Free Baghdad Central by Elliott Colla Page A

will be us, not you, who will be forgiven for what happens. Do not make your mother suffer the loss of her daughter.
    Signed: The Army of the Righteous, Sentencing Committee (15 September 2003)
    Shaken, Zeinab stays home for a week. When she finally returns to work, she doubles her precautions. She looks over her shoulder with every step. She adds another leg to her winding route. “It’ll take another hour, but it’s the only way,” she murmurs to herself. “They have to help me. Maybe my case for asylum will go through now.”
    Downtown, Zeinab steps off her first bus of the morning. She is so focused on stopping a taxi that she doesn’t notice the young man standing next to her.

Saturday
    29 November 2003
    Cuffed to a metal table, Khafaji manages to sleep for an hour. When he wakes up, he finds his headache has returned. He finds a metal tray that someone set on the table in front of him. He looks at a plastic bottle of water, a dry cheese sandwich and some pickles or old cucumbers. Khafaji swallows the food then washes it down with the water. He falls asleep again without trying. The next time he wakes up, there’s a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches and an ashtray on the table. Khafaji fumbles for a cigarette and then, somehow, lights it. Leaning over the table, he attempts to smoke in peace. He flings the butt to the floor, feeling exhausted but almost clear-headed.
    A few minutes later, he calls out, “I need to use the toilet.” He yells, but no one answers. After some movement in the hallway, the door flies open.
    Khafaji is escorted down the hall by one muscular white soldier as another stands by the door. The ankle cuffs make his steps short and jerky. In the bathroom, the man stands next to Khafaji as he urinates. Khafaji struggles to zip up his pants, but his shaking fingers fail. He tries to wash his face in the sink, but the soldier says “No!” and pullshim away. As they walk back down the corridor, Khafaji notices the back of the wheelchair. Then the back of the girl sitting in it. He doesn’t need to see her face to shout, “Mrouj! Mrouj!”
    The soldier shoves him into the room.
    â€œLet me see my daughter,” he yells, and tries to break free. He trips over and falls. In an instant, the two soldiers are sitting on his arms and legs. A pair of hands grips him by the neck. The voice speaks slowly and loudly. “Don’t resist, or you will get hurt.” Khafaji feels a knee in his chest. “Stop now, or you will hurt yourself.”
    It’s not Khafaji who stops. It’s the pain that stops him. He begins to take slow, deep breaths. A minute goes by, and the soldier on his chest speaks again. “I am now going to release you. If you do that again, we will restrain you and it will hurt.”
    A knee digs into Khafaji’s chest until he nods and says, “Yes.” The men stand up, leaving Khafaji on the floor, his legs and arms still cuffed. Khafaji doesn’t move. From the smooth, cold concrete, he watches boots walk sideways out the room. Minutes go by before the white soldier walks back in. He stoops over Khafaji and asks, “Better?”
    Fingers probe Khafaji’s neck and throat. Khafaji flinches and the man heaves him onto the seat. Khafaji begins to fall off the chair, but the man wedges the chair against the table. Khafaji balances there until the door opens again. Another soldier enters the room, pushing the wheelchair.
    Khafaji and Mrouj look at each other, but say nothing. Neither seems to notice the soldier when he leaves. Mrouj’s eyes are tired and sad. But even so, her smile is un-erased. She looks older but also younger. He reaches to touch her arm, then stops himself before he falls out of his chair. Mroujpulls herself up and puts her hand on his cheek, then touches his naked lip. She looks at his bloodshot eyes and bruised face. Her smile disappears. When she starts to cry, it comes