Do #Suicide #Bombers Cry?

In 2005 I was hiding from the security forces in Iraq. They were leaning on me for the spate of articles I had been writing about the Bedoon, the forgotten people of The Middle East. The Muslim Family who had adopted me were doing the hiding and I had been living with this incredibly poor family for some three months now.

           We had just eaten some of the wonderful food that Amera, the mother, had cooked for us and were collapsed all over the room watching Clint Eastwood on the TV. The two sons, Adel and Fouad were working on a part for the car they had just struggled to buy, a carburettor I think it was but don’t quote me…they had much more sense than to ask for any help from me with anything mechanical! Hidari, the eldest daughter was still at the table working on her Open University Degree, soon she would bring it over for me to go through with her. Ahoud and Aeida, the next two daughters in line were sitting in a single armchair doing their homework, from time to time they would shout over a question. As always Fatma was doing her job, one she was proud of and one which she fiercely guarded: she was the maker of coffee and served up a constant stream of it to the men. The huge figure of Emad, my best friend in the world, and the best friend I have ever had, was lying flat out on the carpet propped up on one elbow so he could watch how Clint was getting on. Wrapped around him were his two youngest daughters, Zennor and Kadijah.

           I had some of the happiest times of my life with these wonderful people, we used to laugh so much in those days. What I remember most about those times were the warmth and good food and the genuine love of those people towards the stranger in their midst. But now I was much more than a stranger for I had been fully adopted and was privileged to be in their home when the girls were not wearing their Hijabs. Emad and I had gone through the blood brother ceremony the year before in that very room, you could still see the blood on the carpet for this huge man, braver than a lion, had totally baulked at cutting his own arm open. I’d managed mine okay (the Brit in front of the foreigners syndrome), but he just couldn’t leave his arm there for the cut. I have seen this man, roaring like a bull, wading into a mob of Arabs with a recycling bin in either hand laying them out on all sides. But he was literally terrified when it came to losing a drop of his own blood. I took charge:

           ‘Get him girls!’ I rapped and immediately his six daughters threw themselves on him pinning him to the floor. I sprang forward with the knife but as I tried to cut his arm gently he jerked away and suddenly there was blood everywhere.

           ‘Oh, you kill me Dr Nick,’ he howled, ‘you kill me!’

           All was pandemonium as Amera tried to get hold of him to bandage the cut while his daughters rolled around laughing.

           Tonight though was very different, much quieter. But things were about to change: suddenly there came a break in the programme, a news flash! It was the 7th of July 2005 and the London Bombings had just taken place.

           I sat there quietly watching. But sadly it didn’t hit home as much as it should have. We have seen so much and even though it was London and places I knew in London what should have shocked more just depressed. I was waiting to hear the death toll and it was bad, really awful and obviously it was going to grow.

           I felt a soft, little hand creep into mine and came back to consciousness to find Kadijah staring into my face with a look of such concern from a eight year old that I still cry when I remember it to this day. Then I realised that everyone was staring at me, and more than that, everybody was crying. That huge, wonderful face of Emad was covered with tears and he was wiping them away with his wrists but his body was almost convulsed with the sobs that were wracking him. His daughters were all around him now and they were just as bad, Amera was huddled in her chair. Even the two boys were holding onto each other for comfort.

           ‘Hey, hey, what is this?’ I asked truly concerned. ‘What’s the matter? It’s just another bombing campaign.’

           ‘It’s by Arabs Dr Nick,’ said Hidari quietly.

           ‘Probably. It’s hardly a surprise is it?’

           ‘But don’t you see, Dr Nick?’ said Emad, wiping his nose on his sleeve, ‘the whole world will think we are all like that!’

           Do you?

Extract from: Going Crackers in Kuwait by Nicholas Walker https://a-fwd.to/6itB0lE

For a full list of all Nick’s books click on: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Nicholas-Walker/e/B00PI0XDAG/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0