Playing Atari with Saddam Hussein: Chapter 28–Epilogue

I can’t believe it—on my plate are two large pieces of flatbread slathered with tahini spread—a creamy butter made from crushed sesame seeds!

My mother hands me a fancy card embellished with a gold monogram of the governor’s initials.

My mother hands me a fancy card embellished with a gold monogram of the governor’s initials.

I open the Coke and hear the satisfying hiss of carbonation.
I relish every sip and every bite.

Down on the street is a man. A soldier in Ba’athist uniform. He is walking past our house, not in the brisk soldier way but slowly.

“We were just, uh, wondering...” Shirzad falters.

“We were in our tank, part of a convoy, moving north along Route 80 when the enemy planes showed up and bombed us to pieces.”

My brothers jeer at me.

Shireen shrieks and jumps up, knocking the board into disarray.

“I’ll try to tell you everything,” he says. “But first, I am fine. I was moved to a hospital, where I was forced to stay and treat the injured. But it worked out well for me, because the hospital was on the outskirts of Kuwait City, not so close to the oil wells or the main fighting.”

I’m reminded of an Iraqi proverb—“You will discover your true friends in moments of crisis.”

“Ali is right,” Mama says. “Now come, Shireen, let’s see what we can make for supper. Baba brought home some kindling to light the oven. I think we have a bit of grains left for lavash.”

I am part of a team in the Iraqi High Tribunal that is prosecuting Saddam Hussein for crimes against humanity.

I am part of a team in the Iraqi High Tribunal that is prosecuting Saddam Hussein for crimes against humanity.

Saddam is sitting in the defendant’s cage—an area surrounded by wooden railings. And security. Plenty of security.

I translate Saddam’s outburst, while thinking, This man has no remorse!

I listen to the witness on the stand speak. He is telling a heart-wrenching story about his family being killed during the chemical attacks. That was the first phase of a genocide campaign called Al-Anfal.

It’s difficult, but I keep my composure. I have a job to do.

I spent my teenage years living with the economic sanctions that were imposed on my country.

The Saddam they captured looked like a disheveled old man with an overgrown gray beard and bloody scrapes.

The Saddam who is in this courtroom is neatly groomed, and dressed in a white-collared shirt and dark suit. And as dictator-like as ever. He smiles, he smirks, he reprimands and shouts when he gets angry or feels insulted. He gives orders.

The Kurdish witness finishes his testimony.

I am in the heavily fortified area called the Green Zone. It’s mostly secure—except the occasional bomb that gets through from Saddam’s supporters outside.

“No, really,” he says. “That was some pretty intense stuff in there. You translate so fast, but you still manage to convey emotion. Where did you learn English?”

Mr. D. drinks the last of his coffee and drops the cup in a nearby receptacle.