The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (41 page)

As for freedom, it is always born from the seed of sacrifice. The courageous lion among men lay dead, never knowing whether the woman he loved, and the child he wished for, would be able to live in the way he hoped and dreamt they would live.

‘Who’ll help me lift his body?’ a Babylonian soldier asked as he placed the Sword of Allegiance in Marmicus’s hands. Several warriors came forward to help lift his body off the ground. Together they walked through the ranks of soldiers, who knelt before him, placing their swords and shields on the ground as a sign of respect. The world had never witnessed such a thing: today, one man in death had united thousands in life. From this moment forward, the name of the Garden of the Gods would be changed to Larsa, reminding all others that true love had once lived here.

Paross looked into the empty blue sky, imagining what it must be like to sit with the One-God and look down upon the world from the glorious heavens. Would it be easy to find a loved one in an area covering so many kingdoms? Every day since the war had ended, Paross had come to the same spot, sitting on the large stone steps of the Temple of Ishtar, waiting for the arrival of one man. Now that Paross was free, he had become a victim of his own enslavement, choosing to believe in the false hope of a friend’s return. But time has a way of eroding hope, no matter how strong it may have felt at first. Paross saw families come and go, children like himself waiting by the doors of the temple, some playing together while women stood gossiping, others trying to comfort their mothers when they fought back the tears as the disastrous news of their husbands’ and sons’ deaths was delivered to them. Even though the war had ended, the burning of bodies continued to light up the night sky.

The likelihood of Abram still being alive was slowly slipping away. Some passers-by sat with Paross, offering him bread and water to drink as they tried to console him. Others were blunt with their words, wanting to move him away from the gates of the temple, like unwanted vermin. One passer-by told him he was wasting his time, and that if Abram was alive he would surely have returned to him by now. The old man even went further, saying that a freed slave would find a worthless child-like him to be a burden, and that Abram had planned everything, leading him to the temple as a way of getting rid of him without guilt. Paross did not wish to admit it to himself, but the old man’s words made sense. If it was untrue, then lying somewhere on the battlefield was the body of a man who had only experienced freedom for a few days.

Nonetheless, Paross waited by the temple, day in and day out. He could not forget Abram, no matter how many people advised him to. Something deep inside urged him to come back to this spot and wait for him there. During their short journey together, Abram had shown kindness to him as nobody else had ever done. When the entire world stood against him, he had become a friend, a father – and somehow, the homeland he needed. Paross cupped his head in his hands, the bright afternoon light stinging his eyes. It frustrated him to see the same passers-by staring at him, even if they offered him a sympathetic smile; he felt their judgement nonetheless.

‘Please, One-God, answer my prayers. Let him be alive,’ said the boy, trying to hold back his tears.

‘Why are you crying on such a beautiful day?’ asked a voice.

‘Because I’m alone,’ said Paross. ‘My friend’s dead, and I’ve got no one.’

‘Nothing ever dies so long as you believe, little scholar …’

Paross immediately looked up. No one had ever called him that apart from Abram.

Paross leapt up, filled with emotion, bursting with tears of happiness and relief. The One-God had answered his prayers.

‘Every dream has a window to reality: all you need is some faith to carry you there,’ said Abram as he embraced the little boy. He thought of Paross as his son, as well as his friend.

Few men understand that war and peace are born of the same womb; they are brothers in battle, one fighting to preserve that which exists in the world, the other fighting to destroy it. What unites them is their mother and father for, in the world of men, light cannot be seen unless there is also darkness. The only gift of war is the prospect that peace shall follow it, giving birth to new hope and a new beginning. Larsa had learnt this in the most painful of ways, for death and heartache had been worn around her finger like a wedding ring. But after hardship there follows ease: the princess had given birth to a healthy baby boy, bringing her the comfort she needed to carry on living. As she cradled her newborn in her arms, she remembered Marmicus’s final words:

‘Death is only a curse if the soul has lived without purpose …’

Although Marmicus was no longer with her in flesh, he had not abandoned her completely. Every day she saw part of him live on in her infant. His eyes and mouth had the likeness of his father, beautiful in every way.

‘Are you ready, Your Highness?’

‘Yes.’ She handed over her infant, smiling at him as he slept peacefully, unaware of what lay ahead; how, in this brief moment, his mother’s life would change forever. She walked out onto the palace balcony, her head bearing the glorious crown bestowed upon her by her ancestors, the crowds below her roaring as they greeted her with love. Thousands of people were waving their arms and cheering with excitement, for today was a new start for their kingdom. Their ruler had shed the title of princess, becoming instead their new queen.

Seja Majeed is a British Iraqi with an Honours degree in Law from Brunel Law School and a Postgraduate Diploma in Legal Practice from the City Law School, London. She also has a diploma in Public Policy and Administration from the American University of Sharjah in the United Arab Emirates. She currently works for the Shell petroleum company, where she is a contract engineer working on the Majnoon Oil Field Project for Shell Iraq.

Seja’s family left Iraq in 1980 due to the Iran–Iraq War, and Seja was born in 1986 in Algeria. One year later, her family moved to the United Kingdom, where they claimed asylum due to civil unrest escalating in Algeria.

In 1980 her uncle, Naeem Fadel Al-taki, was executed by hanging at the age of twenty-one. He was hanged because he had joined a university club that spoke up against Iraq’s Ba’ath regime. In 1986, another uncle, Helmi Fadel Al-taki, was taken by the Ba’ath regime. He was placed in Abu Ghraib Prison in Baghdad, where he was frequently tortured. Seja’s mother was pregnant with Seja at the time. He was last seen in 1991.

For many years, Seja’s family searched for Helmi Fadel Al-taki, but it was only in 2003, after the collapse of the Ba’ath regime, that they realised it was most likely that he was buried in a mass grave, since he had not been released from prison. To this day, Seja’s family have no idea what happened to him, or how he may have died. Seja says, ‘From the moment I was born I knew about war and death, without anyone having to explain it to me. It became a part of my being, to know that people were hungry to kill and destroy everything around them. I was helpless to do anything but comfort my mother. I would hear her cry, knowing that so much injustice had been done to her family. She had lost everything, except her hope that maybe she would find her brother alive.’

In 2012, Seja was accepted on to the highly competitive graduate programme for Shell, the multinational petroleum company. She first worked in Scotland, on the North Sea oil fields, and was then transferred to work on the Iraqi Majnoon oil field. She now lives in Dubai and frequently travels to Iraq.

She is also a One Young World ambassador. One Young World is a premier global forum for young people of leadership calibre, endorsed by many political and social figures such as Nobel Peace Prize winner Desmond Tutu, humanitarian Bob Geldof and US senator John Kerry. Seja began writing her novel,
The Forgotten Tale of Larsa
, when she was just nineteen, while she was also studying law and working. It took Seja eight years to complete her novel; she has dedicated it to the memory of her uncles and the Iraqi people.