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A Tale for My Big Brother

A Tale for My Big Brother The loud thud shook the hanging ornament on our front door. Something or someone had lunged at the door, and it woke both Sophie and I up. Sophie’s incessant barking could not be appeased until I had dragged my sleepy limbs from under the bed covers and tiptoed down the carpeted stairs barefoot. Sophie continued to bark pausing to sniff the threshold of the door intermittently. A creature was still there. I debated calling 911. There was no sound. I assumed that whoever or whatever it was had decided to flee; Sophie’s barking is twice as loud as her size would indicate. It was a sleepless night that followed. What if someone was trying to break-in? They would have broken in by now. What if it was a coyote -I had heard of a growing population of urban coyotes in our area, but why would he or she lunge at the door? Early next morning, I went down the stairs again. Daylight had flooded the hallway, and if a stranger was still lurking ou
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That Morning

It was morning. Webster had announced 'the word of the year' for 2016. A single word caught in a swift glance at my phone screen was to sum up what ensued in the early hours of that day; 'Surreal'.  Sleep had been dodging my eyes like a vibrant fly, an ominous swatter in the sweaty hands of a frustrated insomniac.  All I had captured since the second Mother informed me, in her usual neutral tone, that you were going to have your skull broken into at 8:00AM on Monday, were harrowing visions of a misguided neurosurgeon’s scalpel missing its mark. You are seated, as Mother described you would be, sedated, and an angry man with every intent on killing his time, is digging into the back of your brain to extract the source of his anxiety.  Images of happy faces; your happy face, over a blurred Skype session reassuring me, “all went well” collided with darker scenes of relatives coming up with insane scenarios as to why I could not talk to you there and then. I guess th
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Where Does ISIS Get Its Recruits?

Ever since the fall of Baghdad, and maybe a little before, my brother who shuttles between multiple cities to secure a business has enjoyed a deep-rooted relationship with a very loyal shipper. Last week and perhaps for the first time, the shipper lost a tiny but important parcel. My brother, whose Iraqi civil status ID card, spells his name in full, called the shipper to bring the matter to his attention. "I don't have it yet; it's small, but significant; I was supposed to have gotten it last week." The shipper who usually addresses my brother by his first name was very apologetic. "I'm sorry this has happened . I will immediately investigate and get back to you!" And investigate he did. The parcel was retrieved and my brother was called to pick it up at one of the lesser convenient Baghdad locations, a not so secure, busy downtown office, next to a crowded bus station known for its history of suicide bomber visitations. After standing for an exten
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For Leena; In Memoriam

They say pictures speak a thousand words…and they do. A Christmas family photo; in it, you seem to have persevered; Bashir gone, and you’re a single mother in your thirties, caring for three young girls and smiling, your contagious, one-of-a-kind Leena grin.   I remember that Christmas like it was yesterday. Sixteen years ago, I came back after an absence of two years. I saw my father for the last time that year in Amman. You were welcoming. Your warmth, your words and a candlelit dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant, like I had only left a week before. At the end of our meal, you gave me this photo. ‘Our Christmas photo’, you said. I cherished it. Years later, and two years after you were gone, Tala would frown back at the frowning face of her 7 year-old-self, staring at her. It nonetheless amused her. At times, walking my dog in the dark, I stare at the sky, and it almost seems like you can be near. I had stopped questioning. The interrogation had drained and pr
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Of Feline and Affinity

When I first set eyes on you, you pushed your warm brow against my forehead, more forcefully than I ever expected. Your emerald eyes looked into mine and we spoke for the first time. Chien looked on amazed. 'ZZ, he adores you!'. I had already fallen in love. I took you home, and you quickly chose to hide. When I feared that you would never speak to me again, you emerged, a crown of confidence as bright as your eyes, sparkling over your charcoal head. Then came the ribbons, your fascination with everything purple, and your intentional 'dumbstruck' gaze that drew smiles from all onlookers. In your eyes, I could see the inner gleam of the delight that you gleaned from these human reactions. As Ranjini clicked away, you played all the purple into her photos, and loved the attention. Intelligence defined your every movement. And whenever you chose to fly, you soared. The heights that you climbed stunned me. It stunned Bobby as he flicked your cat toy measuring the next
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My Speech at the National Assembly to End the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars and Occupations Conference.

My Speech at the National Assembly to End the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars and Occupations Conference. Read more at: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/zaineb-alani/my-speech-at-the-national_b_237719.html On July 4 of this year, Vice President Biden celebrated American Independence Day in occupied Iraq, in one of the presidential palaces of the former regime, now an integral part of the US-run 'Green Zone'. Four days earlier, PM Nouri Al-Maliki's US-installed puppet government declared a 'victory' signaled by the pullout of US troops from major Iraqi cities, and the beginning of the 'restoration of sovereignty'. Nothing could have been more hypocritical or comical. When the late Robert McNamara paid a visit to the independent country of Vietnam that he had previously 'sought to conquer' and failed, he said to their foreign minister, "We wanted to give you Democracy." The reply was, "We wanted our independence first ." Why do Americ
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The Human Cost of War and American Indifference Mohamed had a wide brow, knotted eyebrows and intense eyes. He always looked worried, but when you engaged him in conversation, he was the calmest individual you could have interacted with. We used to car pool to Baghdad International School in the summer. He would pull the seat back for me in his coupe, as I climbed into the back seat because our next stop would be at Ms. Suhaila’s the history teacher, and she would be filling the passenger seat with her slim figure, dimpled smile, and endless light chatter. He drove silently always, commenting only with the sharpest of wit when it was appropriate. I recall Nadia too. The last image in my withering memory was of her carrying rolls of posters into the Business Office to have them laminated, the next theme for a future art lesson perhaps? She taught art. He ran the Business office at the same school. That’s how they met. Three days ago, my mother called to tell me that Mohamed, Nadia and
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This letter was Published in the Columbus Dispatch on Saturday, May 20, 2006, under the title 'Give Iraqis a Chance to Fix Their Country on Their Own'. http://www.dispatch.com/editorials-story.php?story=dispatch/2006/05/20/20060520-A13-00.html Everybody Out! My father's travels ended in 1980. We came back to live the Iran-Iraq war. Zinnah was a child of ten when she attended the Dijla (Tigress) Primary School. One day she returned to ask my mother, "Are we Sunni or Shooyouii (Arabic for Communist)?", a word she had most probably picked up in my father's endless political debates with friends and family and sometimes himself. "Who taught you these words?" my mother asked in curiosity. "Oh! This girl in school asked me if we were Sunni or Shooyouii?" Actually, the girl had asked Zinnah, if we were Sunni or Shiite, but Zinnah had never heard either of these words before. "These words will not be repeated in this household! You are M
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Letter to the Columbus Dispatch, published in the Editorial page on Monday, September 12, 2005 Bad planning hurt U.S. in Iraq, Gulf Coast As an Iraqi living in the United States, watching the chaotic scenes in Louisiana and Mississippi really explains the mess in Iraq for me. The parallels are overwhelming. Policy-makers knew years ago that something like this would hit the southern coast of the United States. What did they do about it? Nothing. Countries like the Netherlands and Norway have much more technologically advanced levees and dikes that endure winds of 200 mph vs. the 150 mph caused by Hurricane Katrina. Why couldn't the United States, the most technologically advanced country in the world, enjoy the same? Likewise in Iraq, the planning that was supposed to take place before the invasion never happened. The army and police, the only resources for maintaining security in the country, were disbanded in the blink of an eye, without any consideration for the consequences. Th
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Our Family Doctor in Baghdad Dr. Ihsan or Amu Ihsan (Uncle Ihsan), as we liked to call him had had a tough life. He lost a beautiful wife to cancer, early in his marriage. He was left to raise two boys and a girl, alone. I remember, Ayman, his daughter, at Baghad High. She had inherited her mother’s looks and was as kind as she was pretty. We had a number of ‘Family Doctors’. There was Dr. Khalid, who was also an impressionist artist, a member of the Pioneer Artist movement in Iraq that commenced in the early sixties. There was Dr. Badri, who was the first Iraqi to obtain an FRCS in Heart Surgery in the UK, in 1948. And there was Dr. Ihsan. He later married Aunty Sevem (her name meant ‘fair’ in Turkish), in the eighties. I was in high school then. People mispronounced her name, and often called her ‘Seven’, mistaking it for an English word. She would smile in her own sweet way at that. The most vivid of my memories with Dr. Ihsan was when I overdosed on an anti-spasmodic, I perceived a
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http://mrzine.monthlyreview.org/alani180606.html Istimar! It was the height of the summer season in Baghdad; what we normally referred to as ‘Aab Al-lahab’ or ‘Flaming August’. The dates had over-ripened and were dripping black spots on the patio in the larger villa next door. Some of it dripped off Dad’s favorite tree. It was that same tree, which fell to the ground, hours before he passed away in February,1999, or so says ‘Abu-Shaker’. It had fallen with a distinctly loud thud that awoke the neighbors as well. No, it was not another American missile, they sighed with relief upon discovering. Besides, after the massive December bombings of 1998, when Aseel, my cousin’s wife, had given birth to her twins under an air raid, there had followed some kind of a lull in air raids. But, this summer season was long before that. It was during the Iraq-Iran war, the war of attrition that should have never been. The dates dripped, and the Italians that were tenants at one of our larger houses
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Letter in response to an 'optimistic' US Army Personnel: ----- Original Message ----- From: Morrow, James L. To: Z. Alani Sent: Tuesday, April 05, 2005 12:22 PMSubject: RE: Pictures from Iraq. DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMYJOINT CONTRACTING COMMAND - IRAQAPO AE 09316James Morrow / Contract Management Date: 05, April 2005Attn: Z. Alani Importance: High I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed these photos.I spent the summer in No. Iraq and, the bad press was constant.Here in Baghdad, I feel welcome. As an American I will be in this country for many many years, God Willing. I will do everything and nearly anything for these people. OIF must succeed, my new friends are counting on each of us. America will not fail here. Thanks again, Kindest Personal Regards Mr. L. James Morrow Jim GOD BLESS our Great Nations -----Original Message----- From: Z Alani Sent: 06 April 2005 03:30 To: Morrow, James L. Subject: Re: Pictures from Iraq.Importance: High Mr. Morrow: I have 40 extended family members in
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Contemplations...before... 
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"I know what that means!" he remarked, with a hint of excitment. "It says 'Allah'. " I explained. "Yeah! Aalaa !". I wasn't going to argue with a security guard at BWI over the correct pronounciation of the Arabic word. We were in the in the 'High Security' line. "I know why they placed me here," said the lady before me. "It happens every time I don't check in any luggage"... "Well," I replied, "It happens every time they read my name." She gave me a quizzical look. The New Zealanders behind me looked at me. "Do we really have to take off our shoes now?"... "You're better off taking them off now than later." I felt I owed them more explanation. "This is for our security, you know. It's better to be safe than sorry"...I wanted to add, especially with the elections approaching...but I bit my tongue... "So why do you wear it?" I turned to the almost
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"Today, he was hung on a piece of wood," laments Fayrooz, "he who had hung the skies over the waters..." The music is brilliant, her voice lavish, yet soft. It was a Sad Friday , and Pollina had taken us to the Catholic church up the street, from our house in Al-Mansoor, to light candles. In the darkly painted manger outside, I lit a candle -I still light a candle every now and then. Inside the church, the Virgin Mary is covered in a black cloth. I cannot see her face. Pollina kneals. We watch on, my younger sister clutching my sweaty fingers. The moans emerge from Nuha's living room. They mourn another martyr. His head was severed from his body, a starved and thirsty head, an adamant head, that vowed to die for the word...Allah's word. The main mourner's voice stems from the tape recorder. He sobs as he describes Al-Hussien's last moments. We have to keep our moans low. The police patrols of the regime outside can confiscate our recorder. They can
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‘ I don’t know…Well, we didn’t know until the lists came out...the published lists. He was taken in 1981. My older brother had fled the country. So they came for him, for the younger brother…our youngest. He was a student at the University of Mousl. My mother visited him when they would let her, for a year or so. He would grope at the dirty bars that separated them, and say, “ I’m fine. It’s only a matter of time. They have nothing against me. They’ll let me go, eventually .” And they did let him go…The next time she visited, they told her he was no longer there.’ Eventually, his spirit was 'let go'…with many others, I think. They swam in the mass graves, surfaced at the pits of where the bodies had been strewn, spat back at their killers and subsided into peace down in the beds of the pits…collectively. ‘They don’t know what it means to be Shiite. They think it’s a sin. We are no more sinners than they are…Who is to say what God’s tolerance will know?…Ours is a way of
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I t was 1964 and I had not been born yet. Ahmed was a year old as he sat in the passenger seat of my father’s dark diplomatic sedan in downtown Peking at the peak of the Cultural Revolution. A cigar dangled from my father’s intellectual lips. It caught the eye of a 'figure of authority' infused with xenophobia, ready to revolt! He halted the passage of the car, down the crowded street, totally ignoring the 'Corps Diplomatique' number plate it carried. Faces pushed their tiny noses against the tinted glass of the black vehicle. As usual, my then little brother assumed it was the attention his big brown eyes had always managed to attract of so many baby lovers. The policeman spoke only in Mandarin; he waved at my father’s face, gesturing that he remove the cigar from his mouth. It was against the law in China, to drive and smoke. My father had not known. He removed the cigar from his mouth gently, then quietly pointed to the car fender where the number plate reared its
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‘ T hey say that you are a Kurd. We’re going to turn you into Mr. Hyde! You are worth the honor! You should be proud to have been chosen.’ Sarbast looked away. He turned his eyes towards an invisible God, somewhere above the ceiling fan, who must be watching this happen, in this dingy office, behind a rusty metal desk. Who else could he turn to? ‘Sir, I cannot. Can you please not grant someone else this honor?’ ‘No, you have been chosen.’ ‘What if I refuse?’ ‘Then you will be killed’ ‘But, if I agree then I might die.’ ‘Then you will be a national hero!’ In the glass room, Sarbast, tried hard to twist the knob of fate that had been turned on him. It was steadfastly locked. He started to cry. He called God's name, as he braced himself- ‘Ash hadu Ana La Illah Il Allah’… The door opened. 'Why have you not poured the chemical into the glass of water yet?'. The voice was threatening. ‘I cannot. I do not know what will happen if I do.’ ‘Well, you will know if you do. D
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'F alluuuuuuuuujaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!' Basil’s voice trailed as he attempted a not-so-philharmonic rendition of Eruption's, ‘Illusion’ –then, a chart hit, in the eighties. We all sat there, in the rear of the Volvo station wagon; what my mother’s cousin used to refer to as the ‘Monkeys' Stall’. We sat like monkeys, our folded elbows resting on our bent knees, rocking vigorously, to the music, while our parents discussed politics, in lowered voice tones. ' Fallujah Kabab ', the same old sign would read. ‘They have Kabab for breakfast, these people!’ ‘Will you stop making fun of these poor people! At least they eat to their hearts content! What do you have for breakfast, anyway?’ My mother’s stern voice silenced the chatter, but not long enough. Before too long, Basil was again singing, 'Falluuujaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!' Every time, we planned one of those trips to the Habaniya Lake Resort, we passed by that sign. For the 8 or 80 years of travel b
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H er eyebrows raised; her soft brown eyes, annoyed, "Why do you keep feeding those American ducks, when none of your American neighbors do?" "They are not American ducks mother; they are Canadian geese. They're not even Canadian; they're God's Geese! Some of my neighbors will feed them, but not everyday like I do...-it's part of the culture; everyone has to take care of himself. They don't like them because they can sometimes cause traffic to stop...They are as foreign as you and I; only, they don't require a visa to come here...They just fly in!" "Yes, but you spend so much money on that bird seed!" "They are God's creatures mother. I'm sure God will have someone spend money on my food when I'm starved...And he has, through people, just like my neighbors. Although, when our people starved through American-imposed sanctions, I don't think it's because they didn't feed the ducks...Maybe they didn'
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