tion id="u78f9d8eb-6fa4-5a6a-882e-1925d777f763">
Dedication
To Russ and to Dad, with love.
To PH, with thanks for listening... and listening...
And to Karen and Sally, with fond memories of
so many cups of coffee drunk and
too many chip baguettes eaten.
Contents
Dedication
BEFORE THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
AFTER THE END
Copyright
I am Luisa. I am Amira. I am Maysoon, Fay, Samara.
I am black. I am white. I am Asian.
I am Sunni, Shia, Christian.
I am Arab, Persian, Jew, Iraqi.
I am Mesopotamia. I am a million.
I am everyone. I am Baghdad.
I want to tell you my story, yet I want you to
hear everyone’s. Mine is not unusual, it is not special.
So many the same: the difference only a name,
a job, a family, a religion.
A million voices, a million stories.
And I am one.
My name is Lina.
Baghdad, March 2005
Before the war, fear hung over everyone, and we all knew that even voicing our true opinions was dangerous.
Although it was one threat, one regime, there were a million eyes and ears looking out over every city and town and street and home, ready to hear that one wrong word spoken, or that one wrong opinion offered. By anyone.
Before the war, before the Americans in 2003 with their bombs, I couldn’t have spoken like this, because even thinking like this was impossible if you wanted to live, if you didn’t want to disappear. As my dear Mama discovered.
Fear was never discussed, because fear was constant; you lived in it and it lived in you.
Back then, before the war and the madness it brought, my papa would’ve been shocked to hear me speak like this. He would’ve taken hold of me, I’m sure, scared for the life of his only child, clasped his hand to my mouth, his finger to his lips, his eyes wide with panic. But I knew, as all Iraqis of sound mind did, the importance of muted opinions and quiet anonymity, and the memory of how things were lies only just beneath the surface, even now.
Years of living like that are difficult to change, and I pause to remember that back then, merely what I’ve already spoken about would’ve been of interest to the Mukharabat, the secret police; that they would’ve found reason to arrest me, torture me, kill me even.
And so Iraqis spoke in silence, and to hear them, to really hear what they thought, what they felt, you needed to listen not to what they said, but to what they didn’t say.
Now? I shake my head. Now, one threat has been replaced by many. Uncontrolled and uncontrollable. Each with its own opinions and wishes and aspirations for the future.
What do I want for my future? I hear you ask. Is it survival? Or dare I wish for more?
No. I don’t want to survive.
I want to live.
But this is not just my life. This is life and I have to tell you all about it – for me, for everyone. To make sense of things, to understand and to be understood.
Sitting here, looking over the remains of
