April 15th 2003 – Protest at the Governor’s House

It was three weeks after the invasion had started. The family had spent most of the time cooped up together in the main room of the house. Being in such constant, close proximity ratcheted up the frequency and amplitude of the usual family arguments.

That morning, Malik’s father and brothers had a heated discussion on the US appointment of a new governor, Mashaan al-Juburi. Gabir and Hussein were incensed about the situation and wanted to join a protest in front of the Governor’s building. His father was adamantly opposed. He didn’t get his way.

Malik eventually heard what had happened from his distraught mother. Or what she said had happened. What she’d been told anyway.

There had been a crowd gathered in the street. They were mostly young men, of about twenty, including Gabir and Hussein. Anger was the overwhelming emotion running through the throng. Maybe it was an outlet for the feelings about the hated invasion. There was immense resentment of the meddling American presence. There were screams of protest, chants and shouting. The crowd was hostile, emotional and looking ever more dangerous. Suddenly, the outline of US troops could be observed on the roof of the Governor’s office.

That just inflamed the crowd, which was becoming ever more animated. Events were escalating rapidly. Spiralling out of control. Then suddenly, shots could be heard cracking from the top of the governor’s building. Just warning fire, aimed at the row of shops across the street where most of the men were gathered. Firing above the heads of the angry gathering.

But windows were getting shattered. Shards of jagged glass rained down on the ducking protestors. Blood began to flow and screams of pain mingled with those of protest. The mood deteriorated further. A tipping point was reached, and someone picked up a stone. Then everyone did. Most of the throws glanced harmlessly off the building’s facade. But the strongest could reach the troops on the roof. And Gabir and Hussein were amongst the best throwers.

Then the firing from the building got more serious. Someone had changed the rules of engagement for the American snipers. Now the shooting was at the crowd, not over their heads. Picking out the men causing the most trouble. Seeking out the people whose throws could reach the soldiers. Then shooting to kill. Gabir and Hussein were shot at. And killed.

The grief in Malik’s house was difficult to describe or to comprehend. All Malik could do was make himself as useful as possible. Pouring never-ending cups of steaming tea and trying to keep the rooms as tidy as possible. It didn’t seem real to him. His brothers had always appeared so strong, almost indestructible. Despite their distant behaviour, he had built them up as invincible. And as for his parents, what would they do without them?