Playing Atari with Saddam Hussein: Chapters 8–14

Around lunchtime Shirzad yells, “Race you home!” and we all muster up every bit of energy we have in hopes of being the one to finish first.

The regime has started rationing food.

When the war with Iran ended, I was eight. I’d imagined the scenario so many times, and I always pictured a big celebration with food and music and people cheering.

The reality was anticlimactic.

Instead of holding a celebration in the streets, we were a nation of mourning. We had lost hundreds of thousands of our people.

Over the next few months, foreigners—mostly from India—poured into our country to rebuild our roads and buildings with efficiency and expertise.

When Saddam sent a hundred thousand troops into Kuwait, gouging black scars in the newly paved roads as armored tanks rolled through Basra en route to Kuwait City.

My comics are published in Arabic, but they have the same illustrations and stories as Superman comics around the world. Today I am immersed in an epic battle between Superman and Skyhook.

I reach the high school last, bemoaning my short legs.

They spin their rifles, march in place, raise their arms, and shout, “Yes, sir!” At first, it looks so cool. And totally intimidating.

I see grimy, half-shattered windows and debris on the ground.

“This is an exercise in futility,” I declare. “Even if we go farther who knows if we’ll find water? We’re in the desert.”

He tousles my hair and heads for the front door of the house.

After what seems like forever, the outside goes quiet again. I don’t hear the all clear siren, so it must be just a temporary lull.

“Hide and seek!” I shout out.
“No, that’s a baby game,” sneers Umar.

“Ali, you go get some empty bottles from the bottom bin in the pantry. Shirzad, I need the petrol cans from the garage—even the one that’s almost emptied out. Ahmed, go grab a few rags from the kitchen.”

“Baba!” Shireen interjects.

The Sunnis believe that the new caliph, or leader, should be elected from among those whose who are capable of the job.

Shias believe that leaders should be directly related to the Prophet Muhammed. His descendants become leaders called imams.

The earlier we reach the authorized ration supplier, a store in a strip mall, the better chance we have to get the full allotment of rations that are assigned to us.

There is a light gray haze in the air. The scent sends my mind back to a memory of sitting on the stairs that lead to our basement, where my father and his friends held weekly card games.

I feel like Pitfall Harry, the Atari character who runs through a mazelike jungle, jumping over pits and rolling logs and scorpions and crocodiles while grabbing treasures along the way. I am the war version of Pitfall Harry, dodging detritus and bomb parts.

I begin running, avoiding pitfalls. Hoping to make it to the end before time runs out. Shirzad runs too, to keep up with me.

“We made it here in good time,” I say quickly. No need to share my Pitfall Harry persona. Shirzad really doesn’t have much of an imagination.

A deep voice booms over the noise of the crowd.
“What are you doing? Where are you taking me? This is preposterous! I have done nothing wrong!”