“But Ali, you can’t go alone.”
“He won’t be going alone. I’ll go with him,” Feroz shouted from the next room. They could hear him splashing water on his face as he spoke, “I’ll be ready in five minutes. Sameera, get the breakfast ready.”
“No, Abu, you can’t go either,” Ali’s voice was gentle. It wasn’t often that he said no to his father. He looked out at the swirling smoke blotting out the sky. In the distance, a jet, half hidden by the smoke, circled over the northern part of the city – like a hungry vulture looking for its prey. That is where he would have to go now and he had no intention of putting his father in any danger.
Feroz walked into the room, his shoes in his hand. He had already changed into a fresh shirt. He hadn’t bothered to tuck it in and the ends hung outside his pants. He was ready to go.
Ali turned to face his father.
“You can’t go, Abu. There is a war going on. And it’s better if there is at least one man in the house all the time.”
“Well then, you stay, I’ll go.”
“How? You can’t drive.”
“I’ll walk,” Feroz sounded firm, almost stern.
“No, Abu, you know that is ridiculous. And anyway, it’ll be easier if I am alone. I won’t have to look after anyone else.”
He patted his father gently on his arm, “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
He changed his clothes and ate his breakfast – just bread and fried eggs washed down with a cup of hot, sweet tea - as fast as he could.
No one spoke as he ate. No words were needed. All of them knew what the others were thinking. Thinking and hoping and praying.
The car was in a double garage at the back of the house. Hassan’s Buick 1971 was also there. Both the cars were old and needed repairs. Hassan’s was in a slightly better condition but Ali’s car looked absolutely run down. Paint peeled off the body showing the patches of rust underneath. But Ali kept the engine well tended and in good condition.
It already had five liters of petrol in it, kept for any emergency. Ali picked up a full jerrycan of petrol and poured about another fifteen liters into the tank. It should be enough to see him through the trip. Petrol was scarce and highly expensive now and he did not want to use any more than necessary.
Wiping his fingers slowly on a piece of rag, he looked at his father standing close beside him.
“I’ll leave now. Inshallah, I should be back before it is night again.”
“Inshallah,” his father repeated. Deep lines of worry creased his forehead.
“Ring up as soon as you get there,” Noor said, patting him on his back, “and be careful.”
Sameera did not say anything. She could not. She had the curious sensation that she was standing on the edge of a precipice, that she would fall over if she moved or spoke. That there was something dark lurking just below the edge of the precipice and it was trying to tempt her to do something. Move. Speak. Anything. But she did not. Because if she did, she would fall. So she stayed still and quiet. And did not move or speak.
Reza clung tightly to his mother’s abaya. Where was Papa going? Was Mustapha aunty dead? Why was Ammi so scared? He could feel her trembling under the abaya. Was Papa going to die? He wished the bombs would stop. He hated the noise. They scared him. He wished the planes would go away and stop dropping those bombs. At least till Papa came back. He was less scared when Papa was with him. He hoped Papa came back fast.
Ali looked down at his son. Tears started in his eyes. He reached down to swing him into his arms and hug him close.
“Now, Reza, be a good boy while I am gone. Stick close to your mother and do whatever she says, OK?”
“When will you be back?”
“Soon, very soon.”
“Today?”
“Oh yes, today.”
He handed him over to Sameera. Her eyes were full of tears and she was trying hard not to blink, to prevent them falling.
He touched her cheek gently, “It’s OK,” he said softly, “it’s OK, I’ll be fine.”
He hesitated. Then lowering his voice he leaned towards his father and whispered, “If something should happen to me……” he stopped when Noor gave a horrified gasp. He hadn’t realized she had leaned forward to listen to what he was saying to his father.
“Not that anything will, of course,” he added hastily, glancing quickly from his mother to his wife, “why should the Americans bomb me, anyway? I am not Saddam Hussain. And their computers are very precise anyway. So I’ll be all right.”
Yes, thought Sameera, let’s put our faith in the enemy’s computers. Nothing else will help us today. She wished that the large lump stuck somewhere in her chest would go away so that she could pray for his safety. But it stuck there, throbbing. And moved up and choked the words in her throat every time she tried to speak.
She watched Ali get into the car and ease it into the street. He turned for a last look as he turned the corner and waved. All of them waved back.
Ali checked his watch as he drove slowly down the street. It was 7.30 am. On any other day, the street would have been alive by now. Children in their regulation school uniform – white shirt, navy blue skirts or pants, white socks, black shoes – with satchels on their backs, women buying vegetables from the vendor’s cart parked on the side of the street, men on their way to the office.
He would probably have passed the eggseller by now, basket on head shouting ‘Egg, Egg’. The kerosene man in his donkey cart, the trash collector in his would have passed him, clinking and clanking on their way.
But today, the street looked lonely and haunted. The shops were closed and shuttered. None of the doors or windows were open. There wasn’t a single car on the street.
After all, who was going to be mad enough to come out of their house when bombs were falling like hailstones?
He drove slowly, keeping an eye out for the flashes of fire which indicated where a bomb had been dropped.
It should have been a sunny and pleasant day with a clear, blue sky. But the sun and the blue sky were blocked out by smoke. Planes flew like barely-seen ghosts through the smoke, picking out their targets with pinpoint accuracy.
There was a smell of petrol fumes in the air. Petrol fumes mixed with the acrid smell of gunpowder. And the dry, dusty smell of sand.
There is going to be a sandstorm today, thought Ali, I hope I get back before it starts. The signs of the brewing storm were all too evident.
The wind was gusty and strong. The trees leaned in the force of the wind. Empty paper packets danced high in the air, twisting and turning as they were carried along. Dust rose in clouds, covering everything in sight with a fine layer of brown powder.
A man walked quickly along the road, holding down his robe with one hand as it whipped across his feet. It ballooned out at the back, giving him a strangely hunched appearance. With the other hand, he clung to the turban on his head. He tried to walk fast, leaning forward against the wind which did its best to push him back. In the struggle between man and wind, the man was winning. But only just. And by a very narrow margin.
He drove through the narrow, winding streets, aiming for the wide expressway along the Tigris river. It was hot, very very hot.
A couple of Iraqi militia huddled in their sandbag den at the intersection of the road with the expressway. They had wrapped their headscarves around their faces so that only the eyes showed.
Their Kalashnikovs must be covered with sand, Ali thought. Could even be jammed. He hoped they had the good sense to clean them up before they fired them.
Ali had always loved driving along the expressway. It was broad and well maintained, running parallel to the river on its south bank. Tall evenly spaced lamp posts stood like vigilant sentinels along the entire length. Occasional clumps of palm trees planted on its sides managed to create a cool, park like atmosphere.
The normally smooth surface of the road was now pockmarked like the landscape of the moon. It was strewn with rubble. Blocks of concrete, large and small, bricks and glass fragments made him drive at a snail’s pace, picking and choosing his way carefully.
Many of the buildings were on fire. The crackle, crackle of the hungry flames, the hiss hiss of the smoke escaping in giant columns from the depths of the buildings, an occasional pop as something burst, the grey wisps of ash floating in the air – it was like driving through hell itself.
The precision of the American bombs were stunning. Many of the important party buildings had huge gaping holes on their roofs and sides.
The ornately carved sandstone palace belonging to Qusay Hussain which was also the Special Security Headquarters had been hit but had not collapsed. The glow from the raging fire within showed through the dome shaped windows with their intricately carved grilles. It looked, thought Ali, like a gigantic paper Chinese lantern with an especially large candle inside.
A shrill whine suddenly sounded just above his head. Startled, he braked and then stopped the car. Thrusting his head out of the car, he looked up to see a jet fighter fly just over his head.
The plane took off into the air again, but at a distance it turned in a tight half circle and came back to fly low over his head. It was so low that Ali could see the black helmeted head of the pilot peering down at him through the transparent canopy. His face was almost obscured by his goggles and the oxygen mask but he was looking straight down at Ali. Then it flew off again over the car.
Ali waited. Why, he could not say. But he knew he had to wait. If he did not wait, if he moved, the pilot would shoot him.
The plane was now circling high above the car. Round and round it went. Round and round. After a moment, it seemed to make up its mind. It dropped height and made for the car.
He is going to shoot, thought Ali with rising panic. He is not sure if I am dangerous, so he is going to shoot, just to make sure he is not letting an enemy go.
He quickly got out of the car, leaving the door wide open. Then he ran to the middle of the road, arms raised high over his head. He faced the coming plane.
“Look,” he shouted, “look, I have no weapons. Please don’t shoot. Please, please don’t shoot”.
The pilot looked down at the man standing in the middle of the road, hands in the air, his shirt flapping in the wind. He looked out of place in the midst of all the smoke and fire, like a man who had arrived there by mistake and now did not know where to go.
He had almost decided to shoot on his third sortie. A lone car creeping along the road and slowing down near that sandstone palace had been pretty suspicious.
But this man was obviously a civilian – on some sort of an emergency run perhaps.
Thank God, I did not shoot, he thought. He flashed a thumbs up sign and roared off into the air.
“Allah has been merciful to me.” Ali thought as he ran back to the car, crouching against the wind. It was only after the car was moving again that he took a deep breath of relief. He hadn’t realized how terribly frightened he had been.
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