he sun scorched the bitumen. A luminescent glow turned the
road into a river. Misty vapours rose up and mingled about knee
height. Yassir felt each footstep plunge into the haze, drag
out and push in again. His arms ached with the weight of his
trolley and sweat dribbled down to pool in his hands, loosening
his grip. Buckling at the knees, his usually equine strides were
more like an old milk-horse’s cantor. He tensed his fingers
against the trolley handles. He pictured the skyline behind him
with the familiar green tinged dome of the mosque, Saddam Hussein’s
towering statue, and flames engulfing buildings, red and black.
Sounds of market squabble and anxious bargaining, replaced
with peppered gunfire, explosions and screams. Burning smells,
sour sweat and something else that was unfamiliar to Yassir—the
smell of fear and flames mingled with rosemary lamb and sweet
pipe tobacco. This fear was different to knowing a punishment
was inevitable, different to memories of bullies and blood noses,
different to the shame that accompanies wrongdoing; it did not
belong to him alone but was shared. He could no longer turn to
his grandmother or grandfather for reassurance. He could not
sit in the mosque with the same certainty that good behaviour
kept Allah pleased with him. The enemy changed all that. Some
whispered they agreed the enemy should drop bombs on them. How
could this be? Did they need this communal punishment? Could
it be the will of Allah? Some talked of liberty but only in secret
and he was not allowed into the inner circles where men gathered
to drink coffee and smoke. His grandfather told him to be a good
lad, to stay in doors and help his grandmother.
But he didn’t want to think about any of these things.
He ran with his load, jumping and tripping to balance, steadying
the box on the trolley when an explosion boomed close. He passed
neighbours, each with something new to take home and truckloads
of strangers whooshed passed pushing him sideways. Their trucks
loaded with furniture and people all higlty-piglty in the back.
Where were they going, to the border with known enemies and uncertain
futures? Leaflets dropped from the sky asking the people to stay
in doors. Telling them the war would be short and freedom assured.
Yassir was tired when he felt the familiar rough stones under
his feet marking the narrow lane that led to his house. Still
he didn’t risk resting. A few more houses and his home
came into sight. His grandmother bent over a broom, pushing the
dust from the stoop to rest amongst the stones until the next
breeze dispersed it to neighbours front doors. They lived along
a small strip of unsurfaced road, in flat roofed dwellings, joined
wall to wall with nothing very much distinguishing one from another.
The sounds softer and less threatening and the sight of his home,
made Yassir’s heart slow and his feet walk with more assurance.
The foreign soldiers entered the city in trucks with guns,
some citizens turned their guns on their brothers while others
rejoiced and shot their guns in the air. It was confusing and
chaotic—the noise disturbing.
“Keep away from trouble, Yassir,” his grandfather
scolded.
“Stay with me, Yassir,” his grandmother cried.
But he had to go out, to go to school, to go to the mosque,
to run the errands, to work in the market. How could he do these
things keeping away from trouble or staying with his grandmother?
Well he was in trouble now, or was he? It was a sin to steal.
He was certain of that. He was not so certain that what he had
done was stealing. Everyone was doing it. His neighbours gathered
as many treasures as they could carry, men and women coming out
with trolleys and trailers, some with cars and trucks. Grandfather’s
friends simply nodded at him as they passed. Mr. Sulieman carried
a vase almost as big as him. What use could he have for such
a vase? Television sets and computers were popular but Yassir
had wasted a lot of time deciding the right or wrong of the situation
so by the time he gathered the courage to enter the building’s
rubble, the only thing left was the small square freezer. A market
trolley leant against a wall abandoned, so he took it and loaded
the freezer. Several men came out of a store with goods and cursed
Yassir for taking their trolley, but they could not run after
him with what they had stolen or risk leaving their goods.
He had not thought of the soldiers, or the other people or his
grandparents. He did not worry that Allah was watching. He looked
about, picked up the white box, tossed it on the trolley and
he ran like a cat with a fish from the market bucket.
Yassir motioned his grandmother away from the door, negotiating
the trolley load into the house. He spoke but his parched throat
growled the sound. She stepped aside her eyes wide with curiosity.
She didn’t remove her burqa but began examining the white
box with the electrical cord.
“What is it, Yassir?”
“A freezer I think, grandmother.”
The old woman picked up a cloth and wiped the dust from the
box. Yassir leant against the sink, filled up a glass and guzzled
the water, one glass after the other. He washed his face without
drying, leaving droplets to cool his skin. He dropped into a
chair stretching his legs toward the white box. His grandmother
went into the kitchen. She had removed her burqa and tied a scarf
around her head. If Yassir closed one eye and concentrated on
his grandmother, then this was a night like any other, but when
his eyes were pulled to look at the white box, his mind filled
with dread. He drifted into sleep, grateful to be relieved of
his guilt while he slept.
“Yassir, Yassir, pst, Yassir come, come.”
Yassir woke to the loud whispers and hissing sounds, his grandfather
was making through the open window.
“Come, next door.” The old man used his thumb to
indicate which direction he was meaning before rushing away.
Yassir looked toward the kitchen and saw his grandmother was
busy preparing the evening meal. He rubbed his eyes, threw a
glance toward the white box and left the house to go with his
grandfather.
Leaning forward to avoid cracking his head in the doorway of
his neighbour’s house, Yassir saw the men gathered around
the new television set. One was holding an aerial, moving it
this way and that, to clear the picture. Two others were giving
contradictory advice about which way the aerial should point.
Grandfather was straining to see around the men so he could watch
the newsreader. Now and then, the newsreader’s voice bellowed.
“Arghh.” The men reeled back.
“Ohhh,” they sighed when they realised the picture
was fuzzy again. And so, it went on, the arghhing and ohing,
sipping coffee, words of condolence and advice, discussions on
the small pieces of information they were glimpsing from the
television news program, until they all had enough and returned
to their own homes. Yassir followed his grandfather into their
house.
“What is this?”
“It’s a freezer, grandfather.” The old man
raised his hands to Allah.
“You too, Yassir,” he said, his hand rubbing at
his beard. “Yassir, Yassir.” He walked up the stairs
whispering, before shouting back. “If you are going to
sin, Yassir, you should think to make it worthwhile.”
Nothing more was said about the white box. His grandmother sat
it on a table and plugged it in, placing a tablecloth over the
lid to keep it nice. When Yassir returned from the market with
some fish, she dropped it into the freezer, smiling so the spaces
in her back teeth showed. The neighbourhood women came around,
wanting to know if she had anything new.
“Mrs. Rusheed,” Mrs. Arman screamed through the
window. “Mrs. Rusheed, what have you, new? My Mohamed brought
two canvas chairs to me.” Mrs. Arman turned her ear toward
the closed door to hear Mrs. Rusheed’s response. Even a
sigh was not to be missed. She waited. “Did your husband
tell you already, he was sitting on them until quite late last
night?” Mrs. Arman put her ear to the door and waited,
but nothing happened. Frustrated she tut-tuted, spat and walked
away.
Yassir’s grandmother was standing in the shadows of the
kitchen, her small frame concealed in the thick doorway. Looking
through the window, she could just make out her neighbour’s
black burqa as it swept into Mrs. Sulieman’s house. Yassir’s
grandmother hung her head in defeat, she was certain Mrs. Arman
would persist with her inquiries until she felt satisfied her
neighbour had nothing of worth.
Later, Mrs. Arman did return with several other women and knocked
until the Mrs. Rusheed was obliged to open the door. They pushed
passed the little old woman, through the doorway to look in amazement
at the white box. They jostled and giggled, examining the box
without waiting permission. Mrs. Arman took the tablecloth off.
She opened the lid and roared with laughter at the little frozen
fish in the bottom of the box.
“It’s very cold,” she said. “With what
will you fill it?”
The other women giggled, covering their mouths and placing their
veils on ready to leave. They had seen Yassir’s treasure.
Yassir, the good boy, had succumbed to temptation like the others,
but unlike the others, his grandmother did not receive anything
worthwhile.
Yassir noticed his grandmother had not cleaned the stoop for
sometime and that she was not going to market. She hid out of
the way when the men came over for a game of cards around a stool
in the back. During the game, the talk was of the freezer. The
friends offered as many uses for it as cards in their hands. “You
could fill it with earth and grow tomatoes,” was one, and, “the
dog could sleep in it,” was another from Mr. Rusheed who
roared with laughter. Yassir’s grandfather was happy to
laugh along too. For his part, Yassir saw his friends huddled
until one looked up to see him approaching and silenced the others.
Friday came around and together the men walked to the mosque
in the early morning. The sun was thin at that time of day but
the air smelt fresh. They arrived at the mosque stepping over
sandals and shoes on their way to join the others kneeling on
their prayer rugs making their devotions to Allah.
A crashing boom shook the walls of the mosque and lifted small
boys several inches in the air. Panic swept through the mosque
like locusts through a cornfield when someone shouted the explosion
was in the direction of most of their homes. Men pushed through
the open doors, some claiming shoes, others running barefoot
toward their wives and daughters. Fire raged, smoke billowed,
thick and black. Yassir looked around for his grandfather but
he was gone. He made his way toward his home but was frozen where
he stood when he realised his street had taken a direct hit.
His feet glued to the bitumen, his heart pounded in his head,
his throat felt constricted. His stomach churned until its contents
flowed out of his mouth. Sweet and sour mixed with the airborne
smell of burning rubber. Yassir wiped at his mouth, he spat and
spat again. He tasted salty tears, feeling them run down his
cheeks but still he couldn’t move. The sun was in his eyes,
his name rung in his ears—familiar and comforting.
“Yassir, Yassir.” He squinted to see his grandfather
emerge from the dust, stumbling toward him, his cloths smudged,
his voice choking. The old man caught hold of Yassir, steadying
himself to catch his breath. Sirens roared and ruins capsized,
making thunderous sounds. Cries and screams could be heard in
all directions. Yassir felt his grandfather’s grip tighten.
He could smell it. Fear.
“Yassir, Yassir, a miracle. She is all right, your grandmother,
she is all right.” The old man dragged Yassir to the rubble,
talking and panting.
“When the first bomb dropped she was so frightened she
jumped into the freezer and closed the lid. That is where they
found her.”
A crowd had gathered blocking any evidence of Yassir’s
grandmother. His grandfather shouted and pushed his way closer.
There she was, her scarf rearranged on her head, a few women
shielding her face, one rubbing the cold from her shoulders,
a medic attending to a cut on her head and her legs resting inside
the upturned freezer.
“Yassir,” she whispered reaching out for his hand. “Good
boy, Yassir, you saved my life.”
[END]
© 2005 Robyn Singer Rose - Contributor's
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