The White Zone by Carolyn Marsden

he led the way down Mutanabbi Street. “Just look at the Winnie-the-Pooh stickers, those postcards of the London Bridge, those cheap pencils! Aren’t books enough?”
    Talib smiled, secretly liking those things.
    Baba continued on to the bookstall, threading his way in and out of the crowd of people, commenting as he went: “And look at my friend Suheil. Now that his rare books are gone, he’s having to peddle packs of chewing gum.”
    Besides the items that Baba complained about, Iraqis were selling prized collections of antique books, lamps, jewelry, and even furniture. As Talib and his father walked between the stalls with everything laid out on the street—looking a little shabby—he kicked at stones, skittering them down the street.
    When his family went home again, would all their things be just as they’d left them? Was someone right now selling their household goods on a street somewhere?
    Talib peeked into the famous old Shabandar Café where shadows spun around and around as the ceiling fans turned. Shadows passed over the black-andwhite photographs on the brick walls. One showed Iraq’s first king as a young man, while others boasted ancient buildings constructed during the Ottoman Empire. At a nearby table, a group of men in worn jackets sipped tiny glasses of sweet tea and debated the war.
    Baba unlocked the storage shed and together they laid the books on the red carpet. After Baba was settled on a small stool, Talib wandered over to alNakash’s stall to flip through the magazines.
    â€œSo you’ve become a resident, Talib,” al-Nakash remarked.
    â€œJust until the war is over. Then I’ll go home.”
    â€œSo you think the Sunnis and Shiites will be able to live together peacefully again one day?”
    At first, Talib didn’t answer. That was the big, hard question. Would his cousins every really accept him again? Could he forgive them? Would he ever feel safe in Karada again?
    Then he had a new thought. He lifted his head. “But of course, A’mmo. Baba and Mama live together every day.”
    Al-Nakash chuckled and moved on to help a customer.
    Sensing someone at his elbow, Talib looked to see al-Nakash’s son, Jabir.
    Casting his shadow across Talib, Jabir said in a low voice, “I heard you had to leave your home. That your own relatives made you go.”
    â€œYes,” Talib admitted. The news had spread quickly.
    â€œThings like that shouldn’t happen,” Jabir murmured.
    Talib shrugged. “Nothing I can do about it.”
    â€œAllah takes care of those who help themselves,” said Jabir.
    . . .
    While many stopped to look through the books spread on the red carpet of Baba’s bookstall, few bought. When they did, they dropped the coins hesitantly into Baba’s palm.
    Fridays could be busy, but during the other days of the week, time passed slowly. Talib’s mind turned to memories of home: the spicy smells of Mama’s cooking, her kitchen floor strewn with onion peels and coriander stems, the persimmon tree brushing against the windows.
    Someday all that would be his again.
    To distract himself from such memories, Talib looked through Baba’s books. He carried armfuls of books upstairs to read by the kerosene lamp. He read about golden fish that were really young women, about pomegranate trees and beautiful moons. He read about Rejab, the baby boy who lived with no food after his mother died. He found himself interested, and then captivated. Baba was right—through books he lived many lives. And right then, he preferred any life but his own.
    While Baba focused on selling books, Mama wrote long letters to her relatives in Anbar Province, the paper rustling, her pen marching across the page.
    Whenever the muezzin summoned the faithful to prayer, Talib bowed down. Yet Allah’s sweetness began getting harder to find. He’d once daydreamed about the light that was Allah—the