“Have you ever wondered, what treasures it is, that you hold in your hand, young child?” I felt an urge to ask the child who played so joyfully on the swings and slides in the park. How must it be, years of growing in the comfort of your own home, having your family right beside you.
“Let me answer that for you. I wake not knowing if I shall live to see tomorrow, or even the sun setting today…” says the voice of a weakened heart. My own voice.
Iraq is my home, it has always been my home. I remember those days, when I would wake in the early hours of the day, stand besides my father and offer my prayers, thanking God for such good friends and a loving family. I could see the sun rising from my window as I quickly dressed. My heart was racing, because it was time for school and Hassan was waiting for me by Hashim’s market. Oh how beautiful the sun looked!
Thank You Allah for giving me that power of sight, and the knowledge of You, so that I may admire the beauty of Your creation. It was a prayer I attested to every morning, yet it still didn’t seem to serve justice “Qasim! Come on dear, you shall be late for school. You don’t want your mother to scold me do you?” My father said jokingly.
My mother was the Principal of Al-Kadhimiyya School, and had left the house long before me. I quickly grabbed my satchel, slipped on my sandals, and raced out of the house. “Abu Jaan! I’ll come with Hassan to visit you at the shop for lunch” I shouted as I raced out of our home. ‘Our home’…those words seem so foreign now. How could I have known? That I would never see my father again? That racing out that door, was the beginning of a new journey; a journey I don’t know how I got through.
Hassan came running towards me. “Hashim Bapu has given us fruits for lunch today!” His ever charming smile always won him the favors and hearts of the locals. We hurried through Kashif Bazaar and made a left on Habib Road. Al-Kadhimiyya came into view, with its small makeshift gates, and shattered windows. Agha Uzyar, the local police, always promised us he would do something about that. “Just as soon as this war is over” he would say, “and then Al-Kadhimiyya will look as if you have never seen it before!” We would always smile, Hassan and I, when he would say such things. He was the sort to fantasize and daydream and build castles within our imagination. The gates had been opened, and the Principal stood there at the steps, welcoming the students, as was her protocol every day.
I looked at my mother and admired how she made every child feel special. It was then that my thoughts were disrupted with the sound of missiles flying above. What was going on? “Qasim! Hassan! Run!” Who was that yelling at us? I couldn’t make out the voice, but instinctively Hassan and I ran in the opposite direction of the school, in the direction of where the missiles were coming from. “Here Qasim!” shouted Hassan. He had found a small ally that was deserted and wasn’t so clearly in view of those passing on Habib Road. “What’s going on Hassan?” I asked. His stares were as blank as mine, and his fear just as explicit.
We were behind Ja’fari flats and there were stairs leading up to the rooftop. “Let’s go see”, I said, pointing to the stairs. My voice was quivering, and my imagination drifted to my mother and father… We reached the rooftop of Ja’fari flats just in time to see Al-Kadhimiyya school go up in flames and crumble to dust. Horror and grief overwhelmingly clenched my heart, as my knees gave way and I fell to the floor. “Amma…Hassan…is that…-” My voice trailed off, and Hassan followed the direction I was pointing in. He saw what I saw just moments ago – a delicate figure sprawled across the floor, where the steps of Al-Kadhimiyya had just been. It took a full two minutes before I could lift myself up.
An army tank was blocking the view I had just witnessed moments ago, and men were shouting. There was chaos everywhere. Now that I think of it, I cannot comprehend how I ever survived that moment. Hassan turned to me, his eyes straining as he tried to hold back his tears. “Come on Qasim, let’s go to Hashim.” He grabbed my arm as I felt I didn’t have the strength to do anything on my own, and helped me as we went down the stairs. Running down Habib Street, Hassan turned back just once more. But that once more was enough, enough time to see Ja’fari flats following suit of Al-Kadhimiyya. These people, we didn’t know they were, or where they came from, but they were destroying our land. Suddenly anger surged and I felt my blood boil. I heard myself shouting “Amma!!! What have they done to you?!” Hashim met us outside as we reached his market. “You are not safe here boys! Go back home!”
Hassan’s home was in the opposite direction to where mine was, but neither one of us were willing to part from the other. With fear and distraught, not knowing whether to cry or not, we eventually reached Talab Circle, where my home was. As we got closer and closer, I noticed doors of several houses open, as if involuntarily the owners had opened their doors, or if they had refused they were broken down. Men, women, and children lay there, slain. One could never have thought that it was anything but the innocent sleeping, had blood not pooled around their bodies, and all other evidence that was so clearly vivid been void. “Not my father…not Abu Jaan…” I muttered so softly, that even Hassan had not heard me. But I knew the answer before I even reached my the door of my house. My heart would not let me enter. Without thinking twice, I turned and ran back towards Hashim’s market. Hassan only caught up with me minutes later when he put together the pieces of the puzzle.
That was eight years ago. I was only thirteen, and never knew any different than the comfort of Talab Circle, Hashim’s Market, Al-Kadhimiyya school, and the surroundings of my small town in Iraq. But then America happened, and I became a foreginer in my own land. And a foreigner I shall remain, till I am reunited with my parents.