Free The White Zone by Carolyn Marsden Page A

go visit Talib on Mutanabbi Street. Surely, Mama would object. Instead he slipped out. As Nouri walked to the bus stop, past the tanks, he picked his way over shattered glass and splashed blood.
    . . .
    At al-Shatri’s, Nouri burst in: “There was a gun battle right on our street. Two guys got killed. Right where we used to play.”
    Talib’s eyes widened. “You’re joking.”
    â€œIt’s not a joke.” Nouri kept his hands behind his back, not wanting Talib to see the way they still shook.
    On Talib’s tiny balcony, the boys surveyed the scene below. Barricades kept out all vehicles except American tanks, police cars, and dump trucks. Dark banners floated overhead, mourning the dead. The scrape of shovels filled the air as men loaded rubble onto wheelbarrows and trucks.
    â€œIt isn’t right for people who don’t even live in Karada to come fight there,” Nouri said.
    â€œAre there any Sunnis left?”
    â€œOnly al-Najeeb. You remember him? The mechanic?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œHe’s acting crazy. Someone’s going to kill him.”
    â€œMmm,” mused Talib.
    â€œWe should do something.” Nouri gestured toward the blackened, smoldering scene below.
    â€œBut what?”
    Nouri noticed a small cut over Talib’s eyebrow and suddenly couldn’t bring himself to speak. Really, Talib had been through much more than he had. He picked up the Game Whiz from a nearby table, saying, “I’ll hold it, but you can press the button on that side. I’ll do this one.”
    It felt good to have his hand so near Talib’s, and to do something together, working as a team.

A SUNNI
    As Talib reached the broom high into the corner, searching out spider webs, the radio made an announcement. The man’s voice clearly stated that the noontime attack on Mutanabbi Street had been carried out by an
irhabi
Sunni. The
irhabi
Sunni had driven the car with the bomb inside. Like little soldiers, his words marched into the air.
    Talib beat at a mat of webs. So a Sunni had finally avenged those marauding Shiites. The ones who’d broken the neighbors’ windows and stolen refrigerators. The ones who’d shunned him and Mama.
    But then he set his broom against the wall and sat down on a stool. A Sunni like him had set off the car bomb. A Sunni had destroyed great beauty. A Sunni had injured and killed innocent people, including al-Nakash.
    Without a word, al-Shatri brought Talib a cup of tea.
    The radio announcer went on to talk about growing strife in the neighborhoods of Baladiyat, Saidiyah, Doura, Hurriyah, Ghazaliya. . . .
    Now even Mutanabbi Street was no longer a haven. In all of Baghdad, no safety remained.
    . . .
    â€œThey say Mutanabbi Street will be closed for months,” said Baba that afternoon. “If I can’t sell books, what are we going to do here?”
    Talib looked up from his book. He was reading about the dancers, Nasirulla and Salma, who’d stolen their master’s gold and escaped. He put a marker in the page. “Can’t we just go home?”
    Mama began to cry.
    Baba laid his hand over Talib’s, saying, “Yes, someday. But not yet.”
    They had no home. They had nothing but damaged books. Still, the books were everything. Talib gestured toward the boxes. “Should we try to fix those?”
    Baba nodded. “Might as well.” He stood and gathered a roll of tape, a bottle of glue, and a small soft brush. He pulled up a chair at the worktable, saying, “With the war, we have no cookies or baklava. Books have to be our sweets.”
    When Talib brought over the first book, and Baba flipped it open, a small cloud of dust fanned into the room.
    Talib sneezed.
    As the two of them made their way through a short stack, cleaning some, fixing others, their fingers grew black. The soot, Talib thought, was the sorrow of Mutanabbi Street. How could something so broken be fixed? Why