Fatima’s Letter to Mr. Bush

I want to ask you: when would democracy come to Iraq. When you came to Baghdad you promised us that it will be coming soon. That we will be free. But soon after you left, they took my father away. They told us that he would be back soon. My father, you know, is not like any other man. He is a poet. He lives on dreams. Since they took him away, we have no dreams to live with and it is not easy. My little sister does not understand any of this, but she knows that our dreams are no more with us, she cries all the time.

I heard that my father was taken to Abu Ghuraib and that he is not well. Of course, this cannot be true; no one can make him sick; he is a poet who lives on his dreams and I know no one can snatch his dreams from him. But Abu Ghuraib is a frightening place. Much before you saw those horrible pictures, everyone in Baghdad knew what was happening there. I hope my father is not there. I hope no one has put a leash around his neck, like that women did to another man. Even if he is there, I am sure nothing will happen to his dreams. He used to tell us that he keeps his dreams in a secret place of his heart to which no one has access. But I must say, I am afraid. I am not my father. I am only 13 and you know at 13, you do not know how to protect your dreams.

I hear that you plan to demolish Abu Ghuraib. Please don’t. Do not take away our history from us; we need to remember what happened at Abu Ghuraib; we need to keep that place as it is. They say you do not want us to remember our history. That is why you want to demolish Abu Ghuraib. But don’t. Don’t even try. You have already destroyed so much and your promised freedom has not arrived yet.

Only the missiles came. I must confess. I used to scream at night. When we would hear that horrible sound of planes, I would just scream and scream. And my sister would follow and nothing could stop us from being afraid. Not even my father’s dreams.

You said you will bring democracy to Iraq but your missiles came ahead of democracy. They were followed by those strangely dressed men and women who liked human beings but who behaved like some other creatures. They drove those loud machines, tanks and humvees and all the other big names that I cannot even spell out. We used to see them from our balcony. That is, until, they started to shoot everyone on the balconies. My father used to say, they cannot kill dreams. He was a poet, you know. He lived on his dreams. But when I saw blood coming out of Sara’s mouth, I felt I cannot not live anymore.

Sara stood on the balcony and was waving to your soldiers with her little hands. I was watching her form my window. And then, suddenly, something happened. I heard the sound of death, coming straight up from the humvee and the next movement, blood was coming out of Sara’s mouth. She looked at me for a second and then she fell. Her look, I cannot tell you, how it just said something very strange, something I cannot even write. But she was only waving to your soldiers who were going to bring democracy to us. Democracy has not arrived yet, but Sara is gone.

My father wrote a poem for Sara. He wrote it with his own blood. He wrote it on a piece he tore from his shirt and he let it hang on the balcony. When they came to take him away, he told us to protect that poem and let it hang on the balcony until he returns. The poem is still where he left it. But Sara is no more. And my father, I cannot tell you how he lived on his dreams. I want to believe that he is still alive and he is still carrying his dreams with him. He used to tell us that he will die the day his dreams are taken away.

You may not know what it means, but you must not take my father’s dreams away from him. You told us you will bring freedom to us. But you only sent cluster bombs which maim children. I know this because the day they fell on our school, I was there. And I saw with my own eyes, little hands and feet scattered on the playground. That was the last day I went to school. That was the last day I went out of this house. I cannot tell you what happened on that day in our school; it makes me sick. Next time you come to Baghdad, see it for yourself. And feel that sickness in your stomach. Those little children will not be in the school when you come, but their scattered remains are still in the soil of the playground. Just go there and you will know what I mean. My father did not write a poem on that day. He said, children have already written the poem with their blood. That was the only day when I saw him crying.

But that was before your soldiers arrived. At that time, we had no faces to look at; only the sounds. Sounds of sirens, planes, missiles and loud blasts. It was only after your soldiers arrived in Baghdad that we could see the faces of those who were bringing us democracy. Your soldiers are still here, but democracy has not arrived. And they have taken my father away.

When they came to our house, it was very late at night. I was asleep. I only heard loud sounds from the other side of the door and when I came out, they were taking my father away. He looked at me and said, do not let your dreams die. They told us that my father will be back soon. That they were only taking him to ask some questions. But it has been months. I cannot tell you how it feels without him. I am only thirteen, but I feel I have become an old woman. You have taken away my childhood from me.

I cannot write any more, but I just want to ask you one thing: why did you do this to us?