The White Zone by Carolyn Marsden

Author:Carolyn Marsden [Marsden, Carolyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Retail, Ages 10 & Up
ISBN: 9780761373834
Publisher: Lerner Publishing Group
Published: 2012-09-13T15:52:10+00:00

BAKLAVA

Nouri carried baklava down Mutanabbi Street. Wrapped in newspaper, the flaky dessert that Mama had made that morning leaked honey onto the black words.

In Karada, bands of men and boys from all over the city roved, accosting any Sunnis who had the guts to show themselves in public. And when there were none, they knocked on doors, looking for the ones hiding inside. They dragged people from their houses and beat them up. Sometimes they forced them to board buses that would dump them at the outskirts of Baghdad.

Nouri often came upon a lingering smell of spray paint after someone had sprayed a black X on the door of a Sunni house or painted graffiti on a wall. The one by his house shouted: OUT ALL SUNNI DOGS! alongside crudely drawn pictures of Saddam Hussein.

The only Sunni left in the neighborhood was Zaid al-Najeeb. In his garage he fixed cars, never asking his customers to which sect they belonged. Every morning al-Najeeb came out to the street, placed his hands on his hips, and declared: “My father built this house. I will never leave it, even if I have to die!”

Mama forbade Nouri to go out at night now. “Because A’mmo Nazar is married to a Sunni, our family might become a target. That man in Man-sour was executed because of his Sunni wife. Even though A’mmo Nazar’s family is gone, people still remember. . . .”

But sometimes Nouri snuck out to meet Jalal and Anwar anyway, slipping into the night that was lit up by tracer fire. Instead of playing war now, they pretended to kick the Sunnis out of their neighborhood. They carried rifles made of branches, and took turns being the hated Sunnis. Whenever a mortar shell exploded, they pretended it was their guns that had fired.

Nouri half hated the game. Anwar and Jalal suddenly seemed so young, so unaware.

“Remember the night at Talib’s?” Anwar asked every now and then.

Nouri wanted to forget that night. He wondered where Talib was, how he was doing. The little thing they had done had turned into a tidal wave of violence.

That morning, carrying his packet of baklava, Nouri wanted to find Talib. He wanted to make up with his cousin. He hoped that this little square of sweetness would help.

Nouri searched the stalls. Being Friday, the street was busy with men wheeling carts of books, idle shoppers, and vendors hawking their wares.

He found Talib standing behind a book display. He was smiling at a customer.

“Talib!” Nouri called.

Talib looked his way, and his smile faded.

“I brought you some of Mama’s baklava.”

Talib thrust his hands in the pockets of his too-short pants, saying, “I don’t need sweets.”

It wasn’t like Talib to turn down baklava. Nouri wondered if he suspected him of throwing the rock that night. But if he did, he wouldn’t be speaking to him at all. “You live here?” He looked around, clutching the packet.

Without a word, Talib indicated the second story of a nearby building.

“Isn’t that the same building where you visited your friend?”

Talib nodded.

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