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into his eyes for just a second before he looked away.
    I knew, then, but I didn’t want to know.
    The American soldier ran his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, and I saw his chest heave as he sighed. I didn’t want to know why he was there, I didn’t want him to speak, didn’t want to hear anything that he might have to say to me.
    I turned to walk away.
    “Lina, please,” Aziz whispered, taking my hand in his. “He’s come here to talk to you. He wanted to. He asked to.”
    And with a sigh, knowing I had no choice, I did what Aziz asked of me; I sat at the table and the enemy sat down to face me. Aziz poured coffee for us and as the steam lifted into the air between us, I wished this soldier would disappear into it, along with whatever it was he had to say.
    But my wish went unanswered.
    I could hear his heavy breathing. I could smell his uniform and his war.
    I waited for him to speak, for his mouth to open and the words that I was dreading to come out. The brightness of my fear exploded in front of my eyes and burned inside my chest.
    I watched his rough, dusty fingers and his clumsy hands that pulled triggers gently brush the edge of his cup. I watched his eyes flicker from the table, to me, to Aziz, to the door, to the window, resting nowhere.
    And at last, but with barely a whisper, the silence was broken. “I worked with Joe, your dad,” he said.
    No , I thought. No, no, no .
    I wanted to put my hands over my ears, close my eyes and make it all go away. My chest was red hot, my hands were shaking. I looked to Aziz, sitting next to me, fear and dread and panic shooting through my body, my fingertips burning with it, my cheeks flushing. I wanted his face to split into that familiar smile or his booming laugh to fill the room. I wanted him to tell me not to worry. That everything was fine.
    But he said nothing, and he did not laugh. And as the soldier, this stranger in my home, in my country, began talking again, I felt Aziz squeeze my hand and although my ears didn’t want me to, I listened to the words, listened to him tell me Papa was dead.
    And my tears fell and everything else faded away.
    I felt everything yet nothing. Anger and loneliness. Hatred and emptiness. Confusion and heartache and shock and denial. My head was in chaos, but my body was numb.
    I stood up. I had to get away. Had to get away from this man, this soldier.
    My legs buckled underneath me, my strength gone, and I fell to the ground. And I laid there, for a long time, on the kitchen floor, Aziz next to me, rocking me back and forth. Sobbing.
    I wished I was dead.
    I wished I’d died before I’d been told about Papa. Before it had happened even. My head didn’t want to be filled with those images, and my heart didn’t want to think of life without him; it was barely imaginable. Was I now truly an orphan?
    The air drained from me as I sobbed, my lungs burning, and although I wanted to die, my body still sucked in breath.
    Could they do any more to me? my head screamed. Could they take any more? What have I done for this to happen?
    And I felt myself lifted up.
    Aziz held me to his chest, sat with me on the sofa, and rocked me like the baby I was in his arms. He stroked my hair and dried my tears and when finally I looked up to him, I saw tears running down his face too. I wanted to run out into the street, shout at it, shout at the city and the country and all the people in it. All the people that made up this stupid war. I wanted to shout and scream at the stupid Americans and their lapdogs, the British, the Spanish, the Australians, the Polish, the Danish. There was so much anger pouring down my veins I didn’t know what to do with it.
    It was like when Mama disappeared. I felt useless and weak and pathetic.
    “It was a dangerous job your Papa had, Lina. In a city that’s dangerous just to live in.” Aziz sighed.
    I dragged myself up and I launched myself at the soldier, arms and legs flailing at him, kicking, screaming,