living. I cried for us all.

But this was the right thing to do, and I knew that it was. I loved my country, I loved my home, but right then, at that time, it wasn’t the right place for me to be. I would return, I vowed I would. And I would return educated, with my profession, an architect, and with it, I would help rebuild my beloved country to what it once was. Better than it was.

But until then, until I returned, I would carry the memories it had given me.

And the air seemed lighter as I walked, and the heat less suffocating, and the thought of going back to Hana and Aziz’s house and their awful children didn’t fill me with dread, because that wasn’t where my future waited for me.

Three days and I would be on my way to a new life.

I arrived back to a house full of friends, relatives and neighbours. New Year’s Eve, I reminded myself. I strolled into the kitchen to find Hana preparing food, other women with her, and their chatter was beautiful.

Smells of kebabs, bread and popcorn for the children flowed through the house, and compassion, laughter and friendship filled the air. It was comforting. It was uplifting and I let it flow over me. For one evening, it seemed, troubles were put aside. Our different religions were never mentioned, nor how this meeting may be viewed by our fellow Iraqis, or even how the Americans may think of us as a terrorist cell.

The absurdity of it all.

We didn’t care. Or at least, we pretended not to.

The evening drew on, it became later and later. I watched Hana, seeing her look to the clock every few minutes, check the watch at her wrist, look out of the window, to the door. And I realised Aziz was not yet home.

As she returned to the kitchen, I followed her.

“He should be back by now,” she whispered, her head kept low, her eyes away from mine.

I could see the worry on her face. “Well,” I began, “maybe with it being New Year’s Eve, there’s more business.”

She didn’t reply.

“Or roadblocks. Maybe there are more roadblocks and it’s slowed him down.”

Still she was silent.

“Or maybe the car’s broken down.”

She spun round and stared at me. “Or maybe he’s dead,” she spat.

I had no reply for that.

Maybe he
was
dead.

The minutes seeped by. Worry and uncertainty spread through the house as happiness seeped from it. I watched Hana’s fear grow. She paced the house, tidied pots and pans away, continually offered drinks to guests. Her body was busy with errands, her mind busy with worry. Her eyes flicked to the clock, to the door, to the window, to the phone. She paused at every noise, her eyes narrowed as her ears stretched across the house, searching for what she had heard, testing to see if it was her husband in his car.

Still he was not home.

Three hours passed. New Year ticked ever closer. Was this how we would remember it? “Remember New Year’s Eve 2004?” we would say. “Oh, yes, that was when Aziz didn’t come home.” Like everything else since this war began. How did you remember things? Time could be slow, a day feeling like a year, chaotic; dates became meaningless. Instead, events stood out like statues, or bookmarks of time.
When did I last see Rafa from school?
I would think, searching my head for a date, yet when none came, I would remember,
the day the mosque in Samarra was bombed. What about your neighbour Salam? Hmm, the day of all the suicide bombs, the ambulance blown up at the Red Cross.

Most people left, going home with worried faces, words of reassurance uttered, although knowingly helpless. Our neighbours, Saad and Fatima, stayed, and while they sat with Hana as she wrung her hands and wiped her brow and held back tears, I put the boys to bed, comforting them with ideas that their Papa was working late.

Midnight loomed. We phoned his work colleagues, places he may have picked up a fare, friends he may have gone to visit, but nobody had seen him since six o’clock. Panic rose in me, uselessness, fear of what we would discover, what had become of him. And despite the danger, the roadblocks, the possible bombs, the very real threat of death, Saad and his grown-up son, Jamail, drove out to search for him. And Hana and Fatima and myself, and the boys pretending to sleep, waited.

And waited.

There is nothing worse, I’m sure.

Waiting.

The unknown. The hopelessness. Empty. Useless.

Waiting.

I made drinks, offered food, tidied up, checked on the boys, made sure the phone was working, stared down the road and back again, checking for lights.

Midnight passed.

For hours we stared into a dark corner, each in our own mind, our own world. I watched Hana’s skin grow paler and the bags under her eyes deepen. Seconds passed like minutes, like hours, like days. We jumped at every noise, hoped with every sound that he had returned. The room filled with silent prayers from muted lips.

We waited.

Some hours later we heard a car coming up the road. Just one car. It seemed we had all stopped breathing. Our bodies sat up slightly taller, our eyes leaped to each other, to the window, to the door. I looked at the worry on Hana’s face, and I saw it mirrored in Fatima’s. I hadn’t thought, simply hadn’t thought; her husband and child were out there too.

As we heard two doors slam, we stood up, our eyes fixed on the door. And I saw and I heard the relief from Fatima as her family stepped back into the house, yet I saw the pity and the worry on her face as she turned to comfort Hana. She cared. I could see it flowing from her as she wrapped her arms around my auntie.

Saad spoke gently to Hana. They’d driven all over Baghdad, searching for Aziz’s taxi, he said. They’d tracked down one of his customers, but he’d dropped them off safely in the city and gone on his way. They’d visited police stations, army checkpoints, banged on doors of street vendors and café owners, armed with a photo of Aziz and a description of his car. They’d asked at roadblocks, at restaurants, at bars and coffee houses.

No one had seen him.

They didn’t know what else to do, they said, and for a while had just driven. Down roads lined with shops or houses, staring down alleyways and over bridges. But it was pointless, they said. So many streetlights were off again, the electricity down again, the city was in near darkness. A few of the houses with generators still leaked out light, but most had gone to bed and turned them off. There was no way to see. They would go out again in the morning, they replied.

With an embrace, and with hope for the next day, they left, and as Hana closed the door behind them, her tears came. And I held her as she sobbed. And I rocked her, and I stroked her hair, and I offered her a tissue. But I said nothing. There were no words to give that would mean anything but hollowness.

Grief had pushed us together. First mine, then hers. And we sat together all night, dozing in and out of sleep, waiting, hoping, praying for the phone to ring or a knock at the door. Yet dreading what it might bring.

As I sat there in absolute darkness, I thought of my day. What my soldier had said, the hope he had given me, the possibilities it offered. And I listened to Hana’s breathing next to me, for she was my family.

Morning came slowly, the sun creeping across the sky and bleeding through the windows, the warmth prickling my skin awake. Still in yesterday’s clothes I headed for the door, staring out, down the street, at other houses, the mosque in the distance, a man dashing to work, the sound of cars on the next street, the city waking, lives continuing like yesterday, as if nothing had happened.

They didn’t know Aziz. To them he was just another victim in a city full of victims.

I watched the long shadows reaching out, resting on everything. I wanted everything to stop, I wanted the city to stay like that, stilted, waiting, as we were.

I didn’t want the sun to rise any higher. I didn’t want the day to begin. I wanted to pause time right there. I didn’t want the boys or Hana to wake. I didn’t want to find out what had happened to Aziz; I didn’t want to know, for I doubted the truth would bring any happiness. I wanted to stay in ignorance. I wanted my hopes for the future to stay as high as they were.

Yet I felt reality creeping towards me. I sensed the sun lifting, the shadows withdrawing. I felt misery and despair chasing us down. And there was nowhere left to hide.

I heard Hana’s feet shuffle through, and I heard water pour into the kettle. I felt the day stretching ahead of me, and felt sick at the prospect of what it might bring.

I stood there still half an hour later, watching the city, listening to the sounds, breathing in the smells. I heard the boys wake, yet stayed where I was. A few minutes later I watched Saad and Fatima leave their house and walk over to me.

There were no smiles on their faces, and I could feel the despair as we walked inside the house. It hovered in the air and over heads like a cloud. Saad watched the boys retreat to their rooms, and as he began speaking, Fatima rested her hand gently on Hana’s.

He spoke in a clear voice, yet a low whisper, his tone gentle, although his words were harsh.

He spoke of the Americans,
invaders
he called them, of when they first arrived in our city nearly two years ago, when their tanks and humvees streamed unforgiving towards our homes.

“About a year ago I went to visit my brother,” he said. “He lives across the other side of the city. Lived, I should say. He’s gone now. When I got there he was walking into his house carrying a spade. His hands were muddy, dirt on his face and sweat was pouring from him.

“I could see he looked upset; I asked him what the matter was. He explained to me, told me what had been happening near his house. As the Americans had stormed into Baghdad, their tanks and apaches had fired at any vehicle in their path. Indiscriminate. There seemed no reasoning. Then they left them, burning at the side of main roads, highways, residential areas, in front of houses, shops. These people, these civilians and families, trying to escape and find safety, were just shot at. Killed. Troops didn’t even pause to consider if the vehicle was a threat. They were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Shoot first, no need to ask questions later.”

I watched Hana’s lip tremble as she listened.

“My brother told me that he spoke to the soldiers, asking them to do something with the bodies. Take them to the morgue, or to the hospital, somewhere their families could find them at least. He said his neighbours asked too, but it was always the same response from the soldiers – not our problem. He told me he would stand outside his house, staring at the bodies inside the burnt-out cars, knowing he could not possibly leave them there. After a few days, he said, he realised he wasn’t the only one. People were bothered about it, it upset them, upset their children, so the neighbourhood decided to do something. They dug graves for these innocents. They gave them a resting place. In their minds they gave them their last dignity. They dug together in the hard sun, whatever their background. In the hope that one day the families of these victims might come by – searching for brother, sister, cousin, wife, mother – they marked the graves.

“I stared at him, whether in disbelief or shock. How could this happen in
any
country? I had to see it for myself. I had to have it in my memory. Know it was true. Somehow record the tragedy of it in my head.

“He took me outside and we walked down the road, passing the remnants of the cars, some empty burnt-out shells, others pocked with bullet holes, smashed windscreens, doors hanging open. I peered closer at the blood-stained seats, some with belongings still inside, a child’s doll, that day’s newspaper. He led me round the corner, to what had been an empty space, where the children used to play, but now with piles of soil and dust in rows. The sight took my breath away. I moved towards one of the graves, a palm leaf wilting over it.”

Hana’s face was streaming with tears, her body gently rocking back and forth. I glanced to Saad, the point of his story somehow lost in his grief. I wanted to step in, tell him to stop talking, demand to know why he was telling my auntie this. I wanted to stop her pain, the woman I had never liked, who had taken my dreams away from me when I moved here. I wanted to help her, I wanted to protect her. But I was as caught up in this story and this man’s grief as he was, and as Hana was.

I didn’t want to know what was coming next, yet with some perverse curiosity, I needed to know. Not to wallow in his grief, or take pleasure from this suffering, but because of a hunger or a thirst for knowledge of what was happening to my country. As he had said himself – have it in my memory, record the tragedy of it in my head. These stories were part of tomorrow’s history, and I wanted it remembered, truthfully, accurately, honestly.

And I wanted to know what this had to do with Aziz. But at the same time, I was disgusted, wanted to close my ears and stop these stories from taking root in my brain only to sprout out when I was by myself, when I was trying to sleep.

I wanted to know, I wanted to listen, but I wanted to protect myself too. I could no longer cope with all the stories of sadness and destruction. My head was pounding with everything that was going on. What about leaving? I had two days now. How could I leave with this happening? What about Aziz? What about Hana?

“On top of the grave, kept down by a stone, was a piece of cardboard. I lifted it, ADULT MALE, SMALL BOY, RED TOYOTA, it read. I moved across to the next grave, another palm leaf, another piece of cardboard; ADULT MALE, ADULT FEMALE, BLACK KIA. I moved to another, a licence plate stuck out of the ground, misshapen and charred, a piece of cardboard leaned next to it; ADULT MALE, ADULT FEMALE, TWO SMALL CHILDREN, WHITE VOLKSWAGEN.

“I stood, staggering backwards, my hand over my mouth, tears filling my eyes, my breathing shallow. I looked over the field, more than a dozen graves, marked with palm leaves, licence plates, labelled so their families could find them. My head swam with the incredulity of it.

“A woman in a burqa stumbled into the field, her grief was palpable, she rocked as she walked from grave to grave, muttering and praying. She stopped at one and fell to her knees, stretching her arms across the pile of dust, crying a name I couldn’t make out, over and over again.

“I turned my back and walked away. I couldn’t intrude on this woman as she mourned.”

Hana wiped her face and lifted her chin a little. “Why are you telling me this?”

“We were told last night that this still happens now,” he replied. “Car bombs, roadside bombs, IEDs, shootings, suicide bombs. So many are left to rot where they die, and still, if no one takes the bodies, the residents bury them.” His voice was very quiet.

Hana stood up. “You will drive me there,” she announced. “And if we don’t find him, you will drive me around until we do. If there is one place where graves are made like this, then perhaps there are others. We will drive until we find my husband.”

Saad frowned at her, bits of words and sentences tumbled incoherently from his mouth about the dangers, but Hana, my Auntie Hana, flicked him away as if he was a fly struggling through heat.

“You do not come into my home, with my children and my niece, and tell me your horror stories then refuse to do anything about it. What did you expect me to do after telling me of such things? I will do as any loyal wife, and mother, and aunt would do. I will find my husband, the father of my children, dead or alive, and I will deal with what happens. If I am killed on the way, then it is God’s will and I will be reunited with my family. Lina will come with us, my children can stay with your wife.”

Saad had little option but to agree. Neither did I. God’s will or not, I didn’t want to go, I didn’t want to die at the hands of some trigger-happy, gun-toting foreign soldier, or some bomb-wielding, religion-quoting fundamentalist, or some angry insurgent. I wanted to stick my hand up and say,
“Er, excuse me, Auntie Hana, if I didn’t believe in God, and I die, it can’t be His will, so it would be murder, and I’m sure you don’t want me to be murdered, so I’ll just stay here, and look after the house, if that’s all the same by you.”

I didn’t think that would go down too well.

God’s will or no God’s will, I did want to find Aziz.

So we went. Hana, myself, Saad and Jamail, piled into the car.
Two adult males, adult female, teenage female, white Volkswagen
, I thought to myself. Should I write it out now to save a job for the gravedigger later?

Travelling around the city was difficult. It took a long time to get not very far, our journey zig-zagging around roadblocks. The car, and ourselves, searched at every checkpoint. If the soldiers seemed all right and not too abrupt then we took the opportunity to ask them about Aziz and show his photo. There was lots of head shaking and I wondered if we all looked the same to them. As each one approached the car, I looked on with hope, daring to believe that it could be Steve, checking name tapes for those letters, looking for those blue eyes hiding behind dark glasses. I wished it was him who approached the car; that we would wind down the window, that he would lean down and see me, lift his glasses up, recognise me, smile at me. Offer his help to me.

But then, what if he did?
Hana would be pleased,
I thought,
but not pleased he wasn’t marrying me and taking me away
.

After two hours we arrived at Saad’s brother’s neighbourhood.

I was told to stay in the car, but in my mind, that was just as dangerous as walking around, and if we did find signs of Aziz in that makeshift graveyard, then I wanted to be there. I wanted to see the sign for myself and I wanted to be there for Hana. I needed to be there for Hana. So I went with them. I insisted.

I struggled out of the car with a heart that felt as if it was on fire. And I walked together to the dusty field hand in hand with Hana, stepping down row after row of dirt piles, cardboard notices, palm leaves and licence plates. My heart sank further with every grave we passed, my grief for strangers, unseen and unheard of. My grief for lives taken so young, so unexpectedly and so unfairly. My grief for a situation with no end in sight.

Young male, two males, one female, couple with two children, one child, male with young boy, one male, one female, one child. What about their families, missing them, searching for them? Wives missing husbands. Mothers missing children. Children missing siblings, missing parents.

A snapshot of the violence, the suffering and the pain. Stupid deaths; pointless. Civilian deaths? An inadequate phrase. These weren’t merely civilians, these were people; fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, husbands, wives, friends, neighbours, colleagues.

They were someone.

Maybe the man who sells you bread in the mornings. The woman on the corner you see sweeping her house. The boy who kicked a ball into your garden. Your teacher from school. The beautiful receptionist you dream of looking like. The taxi driver you tipped. The man who held the door open for you.

People. Individuals.

I looked to Hana, the grief for these people lying at our feet, tearing at her, silent tears flooding her cheeks. And our eyes met, but neither of us had any words. What could anyone say?

I didn’t think anything else in this war could shock me. But this? This was the stuff of nightmares, nightmares you can’t wake from. It felt unreal and I didn’t want to believe what I could see. But there it was, in front of me.

There was no grave for Aziz. I felt relief and frustration. I didn’t want to find him here. I wanted him to come home, alive and well. He had only been missing a day; I thought of Mama, missing for years.

To know is to give it reason; to understand if not to empathise, to accept and then to eventually let go. Not knowing keeps a candle burning inside, hoping with every day that comes, praying like you really
do
believe, scared to let go.

Without a word, we climbed back into the car.

We thought about retracing Aziz’s steps yesterday; but it wouldn’t be easy. He worked for himself, picking up fares as he drove around, there was no record of who he picked up and where he went.

We went to a coffee shop he liked to go to, a place he and Papa spent time in together. A few of the people Saad spoke to came over to the car to offer Hana and myself their support and to wish us luck.