Kerry Drewery - A Brighter Fear

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

Cover

Title Page

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

About the Publisher

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 About the Publisher

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.

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 About the Publisher

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 my city and my home, the memories hang heavy around me, filling the air, stifling, and as I breathe them in, they burn my throat and chest like summer heat.

I can’t breathe, yet I can remember.

I remember the beginning of 2003. I remember the silent trepidation it brought. What did it mean, that year? To me, it meant more than three years of Mama missing and the frustration of still being no closer to knowing what happened to her. It meant finally telling Papa I didn’t want to be a lawyer as Mama had been. It meant exams and university applications.

And it meant war.

To all of us, it meant war. Just a question of when, how and who would survive. Nobody mentioned it on the streets, in the markets, or at school. Of course they didn’t. They knew better than that. And so did I. Did anyone even think about who would win? Was I the only one who dared to assume Iraq would fall? That our country would be occupied? Just that thought, that thought in my head, without the words even forming, without my lips opening to speak or to whisper, made me worry, made that fear grow inside me.

I was scared.

And as I sat in the kitchen alone one day listening to the noises of the neighbourhood outside, my friend Layla’s younger brothers playing in the street, the market not far away, car horns and chatter, moped engines and the muezzin’s call to prayer, I wondered what would change.

What would my city, my home, be like when war came? What would happen? What would be destroyed?

But the possibility of the regime changing, of it falling, seemed unthinkable, unfathomable. I knew what democracy should be, but I couldn’t imagine how we would live it, how things would change, how life would be with freedom thrust upon us.

I wanted war to mean we could think freely, speak freely, offer opinion.

I wanted war to mean choice would come.

I wanted war to mean Mama would return home again.

I heard Papa talking to her sometimes, though he never would admit it to me, or to Uncle Aziz, and definitely not to Auntie Hana. He’d tell Mama about his work, the paper he was writing, his students. He’d whisper about the Ba’ath party, sharing with her why he joined, why he had no choice. “It was for protection,” he’d say. “To protect my job and our daughter. A member in name only. I do nothing for them,” he’d whisper. “Nothing.”

He’d tell her how her sister Hana was doing, how grumpy she’d become and what a nuisance her children were. He’d tell her about me and I would hear the pauses in his speech, waiting for her reply yet knowing it would never come.