Son of a Hero

They say there is a reason for everything; a reason you are the way you are. My reason is war.

Everyday is like today, hot and humid. The shadows begin to fall as the sun sets behind the buildings. Now is the only escape I’ve had all day from the glare. Dust accumulates on the ends of my ripped pants. I hear the shouts of my peers from around the corner laughing at my little brother Syed. I quicken my pace to defend him, but I am too late. I witness his tears as three of the neighbors hold toy guns to his head. One has an arm around my innocent brother's neck. He cries helplessly and I can do nothing.

I'm faced with the same question I'm faced with everyday- how do I get him out? I can't pull him away from the other boys because my beliefs will be questioned. However, if I don't what will he become?

My father has been gone for sometime fighting in southern Iraq. My mother refuses to tell me what exactly he does. I'll never forget the first night without him. Syed and I were sitting around the table as my mother set the plates and silverware. Nobody talked or moved. It was weird not having him around, almost as though someone took a piece of the family, the head, leaving me behind. Our typically loud family was uncomfortably quiet. Syed felt it too because he kept coughing and stirring his fork and bowl to fill the lull. I couldn’t take the silence any longer.

"Mama," I felt like I was screaming. "Where's Papi going?"
She took, what seemed like, five hours to respond.
"South."
"Why?" I felt as though I might of stepped over the line.
"To kill Americans."

That's why I'll never forget that night. From that moment till now I've resented the American soldiers. Even when they come to our schools and give us books and notebooks, and I smile and shake their hands, I resent them. If my father is out there killing them, there must be a reason. Even if I am too young to understand as Mama tells me.

I know that violence is wrong, and that is why I want to pull my Syed away from the boys; however I can’t pull him away from the world. Our world is surrounded by violence. Every week a new car bomb goes off and another is killed. If I pull him from the boys they will be back. They don’t understand what they are doing, neither do I really. They are young and can’t see the harm. After all, they are just children.

One of them is eight, two years older than Syed, and the others ten. How could they possibly understand what they are doing? They pick up what they see on the Television and on the streets. It’s all just games.

At fourteen I now represent our house. If I pull him away our family is no longer faithful to Iraq. People don't understand, it is black or white, America or Iraq. I cant do that to my mother or my brother. I can’t let the community see us as weak.

The family who lives down the street used to come over to dinner on Wednesday nights. The youngest son told the children in the yard not to come over any more because he didn’t like the games they were playing.

The games they were playing involved running among the remains of a house destroyed in a car bombing the previous week. Blood still stained the glass scattered along the front of the building. I haven’t seen the boy in months but Syed tells me his family is leaving the area to “escape the violence.”

Escape the violence? Is there really such a thing as an escape? I don’t think so. No matter which side I choose it won’t make a difference. It won’t change the fact that I had to choose.

Unable to make a decision, I stand there, watching helplessly at his struggle. Maybe he has to learn on his own to make his own decisions. For now I do the only thing I can do; I tell him that Mama has called us for supper. The children let go and tell him they’ll see him tomorrow.

I hold his hand as we walk down the road watching the dust accumulate at the ends of our ripped pants. His cheeks are flushed from running around all day and being in the sun. I don’t know what it is that my father is doing, but for a moment I am glad I didn’t pull Syed away.

The truth is that no matter how much candy the americans give us or books they distribute, they will always be the enemy of my father, my nieghbors, my brother and myself. So as I walk next to my brother I feel as though I am a part of something. Maybe this is what maturity is all about; learning your place in the world. If becoming a man means something more, I suppose I will never know. This is how i live; this is what I see; this is what I feel; this is what I am.

I am Muhammad, the son of a hero.