A Brighter Fear. Kerry Drewery

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      Dedication

      To Russ and to Dad, with love.

      To PH, with thanks for listening... and listening...

      And to Karen and Sally, with fond memories of

      so many cups of coffee drunk and

      too many chip baguettes eaten.

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Dedication

BEFORE THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

      CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

      CHAPTER THIRTY

      CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

      CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

      CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

      CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

      CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

      AFTER THE END

      Copyright

       About the Publisher

      I am Luisa. I am Amira. I am Maysoon, Fay, Samara.

      I am black. I am white. I am Asian.

      I am Sunni, Shia, Christian.

      I am Arab, Persian, Jew, Iraqi.

      I am Mesopotamia. I am a million.

      I am everyone. I am Baghdad.

      I want to tell you my story, yet I want you to

      hear everyone’s. Mine is not unusual, it is not special.

      So many the same: the difference only a name,

      a job, a family, a religion.

      A million voices, a million stories.

      And I am one.

      My name is Lina.

      Baghdad, March 2005

      Before the war, fear hung over everyone, and we all knew that even voicing our true opinions was dangerous.

      Although it was one threat, one regime, there were a million eyes and ears looking out over every city and town and street and home, ready to hear that one wrong word spoken, or that one wrong opinion offered. By anyone.

      Before the war, before the Americans in 2003 with their bombs, I couldn’t have spoken like this, because even thinking like this was impossible if you wanted to live, if you didn’t want to disappear. As my dear Mama discovered.

      Fear was never discussed, because fear was constant; you lived in it and it lived in you.

      Back then, before the war and the madness it brought, my papa would’ve been shocked to hear me speak like this. He would’ve taken hold of me, I’m sure, scared for the life of his only child, clasped his hand to my mouth, his finger to his lips, his eyes wide with panic. But I knew, as all Iraqis of sound mind did, the importance of muted opinions and quiet anonymity, and the memory of how things were lies only just beneath the surface, even now.

      Years of living like that are difficult to change, and I pause to remember that back then, merely what I’ve already spoken about would’ve been of interest to the Mukharabat, the secret police; that they would’ve found reason to arrest me, torture me, kill me even.

      And so Iraqis spoke in silence, and to hear them, to really hear what they thought, what they felt, you needed to listen not to what they said, but to what they didn’t say.

      Now? I shake my head. Now, one threat has been replaced by many. Uncontrolled and uncontrollable. Each with its own opinions and wishes and aspirations for the future.

      What do I want for my future? I hear you ask. Is it survival? Or dare I wish for more?

      No. I don’t want to survive.

      I want to live.

      But this is not just my life. This is life and I have to tell you all about it – for me, for everyone. To make sense of things, to understand and to be understood.

      Sitting here, looking over the remains of СКАЧАТЬ