Ali's Backpack

My name is Ali, and I was born in Mosul, which is one of the famous cities in Iraq. It is located in the north of the country; exactly to the right. It is known for everybody that our city was taken by ISIS, and we were under their control for nearly four year. I am writing because they are gone now, gone with fear and weakness, but we had to pay a lot so they can be gone. I remember the day when we were together all of us, all of my family, my grandparents and my aunts and uncles, all of us in one room. Surrounded by the people who loves you. But good things never last, they have to be destroyed, and they have to be gone, this is the law of nature now, that’s what makes us humans. The knowledge of knowing that all of this would be gone someday, that we will have to deal with it, whether we liked it or not, is what keeps life orbiting around. By now, when ISIS left, half of my family were gone too. My grandpa got executed for playing the violin for my little sister, and my aunt was taken away and raped before she got killed. All of that didn’t matter to me, because somebody has to pay the price of being innocent in this world. Being innocent is a crime, a dangerous one. A crime that all the innocents have to pay for; where killing people makes you the judge of this life. They are the soldiers of god, protected by his laws and powers. They kill by his name, and they conquer by his orders.

I was nearly nine years old when my father died. He got killed just for fun, for the town’s fun. He got hanged out of a bridge and was left there for three days. I remember that bridge. When I was a child my father used to take me there to throw some stones in the water. He used to tell me that throwing these from your back would always force luck to make it come true. He used to lift me up so I could have a good sight of the water and throw my stones. I always wished to travel the world with my father, and throw stones from every bridge in the world; but I guess that won’t happen. I live now with my mother and my two younger sisters, Mariam and Fatima. I am the oldest child for our little family; although, it was not so little when my father was around. I go to school everyday, and when I finish school, I go to work so I can support my family with the little money I earn. My mother also work, she is a tailor of the neighbourhood. She tries as hard as she can to keep us safe and not hungry. After my father died, our living situation got worse, with no supporter to the family and no one that holds you tight and kisses you every night. Although a lot of people did what they can to support us with my sisters, it wasn’t enough.

I remember when I first started school. My father brought me a backpack, so I can take it with me to school and keep my lunch and books inside. He drove me all the way to the school in his bike. It was as if we were going to the playground. And now, it is the only thing left from him. I still take this backpack with me to school and to work. Sometimes I sense that my father is still here with me when I have my backpack. As I enter my house when I come back from school, the first thing I see is my father's picture on the wall; in the left corner, a black line telling us that he’s no longer here and he got dragged by the divine light into heaven. A black line that says no more of that person. I am so afraid of that line, which conquers all the pictures, getting wrapped around their corners one by one. That’s how death represent itself. A black thick line that remind us every day that death will take us on its wide unknown boat. I always wondered what the world would be without death. It would be boring and without any limit. We need to know that everything will go forever so we can live by this idea. That’s our purpose here, on this little planet, to exist and be derived into not existing.

I take my backpack to work with me, I feel this backpack is my only supporter. Who can give me strength and power to keep raising my two little sisters and my mother. Although it is only a backpack that is made of cloth and some strings, this backpack carries all of the memories, feelings, senses, and thoughts. It is not a thing, it is a living thing that walks with me and talks to me. While working in the streets everyday, I meet a lot of people who do the same. Witnesses of what has happened with people and their lives. This has been as if you were in space, watching over people, and sneak peaking onto their lives, intervening their privacies in order to gain joy. Joy is not alone. With joy comes happiness, and with happiness comes suffer. It is like being in a loop that orbits around and comes back to hit you. I remember when I was a child my grandpa used to take me with him and bought me candy from the store near our house. These little trips that I adored, holding me with his big melted hand while holding his cane with the other. I always felt that life is defined by the people around you, without them, what kind of life that would be?

The closest thing to my soul is that backpack that my father brought me when I was little. It is sitting right there in front of me as I am writing; as if it’s watching me, speaking to me, telling me to write what has been kept inside. Informing me to unleash the strive of getting away from the slowly pass of time. I know now that I have taken my opportunity among the living, and I have found out my purpose; where after all of this, there is nothing left to stand for, or even die. I now realized that life can be defined as the moment when a cart full of dirt passes by you followed with rats that just came out of the sewers. I have taken out the strings from my backpack and made a hanging tie. It looks so beautiful and elegant. I have finally decided to take my soul with my hands, walking in the same road my father walked in, and with what has left from him. I hope what’s next is better.