Free Baghdad Central by Elliott Colla

supposed to talk.”
    Khafaji shrugs and disappears into the folds of his suit.
    â€œLet me put it differently then. We’re in a hurry here. I’m not trying to be your friend. And I don’t want to hear your life story. All I want is for you to go back to work.”
    Two minutes go by as Khafaji stares at the desk. A man enters with a tray of paper teacups. Khafaji’s shaking fingers rip at tiny packets of white sugar. Finally, the American interrupts the silence. “Maybe you weren’t the one they were looking for. But that doesn’t matter much any more. You made a big impression with someone in the IGC. Normally they couldn’t be bothered with the details of a case like yours. But now they’re coming to look into the files. You can appreciate that, can’t you? They have everything. The North Iraq Archives, for starters. The HRW reports. You and your friends in the Central Security Directorate took lots of notes and drafted lots of memos. If you spent any time up there, they know about it.”
    The American pauses, unsure whether he has Khafaji’s attention.
    â€œIf they get their hands on you, they won’t have any time to hear all about your difficult life choices. You’ll be lucky if your case falls through the cracks. But even then, you are not going free, you know.”
    When Khafaji looks up, the man’s smile is long gone. Khafaji’s eyes begin to swim in the tea. The paper cup rips in his trembling hands. Warm liquid spills onto his crotch, but he says nothing.
    â€œWe can’t undo the past, Mr Khadr. But, once in a while, we’re given the chance to decide which parts of it are relevant, and which are not. So tell me, are you a good cop? Or do you want to be a bad cop?”
    â€œI am not…” Khafaji’s voice is barely audible.
    Trickles of sweat roll down the man’s temple, and he ignores them. “Pardon?”
    â€œI am not going to work for you.”
    The American smiles and says nothing. He looks down at his papers and acts as if Khafaji isn’t there. The two soldiers walk in. With a single heave, they throw Khafaji’s arms behind his back and tie his wrists together. This time when he’s paraded outside, there’s nothing to shield him from the blazing light.

October 2003
    When her shift ends, the translator changes back into street clothes. She wipes the paint from her lips and eyelids and carefully covers her hair with a different hijab. She leaves the base by a side gate and catches the first bus. It doesn’t matter which bus, only that it is never the same one as the day before. Just as the bus is about to leave at the fourth or fifth stop she jumps off and finds a taxi that will take her downtown. She is polite, but never talkative. She walks the last block to another bus. This one cuts back on part of the same route she took before delivering her to the neighborhood where she lives.
    â€œI work at the university,” she was told to say. Even if her parents and brothers do not believe her, they do not ask.
    Today, just two blocks from home, a young man speaks her name and smiles. “Zeinab?” When she smiles back, he hands her a note and disappears.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful .
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  We wronged them not – but it was they who wronged themselves .
    To: Zeinab Hussein al-Kadhimi, filthy agent of the American swine!
    We have sworn to ourselves and to God and His Prophet to right the wrongs that beset our land. We seek to purify this land that has been stripped bare by collaborators, apostates and criminals. We have discovered that you work as a translator for the enemies of God and humanity, the Americans, the invaders, usurpers and occupiers of our country. You may have kept this fact a secret until now, but the light of truth has come out. Heed this warning and leave Iraq now. If you do not, it