Never Fear (9 page)

“
I can swim with Fahim,”
Qadir said, “and I know a shallow spot. It is by the mosque, about
a block away. That is where I would play with Mohammad and
Haroun.”

Qadir winced, realizing he had just
reminded his parents about his skipping school to swim with a few
other boys in the Euphrates. As bad as Qadir’s punishment had been,
his two Muslim friends had to make penance for their truancy as
well as endure the Christianophobic imam’s scorn. The few Christian
families residing in Sahiliya usually endured a lazy indifference
from their neighbors. The Sunni Awakening within Al Anbar a few
years earlier had stymied the region’s desire to see more bloodshed
than they had already endured during the years of insurgency. This
spared them the derision many Christians in Mosul had to endure.
Sahiliya’s current imam, however, did not believe much in a
peaceful coexistence with non-Muslims.

“
We will go there then,”
Father decided, leading the family on toward the mosque.

“
Aziz.” Father flattened
against the wall as his whispered name carried over the chaotic din
filling the streets. “
As-salamu
alaykum
,” a man said, stepping from the
shadows.

“
Wa-alaykum
salam
,” Father replied, placing a hand
over his heart when he recognized the man as Malik, their neighbor
and one of the family’s few friends outside the Chaldean Catholic
community.

“
Where are you going? It
is not safe to be out, especially for you,” Malik said. His own
children peaked out from the gates of the mosque’s courtyard, the
family seeking shelter in the one place they knew would not be
targeted by indirect fire.

“
It is not safe anywhere.
We have to get out of here,” Father replied.

“
You can still live here.
The
Daesh
will
let you live in peace so long as you pay the
jizya
.”

“
I will not pay another
man so I can worship God. No, Malik, there will be no peace for us
if we live under that black flag.”

Malik nodded and placed
his hand on Father’s shoulder. “
Wa alaykum
salam wa rahmatullah
.”

“
Thank you. And, please,
look after my house. I hope we will be returning someday soon.”
Father grabbed Sabra’s hand and she reciprocated by grabbing her
little brother’s, Fahim’s, hand.

Qadir took the lead and led the family
down to the river bank and to the shallow spot. Father released his
grip on Sabra’s hand and, with his son, Qadir, began checking the
depth of the water and scanning the opposite bank for
militants.

Sabra zipped up her jacket, less
concerned with the freezing cold water they were about to traverse
than with protecting the one item she had taken the time to grab
before abandoning their home, a Christmas card. Her uncle, aunt,
and cousins had been granted asylum in Australia during the height
of the insurgency. Their uncle knew nothing about dry-cleaning when
he left Iraq, but that did not stop him from opening a successful
and growing chain of shops. The front of the card bore a painting
of the Nativity, the Holy Family kneeling beside a manger with a
bright star dominating the sky. A picture of Sabra’s relatives
beside a Christmas tree had been slipped inside, and her aunt had
scribbled a blessing of peace across the card’s
interior.

“
Come on, Fahim,” Qadir
said, picking up his brother. The child whined as he rubbed his
tired eyes. Qadir pulled the jacket hood over his brother’s head to
keep out the frigid wind.

“
Come, Sabra.” She wrapped
her arms around Father’s neck and he hoisted her off the ground. He
groaned while carrying her. She was much bigger than the last time
he had carried her, his age adding to the effort required to carry
his daughter

Qadir unconsciously sucked in his
breath, stepping into the gelid water. Sabra pulled herself tight
against Father’s chest, an extra precaution to keep the card safe.
Mother muttered a prayer to Christ that they should cross the river
as safely as when He had walked upon the waters.

Father began to shiver. The river
water soon lapped against Sabra’s toes and then crept up her leg
until her bottom submerged. The water felt like needles. As the
cold seeped into her legs, tears forced themselves from her eyes
and she sobbed into Father’s chest.

Father and daughter shivered in
synchronized convulsions and it comforted her to know she was not
alone in her pain.

“
Shh, quiet yourself,
Sabra. We are almost there, only a little farther. God has graced
us with a calm current. Your brother’s misbehavior and skipping
school appear to have been a blessing so he could guide us to
safety.”

Sabra nodded and pulled herself as
tightly as she could into what remained of her father’s warmth
while her mother prayed them to safety.

The sky erupted with sound, as if the
stars were being ripped from the firmament. A pop resonated over
their heads and Sabra forgot the numbing cold just long enough to
lift her head and take in the dazzling golden orb of light drifting
lackadaisically over their heads, an illuminating mortar round
suspended by a tiny white parachute.

Shouts came from the city’s riverbank.
Sabra could not see the militants in the shadows, but she knew they
saw them, knew orders were being shouted to condemn the family to
death.

“
Qadir! Run!” Mother
shouted. Fahim wailed as sporadic gunfire cracked overhead, the
shooters putting little effort into aiming at the exaggerated
shadows the gold light of the illumination round caused. More
shouts came from the riverbank and Sabra buried her face back into
Father’s chest, the cold long since forgotten.

“
Do not look back, Qadir,”
Father shouted over the ruckus of combat and Fahim’s cries. “Run
for the trees.”

A brief quiet overcame the militants
on the riverbank, then a shout followed by an explosion. The
rocket-propelled grenade sailed over the family’s heads and tore
apart a date-palm on the river’s far shore. The tree’s top
collapsed as its midsection splintered, the base igniting with
dull, orange flames that came to life as the gold illumination
round hovering in the air extinguished.

“
Keep going, run toward
the flames,” Father said, hoping the old adage about lightning
striking twice applied to rockets.

The militants stopped shooting, the
new darkness hiding away even the shadows upon which they had
aimed. Sabra found herself sobbing once more, not from the pain of
the river’s freezing touch, but she could not help but think of her
family being torn apart by blind gunfire.

The sky erupted with noise once more.
The screech grew louder than the illumination round had been and
Sabra knew something even worse was coming for her and her family.
She screamed into Father’s shirt.

She felt the explosion deep within her
chest a moment before all sound ceased, her ears failing to
comprehend the noise barraging her senses. Date-palms simply ceased
to be while men died by the handful. Far off in the night sky, an
unseen angel had delivered its payload onto the Islamic State
militants after the co-pilot had decided not to wait for
authorization from CentCom headquarters to engage the rocket’s
position.

Father collapsed onto the dry land,
clutching Sabra to his chest. Mother ran up and hugged them both,
praying through the tears. Fahim cried for his mother and Qadir
crawled to her side. The family sat atop fallen palm branches,
clutching each other to confirm they still lived. Father was the
first to join Mother in the Marian prayer she began, thanking the
Holy Mother for delivering them from evil. Qadir joined his voice
to that of his parents, and Sabra followed her brother.

The fear and rush faded away and the
cold returned, soaking their muscles and bones as the water had
done to their clothes. Beneath the date-palm’s embers, the family
began to shiver.

*

“
My friend. My friend, you
must wake up. Come on now, it is not safe.”

Sabra squirmed and rubbed at her eyes.
She forced Fahim closer, for his warmth as much as for her own. The
four-year-old did not understand and squealed out a “no” as he
pushed back against his bigger sister. She did not relent in her
quest for warmth.

“
Where are we?” Father
asked the strange voice. “Have we made it Ramadi?”

“
No,” the man laughed.
“You are a long way from Ramadi. But you have come far, and I do
not think the
Daesh
cutthroats will find you any time soon.” Sabra opened her
eyes and saw the man pulling Father to his feet.

Despite the gunfire and explosions,
Father and Mother had insisted they keep moving, partially to put
as much space between the fallen city and themselves, but more to
keep from freezing to death after their swim. They walked until
Sabra could no longer stand, and Father had to drag her through the
farm fields. With morning fast approaching, they curled up beneath
a layer of palm leaves and fell asleep the moment their heads fell
to rest.

“
You poor children. Come,”
the man said, lifting Qadir and Fahim to their feet. He did not
look at Mother and her, as it would do dishonor on himself and the
family to help the women. It was the duty of their own family to
help and cherish them. Many of the urban people did not adhere to
the old customs so strictly, but Sabra could tell by a quick glance
at the man’s calloused palms that he spent many hours at work and
prayer.

“
Come, you all must be
starved and freezing. My wife is cooking. I have not kept to
my
zakhat
this
year,” he said, referring to Islam’s pillar demanding he provide
for those less fortunate. “It would appear God has sent you to make
me holy once more. Come, break your fast with my
family.”

*

“
So, when will Santa Claus
bring you your presents?” the boy Mohammad asked.

“
It is not Santa Claus who
brings presents,” Sabra answered. “The Three Wise Men bring us
gifts, just as they did for Jesus when He was born.”

“
But if it is Jesus’
birthday, why does everyone else receive gifts?”

“
Because, silly, Jesus is
the Son of God. There is nothing we can give to Him which is not
already His, so he allows us to have gifts on his birthday
instead.”

“
Oh...” Mohammad said.
Sabra was glad she had paid attention during her church lesson.
Mohammad had a hundred questions about the family’s religion.
Mostly, however, Mohammad asked about Christmas. He had seen a few
American movies on television, but the American traditions did not
well represent the traditions and customs of the Chaldean Catholic
Church. Sabra suspected Mohammad was trying to find a way he too
could receive presents. She would have given him a present, but she
had nothing to give but Bible lessons.

“
Sabra! Come!” Mother
shouted.

“
Mohammad! Wash up!” the
boy’s mother ordered.

The children scrambled to
their families. Since Waleed and his family had invited them in,
pre-dinner rituals had become disport. The families prepared the
meal together, separated to pray in their own rites, then came
together to share in Waleed’s bounty. The Muslim hosts did,
however, take a bit longer to pray their
salat
than the Christian guests did
to say their simple prayer of thanks.

“
When will we get to eat
the
koleicha
you
talk about?” Mohammad ripped a piece of bread off and shoveled rice
and lamb onto the flatbread before the boy stuffed it into his
face. Sabra had told him all about the sweets her family made every
Christmas. In previous years, their neighbors and anyone who
stopped by the house received a portion of the dessert. It was the
one time they could stir up more than blithe indifference from
those they encountered. Sometimes, their neighbors even smiled, and
their friendly next-door neighbors, Malik and his family, counted
the days before Mother delivered to them a hearty
portion.

“
We will see,” his mother
said. “There are still several days left before they celebrate
Christmas and the market has not been open since the Army fled. If
we cannot buy flour, Aziz and his family may not be able to make
the
koleicha
.”

“
But what about the tree?
Sabra says they put up a tree with lights and decorations,”
Mohammad whined.

“
We cannot put up a tree,”
Mohammad’s father said between chews.

“
But why?” the child
continued to whine.

“
We have gone over this
already, Mohammad. If we put up decoration for Christmas, we are
inviting people to come and ask questions. If they find Aziz,
Qadir, and Fahim hiding here, we are all in trouble. God has
charged us to protect them. They are children of Abraham as much as
you and I. We must keep them safe from the
Daesh
bandits.”

“
But I want a tree.”
Mohammad threw his bread and rice down.