A Brighter Fear (6 page)

Papa at her side. Smiling.

And for the first time, that necklace was hanging around Mama’s neck.

I placed the photo on the pillow next to me, Mama’s pillow, and rested my head on the other. I felt the covers around me, holding me, and I imagined they were Papa’s arms. And with my eyes closed I could smell him still on the pillow, and I imagined him with me, protecting me.

But still I felt alone.

I wished that the soldier had been mistaken, that he’d got the wrong man, that Papa would come through the door, that I would wake in the morning to the sounds of him singing in the bathroom, and the smell of cooking from the kitchen.

But I didn’t.

The morning was hollow; the sunlight illuminating all the places Papa had once filled, but were now empty.

The time after Papa died was like a blur, and as I think back to it now, I struggle to remember what happened. Life seemed unreal. The photo stayed with me, in my pocket, or at the side of my bed, my new bed in Aziz and Hana’s house.

I remember his funeral; I remember holding that photo between my fingers as I stood outside the church, watching his coffin pulled out of the back of a van. Who had organised it? In this turmoil, how had they found someone to do a Christian service? And with all this death, how had they even found space in the graveyard? Everything seemed to pass me by.

I struggled to breathe, whether it was the stifling summer heat or the emotion thick around me. I stared at the coffin, a wooden box, a cross on top, so impersonal. I didn’t want to believe my papa was inside.

I felt numb. I felt empty. All the emotion in me used up, an empty shell remaining.

I walked into the church with Hana on one side of me, Aziz on the other. I swallowed hard, lifted my chin, and kept my tears hidden. For now, at least. And although I stood at a pew at the front, I didn’t hear a word of the service, I didn’t want it to be real, didn’t want to think of that moment every time I tried to remember Papa.

Instead I breathed in the calm of the place, the stillness and quiet. I ignored the service, my eyes scanning over the inside of the building, imagining how I would draw it, the smooth cream walls, the circular windows with their painted glass, the chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, the arches. What made it feel so calm? The architecture? The space? Or what it stood for?

And I looked over to the table at my side. Framed photographs of Papa, a wooden cross behind, candles in front, lit for him, the light flickering on to his face as he smiled out at me.

That’s how I wanted to remember him, smiling at me, or his arms around me keeping me safe, or the warmth of his hand holding mine, or his kiss on my cheek as he wished me goodnight. All these things that I would never feel, never see, again.

In this dream state of memory I headed out of the church and the wind slapped me in the face, waking me and shocking me back to reality. I looked at the mourners standing around, nervous, knowing that a church was a dangerous place to be, and I saw them flick glances at people walking by. What were they looking for? Suicide bombers? Gunmen? Faceless people who now hated both Christians and anyone who dared to associate with us, wishing to rid Baghdad of us? Nothing was sacred any more. Not even a funeral.

But the people grieving for my papa weren’t just Christians. And although I hadn’t noticed them at the service and questioned whether they had dared go inside the church, I saw them now, so many of them, so many different people.

I saw Aziz, Layla’s father, another neighbour, a friend of Papa’s from university, all lift and support his coffin. What religion were they? I didn’t care.

But it did matter.

Because they carried him through these streets of violence, of hatred, of discrimination and prejudice, of fear and retaliation and madness, whatever their religion or background or belief. With their friendship and love and respect, and with their fear of recriminations put to one side, if only for a short time, they carried my papa on their shoulders.

And at the graveside, with the heat bearing down upon me and the wind blowing sand and dirt into my face, my tears came. I thought of what I had lost. What had been taken from me. The most wonderful man. The most wonderful father. I couldn’t even begin to find the words to describe my love for him, to describe the pride I held for him as I looked at the people around the graveside whose lives he had touched. And I thought of him, his life cut short, years stolen from him.

I realised he would never know what happened to Mama, would never again hold her in his arms. Nor would he ever know democracy in Baghdad, or see it again in peace time. And he would never see another sunrise, not even feel its heat upon his skin. And at that moment, as I stood at his grave, thinking of what his death meant to me, to him, to everyone he knew, I felt his loss more deeply than I had ever felt anything before.

I watched his coffin lowered into the ground, listened to the thud of the fresh soil landing on that wooden box below. I stood there, still, waiting, watching as people left, incapable of turning my back on Papa and walking away from him.

Then, suddenly, I glanced up and saw the American soldier moving towards me, his helmet and glasses off, his face bare. I was surprised; I didn’t understand what he was doing there.

His eyes flicked to mine, down, then back again, and as he stopped in front of me, I knew I had nothing to say to him.

And even when he muttered “sorry”, I knew I had no anger left to vent, no blame to lay. I was empty.

I think he thought I would speak to him, but I didn’t. And eventually he left me on my own and walked out of the cemetery.

I stayed as the sun lowered and the light began to fade. The air was still, the sky above me turning from shades of blue, to lilac, to pink, to red. I stared around at other graves, white slabs sticking up out of the ground; some straight, some broken, some leaning, some with photos, some with flowers. They reached out into the distance. And beneath me was another. My papa.

I walked away feeling I was deserting him, still holding that photograph, staring down to my papa’s smiling eyes, determined to remember him that way.

The days and the weeks passed but I saw Papa still; on street corners, in shops, behind market stalls; a shadow, a familiar jacket or shirt, a similar hairstyle. And I would stop for a second, and would dare to look more closely.

I was always wrong. Of course. And always it hurt. But I hoped that in some way he was still watching over me and with my whole being, I missed him.

A few weeks later Aziz drove me back home to collect some things. The key thudded in the lock as I turned it, and the door creaked as I opened it. I stepped inside, the silence heavy, a strange air that wasn’t fresh, everything just as I had left it that day. I strolled through the house feeling its emptiness, the sadness it seemed to hold now it had no one to fill it.

I rested my hand on Papa’s bedroom door handle, pausing, feeling the coolness of it.
He’s not in there
, I told myself. And I walked on. I packed up the things I wished to take to Aziz’s house; some clothes, a few books, my old sketchpads, and that was it, all in a suitcase and one box.

I carried them to the kitchen where Aziz was waiting, and as he took the box from me, and we headed to the door, I stopped dead in my tracks. He looked at me, his eyes filled with the pity I was so used to seeing.

He patted me on the back. “Take some time,” he said.

I watched him walk to the car, his eyes squinting against the sun, and left him to believe whatever he wanted. I headed down into the basement.

Light streamed through the little window, dust motes dancing in the air. I struggled through the boxes and over the mattress, left in case the bombing began again, and pulled a chair up to the wall.

I pulled the box out and opened it; all the money was still there. I wondered how safe it was. Whether it was better to leave the money here, or better to take it. If I left it here, would someone find it? Should I take it with me? I paused for a moment, thinking of thieves and bombs and Aziz and Hana’s children. Eventually I pushed it back into the hole, and covered it with a broken brick.

That money was my hope; it gave me options and choices. I could leave the country, start afresh somewhere. I could travel, and see all those things I wanted to see. I could survive. I could live again. I moved the chair away, and leaned some junk against the wall; a yard brush, an old rug, a mop and bucket. I locked the door and took the key with me.

Life with Aziz and Hana was very different to my life with Papa. I used to enjoy my quiet times at home before Papa returned from work. I would sit and read a book, listen to music, sketch a little. I could do as I liked as long as dinner was made.

That was all gone.

Instead there was constant noise, chatter and bickering, and I was never alone.

Aziz was at work most days. Hana would go out for a while, selling things to the American troops: homemade food, cups of chai, things like that. They paid her well, and in dollars too. She no longer sent the boys to school; it was too dangerous, she said. When she went out I took care of the boys, but they were like limpets, clinging to me, demanding things:
Talk to me, read to me, play with me… Can I have something to eat? Can I have something to drink?
Again and again and again. And if I refused them, then they’d shout or scream at me.

So much happened every day. The city changed beyond recognition and so did my life. My birthday had passed, exams and results too. My application to university, despite Hana’s protests, then the first day, new course, new people.

I wish Papa had been there to see it.

Every day Aziz drove me to uni, and every day he took me back home again. And while his wife tutted with her hands on her hips, shaking her head at the very idea I should be getting an education throughout this turmoil, or at all, Aziz simply replied that it was what Joe would’ve wanted.

I hoped university would offer some of the stability I longed for.

But still we fought for survival every day and still frustration ate away at me. There were so many stories of girls being abducted and held for ransom, their families forced to sell what little they had just for the hope of them returning. I remembered my friend Anita. Abducted yet returned when the ransom was paid. Although not the same person. Whatever had happened to her now kept her inside the house, fear ruling her.

Sometimes only a body came back. Sometimes nothing. Out of those two, I think I would have chosen a body. Not knowing what had happened to Mama – that was the worst thing.

There were explosions every day. More than once a day. Car bombs. Suicide bombers. Snipers. Seeing people killed was everyday life, the only question was how many were killed that day, or how many bodies you’d seen.

I loved being in class, listening, taking notes, trying to ignore the world outside the windows and forget the madness that waited for us all outside of those doors. But we couldn’t forget, could we? Not completely. For it rested in our subconscious – the fear, the worry, the knowledge that you may not make it home that day, waiting for when your head wasn’t filled with facts and figures, equations and problems.

It was hiding somewhere in my subconscious while I sat in a lecture room on the ground floor. I could hear people talking outside, see them strolling by. See the grass, green in places, patchy in others, the grey concrete paths, the short stubby bushes.

I felt safe in there. I felt happy, if only for that brief time.

But nowhere was safe and nowhere was impenetrable. Danger was in different degrees.

I remembered that, as the windows blew in, glass flying over us, a roar of noise, an explosion, the ground beneath us shaking. Books dropping off shelves and on to the floor, on to us as we dived to the ground for cover.

I heard screaming. Heard the crunch of glass under my feet and felt it press into my knees and my palms as I scurried for cover under the desks.

I waited. We all did. For shots through the window, for the ceiling to fall on us, for another explosion. Nobody spoke, nobody cried or screamed.

And the dust began to settle. And there were no shots, and the ceiling stayed up, and no more explosions rang out, on that day.

Crying from outside filtered through the empty window frames, and we lifted our heads up and looked at each other, brushing broken glass from our clothes and out of our hair, checking each other for injuries, calming each other, offering tissues or drinks of water, or just a comforting glance.

I picked out pieces of glass from one girl’s face, her breath held as she tried to ignore the pain. And when I’d finished she bathed my cut knees and pulled a shard from the inside of my palm. Hospital was pointless. So many so much worse than us.

We stayed in the classroom as news came. Fearful of what we might find, or what might happen if we dared go out.

I seethed at the madness of it all. Angry that anyone would target a place of learning. But I was alive, and determined still to keep going, adamant that I would not let my dreams of university and my education and my career be destroyed.

But the attacks and the threats to the universities kept coming, and frustration clawed at me. For a while the university closed. Then lectures started again, but the timetables were constantly changed, trying to stop the insurgents from keeping track of when the classes were, trying to stop them targeting the students and the professors.

Still, I was determined to keep going.

I heard Hana talking one night. “Her place is at home,” I heard her whisper.

“But life continues,” Aziz replied.

“She needs to think of her future as a wife and mother,” she argued.

“That’s not what she wants.”

“Going to university is too dangerous,” was her response.

But I needed to hold on to this one thing sacred to me, my one hope. Because that was my escape from this world, and however dangerous it was, for as long as I possibly could, I would keep hold of it. Not let anyone – not soldiers with guns, not insurgents with bombs and most definitely not Hana with her words and opinions – take it away from me.

Hana didn’t understand.

Hana, I was certain, didn’t like me, didn’t want me to have anything that was mine, didn’t want to let me be myself. She barely looked at me, barely smiled or spoke to me. Why was she worried about me going to university? Was it because of the danger to me, or to Aziz? Him taking me back and forth to uni? But that didn’t make sense. He drove his taxi every day. What difference would it make, two more trips? Why was my mama’s sister convinced I should stay at home and prepare for becoming a wife and mother?

I wanted to go to classes, wanted to learn, wanted to study, wanted to see my friends, visit people in the evening, travel through the city. Normal, everyday, ordinary things.

Instead I learned what gun makes what kind of noise. I could tell you whereabouts in the city a bomb had gone off by the direction of the sound and the vibrations in the ground. I knew what IED and RPG stood for. I understood what the stripes on soldiers’ uniforms meant.

These are not things I wanted to learn.

Every day there were roadblocks, checkpoints, curfews. Abductions, car-jackings, attacks, rapes, murders, lootings. Was this democracy? We could use the internet without fearing our every move was being watched, yet we had no electricity to use it.

I was living a nightmare.

And Layla, my best friend, barely spoke to me. I missed her smile, her gossiping about people we knew, boys she had spoken to. Her infectious laugh that could cheer me from the greatest gloom. At university, hers was a friendly face in a sea of unknowns, but she avoided me. When lectures were on, she wouldn’t sit with me. When they finished she would rush off to avoid my company. It was the same with most of the people in my class, but I knew why and I understood.

Fear.