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Fiction > Young Adult
Faking 19
Alyson Noel
Two girls. Two Fake I.D.'s. One little white lie.
The Struggles of Felicity Brady, Book 1 - Galibrath's Will
Edward H. Trayer
The door creaked open. Felicity Brady was in The Wishing Shelf, a tumbled down, magical bookshop, where monsters lurk in the cupboards and books can talk! A brother’s feud will test her strength and courage as she battles with ogres and club wielding trolls, spies on warlords and outwits an evil wizard. But Felicity can’t do all this alone! She must fly a carpet over a mystical and perilous land and seek the help of a witch and an eccentric imp who just loves to make tea! Can Felicity and her bizarre group of friends save The Wishing Shelf from the clutches of an evil wizard? "Down some steps below a crumbling bridge, there sits an old bookshop." Let the adventure begin…
Blackjack: Dreaming of a Morgan Horse
Ellen Feld
Blackjack, the first book in the "Morgan Horse Series," introduces the character of Heather Richardson. A young horse-lover, Heather has been haunted by dreams of a very special Morgan Horse. She soon learns that the horse really exists and is thrilled when she is asked to care for him. With the help of Blackjack's owner, Heather learns to ride and show the horse and the two quickly form a very special bond. When tragedy strikes and Blackjack falls into the hands of an abusive trainer, Heather must find a way to rescue her horse before it is too late.
Frosty: The Adventures of a Morgan Horse
Ellen Feld
Frosty, the exciting sequel to Blackjack, continues the adventures of Heather Richardson and her horse Blackjack. In addition, the story introduces a new character, a rare gray Morgan named Frosty. Through Frosty, Heather realizes that not all horses are meant to be show ring superstars. Although disappointed at first, she soon discovers that Frosty's real talent lies in the area of trail riding, and it isn't long before Heather loves this sport. She and Frosty become trail buddies and must learn to trust each other if they are to survive the woods of Vermont.
Rusty: The High-Flying Morgan Horse
Ellen Feld
The third book in the popular "Morgan Horse Series!" The book, Rusty, continues the adventures of Heather Richardson and her Morgan Horses. In this story, Frosty has her foal, a lovely gray filly. This adorable baby seems absolutely perfect, but is she? Meanwhile, Heather decides to try her luck in a new discipline and enters Rusty in several jumping competitions. Everything is going well until Heather begins to doubt herself. Will a new friend, Nicholas, be able to help Heather overcome her fears and win the Jump-Off?
The Way Life Came To Me
Lady Dove
“The Way Life Came To Me” is a realistic story for adolescents of today. The main character Chavaun, shares her experiences through middle school, and high school. She learns a lot about her friends, her foes, herself, and life. It is the perfect book to let the adolescent community know that they are not the only one’s that have these experiences. It wouldn’t hurt for the parents to read either. It will help them remember, and help them to relate better with their kids. Chavaun goes from learning to deal with boys romantically, to doing without them. She learns how to be her own person. It wasn’t easy and her life wasn’t like the T.V. shows she watched or the books she read.
Echoes of a Distant Storm
Wendy Simpson
Over a century ago an evil being known only as Entity thought to enslave the world and its inhabitants. A great war raged and Five Warriors banded together and used their soul magic to defeat the Entity and drive its essence into a mountain range known as Spirit’s Lament. However, the binding was incomplete… Cael Blackshear and Damiana D’Feyhar are descendants of The Five. Such is their destiny to someday take their parents’ place to ensure the safety of the realm. But as the years pass they realize that there is something sinister to the ancient ritual of the binding.
The Soda Pop Gang
Eddie S. Howell
Outside a mansion deep in the Woodland forest, a battle looms. In The Soda Pop Gang novel, an evil black widow has claims a mansion as her own and insect villagers ban together to fight her and her army. A creative story for young readers, The Soda Pop Gang is an epic battle on a tiny scale. Soda Pop (an ex-marine potato bug), PC (a computer whiz snail), Tool-box (a fixer-upper worm), Lightning (a fast at everything centipede), and Sleek and Slick (twin scorpions) join together to form The Soda Pop Gang. Miss Ladybug is an eyewitness and narrates the entire story.
Sledgehammer
Paulo J. Reyes
Science fiction thriller. Terrorist have attached using smallpox as a weapon against us. One of the terrorists shows up at an ER with symptoms and the ER doctor must convince his staff and the government that this is the dreadled disease smallpox before it's too late. Non-stop action, and real life ER Events.
Russell's Revenge
Dennis Fishel
Thirteen-year-old Dennis knows fear. Its name is Russell Folmer, and it lives just down the street. Den manages to avoid the dangerous Russell until Jay, a tornado with sticky-up hair, moves in... right next door. Sharing an interest in model airplanes, the two boys become friends in spite of their differences. From homemade bombs (created from the only product a dog manufacturers) to talking parrots, Den and Jay stuff a lifetime's worth of adventures into their eighth grade year.
My name is Ayad Al- Musawi. I was born and raised in Iraq in the Holy town of Najaf, in June 1966- one of the good years in Iraq. I started drawing at a very early age. Odd shape drawings, meaningless to many, but to me they had lots of meaning. I was trying really hard to explain this to my parents. My mother was a supporter, but not my father. He was a religious teacher and thought that it was silly art, and a waste of time.
The years passed quickly and I practiced art at every opportunity. At the age of ten, when I was in the fourth grade, I received a trophy for drawing a homeless man with his dog. I was very happy, bragging and talking about the trophy to friends and relatives. It was a big deal to me. But this big deal made my father furious. He thought I was working on my homework when I went to my room, but that was only partially true: I always finished my homework in a half hour, then I would start drawing and painting for five or six hours. I had the energy and desire to paint for hours. He would ask me, “Did you finish your homework?” The answer was always, “Yes.” He was not happy when he found out about all my art time.
Five years had passed, and at fifteen, I was researching many art books from famous artists. I was mimicking their art, or should I say stealing their ideas without changing their art in any way. I was very successful in school, but in art class only. I wish I could say that about my other classes. I would get upset with the school system, saying to myself I wanted to become an artist - why do I have to study English, math, history and others? I was upset with my English teacher and his lessons. I never thought I would use English for any reason in my lifetime; I now realize it was one of the most valuable lessons I have ever learned, as I presently live in an English speaking country.
I was drawing portraits and mostly nude, full-figured women’s bodies, until one of these nude portraits ended up on the principal’s desk. It was a big crime at that time and the punishment was more than severe. I had to bring my father to the school to talk to the principal and the teacher about my attitude and my grades in school. It took me a couple of hours to devise a way to try and save myself from this bad situation. I talked to one of my older cousins who could pass as my father. I convinced him to impersonate my father for an hour or so. It cost me a hundred dinar, but he agreed. We went to school the next morning and he finished the job. He apologized to the teachers and principal for my bad behavior, and gave his word that everything would change and that I would be a better person.
I had saved my self this time - in this crime. But something had changed inside me. I promised myself I would never draw or paint nude pictures after that day. I started to study more and I took my studies and my schooling more seriously. But I never stopped painting!
Then came the final exams in high school before going on to college. The year was over and all exam scores were posted. Mine were good enough that college was an option. But what college? My father, a big part of my decision, wanted me to be a doctor, lawyer, or some high level official position. But this did not happen. I chose the Academy of Fine Arts. He was furious about my choice- but my will and my faith to be an artist was far greater than his anger and threats.
Ayad in College
My first year in college had begun. I didn’t know anyone at first, but soon I was popular because of my mind and my art. This did not make the teachers fans of my art, but it did help break the chain around my neck and my hand. The chain existed because before painting anything, I had to consider people, street society, religion, and others’ feelings. As such, my paintings were sometimes meaningless or appeared painted by someone else.
All this changed, as I made a second promise to myself: I would not paint anything that was painted before, and I would not paint anything that did not satisfy me. My mindset changed. My feelings changed. My hand changed. The colors I used changed. I decided to start a new way of art. No one had ever done it before. It has five rules.
The first rule is freedom of the mind and the brush. The second rule is to not change the brush for a complete painting, meaning I use only one brush for the entire piece. The third rule is that I had to finish a whole painting at one time, no matter the size or the time required to complete it. The fourth rule is to mix psychology with the painting itself. And the fifth rule is to use really bright colors with hard edges.
The journey had begun. I hadn’t used the mind and brush together technique for long when we were given a studio exam: the subject was to be the war between Iraq and Iran. I did the painting with the new meaning and color, and it caught the most attention of the more than seventy paintings submitted. But the attention was negative, as the teachers said they didn’t understand the meaning. There were many questions, many meetings, and long interrogations of my family history. They made a decision to expel me from the college several days later for reasons unknown to this day. I left college with a huge load of guilt and utter disappointment. I didn’t finish college. What would I tell everybody - especially my father, as he was the only one who didn’t like the idea of me going to this college from the beginning? Sure enough, when one thing goes wrong, everything else follows. With my luggage and belongings I went to the apartment I was renting in Baghdad to prepare for my trip home. At the apartment door, I was arrested by the secret service.
Ayad in Jail
Once I was arrested, they told me the reason for my arrest was that I was painting intimidating ideas against Saddam Hussein and his government, and raising a conspiracy against him. They handcuffed me, covered my eyes, and shoved me in a car. We drove for an hour or longer, and it was the longest hour of my life. I was praying to myself and wondering is this the last day of my life? Was this painting to be the last painting of my life? The car stopped, they took me out and we entered a building. We went up, then we went down and down even further until we finally stopped. I heard a door open and then I got shoved hard into this room that smelled of death.
Someone told me to remove my blindfold. I was afraid, but I took it off to find I was an eight-foot by eight-foot room with no lights except for the light coming from the small window in the door to the hallway. There were four other people sitting in the room. They asked what I had done. I answered, “I didn’t do anything. I was a student in college, I am an artist, and I have no connections with politics. I don’t even like talking about politics. Tomorrow they will let me go.”
One of them started laughing, then he said, “Sorry, are you from Iraq?” My answer was, “Yes why do you ask?” He said, “Because you do not know Saddam Hussein jails.” Then I asked him, “Why are you here?” He replied, “I ran away from the military for 6 days and they arrested me.” Then I asked him, “How long have you been here and what will they do to you?” He said, “I have been here two and a half months - the day after tomorrow they will give me my sentence.” As my fear grew, so did my curiosity. I asked him, “What will your sentence be?” One of the others answered for him, “Death- the four of us will be gone in two days and you can enjoy this smelly room by yourself
.
At that moment, I began to realize the feeling and meaning of fear. I thought to myself they put me in this room with these people to kill all of us on the same day. Then I thought these four people obviously did something, but I had done nothing. As thoughts ran through my mind, I was thinking these young men didn’t really do anything wrong. The only wrong that was done was not participating in this war- the war that was pushed on every Iraqi man. Men that did not believe in war, and I could not blame them for objecting.
Morning came, and the door to this underground, stale smelling, grave-like place was opening. A guard entered. In his hand he held a small piece of paper. He was having a hard time trying to read my name. I don’t think he knew how to read or write; however, the worst was yet to come.
I left the place with him as one of the four people in the room bid me good luck. I looked at him and the others and I wanted to wish them good luck, but they already knew their fate was death. The guard and I went to another room, the interrogation room. It was dirty with blood on the walls. Chains and ropes hung everywhere. In the middle of this scene, I saw two holy books sitting on an old table with two chairs. The guard told me to sit, and I waited for a long time until someone else came in and sat in the chair opposite me. He said, “Do not lie. I hate lying and liars.” My thought was he was the real liar of lies. He said to me, “Admit everything and don’t hide anything.” I asked, “Admit what? I didn’t do anything and I don’t even know why I am here.” He pulled a stack of papers from a folder in front of him. As he studied them, he started to curse the worst words any one could imagine. At the end of his tirade, he asked, “Why did you run away from the military? You are a coward and a traitor to your country.” I responded, “What military are you taking about? I am a student in college.” He became silent for a moment, then he took the stack of papers and left the room as he mumbled to himself under his breath.
The guard that was still present said, “You made him angry, and you will pay the price.” Two minutes passed and the angry interrogator returned. He asked, “Are you going to tell the truth?” I said, “Yes!” He then asked, “Are you going to swear to that?” I said, “Yes.” He told me to put my hand on one of the holy books and swear to tell the truth. The minute that my hand touched the book, it sent electrical shocks through my body so strong, it threw me across the room. I then realized the book was some how connected to electrical wires. He looked at me. Laughing, he said, “I know you are telling me the truth, but I enjoy doing that to see the expression on a face that has been electrocuted.” He then left the room as someone else entered, and greeted me by saying, “Don’t be afraid. All we have to do is talk. As you help me, I will help you.” Then he ordered the other guard outside the room to bring in the evidence. I wondered what evidence they could have? The guard entered the room with the last painting I had done at college. He set it down and left.
The interrogator started looking at the painting very carefully. He was trying to show me he had an interest in my painting. In a nice manner, he asked me to explain the connection between the war and this painting. I explained the meaning of the painting to him, and I connected it to the war in a different aspect.
Then I started talking about the art procedures I was trying to change with my painting, and my rule of including psychology in every painting. I explained that we must think about the painting, not just have a quick look at it. Then he whispered in my ear, “I understand exactly what you mean, but others may not.” We have a lot of people working in this facility who have never been to school. That makes it very hard for them to understand.” Then he said, “I studied in England for years.” He wanted me to know that he was an educated person, and his wife was an artist and she loved art and painting. He looked at me for a moment and said, “I will help you as much as I can to reduce your sentence to the lowest possible.”
Then he asked, “Did you paint any portraits of Saddam Hussein?” Thinking quickly, I told him, “When I become a famous painter with a high reputation, I will paint Saddam Hussein’s picture, but now I am just a beginner.” He smiled in a devious way and said, “Be patient for these next few days, or until the interrogation ends.”
I found out later that someone called my brother and told him I was in a Baghdad secret service jail. They told him to buy a few Saddam Hussein oil paintings and hang them in the house, because the secret service would be visiting the house for evidence against his brother. He did what this person told him. Two days later, the secret service, the police, and the person who helped me (the interrogator) investigated my home. In the end, they didn’t find anything other than my many paintings, plus Saddam Hussein’s portraits hanging on the walls. One of the people asked my brother if it would be okay to take these paintings? He explained that they would be helpful to Ayad’s investigation and interrogation. When they left our home, one of them talked to my brother and said, “I am the one who called you a couple days ago, and I am the one in charge of the interrogation.” He said, “I know your brother is innocent; I’m trying to help as much as I can.” My brother asked this man, “How long do you think it will be until Ayad comes home?” He answered, “Very soon.”
The interrogation was continuous- day after day, each with a different person. Finally, they informed me to get ready to go to court in the morning. This will be your judgment day. I prayed for the next day to come faster. I wasn’t afraid of the result as much as I was anxious for the matter to end, and to get over it.
The next morning, they chained me from head to toe, blindfolded me, and took me outside the building into a car. I heard three people in the car: the driver and two guards. The guards were making jokes about me. They were saying, “It’s going to be very easy, you’re not going to feel a thing.” They were betting how many bullets would hit me before I fell to the ground. The driver said to them, “Stop messing with his mind.” He then chuckled and said, “After the first bullet in the head he won’t feel anything.”
The car stopped, they removed the blindfold, and we walked into what looked like a house. I asked one of the guards, “Is this the court?” He said, “Yes. Do not say a thing until I tell you to. You don’t want to make any of the judges angry.” We were outside a room with many guards and many prisoners waiting for their name to be called.
Luckily, they called the names in alphabetical order; my name was the first to be called. We entered a large room with a big table. Behind the table were the five judges. One of them was the interrogator who had helped me, and that somehow made me feel safer. I was asked to explain the meaning of the painting- the painting that I later called The Suffer of Death. I explained the meaning of the piece for more than two hours. I knew these people behind the table were judges; therefore, they finished law school and were somewhat educated.
They decided to take a break for tea and breakfast. That left me, the guard, and the friendly interrogator. He quietly told me, “If they ask you about these paintings,” pointing his finger to several of Saddam Hussien portraits, “tell them you painted them.” I painted them? “ I didn’t paint these, and I have never seen them before.” He grabbed my wrist and shook me and said, “Do you want to live or die?” I said, “I want to live, of course.” He answered, “Then do as I say.” I told him, “Okay, I will.”
When the judgment started again, it was only a minute or so before one of them stood up and pointed his finger toward the Saddam Hussein paintings and asked, “Did you paint all these pictures?” My answer was “Yes. I have a lot more than what you see here- I give them as gifts to friends and relatives.” Then he asked me, “Why do you paint these pictures?” I thought for a moment, then I asked him, “If you were a painter, would you be painting your father’s portrait?” He said, “Yes.” Then I asked, “Why don’t you expect me to paint portraits of the father of all the Iraqi people?” This saved my neck. He was smiling at my response as he sat down. They started to whisper to each other.
Finally, one of them said, “The court has made a decision: your sentence will be nine months in jail.” One of the guards quickly whispered to me, “Scream ‘good judgment’! ” What is a good judgment? Torture? Pain? Punishment? Jail? I don’t understand. Just then, one of the judges told the guard to take me to the jail hospital and get me some help. I told him everything was fine, but he said, “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?” They started to laugh as we left the courtroom. Outside, one of the guards said, “I believe God really loves you.” I looked at him and said sarcastically, “How’s that? Because of my great condition?” The guard replied, “No one has entered this courtroom and left without a death sentence for over year. You are the only one.” I asked him, “Why must we go to the hospital?” He replied, “Do you remember the first three weeks of interrogation?” I said, “Yes, I remember that they tortured me hour after hour, but I do not feel anything now.” He told me, “That’s true- because your body is numb, you don’t feel anything. But the good news is, the torture time is over.”
I spent more than three months in a hospital. I had two broken ribs, four toenails missing (that’s what they call a “heavy pedicure”), and both of my shoulders were out of their sockets from being hung to the ceiling by a rope for two or three days at a time. I also had many scars from the electric clamps that were put on me and much, much more. I finished my jail time with out any visitation; I was alone all this time in solitary confinement for nine months.
Then came the day of light: I was released. They gave me new clothes and instructions. I was told, “If someone asks where you have been all this time, what are you going to say?” He answered himself, saying, “ ‘I was in Baghdad and I spent all my time there in my uncle’s house.’ If you talk to anyone about what happened to you, we will bring you back here. Believe me, you will never see the sun again.” He was the only one who I believed. He threw two dinars at me and ordered the guard to take me out. Once again, they blindfolded me. Obviously, they did not want me to know where I was, or where I was going. The car drove for over an hour, they took off my blindfold and shoved me out. I didn’t dare open my eyes for a few minutes, as that wasn’t in their instructions.
When I did, I could not see anything because of the sunlight in my eyes and the length of time I had been in the dark. I rented the first taxi that drove by. I entered the car and told the driver to take me to the bus station. “Two dinar,” he replied - the same amount of money that they gave me when I was released! Then the driver started asking questions, like where I came from? Why did I look so pale? Why was my hair was so long? I told him I had been at my uncle’s house. Then he said, “I think you were in jail.” I answered him in a stern voice, “No, I was at my uncle’s house.” He then said, “Very good, you listen well.” “Listen to what?” I asked. He looked at me with a smile on his face, and gave me the name of the person who had given me the instructions just before I was released. I was silent until we approached the bus station. I gave him the money. He didn’t take it. He simply said, “This is the last reminder - do not say anything to anyone about what happened to you.” This man, the taxi driver, was working with the secret service.
I took the bus to my hometown and walked the rest of the way to my house. I was thinking all the way how I would face my father, being he was the strongest against the idea of me going to the art college. All this changed the moment I entered my home. Looks of surprise and disbelief came from my family - they never expected to see me again. I spent a month just eating and eating to regain some of my strength, not talking to anyone about my experiences. This was the calm before the storm; someone informed me that I needed to go to the military base in my town. I had reached the legal age to serve in the military.
Ayad in the military
When I arrived at the military base, I asked one of the lieutenants where to sign and finish my papers. He said, “Stay in the line and wait for your name to be called.” Looking at me, he asked, “Have you left your life, your pride, your dignity, and your education outside the base?” I looked at him with confusion. He said, “Someday soon, you will know what I mean.” Then he walked away, laughing very hard, shaking his fist, saying, “Stupid, new soldier.”
It took just about three or four days to understand what he meant. Everything belongs to your sergeant and you don’t dare say anything about anything. Your life now belongs to the military. Your will belongs to someone else. Your education won’t help you.
I spent six months finishing heavy training. There was nothing left in me I could control other than my heart and my feelings. Training was from 5:00 am to 9:00 pm. I then worked as a guard every night, every other two hours. There was nothing to guard, but you had to be up so the training was complete. There were rumors that we were going to a new front within a few days. Then the rumors became official. We were sent to the front line. The past six months of training would not help in any way. One of the lieutenants told us we would learn new training here. It would be very short and easy. Just a few words: learn how to live and how to survive. Then he said, “You are on your own!” Those were his last training words.
The sounds of the missiles, the bullets and bombs wouldn’t stop. My conscious mind could only tell me to stay alive. A year had ended, along with my dreams, my drive and my happiness. Also within this year, the lives of many friends that were with me ended. The sound of the loud bombs and crying was constant - the crying from losing friends and comrades. I could not bear the feeling of missing my art and my family. I only wanted to live again like a normal, peaceful human being.
I decided to run away from the military before I lost my mind or my life. I was not ready to lose either. I got a three-day pass and headed for home. I told my family I would not return to the military and this was my final decision.
My father asked me if I knew what I was saying and doing? Did I understand the consequences? I told him yes. I would stay in hiding at home. I would not leave, nor go outside the house. He said, “You will have to do that, but it will be very hard. You will have the same feelings that you had when you were in a jail. There is no escape, no leaving. MP’s are everywhere.” Even though I didn’t give the military my correct address, I was still afraid as I remembered the four people with me in jail, and what happened to them.
My father said, “You have two days left to buy what you want and need. After these two days, you will not be able to leave the house.” The first thing that came to my mind was the art store. I bought brushes, canvas, and paint to last me for years; I didn’t know how long I would have to stay at home as a prisoner once again. Nor did I know how long the war would last, or how long Saddam would live and remain in power.
Ayad as a prisoner of the house
The painting journey had begun: 17 to 20 hours every day. Painting with no end, day after day, always painting about the moments I had lived on the front line. I swear I could smell the smoke and the gunpowder, and hear the sounds of the bombs every time I finished a new painting and looked at it. The fear of the unknown was following me and I could not stop thinking about running from it. I expected at any moment I would be caught by the government. I lost track of time for days. Weeks and months were coming and going very fast. I was really starting to feel I was in jail again, as three years had passed from my life.
There is one day I remember very clearly. I even remember the painting I was working on when I suddenly found myself surrounded by 13 or 14 men, all wearing special service clothes. They were all pointing their guns at my head. They handcuffed me and pulled me outside the house. One of them said to me in a thick voice, “You have betrayed your country and the punishment for being a traitor is death. I will make sure of that.” I didn’t fear the idea of death as much as the torture I had seen in the first jail. They took me to the city center, to a building that belonged to Saddam’s party. My father followed me until I reached the building, and someone shoved me in with his foot and locked the door. An hour later, the door opened and someone said the director wanted to see me. He walked with me to the director’s room, and when I entered the room, I was confused.
There was my father sitting with the director, talking and reminding each other of the many things they did when they were kids. They were asking about old friends and family, and what was going on in each other’s lives. That’s when I realized that the director was a very old friend of my father. The director asked me how long I had been at home, away from the military. He said, “You are a very lucky person, for your father is a very dear friend of mine. I respect him more than a brother, and as such, I will write a recommendation letter. I will say you came to us by yourself because of guilt and asked with remorse for forgiveness. This letter will make a big difference in reducing your sentence. But you must say the same thing to the judge.” I started to praise him for his help. I couldn’t find the words to thank him enough.
I waited for days in this building. Then they transported me to Baghdad, to a bigger jail. I had heard of this jail in the past, but had never seen it. This jail was no more than a temporary holding place. I spent 27 days there, then they took me to the military court. I was waiting outside with a guard and many others when the judge arrived. He was a lieutenant in the Iraqi army. He acted and looked as if he hated everyone, including himself. Once again, because of my name I was first in the court. A worker said, “You are lucky to be first, before he loses his temper- he is a very angry man.” I stood in front of him, unable to say or do anything. The first words he spoke were a tirade of more than ten minutes of cursing.
Then he stood up and said, “This is the fifty-one military court, and it sentences you to death for your crime. But after checking your certification papers in your file, we decided to lower your sentence from death to 10 years in jail.” I remembered the first court, and how the guard urged me to say, “Good judgment.” I screamed, “Good judgment!” He said, “Get out of my face before I change your sentence.” I left the courtroom laughing and talking to myself. How many ten years do I have in my life? I started to convince myself that jail means I will have plenty of time to paint, and at least to stay alive. Jail would be the door through which I could escape the fear and mystery, to reality. The fear and mystery were giving me insomnia.
Prisoner with a free mind
I was being driven to my new cell- another small room with a steel door. The new rules were two hours of visitation once a month. Yet another journey was beginning - the journey of silence. I didn’t talk to anyone, but I talked to myself too much. I began to push myself into a special routine because I didn’t want the loneliness to kill me. One month had passed. Visitation day came. My father and my two brothers came to visit me. Their biggest concerns were my health and my needs until the next visitation. It was then I started to notice a change in my father: a loss of weight and very shaky hands. I pulled my brother aside to ask him what was wrong with my father. “I don’t think you want to know,” he replied. But I insisted he tell me, so he told me the bad news - my father was fighting a big monster called cancer, and the monster had been winning day after day.
On top of my loneliness, the sadness of life had added yet another burden. My younger brother brought all of my painting tools plus a huge amount of empty canvas. He said, “Spend your bad times painting.” What he didn’t know was that all of my times were bad times.
I started painting nonstop. After a few more visits, I didn’t see my father and I knew that his health had gotten worse. The last visit brought the bad news: my father had passed away nine days ago. Four years had passed and I was still in my cell, painting and thinking, painting and thinking. It was during this depth of thinking that the realization finally hit me: my life lacked any and all meaning and was devoid of any real goals. It was strictly survival mode. My jail room started to get smaller day after day, as the many paintings I had done reached the ceiling. The guard had sympathy for me, and respect for my drive. He asked me where I got all the patience and willpower to do all this. I replied that life teaches us many things, even when we don’t want to learn them. Then he told me, “There is a new gallery opening at this base, and there are four artists showing their more than 40 oil color paintings. But you, by yourself, have completed more than 500 or 600 paintings. I have seen the other paintings and all of them are meaningless or have copied others’ work, but your art means something mysterious, even I don’t understand.” Then he said, “Maybe we should get you out of the cell for a few hours.”
He promised to help me. A few days later, the door was left open for the first time in four years. The same friend stood there that had offered his help. “Did I say you would be out or not? You are my responsibility until the show ends. Choose the paintings you wish to show for the gallery opening.” I replied, “I want to show them all.” He said, “We will need a bigger room. Bigger than the one we had planned for you if we take all the paintings.” We headed to the big room where the show was to be held and mounted them on the walls, from floor to ceiling, all the way around the room.
During this time, the leader showed up for a quick peek before the opening. He was surprised at the number, the quality and the style of the paintings. He ordered one of the soldiers to remove the other paintings by the other artists. Looking at mine, he smiled and said, “Weird art, weird colors, but how magnificent and how they stand out. Good job. If you get any gifts, we will have to divide them between us.” I believed what he said, for I had heard about his dirty reputation for collecting money in illegal ways and bribing people for money.
The art gallery opened and some of the biggest people in the government and military arrived, along with the Minister of Education of Fine Arts, and a number of photographers and reporters from the Iraqi TV crew for the eight and ten o’clock news. I started to explain the meanings of my paintings to these people without them knowing I was a prisoner. I received a number of gifts, recommendation letters and thank you letters. When the show ended, I returned to my cell plagued with pain and anger toward these hypocrites. Asking myself the same question over and over. Were these not the same painting style and colors as the paintings I had done in college? I had suffered so greatly and been expelled, spent time in jail, then tortured for the very same painting I had done in the past. The first time I painted it, I was considered a criminal. The second time, I was praised for it. The exact same painting had created two different types of treatment! Sometimes I think it was hypocrisy, sometimes I think it was ignorance.
It hadn’t been more than a week, when early one morning the jail door flew open. Clean, new clothes were given to me, and I was told a special person wanted to meet me. I was instructed to be careful what I said to him and fully understand his questions before answering him. We went to the warden’s room. He was standing up, trembling, and another man was sitting in the warden’s chair behind his fancy desk. Immediately the other man asked me, “Are you the one who painted all the paintings a week ago at the art show?” My answer was, “Yes, I painted them all.” He said, “You are a prisoner, is that correct?” I answered, “Yes.” Then he asked, “Do you want to be free from jail?” I said, “I dream of that every day.” He said, “Okay, you are free.” I asked him, “Is this a joke? He shook his head, saying, “No, I am not joking. One week ago, you saw the photographer and TV crew at the art show. That same day, the show was broadcast on Iraqi TV, and guess who was watching at that time?” I replied, “I don’t know who was watching at the time.” He said, “Someone very, very important was watching, and when he saw your paintings, he stood up and said, ‘I see myself in these paintings. They are me. Bring me these paintings with the artist!’ When we called the warden to get permission to get you out, he said you are a prisoner and he cannot let you go. We informed this very important man, and he said, ‘Release this prisoner on special orders from me.’ So you are free. ” I asked him, “Who is this person?” He refused to give me his name, but he said, “This important person is your guardian angel. You are going to work for him as a painter and he will supply you with anything and everything you need.” I replied, “I agree. He is my guardian angel. May I return to my cell to collect my paintings?”
He laughed and said, “Someone has already taken care of your paintings - they are being transferred to their new home as we speak. They are going to your guardian angel.” He gave me some kind of identification card that would take me past any official. He said I had 10 days to spend with my family then someone would take me to my new work. He told me to keep our agreement a secret. I asked him if I would return to the military and military clothes; he said I was released from the military. At that moment, I praised him for my release.
I proceeded to my hometown where, much to my surprise, I was confronted with millions of questions. I couldn’t give any answers to who the guardian angel was, or where my hard work of four years, over 527 paintings, had gone. They had come to my home and taken 712 paintings to the same place, to the same important person - the guardian angel. I spent the 10 days I had been given looking for my old friends. When asking my family about all the friends I had, everyone gave me the same answer: some of them had been killed in the war, some ran away from the military and disappeared, and some were sent to jail. My vacation time was over!
Fancy jail
Someone from the government arrived at my home and told me that I was to go with him to my new home. He introduced himself to me as my driver. We left for Baghdad. We entered the most extravagant area of the city, and he pointed his finger at the nicest house. “This is your new home,” he said. Then came the rules. Once again, I must live completely in the house. I could not tell anyone what I was doing. There were a lot of no’s, don’ts, and you shouldn’t in the rules. Then he said, “There will be a person coming once a week to collect the paintings that you do.” I replied, “That is fine.”
We entered this huge, beautiful house and found two other people inside. The driver introduced them as the cleaner and the cook. Both let me know I could find them at the house next door, if I needed them. Then I was taken on a tour of the house and the studio. I was amazed by the quality and quantity of art supplies at my disposal. The place was clean and bright and arranged with fresh air coming from a large window. I asked the driver, “Do you know the person I am working for?” His reply was, “Yes, but this is one of the questions I am not allowed to answer. Please don’t ask me again.” Obviously, a question that could end his job or even his life. Another journey had begun.
I started to paint slowly, getting used to the new atmosphere. Every week, someone came and picked up the paintings, even if they were still wet. They were pushing me to work harder, faster and longer hours to produce more and more and more. I began to hate hearing this week after week.
The war between Iraq and Iran had ended. There was a big celebration all over the country. I was drowning in my loneliness, missing my life, missing everything. I asked the driver if I could go outside for a few hours to see the celebration of the people. I explained that I had been inside the house for more than three months. He said we would have to get permission. He called someone, and permission was granted. He took me outside for a few hours, driving the night away until the late hours. I wasn’t able to leave the car, that was forbidden. We returned home. I complained at times about being lonely - there was no one to talk to. Even the cook and the cleaner wouldn’t talk to me as they were ordered not to, for that would slow me down and the guardian angel was expecting me to be painting 24 hours a day.
When I was released from jail, I was misled about working for this “guardian angel.” Now I felt I was the slave of the devil. I spent all my waking hours in the studio, painting. My sense of smell was gone. All I could smell was the oil from the paintings. The months were going by quickly. In this entire fancy place, there was no television - only a stereo and thousands of tapes. I listened to the music or the news while I painted. That was my only door to the outside world. I heard on the news that Saddam had invaded Kuwait; the debate began and the door to war had been reopened. All I could think of was how to get out of this place where I had spent the last two years and eight months.
The Allies had begun their journey to the Gulf and the final date had been given to Saddam to leave Kuwait. I remember that dark, moonless night. I was painting when I heard the first bomb explode on Baghdad. More was yet to come. In less than five minutes of bombs and missiles, every window in the house was broken, with glass shattered all over the place. With no glass left, it was safe to get to the window to take a look. The dark night had become like the morning from the light of the bombs, missiles, and antiaircraft. The bombing continued from night to day and day to night.
My guardians continued to come and collect the paintings as usual. Everything had changed, and the moment to run away was close. The war had stretched on for more than 40 days when people started complaining from North to South Iraq. They wanted a revolution, no more government to the North, no more government to the South. I was waiting for the revolution to begin in Baghdad, to make it easier to run away. It began in small areas of Baghdad where the government was weakest. The cook and the cleaner ran away. The driver was thinking about running away, but he was afraid of losing his head. That night, I ran away from the house using the same car that delivered me to my guardian angel’s house. I believe the driver knew I would run away, but he looked the other way. I always saw some sympathy in his eyes for me, as he knew how hard I worked as a slave without pay. I drove the car through the bullets of the revolution for two and a half hours until I reached my hometown. It had changed so much that I didn’t recognize it. I had been away so long. I didn’t see any police or police vehicles. I didn’t see any government; all I saw were revolutionists of all ages carrying guns, walking around everywhere.
The time was 3:15 am. The electricity stopped with the Gulf War, forty or more days ago. I knocked on the door of my house, but no one answered. I tried again with no response. I climbed the wall and entered the garden. I was tired, scared, and thought no one was home or they were too afraid to respond. It was cold and raining. My mind raced until I fell asleep on the grass. The next thing I heard was the sound of birds - the sun was rising slowly into the morning sky. I said to myself, “I must go to a relative, perhaps my family is there.”
Suddenly, I heard voices inside the house. I moved closer to the window and saw my younger brother. I knocked on the door one more time, and the door opened. There was surprise and shock on their faces. I received many big hugs and some dry clothes, then the questions began from all of them. How did I get there? Where was I for three years? They thought I was dead, that I had been killed. I told them all that had happened to me. Then I asked why no one answered the door the first times I had knocked. My younger brother said, “You don’t know now - it’s not like before. There is no order, no government, no police, and we cannot trust anyone, so we don’t open the door during the night.”
I spent the next three days checking out my hometown with my younger brother. I couldn’t find any friends, or anyone I knew. On the fourth day, my older brother came home, running away from his military base. We started to talk seriously then about how to escape from Iraq, because death was our only destiny if we stayed. There was my younger brother, who was a student in medical college with only two years left to graduate and become a doctor, my older brother, and myself.
After a few days, the bombs started falling on my town from the Saddam regime. We ran from our town to another towards the south. Saddam’s army started to enter my town, and the order was given that women, children and students could return to their towns and that they would be safe. My whole family went back, except for my older brother and me. After two days, the bombs started falling where we were. So we moved to another town further south. Every couple of days, we were moving from town to town, until we found ourselves close to the Saudi Arabia border. My brother, me, and 150,000 Iraqi men, most of whom were running from the military or the revolution; we didn’t have any choice but to enter Saudi Arabia territory.
Permission was granted by the Saudi government to take us as prisoners of war. A detention camp was built not far from the border and the mysterious unknown followed me once again. I spent more than three years in a tent in the burning desert. The sand storms were a friend we didn’t like. They visited us every day, if not twice or three times.
We started to see the bright colors of freedom come very close after the United Nations sent official delegates to Saudi Arabia to interview 1,000 of us who would be taken to America. We talked with the United Nations workers, and those who could pay got their names sent to the INS American delegation and were released from the desert. I didn’t have any money, but I owned canvas, oils and brushes. I quickly did a huge painting and gave it to the American delegation as a gift. When I met one of them later, I talked to him and he promised to prepare my name for an interview. Five days later, my name and my brother’s name were on the list for interviews. Then came the approval for us to travel to America, the land of freedom.
I arrived in America the third day of July, 1993. A day before the real freedom of the Fourth of July was celebrated. Life here was totally different. I started school, but in no more than a month, I found myself obligated to work. I needed to get a place to live, food to eat, and a car to get me where I wanted to go. My first thought was to buy new brushes, canvas, and colors to start painting again, after not painting for two months. I started a new job and I was anxious for the weekend. I wanted to paint without fear and soldiers watching me constantly. Calls from Iraq came continuously from unknown people, telling me to go back to Iraq and the government would forgive my crime. What crime were they speaking of? The crime of being an artist? The crime of wanting freedom? Or was it the crime of not getting involved in a war, and the killing game Saddam had created? My answer was always, “No, I will not come back.” Then they started to threaten me. I always hung up within minutes. After a few months of calling, I received the bad news that my younger brother had been killed in a weird accident. I believed, and still believe, that it was the work of Saddam’s assassination team. My pain and my anger started me thinking there was nothing left to live for.
But with good friends, an easel, canvas, oils and fresh new ideas, I survived. More than 10 years have passed since the Gulf War’s last breath in Iraq. Saddam Hussein and his government have now vanished, the dictatorship in Iraq has ended. The dictator has been captured like a rat in a hole. This is the happiness I have awaited for a very long time.
I decided to go back home for a visit. But once again, after all these years that I worked so hard for my freedom, I find myself virtually chained from head to toe. I find I am now unable to travel. The chains of immigration paperwork make me feel I am a prisoner again after all this time. Not in a jail, not in a house, but in a country that is called the land of freedom - America. I realize now there is a price for everything you do. I strongly believe that I have paid more than my share. I shouldn’t have had to pay 12 years of my life as a prisoner with no freedom; nor should I have to pay another 12 years of my life in the lap of the Statue of Liberty, again as a prisoner. I am not able to move or travel, to visit my family or the people I love.
The worst thing in my life is the life I have been forced to live.
The second worst thing in this life is when you don’t have a home or a country, and no one knows you exist, nor do they care.
The main purpose for my book is to share the paintings I have left. I want to let people know the painful life I have endured for my art. The journey, torture, chains, and punishment are just a small part of the pain in my life. I prepared the paintings in this book for the public to see. I want to share what I still have; there are 2,300 paintings I won’t get to share unless I get them back from whoever has them. I wish someday, someone would report their whereabouts. Every piece I painted, I remember the colors I used, I remember my mental stage when I painted them - every single one. I even remember the time I painted them, even though the quantity was huge. To lose so many brings painful memories, like losing my own child.
When you view my work, some of you may ask where I get these weird and crazy ideas. My answer is simply: live my life for one week and you will know where I get these thoughts. I am sorry I didn’t explain the meanings of these paintings, but I want you to use your own imagination. One person will see something in the paintings and create their own idea. Someone else will have an entirely different idea of the same painting.
Besides, no book is big enough or thick enough to explain all these paintings. But I promise you - one of the paintings will grab your attention and you will say to yourself, “This is me at a certain time in my life.” In the back of the book, I have given the paintings names and that wasn’t easy. I changed the names time after time. Much thought was given regarding the safety and feelings of others.
Special greetings and grace to those who helped me mentally and financially put this book together, and who stood by my side through the bad times. I dedicate this book to those who know real love. To the people who, like myself, have yet to taste freedom in their life. To the people who spend time in jail for something they didn’t do, and to everyone who has lost loved ones.
To every person who will get the chance to view my work, I especially hope you enjoy it. Thank you and God bless everyone.
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