Where Is Manar?
Book Two: Sorry, Ma'am — This Body Is Not for Rent
Chapter One: The Return of the Dog
—
I woke up with a strange weight pressing down on me. I tried to rub my eyes, but my hand refused — frozen at a sharp angle beside my head. I tried turning right and discovered my neck had merged with my body into one solid piece.
"What is this full-body paralysis? Was I hit by chemical weapons that took out my limbs? And why do I feel like my back is flat and stamped 'Made in Taiwan'?"
Suddenly, an enormous shadow swallowed the room. I looked up — with great difficulty, through my fixed pupils — to find a terrifying toddler's face descending toward me. The baby poked me with wet fingers, then hoisted me into the air.
"Hey there, little giant! Put me down this instant! I am Colonel Sami, and this arrest is a violation of international law! I'll take this to the Joint Chiefs of Staff!"
The "giant" was unmoved. He shook me violently. At that moment, my head slammed into a nearby mirror, and I saw my reflection: a blinding green uniform, a helmet fused to my skull, two feet welded to a plastic base.
"Good God.. GOD ALMIGHTY! How has the great Sami been reduced to... a thousand-dinar toy soldier! A mere nylon grunt!"
Before I could process the horror, the diaper-wearing monster crammed "the Colonel's head" into his mouth. I sank into the warm darkness of baby saliva, feeling his gums trying to gnaw through my helmet.
Then, with the casual cruelty children are born with, he hurled me at the floor [CRACK!] and started banging me left and right, shrieking: "Ga ga boo!"
"Stop! Even if I'm made of plastic, I have my dignity! My cheap paint is going to chip! Stop using me as a tile-scrubber, you little saliva factory!"
Just as the diaper-clad beast showed the first signs of boredom, he lifted me toward a bowl of yellow cereal. I screamed with every last drop of my plastic strength:
"Anything but the military humiliation — ANYTHING BUT THE CEREEAAAAL!"
I woke up screaming in full, terrified eloquence:
"Damn you all! Find someone else to garnish your breakfast!"
I found myself on the floor beside the bed, my arm pinned under the wardrobe — the same pressure my brain had interpreted as full paralysis. The room was trembling slightly. Books dancing on the shelves. A mild earthquake rattling the house.
I went still. Looked at my hands. Wiggled my fingers. Touched my face.
"Thank God. Just a dream."
I ignored the large picture frame that had crashed down beside me and muttered:
"Oh... just an earthquake... and we're all going to die." Anything was better than drowning in a bowl of cereal.
—
Seconds later, the shaking stopped. I got up from the floor and left the room exactly as it was — I didn't have the emotional capacity for tidying. I glanced at the corner of the ceiling. No Lonely.
"Tsk... Traitor. The moment he felt the tremor, he abandoned the room to find safer ground. Years of loyal cohabitation, and this is how it ends."
I walked into the bathroom. Also chaotic. I picked the toothbrush off the floor, rinsed it, and started brushing — still haunted by the cereal nightmare — then washed my face and went downstairs.
—
Mom was restoring order to what the earthquake had knocked down. She was collecting glass shards from the table's edge, and beside her, the green houseplant had shed all its soil onto the tiles.
"My respects, Brigadier General," I greeted her with crisp military formality.
She looked up while sweeping glass and dirt: "Morning, Sami. Did the earthquake wake you?"
"Yes, quite the surprise. No one mentioned an earthquake was scheduled. If it had been stronger, God forbid..." I paused, then added, "Where are Dad and the kids?"
She answered, wiping the table: "Your father left for work hours ago. Said his shift couldn't wait. As for the kids..."
She gestured toward the small surveillance monitor near the kitchen door. "See for yourself."
I leaned toward the screen. One feed showed Manar and Alaa running through the street with the neighbor's children, laughing and shrieking — as if the ground hadn't moved under them ten minutes ago.
"Outside — who's on watch duty?" Yes, watch duty. You don't leave children unsupervised. Someone needs to be out there. As I've said before — this neighborhood has a real son-of-a-shoe problem.
"Before I came in, Maryam was watching them. Go keep an eye on them since you're not doing anything."
"Fine. What's for lunch today?"
"Eggplant stew with strained rice. I made it the way your father likes it — sharp and thick."
I froze for a moment. Felt a knot climb my throat. Spoke with maximum dramatic weight:
"O Mother — anything in this world but eggplant stew!" And in my head I added: And cereal. God, she won't let this go. A full week and we're still at war. Tsk. Eggplant, with all due respect, would perform better as engine lubricant than as food.
"Fine. I'll go watch the kids." And in my head: From there, I'll slip out to eat somewhere decent and survive this eggplant sentence.
"Sami, you need to be home for lunch today. The family is celebrating World Peace Day and everyone must be present. No excuses." Mom smiled her gentle smile while wiping the table.
World Peace Day? While the world is blazing, and the only 'diplomacy' between America and Iran is the deployment of long-range tactical footwear — you choose to celebrate by torturing me with eggplant?!
"Understood. I've always loved your cooking," I said, like a condemned man accepting his sentence without appeal. God, I just hope dinner isn't eggplant too.
"I'm glad to hear it. Go watch the kids — Maryam is busy too."
—
I stepped out to the doorstep. The Basra humidity was already thickening, and the alley smelled of earthquake dust. Maryam was still there, shading her eyes with her palm, watching the children who had turned the alley into a war zone.
She turned when she heard my footsteps, exhaustion barely disguised as humor:
"Morning, Sami... Looks like she went inside to rest and sent you to finish the job?"
I answered, leaning against the wall, my mind still imprisoned in eggplant:
"Rest? She went inside to practice her hobby — torturing me. She made eggplant stew for lunch and calls it a celebration of World Peace. What peace? This 'eggplant' is a direct threat to my food security."
Maryam laughed, shaking her head:
"What's wrong with eggplant? It's the king of the table!"
I looked toward the end of the alley where Karrar and my siblings were screaming through a thick dust cloud and said with genuine grievance:
"Look at them — pure chaos, as if the earth didn't just shake them. The whole street has collapsed, and I'm stuck here between World Peace Day and the eggplant menace."
Maryam smiled at my exaggerated distress:
"Honestly, the chaos is real. Go calm them down before the neighbors come out. I've lost all control."
I sighed and walked toward them, calling back: "I've got them. Go rest." She went inside.
—
Manar was racing Toqa on her bike. As usual.
I walked through the alley, watching the spectacle. The dust from a passing car hadn't fully settled, but it had merged with the amber rice scent drifting from the houses — creating a dramatic atmosphere fit for Formula One. At least, that's how Manar and her fierce rival Toqa saw it.
A few meters ahead, Manar sat on her pink plastic three-wheeler, which screamed with every rotation. She wasn't merely a two-and-a-half-year-old with wild curly hair and dramatic snake-coils. In her mind, she was Michael Schumacher of Basra — eyes blazing with primal determination as she stared down Toqa with her double braids, whose blue bike was slightly faster, or perhaps just less battle-scarred from collisions with walls.
But Manar had her secret weapon.
In the front basket sat Professor Charles. An obscenely fat white Persian cat who possessed a dignity that had no business being crammed into a pink plastic basket. Charles regarded the world through half-closed eyes, like a Greek philosopher who had renounced everything and now focused solely on maintaining his balance while the bike bucked beneath him from Manar's chaotic pedaling.
In her imagination, Manar heard engines roaring. She glanced at Charles and whispered with heroic conviction: "Hold on, Pwotethor Thaleth. We're going to bweak the thound bawwier!" Charles didn't respond. He simply extended his tongue a fraction and adjusted his regal tail.
The war cry erupted: "WAAAAAAAAAA!"
The race began. In Manar's vision, the road ahead was the Monaco circuit, with Professor Charles as her reconnaissance radar, guiding her to the finish line — the leaning electricity pole.
I took a long breath as I watched Professor Charles sway left and right in the basket. The poor creature had clearly made his peace with fate. Manar was throwing heroic effort into her light-up sandals against the asphalt, while Toqa screamed incomprehensible syllables like magical incantations for extra speed.
"Long live the Professor! Hold on, champion — don't let her destroy your academic legacy!" I shouted from the finish post.
The bikes moved at the speed of an arthritic tortoise, but the noise was enough to wake the People of the Cave.* Suddenly, Manar decided to attempt a drift. She swerved hard right, and Professor Charles opened his eyes fully for the first time — clinging to the basket's edge with splayed claws as the pavement rushed toward his flat face.
"MEEEEEOOOOOW!"
His sole protest before the bike slammed into a mound of dried mud — a municipal gift. The bike stopped dead. Professor Charles launched from the basket in slow motion, landed on all four paws with wounded dignity, then turned to face Manar with a look that said: My academic career with you is over. I'm returning to eating bologna in peace.
I burst out laughing: "And there goes your pilot! Manar — the Professor has filed for immediate discharge."
Manar looked at me, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and said with complete confidence: "He tiwed, Thami. Want dink water."
I leaned back against the wall and sighed. Kids running. A flying cat. An earthquake. And at the end of it all — eggplant stew. What a beautiful day.
—
I overheard the little animals debating.
"You guys know why earthquakes happen? They say the earth is moving — looks like it got tired of standing still."
"No," Jawad replied. "My sister Sarah said the 'cardboard' plates** move and that's what makes earthquakes."
You butchered the word, kid, but the idea is right. I respect it.
"Yeah, the cardboard plates. They can't hold all the weight and they tear." Karrar was completely off-topic, but the others accepted it as the authoritative answer and began nodding gravely.
I sighed, watching Professor Charles dust off his flat face with wounded dignity as the children exchanged their "cardboard" seismology theories. I decided that intervention — scientific or otherwise — was a national duty.
"Hey! All you little rats! Over here!" I called in the voice of a platoon commander, stepping between Toqa and Manar, who were seconds away from launching World War III over custody of the Professor.
The kids gathered around me like moths around a dim bulb. Even Manar drifted over on her bike, feigning indifference, while her ears rotated like radar dishes.
"Now listen. The 'cardboard plates' you're describing are complete nonsense. The geological truth behind this earthquake goes far deeper. And Professor Charles agrees with me — isn't that right, Professor?"
The cat looked at me with cold contempt, as if co-signing a blank confession for every lie I was about to tell.
"Really? We thought it was just the cardboard tearing from the weight!" Jawad's mouth hung open.
I continued with grave authority: "Now — who is the king of the jungle?"
The children answered as one:
"The donkey!"
"Yes, the donkey!"
"Obviously the donkey!"
I smiled with great dignity: "Yes — as I have previously taught you, the donkey is the rightful king of the Big Wisdom.* Morally speaking. In practice, however, the election was rigged. The elephant seized the throne with his enormous belly, leaving no room for anyone else on the platform. And he has a trunk — anyway."
I cleared my throat and continued:
"The elephant king's son — a rebellious teenage elephant — recently decided to get married. To 'settle down,' as his mother put it. On his wedding night, he invited his troublemaker friends, and they threw a wild celebration with synchronized jumping and dancing. This was not a geological event. It was a coordinated assault by the Royal Elephant Infantry on the ground beneath your feet."
"WOOOOW! I want to go to the elephant party!" Karrar leaped into the air.
"So the earth was dancing WITH them?" Alaa's eyes went wide.
At that moment — just as elephant physics was achieving a decisive victory in their minds — someone suddenly pointed toward the end of the alley and shouted:
"Look! The dog is back! Sami — your brother the dog is back!"
I went still. "The dog? Maytham?"
I turned slowly. The smile left my face.
Maytham was walking toward us. But not the Maytham I knew — not his usual sharp posture, not his usual energy. He walked in tattered, dust-covered clothes, his steps carrying a weight heavier than any earthquake. He looked exactly like the plastic soldier from my dream that morning — coated in the grime of reality and the bitterness of a long road home.
—
Footnotes:
* "The Big Wisdom" — A deliberately vague double entendre in the original Arabic. The donkey is king of it. The elephant has a trunk. Sami moves on quickly. So will we.
* "Enough to wake the People of the Cave" — A reference to the Quranic story of the young men who slept in a cave for centuries (Surah Al-Kahf, 18). A common Iraqi hyperbole for something impossibly loud.
** The children confused "tectonic" (تكتونية / tektōniyya) with "cardboard" (كرتونية / kartōniyya). Don't judge them. You probably didn't know the difference at their age either.