Free The White Zone by Carolyn Marsden

. . ? How?
    Jabir, his jaw working, tears streaking his ash-covered face, said, “See! Something has to be done.”
    â€œBut what?” Talib asked.
    â€œWe need to get back!”
    â€œGet back at whom?” Talib asked.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. Get back at anyone.”
    As the ambulance pulled away, Jabir ran after it. He banged on the back door until the driver stopped and let him in.
    Coughing with smoke, and half tripping, Talib fled in the other direction.
    . . .
    He brought armload after armload of Baba’s books into their little room, his knees trembling with exhaustion, his mind trembling with Jabir’s words.
    â€œThank you, my son,” Baba said as each load arrived.
    Talib brought with him the smell of burnt paper, the new smell of Mutanabbi Street.

BIG GUNS
    Nouri woke to Baba’s voice: “Nouri! Stay away from the windows!”
    He sat up sleepily, but then his eyes opened wide at the sound of gunfire. He rushed into the front room to see Baba standing to one side of a window, pulling the curtain back, peering out. Mama had barricaded herself behind a table turned on its side. The tablecloth lay puddled on the floor. A vase had shattered. Mama clutched a wailing Shatha.
    â€œCome here,” Mama ordered, moving to make a spot.
    â€œBut—” Nouri gestured toward Baba.
    â€œCome right here,” she commanded, her silver bracelets clattering.
    At a volley of gunfire, Shatha screamed and Nouri joined Mama behind the table. But he insisted on looking around the edge of the table toward Baba.
    â€œThere’s men out there I’ve never seen before,” Baba was saying. “They’re shooting at each other, throwing rocks, bottles.”
    â€œI wish you’d get down here with us, Mohammed,” pleaded Mama.
    But Baba stayed by the window.
    Baba wore his security guard gun in a holster at his waist. Every now and then he rested his hand on it. Baba said he’d never shot the gun. Not once.
    Would Baba go out to join the fight?
    Nouri wished Mama would let him stand with Baba, checking out the action.
    â€œThese men aren’t anyone we know,” said Baba. “They’re making Karada a battlefield. All for their own purposes.”
    When gunfire hit the house, even Baba crouched. Nouri covered his ears. Would the bullets strike the windows and come right inside? This felt nothing like playing war with his cousins.
    During lulls in the fighting, Shatha slept and even Nouri dozed, his head propped on the table leg. Over and over, he woke to renewed gunshots.
    As the light reddened with dawn, there came a new sound, like the purr of a giant cat. The gunfire slowed. There were a few pops, then silence.
    Baba took a longer look outside. “It’s the Americans,” he said. “They’ve brought their tanks.”
    Nouri rushed to the window before Mama could stop him. Outside the street was filled with green tanks, their big guns rotating this way and that. Helicopters beat the air.
    Right by the window, there came the sound of many feet running.
    When all was quiet except for the drone of the tanks, Baba opened the door.
    Nouri stood behind him on tiptoe, looking out into the dusty air.
    After a period of quiet, Baba led the way through the courtyard.
    Nouri followed, leaving Mama and Shatha peering from the doorway. He ran a quick eye over A’mmo Hakim’s car in the courtyard. To his relief, it stood undamaged, as if the night’s events had never happened.
    When Baba opened the gate, Nouri looked out. By the wall of the white bougainvillea, where he and his cousins had played war, two men lay sprawled.
    â€œDead,” Baba whispered.
    There was no way to tell if the men had been Sunni or Shiite.
    At that moment Zaid al-Najeeb came out of his house. He lifted his arms to the sky, declaring, “They will have to kill me! I will never leave!”
    Baba groaned.
    . . .
    Nouri didn’t ask permission to