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the eyes of the fourth soldier—the commander, he could tell.
    ‘Halt!’ yelled the commander.
    Adnan was not about to move.
    The men turned to the commander, not knowing what to do. Slowly now, the third soldier
lowered his rifle. The drunk soldier dropped his arm. The driver stopped the tank,
and the commander stepped forward. He threw his arms around Adnan, in a suffocating
bear hug. Adnan started laughing with the excitement of a man who has stared at certain
death and won the staring contest. He was embracing one of Iraq’s most wanted generals,
Colonel Majid Ghaith, who also happened to be his former high-school biology teacher.
    ‘It’s been ten years,’ said the colonel.
    ‘You’re looking fantastic, Mr Ghaith! What a surprise.’
    ‘It’s Colonel Ghaith now, actually, but—thank you—I don’t look good at all. I’ve
lost weight, and lung cancer might kill me before the war does.’
    Adnan shrugged. ‘Losing weight is actually a massive thing in America. I have seen
it on our dish. Every day a new diet.’
    ‘Fucking Americans,’ said the colonel. ‘Started this whole mess.’
    They caught up on Mrs Ghaith. She was doing well; the colonel dreamed about her delicious
lamb kebab on a bed of rice every night. Adnan dreamed of finding a proper toilet
and taking a proper shit. ‘Excuse my language, sir, but the lack of plumbing in the
desert is worse than the bombs.’
    ‘That’s exactly why I eat once a day only,’ the colonel said. ‘Taking your pants
off behind a sack of rice is never pleasant.’
    The other soldiers were completely stunned. One of them picked up the flask; they
all took massive swigs, which can be the only way to process a scenario like this.
    But then the colonel’s face turned. He squinted at Adnan, studying him. There was
only so much luck in the world. Adnan paled.
    The colonel took a step towards him, moustache nearly touching his nose. ‘Tell me,’
he said icily. ‘Who would you support in the World Cup qualifiers? Iraq or Iran?’
    Adnan didn’t hesitate. ‘Iraq, of course.’
    The colonel continued studying him. Then slapped him lightly on the face. ‘That’s
my boy. I’m glad to hear you haven’t completely defected.’
    Adnan rolled his eyes. ‘Of course not! Our soccer team comes before our mothers.
We didn’t make the ’86 Mexico finals but, God willing, Italy 1990, if this war stops.’
    ‘God willing, my son. God willing.’
    Before Adnan left the tank, he told the colonel his situation—back home in the village,
the lovely Iranian girl.
    ‘Don’t marry her!’ said the colonel. ‘Not if she’s a good cook. I’ve missed my wife’s
cooking for forty-seven months now. I’ve missed her, but not as much as that lamb
kebab on rice.’
    Colonel Majid Ghaith then ordered his navigating officer to drive the tank miles
away—giving Uncle Adnan the best chance he could to get back to his unit. The pair
embraced one last time, wishing each other well.
    Later that chilly winter, the Iranian army celebrated the capture and execution of
Colonel Majid Ghaith.

Rooftop views of air raids
    I was down to my singlet in a game of Drunk Russian with Moe Greene when the scream
of the air-raid siren shot through the streets of Abadan.
    My toddler brother was standing at our bedroom window, clapping as he watched us
play.
    I looked at Moe Greene, who was down to his underpants. ‘Should we go to the rooftop?’
I said.
    We did this constantly, whenever we heard the sirens—despite our mother’s just as
constant, very insistent rebuke. The fighter planes were mythic birds, hypnotic,
powerful, beautiful. I loved to stand on the roof and watch buildings go up in flames;
the aquamarine sky frolicked pink. It was a merciless magic. It was free, front-row
tickets to fireworks that burned all night.
    We made our way up there.
    Mum was onto us. ‘Osamah! Mohammad! Get down before I come and kill you myself!’
she screamed. I loved her abuses; I loved the insults she