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Description
Sean sits across from the Muslim woman at her wide table. She sips tea from a porcelain cup with lowered eyes. Sean’s translator, Amar, clears his throat impatiently.

“Where is your brother?”

So begins the blurring of syllables from Amar, an immediate response to Sean’s English. Sean’s never really thought about his language before the war- it’s one of those things constantly there but rarely necessary to pull out- why would you need to tell yourself that “my name is Sean Greenwell, I’m 33, a white male, an American…” unless you’re filling out a form?

She does not answer. With a  certain amount of experience, the general stares her down, waits for her eyes to dart, the sweat to bead slowly but surely across her smooth hazelnut forehead-

But…she doesn’t.

She- doesn’t?

Her eyes meet his, steady, willow leaf icicles. It is the stare he has learned in training, the intimidating, penetrating stare meant to make the person on the other end of it shrink back. Where has she learned this, who from? Iraqi women don’t join the military. How tragic has her life been to require her to learn The Stare?

“Miss, you need to answer the question.”

“She says she knows the answer no better than you, sir,” Amar informs him in a voice laced with a heavy accent. The woman purses her lips at Amar, obviously thinking he is a traitor, doing services for the Americans, interrogating his own people. Hussein did more than interrogate, and they are certainly happy he is dead, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they are happy that the Americans are still here.

“Ask her again.”

“Same answer.”

Fine. Two can play that game.

“Do you know that your brother has been the culprit of bomb attacks?”

After Amar’s translation, she grips the end of the table, abruptly wrinkling the tablecloth. Sean doesn’t need to know Arabic to realize her response is absolutely seething..

“She says he would never do such a thing.”

Sean is still for such a long time that the woman’s brow furrows and Amar drums his fingers precariously close to Sean’s blue-clad shoulder. Finally, the general pulls out two battered pictures, retrieved from the one of the corpses found in the mosque. Sneering, he pushes them towards her: baby with black curls, brown tiny hand clasped tight, eyes shut to the camera’s flash, bride, beaming, Bindi a third eye on her forehead.

“Look at them. Look. At. Them.”

Amar leans closer to hear his deathly quiet words. Sean ignores him.

“Dead. All dead. Father, too. You know why? Because-your-goddamn-brother-“

A hand rests on his shoulder, he pushes it off, irate.

“-blew up the goddamn place! They were trying to pray! Pray, that’s all! God knows there’s so much to pray for here. That was ALL. A place of peace, to hope for something better- you know,  it’s your belief, Muhammad, daily prayer, Five Pillars of Faith- whatever. There were witnesses.”

The woman rises, shaky, and puts a finger over her lips. She clomps across the room, pauses, and strides back, far down the hall, then punches the floor. Confused, Amar and Sean follow her. She waves them off, but not before Sean notices the black square where floorboards were. A trapdoor, of course, no one here who can afford it has simple stairs to their basement anymore.

She mutters something.

“What did she say?” asks Sean.

“ ‘They’re gone’,” Amar translates, voice hollow.

There is some grunting. A man emerges from the corner, a man who perfectly fits the description of Hassan Ali. Sean pulls out his radio and informs his crew. They pop in from the door, break in  the windows, rapid and in succession. He should be proud. It only takes fifteen seconds for them to tackle Hassan to the grond. It only takes fifteen more for Ehdaa Ali to cry out, “Allah!” and crumple to the floor, her scarlet headdress swaying left, right, left, right, tears flooding her face.

It only takes fifteen more for Sean to hold her in his arms, swoop her upwards, and whisper, “I’ll keep you safe”, the feeling of his words so much more significant than their inadequate letters or language.

***

It only takes 10 million more for them to sit across from ach other at a different table, hands clasped, lailat al henna adorned on hers.

It only takes 20 million more for a beautiful girl to be born, a girl with eyes like her mother’s: unfathomable and green as a miracle…

Description
Sean sits across from the Muslim woman at her wide table. She sips tea from a porcelain cup with lowered eyes. Sean’s translator, Amar, clears his throat impatiently.

“Where is your brother?”

So begins the blurring of syllables from Amar, an immediate response to Sean’s English. Sean’s never really thought about his language before the war- it’s one of those things constantly there but rarely necessary to pull out- why would you need to tell yourself that “my name is Sean Greenwell, I’m 33, a white male, an American…” unless you’re filling out a form?

She does not answer. With a  certain amount of experience, the general stares her down, waits for her eyes to dart, the sweat to bead slowly but surely across her smooth hazelnut forehead-

But…she doesn’t.

She- doesn’t?

Her eyes meet his, steady, willow leaf icicles. It is the stare he has learned in training, the intimidating, penetrating stare meant to make the person on the other end of it shrink back. Where has she learned this, who from? Iraqi women don’t join the military. How tragic has her life been to require her to learn The Stare?

“Miss, you need to answer the question.”

“She says she knows the answer no better than you, sir,” Amar informs him in a voice laced with a heavy accent. The woman purses her lips at Amar, obviously thinking he is a traitor, doing services for the Americans, interrogating his own people. Hussein did more than interrogate, and they are certainly happy he is dead, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they are happy that the Americans are still here.

“Ask her again.”

“Same answer.”

Fine. Two can play that game.

“Do you know that your brother has been the culprit of bomb attacks?”

After Amar’s translation, she grips the end of the table, abruptly wrinkling the tablecloth. Sean doesn’t need to know Arabic to realize her response is absolutely seething..

“She says he would never do such a thing.”

Sean is still for such a long time that the woman’s brow furrows and Amar drums his fingers precariously close to Sean’s blue-clad shoulder. Finally, the general pulls out two battered pictures, retrieved from the one of the corpses found in the mosque. Sneering, he pushes them towards her: baby with black curls, brown tiny hand clasped tight, eyes shut to the camera’s flash, bride, beaming, Bindi a third eye on her forehead.

“Look at them. Look. At. Them.”

Amar leans closer to hear his deathly quiet words. Sean ignores him.

“Dead. All dead. Father, too. You know why? Because-your-goddamn-brother-“

A hand rests on his shoulder, he pushes it off, irate.

“-blew up the goddamn place! They were trying to pray! Pray, that’s all! God knows there’s so much to pray for here. That was ALL. A place of peace, to hope for something better- you know,  it’s your belief, Muhammad, daily prayer, Five Pillars of Faith- whatever. There were witnesses.”

The woman rises, shaky, and puts a finger over her lips. She clomps across the room, pauses, and strides back, far down the hall, then punches the floor. Confused, Amar and Sean follow her. She waves them off, but not before Sean notices the black square where floorboards were. A trapdoor, of course, no one here who can afford it has simple stairs to their basement anymore.

She mutters something.

“What did she say?” asks Sean.

“ ‘They’re gone’,” Amar translates, voice hollow.

There is some grunting. A man emerges from the corner, a man who perfectly fits the description of Hassan Ali. Sean pulls out his radio and informs his crew. They pop in from the door, break in  the windows, rapid and in succession. He should be proud. It only takes fifteen seconds for them to tackle Hassan to the grond. It only takes fifteen more for Ehdaa Ali to cry out, “Allah!” and crumple to the floor, her scarlet headdress swaying left, right, left, right, tears flooding her face.

It only takes fifteen more for Sean to hold her in his arms, swoop her upwards, and whisper, “I’ll keep you safe”, the feeling of his words so much more significant than their inadequate letters or language.

***

It only takes 10 million more for them to sit across from ach other at a different table, hands clasped, lailat al henna adorned on hers.

It only takes 20 million more for a beautiful girl to be born, a girl with eyes like her mother’s: unfathomable and green as a miracle…