Baghdad Central (9 page)

“We can't undo the past, Mr Khadr. But, once in a while, we're given the chance to decide which parts of it are relevant, and which are not. So tell me, are you a good cop? Or do you want to be a bad cop?”

“I am not…” Khafaji's voice is barely audible.

Trickles of sweat roll down the man's temple, and he ignores them. “Pardon?”

“I am not going to work for you.”

The American smiles and says nothing. He looks down at his papers and acts as if Khafaji isn't there. The two soldiers walk in. With a single heave, they throw Khafaji's arms behind his back and tie his wrists together. This time when he's paraded outside, there's nothing to shield him from the blazing light.

October 2003

When her shift ends, the translator changes back into street clothes. She wipes the paint from her lips and eyelids and carefully covers her hair with a different hijab. She leaves the base by a side gate and catches the first bus. It doesn't matter which bus, only that it is never the same one as the day before. Just as the bus is about to leave at the fourth or fifth stop she jumps off and finds a taxi that will take her downtown. She is polite, but never talkative. She walks the last block to another bus. This one cuts back on part of the same route she took before delivering her to the neighborhood where she lives.

“I work at the university,” she was told to say. Even if her parents and brothers do not believe her, they do not ask.

Today, just two blocks from home, a young man speaks her name and smiles. “Zeinab?” When she smiles back, he hands her a note and disappears.

       
In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful
.

       
We wronged them not – but it was they who wronged themselves
.

To: Zeinab Hussein al-Kadhimi, filthy agent of the American swine!

We have sworn to ourselves and to God and His Prophet to right the wrongs that beset our land. We seek to purify this land that has been stripped bare by collaborators, apostates and criminals. We have discovered that you work as a translator for the enemies of God and humanity, the Americans, the invaders, usurpers and occupiers of our country. You may have kept this fact a secret until now, but the light of truth has come out. Heed this warning and leave Iraq now. If you do not, it will be us, not you, who will be forgiven for what happens. Do not make your mother suffer the loss of her daughter.

Signed:
The Army of the Righteous, Sentencing Committee
(15 September 2003)

Shaken, Zeinab stays home for a week. When she finally returns to work, she doubles her precautions. She looks over her shoulder with every step. She adds another leg to her winding route. “It'll take another hour, but it's the only way,” she murmurs to herself. “They have to help me. Maybe my case for asylum will go through now.”

Downtown, Zeinab steps off her first bus of the morning. She is so focused on stopping a taxi that she doesn't notice the young man standing next to her.

Saturday

29 November 2003

Cuffed to a metal table, Khafaji manages to sleep for an hour. When he wakes up, he finds his headache has returned. He finds a metal tray that someone set on the table in front of him. He looks at a plastic bottle of water, a dry cheese sandwich and some pickles or old cucumbers. Khafaji swallows the food then washes it down with the water. He falls asleep again without trying. The next time he wakes up, there's a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches and an ashtray on the table. Khafaji fumbles for a cigarette and then, somehow, lights it. Leaning over the table, he attempts to smoke in peace. He flings the butt to the floor, feeling exhausted but almost clear-headed.

A few minutes later, he calls out, “I need to use the toilet.” He yells, but no one answers. After some movement in the hallway, the door flies open.

Khafaji is escorted down the hall by one muscular white soldier as another stands by the door. The ankle cuffs make his steps short and jerky. In the bathroom, the man stands next to Khafaji as he urinates. Khafaji struggles to zip up his pants, but his shaking fingers fail. He tries to wash his face in the sink, but the soldier says “No!” and pulls
him away. As they walk back down the corridor, Khafaji notices the back of the wheelchair. Then the back of the girl sitting in it. He doesn't need to see her face to shout, “Mrouj! Mrouj!”

The soldier shoves him into the room.

“Let me see my daughter,” he yells, and tries to break free. He trips over and falls. In an instant, the two soldiers are sitting on his arms and legs. A pair of hands grips him by the neck. The voice speaks slowly and loudly. “Don't resist, or you will get hurt.” Khafaji feels a knee in his chest. “Stop now, or you will hurt yourself.”

It's not Khafaji who stops. It's the pain that stops him. He begins to take slow, deep breaths. A minute goes by, and the soldier on his chest speaks again. “I am now going to release you. If you do that again, we will restrain you and it will hurt.”

A knee digs into Khafaji's chest until he nods and says, “Yes.” The men stand up, leaving Khafaji on the floor, his legs and arms still cuffed. Khafaji doesn't move. From the smooth, cold concrete, he watches boots walk sideways out the room. Minutes go by before the white soldier walks back in. He stoops over Khafaji and asks, “Better?”

Fingers probe Khafaji's neck and throat. Khafaji flinches and the man heaves him onto the seat. Khafaji begins to fall off the chair, but the man wedges the chair against the table. Khafaji balances there until the door opens again. Another soldier enters the room, pushing the wheelchair.

Khafaji and Mrouj look at each other, but say nothing. Neither seems to notice the soldier when he leaves. Mrouj's eyes are tired and sad. But even so, her smile is un-erased. She looks older but also younger. He reaches to touch her arm, then stops himself before he falls out of his chair. Mrouj
pulls herself up and puts her hand on his cheek, then touches his naked lip. She looks at his bloodshot eyes and bruised face. Her smile disappears. When she starts to cry, it comes without tears or sound.

“My God, Baba. What have they done to you?” She begins to cough uncontrollably and falls over. She wipes the spit from her lips, then sits up again.

“I'm here, Mrouji, and I'll be fine.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No. They don't know how to do that. What about you – did they do anything to you?”

“I'm fine, Baba. They came back and told me you wanted to see me. They drove me here.”

“Are you OK?”

“I'm not better. And I'm not worse.” She coughs twice and shudders.

“You look worse.”

“No, Baba. You're the one who looks worse.”

Khafaji's silence is heavy, even loud. Louder than the breath in his nostrils.

“Baba, tell me. Are you OK?” She winces and stops herself again.

“I'm fine, Mrouji. They can't hurt me.”

“What did they want? What's going on?”

“I don't know. They were looking for someone. Now they want me to work for them.”

“Don't do it, Baba.”

“Why did they bring you here? Did they tell you?”

“They told me you wanted to see me. They said I could come and see you and that I'd be free to go whenever I want. Don't worry about me. I can manage.”

“Don't believe them. I need to think about this some more.”

“Really, don't worry about me, Baba.” Mrouj begins to cough and doubles over. When she sits up again, her face is frozen in a grimace.

Khafaji looks at her with suspicion in his eyes. “They lied to get you here, Mrouj. They wanted me to see you, and now I have. We need to think about what they're trying to do.”

The door opens and a soldier pulls Mrouj's wheelchair backwards. Khafaji screams at the man as he takes her away. He is still shouting her name long after the door closes.

An hour or more goes by before another officer walks into the room. By then Khafaji has made his decision.

“I will do it. But on one condition.”

“What is that, Khafaji?”

“My daughter is sick. Her kidneys. She needs to get to a real hospital. You want me to help you? You need to help my daughter. This can't wait.”

The man stands up and says, “I'll see what we can do.” And then he disappears.

A soldier and another officer enter the room some time later. The soldier cuts the ties on Khafaji's wrists then leaves. The officer puts a file on the table and begins to talk. “Your daughter will be taken to Ibn Sina Hospital. You're being released on probation. Go get your shit in order. You report at the Coalition Provisional Authority tomorrow. You'll be working with Citrone.”

He never once looks at Khafaji until he hands him a piece of paper with names and numbers on it, and a couple of stamps. “You want to see your daughter? Bring this with you to Checkpoint Three. They're expecting you at nine.”

Khafaji blinks and the man murmurs, “The gate at the Convention Center. You'll see the line when you get there. Go straight to the front with these papers. If you don't follow
these directions, it'll be a long time before you see your daughter again.”

Suddenly, Khafaji is being escorted out of the complex by yet another short soldier.

He waits in one of the white trailers at the gate while someone bundles papers into cabinets. Every so often, he drinks more warm tea in the same flimsy paper cups. He smiles, and dozes off imagining how good it will feel to sleep in his own bed.

The phone rings and wakes up Khafaji. The receptionist tells him that his transportation has arrived. Khafaji goes outside to a battered Humvee. A boy soldier waves and opens the back door. Khafaji gets in without saying a word to the other three young soldiers inside. The driver says, “Strap yourself in. Where are we taking you?”

Khafaji tells him the name of his street. The boy in the front seat shrugs. “Show me on the map, OK?”

Khafaji looks at a map of Baghdad, only it's not Baghdad. He looks where Jadiriyya should be, and sees the word “Hollywood”. He tries to find Saadun, and sees only a place called “Manhattan”. It is Baghdad, only every neighborhood and street is called something else. He points to where he thinks he wants to go, and the soldier looks at his finger, “Great. Chicago. Corner of Madison and Main.”

Khafaji forces a smile.

In the back seat, he can see very little through the thick, grimy windows. Everyone else is stiff, alert. The driver speeds up and slows down for no apparent reason. The vehicle swerves back and forth, knocking Khafaji around in his harness. Outside, cars honk and brakes squeal. The chaos of a patrol howling through civilian traffic. More than a few times, Khafaji hears dull thuds and high pings, and imagines
things hitting the metal walls around him. For a moment, the vehicle wrenches into something heavy. It makes a grinding noise then disappears. The boy next to him shouts at the window, “Fishdo!”

He turns to Khafaji and whispers, “Fuck it. Shit happens. Drive on!” And the others laugh.

Khafaji drifts off. He suddenly pictures them dropping him off in front of his building. He shouts, “Stop! I want to get out.”

The driver laughs and says, “Don't worry, we'll get you there in one piece.”

“No. Please. Stop. Let me out.”

The boy beside Khafaji is chewing gum. He looks at Khafaji and shakes his head. “Calm down, Hajji. Don't worry. We know how to deal with traffic.”

The others start laughing. The driver turns on loud music. They nod their heads back and forth to the beat. The gum chewer pumps his fist in the air and sings along. Khafaji can't hear his own thoughts.

Khafaji unstraps himself and tries to stand up. The car swerves, and he is knocked onto the lap of the gum chewer. Khafaji shouts and pleads, “Stop! Please stop! I need to get out!”

And now the Americans are screaming back at him, “Shut the fuck up, Hajji.”

The gum chewer pins Khafaji into his seat, while the driver shouts, “We don't stop on this road, old man. We'll get you to a checkpoint and you can get out and go wherever the hell you like. Until then, we gotta keep moving.”

The gum chewer stares at Khafaji, then shakes his head and looks out the window. He blows air through his teeth and asks the driver to turn the music up. Every time something hits the vehicle, his eyes accuse Khafaji.

They drop off Khafaji at a checkpoint on the edge of Karrada. He just walks away and says nothing to the soldiers. For a moment, he stands in the night air and breathes it in. Then he begins to run, putting as much distance behind him as he can. The bright lights of the checkpoint fade. Khafaji jogs through dark streets, half-lit buildings and shadowed balconies. The electricity is off again. On the street, only a few generators can be heard.

As he turns into his street, he finds a gate blocking his path. He starts to walk around it, when voices call out, “Who's there?”

Two young men step out of the shadows on the sidewalk, their guns slung casually at their sides. Now Khafaji can see the chairs they were sitting in.