Roy Scranton - War Porn

“You’re not coming,” she said.

“Lateefah…”

She said nothing. He listened to her breath and thought he might die from it. Breath after breath. Sometime later—Qasim couldn’t say how long—he heard her set the phone down. His uncle Jibril picked up.

“Your mother says you’re staying.”

Qasim exhaled. “That’s right, Uncle.”

“Well, listen, Nephew, women don’t always understand the choices we have to make. If it were up to them, we’d never leave home. I’m sure you have your reasons, and becoming a professor is a great service… How is your dissertation coming along, anyway?”

“I’m working through some difficult spots right now. It’s a bit of a maze, you know, but… I’ll find my way.”

“Good. Maintain discipline. That’s a great source of strength.”

“Have you heard from Darud?”

“He’s near Basra, that’s all I know. They can’t say any more. He’ll be one of the first to repel the invaders.”

“My brother’s very brave.”

“Not all of us are warriors, Nephew. The nation needs scholars, as well.”

“And accountants.”

“And engineers, like your father.”

“He fought. So did you.”

“And so did Aban and so did Bishr. Don’t forget about them, and don’t forget that heaven isn’t so pretty for a man’s widow and his fatherless children. God grant your sister-in-law doesn’t have to learn that lesson.”

“I pray for my brother’s victory.”

“Listen, Qasim. I want you to know your mother and wife are safe here, and they will be as long as I can lift a rifle. If you have to stay in Baghdad, I trust your reasons. But if there was any way you could come to Baqubah, I know your wife and mother would be relieved. They worry about you.” He paused. “I’m sure you have your reasons. Your family is my family. They are safe in my home, always.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“Your father would be proud of you, Qasim. God your pardon and protection.”

The sun had set and lights had flickered on across the city. The weekend had begun. Qasim heard a grunt behind him and turned to see Mohammed coming onto the roof with something in his hands.

“Are you off the phone?” Mohammed asked.

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Good. Mother will have dinner ready soon. Here. She finished mending your trousers.” He handed Qasim a folded pair of slacks. “She says you should take a dance class.”

Qasim smiled. “She’s very patient with me.”

“Yes, she is. And what about you? Have you decided?”

“I told Mother I’m staying here.”

Mohammed looked out over the city. “It’s a beautiful night,” he said. “This is my favorite time of year. We leave the rains behind, but it’s not hot yet. It’s a pleasant time to be in Baghdad.”

“It is,” Qasim said.

“You know our family has always shown determination in the face of trouble.”

“I do.”

“I would hate to think that anyone could say our family couldn’t take care of itself… That anyone in our family would turn away from his obligations.”

Qasim felt heat rising in his cheeks. Mohammed scuffed his sandal on the roof.

“It’s difficult,” Mohammed said after much thought, “as a young man, to know how to balance your responsibilities. Your wife, your family, your tradition… the nation, Islam, your work… A man must see what follows from the recitation of his soul.” Mohammed shook out a cigarette and lit it. “It’s not always easy, especially in at time like this. A man must act with strength, but humbly. God does not love the proud.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Mohammed turned toward Qasim, his gaze full and measuring. “Go thank your auntie for sewing your trousers. Tell her I’ll be down soon. After dinner, I need you to come with me to the office to go over some accounts.”

Qasim stood and nodded, watching his reflection—a tiny speck in the dark of his uncle’s eye—dwindle and fade into nothing.

“Thank you all for coming. I know things are difficult now, and that time spent here is time away from your family during these crucial last days.” Qasim considered his class, barely half full. With the deadline only two days away, many classes had already been “temporarily” suspended, and all across town offices and stores were closing up, sending everyone home except the last few needed to board up windows and lock doors. He had almost canceled class himself, but it was his favorite, and he wanted to see them all one last time.

“I don’t know when we’ll reconvene, or even if we’ll be able to finish this semester’s work. The uh… Well, I hope al-Sahhaf is right, and we destroy the Americans quickly.” He paused for a moment, thinking how best to phrase this, knowing at least one student in his class was a Ba’athist.

“Professor al-Zabadi.”

“Yes, Amr.”

“Professor… If we don’t… I mean if we can’t… make it back to class… I’m from an-Nasiriyah, and I’m going back home… If we can’t come back to university this semester, will we be able to withdraw without a failing grade?”

“Yes. If we’re not able to reconvene this class, I’m going to recommend everyone be given the grade you’ve earned to this point, for an hour and a half of credit. But, no, Amr, I’m not going to fail anyone because—” He stopped, watching Amr’s face twitch, his shoulders shudder, and his chest explode, spewing bits of bone and gore all over his classmates. What? I’m not going to fail anyone because they’re crippled? Because they’re dead? He remembered the last war, the trucks and tanks full of smoking corpses. “I’m not going to fail anyone because they can’t make it back to class. The worst that will happen, the absolute worst case, is that you’ll take a withdrawal.” Pray God, the absolute worst. “But what I plan…”

There was a knock at the door. Professor Hureshi poked his head in.

“Professor al-Zabadi, a word.”

“Class, you’ll excuse me.” Qasim smoothed his mustache and followed Professor Hureshi out, closing the door behind him.

“I wanted to catch you before you left this afternoon. Have you reached your decision, Qasim?”

“Professor Hureshi…”

“Qasim, I need to know on whom I may depend. We must assume, God willing, that things—”

“I’m staying,” Qasim said. “I’m staying. I’ll be at my uncle Mohammed’s.”

Hureshi blinked and flashed his teeth. “I am pleased to hear it.”

Qasim thought of Lateefah—alone in the hole he’d dug her. The pain he caused. His mother’s shame. And when the war came? Could he stand it?

He hugged Hureshi and kissed his cheek.

“I’m glad to serve,” he said.

Salman sat smoking. He’d taught his elementary statistics class that morning and was now going through his students’ tests, but his mind kept wandering back over what he’d just seen. On the way down from Hureshi’s office, he’d noticed that weed al-Zabadi in the hall talking quietly—even intimately—with Anouf Hamadaya. Perhaps the way they were standing so close and whispering so ardently meant nothing. Perhaps it was merely class-related. She was one of his students, after all. But Salman had learned over the years to trust his suspicions: even if they weren’t always right, they almost always suggested opportunities.

Salman kept an eye open for opportunities. Unlike Adham, who came from a wealthy family in Fallujah, and Qasim, whose middle-class family stood solidly on their construction business and their date farms in Baqubah, Salman came from people little better than peasants. What was left of them, anyway, after the 1991 Shi’a uprising. Salman’s father, his two brothers, three of his uncles, and most of the rest of the men in his extended family had either died in the fighting or been butchered after Karbala fell. Salman himself, sixteen at the time, only barely escaped with his life. For nearly a week, while Republican Guard soldiers roamed the streets dragging men off to be executed and dumped in open graves, Salman lay hidden in a shattered groundwater pipe, drinking fetid water, dizzy with hunger, his heart thundering every time a jeep or tank rolled over the road above. When at last he crawled out, nearly dead from dehydration, he was the last living man in his immediate family.