As I sat in the chair the voice of the speaker faded slightly, and then seemed to disappear into the distance.
All I could hear was the muffled murmur of the speaker, whose name was Jeanne. Even the laughter of the audience could barely distract me.
Thus was I in the zone, going with the flow as it were.
It felt great to be unfettered like this! I relished in the simple realization that here was an "I" that was at one with all people in the room yet was still an individual. Though words cannot describe this duality of all-as-one and the One.
Indeed, this One is not apart from all-as-one yet is a vital part of the One.
As Jeanne continued her monologue, I found that I could follow her and simultaneously focus on my inner journey with little effort.
"It wasn't until later" she said, "that I realized that I am not the only person to whom this happened."
Nor I!
Although I am not unique, and have a lot to contribute to the community, the synchronicity that has colored my life recently is a welcome bonus for me.
Gratefulness and thanksgiving offers a greater bounty than mere pettiness can; of this I am sure, though it cannot be proven by reason alone.
Having reflected deeply on this, I could not speak of it without sounding mad. So I sat there in silence, contemplating its deeper meaning.
"Self and the other are concepts formulated by the mind. As objects of the mind, they have no independent existence from it."
This thought came to me in the form of the inner voice, the internal narrator that notes what happens around oneself yet gives scant warning that danger is near.
For danger is rarely noticed when the distraction of the libido overwhelms the person's tendency towards paranoia.
Paranoia in this case is when a person whose inner dialog does not reliably distinguish between friend and foe. When libido is in its proximity, paranoia is forgotten momentary.
"...I'd forgotten to be self conscious when schooled under his love."
And I too forgot to be conscious of love. It was unnecessary in this context, in a room of fans who admired Jeanne.
Thus it is self love that keeps self respect intact. At root here is my willingness to listen to Jeanne, whose open narrative uncannily echoes my own thoughts.
"...echoes of my thoughts faded away. I could see that I was home."
Ah, Jeanne, I feel at home with my ears bathed in the beautiful timbre of your voice.
"My voice when speaking maintains a timbre to command attention."
And attention I give thee, Jeanne.
At this point in the narrative, I will have to give an overview of what happened next, so as not to confuse people using the current form.
Once Jeanne finished speaking, I made the point of standing up and clapping. Then the rest of our group clapped in unison.
Near the end of the queue, I stepped up and said, "Jeanne, such a lovely book-signing! It is as though what you said echoed in every thought in my head. What I mean is, sychronicity."
Jeanne smiled, saying graciously, "Thank you. To who should I sign your copy of my book to?"
"Just sign it; 'To the lover, by the beloved'." Jeanne paused, and looked at me questioning. "That's from Rumi, isn't it?" she asked.
"Yes, Rumi knew but never acknowledged emptiness. For every created moment, the creator plays a vital part, as though to learn the world by the act of its creation."
Jeanne's eyes glazed over for a moment. "Hmmm... OK then." she said, as she wrote in longhand script, "To the Lover, by the Beloved".
"So, thanks, and if you're available, please join me for a bite to each at the local pizza place."
"Well, I..."
"Jeanne, you can get two slices with a drink for $4.25 or a slice and pop for $3.25!"
Her eyes widened and she smiled brightly. "Ok, you got me sold! I'm a sucker for a cheap date."
Inwardly I smiled. This lady lives by a strict budget even though she's a world-famous author.
During our pizza "date", Jeanne told me about her view of meditation and how it opened up her eyes to an alternative to the usual zeitgeist of the West.
Zeitgeist in context of Western society refers to what the status quo worships without question: individualism as influenced by Jewish and Christian thought with overlays of neo-Platonian, Cartesian and recently secular philosophies.
Even atheists worship this zeitgeist as humanism, having pared away or negated the overtly religious sources.
At this point in the narrative, again I revert back to the continual flow...
Zeitgeist, the soul of a society, its status quo held in awe.
"I still wonder about what I wrote in your copy of my book."
Your book is about synchronicity.
"And your comment about synchronicity..."
Synchronicity is represented by the creator in the act of creating the created. He learns by that act what's involved...
"...in creating. His creation also teaches him what he created..."
Yet under it all, we are all one.
"All one..."
"Jeanne," I said, interrupting her, "you actually wrote 'From the Lover to the Loved'."
Oh, did I?" She laughs. I smiled, and replied,"Yes, but the love of which Rumi spoke is both between man and God, and God and man."
"Yes, yes! God created all of us out of love, because his original creations, the angels... That led to rebellion."
"Yes, and in that act of rebellion, Shaitan had ego arise, even though it was assumed by Christologists that as a creature who could only do God's will, in rebelling, Shaitan did not need to have ego."
"Well, angels and demons, they don't need ego since they exercise the will of divine Ego, God himself."
"True, but Jeanne, be it love or creation, it's best to leave Ego out of the equation."
"Why? Ego is will."
"Well, according to Buddhism, that will can be tainted by delusion, such that Buddha Nature is obscured by afflictions."
"True enough." Jeanne looked at her watch, and pursed her lips, lips so red...
"Oh, my! I must depart."
"May I give you my number?" I asked.
"Can't stay. Gotta go! Email me at the address on the inside back cover of my book!"
So when I got home, I read her book called "Loving-kindness: Is It Nature or Nurture?".
According to her thesis Nature is Buddha Nature while Nurture is meditation. Nature is also other power. Nurture in contract is self power. By using both forms of spiritual action and power, one accesses loving-kindness as though it is a divine gift.
By the time I finished her book, it'd been about a week. During that time I also did my Buddha Remembrance, chanting the Nembutsu seven times after each chapter, and usually twenty-one times in the morning and evening, after awakening in the morning and before falling asleep at night.
As a True Pure Land Buddhist, I'd be inculcated in this ritual since my teens. It is said that once you dedicate yourself to Buddha Remembrance, you will see changes happen such as joy, ability to interpret sutras, and most importantly, Bodhi Mind.
Bodhi Mind is the mind that aspires to be Buddha and desires to help others to Buddhahood with the help of the spiritual compassion and wisdom.
Although I have seen the changes in my life, when I found others who wrote of the same thing, I needed to listen to them and check them out, to see if their Buddhist-inspired message is close to what the Buddha taught.
That was why I was at Jeanne's book signing at the local bookstore.
After reading much of Jeanne's book, I realized that she had excluded one other thing: that mind is a quality of human nature and the heart, of nurture. Together they are referred to as heart-mind to signify the delicate balance between reason, emotions and feelings.
In my email to Jeanne, I told her of this. It was noon, and I didn't expect to receive a reply in the next 24 hours.
When I checked my mail after supper, I saw in my email reader,
From: Jeanne
To: Stephen
Date: 20130125.1346
Subject: Re: You missed the heart-mind
>in your Nature vs Nurture.
>
> Meditation helps moderate the balance between reason and emotions.
> For without establishing the heart-mind, one is either biased to
> nature or nurture, i.e. controlled by emotions or controlled by
> reason and logic. Holistically, it is vital to remain balanced.
I agree with you here! If you reread the Chapter on Nature and Nurture
you would see that I do mention heart-mind.
BTW I enjoyed our "date". Want to try sush at Ichiban-ya?
So I wrote back to her quickly.
From: Stephen
To: Jeanne
Date: 20130125.1351
Subject: Date is on!
Sure, meet you in an hour!
To get to Ichiban-ya, you take a bus to Scott Road Station and catch a Skytrain to Vancouver. Burrard Station is the nearest station to Ichiban-ya, which is near Robson and Thurlow.
It's run by Chinese, but their food is authentic. The sushi, the sashimi, and even the robata is delicious.
I say this because I have been there enough times to know, plus Jeanne knows that too, because it came up in the previous Friday's conversation.
So after walking down into the dimly lit restaurant, I scoped her out and sat across from her.
"Hi, how was transit?" she asked.
"Long but exciting."
"how exciting?"
"Well, because I'm meeting my favorite local author on loving-kindness and how to apply it to this life..."
She smiled. "Oh, you just have a fan's crush on me. Though I'm greatly intrigued by your thoughts on heart-mind..."
I grinned and sighed. "It"s more than a crush, Jeanne..."
At this point in the narrative, we had a dinner date. We ate, and then we tipped well...
"I can't believe the bill came to over $30!" I exclaim as we walk toward her apartment in the West End.
"Well, it was your fault for orderin' the big sake."
"Hey, I was only, only tying to impress you by pretending to be saké host."
"Yes, but you poured more often for me than I could for you."
"Yes, I did! And you point is?"
"My point? My point is, are you trying to take advantage of me?"
"Jeanne, yes, but in a good way. Though you have advantage over me."
"Well, I am 5'9 and you are 5'1. Also I outweigh you by... never mind about my weight!"
"Lady, looks good from where I am staggering..."
"Oh you!"
"Oh, and you could have two small sakes when I asked you if we should go for two small saké or a large to share..."
"But I love sake!"
"See? I wasn't trying to take advantage of you. I was just indulging your love for sake."
At this point in the narrative, we arrived at Jeanne's apartment in the West End. something is supposed to happen at this point, and the narrative has to use a few euphemisms that go beyond "taking advantage of a woman". However, I was so wasted, being 5'1, that I passed out while waiting for her to "slip into something nice."
Sp she undressed me, slid me into bed, and snuggled up to me. Only when I awoke, I thought we had "done it".
She looked so sexy in her nightie.
When she awake, I looked into her eyes and asked, "Did we um...?"
"No, I took your clothes off and slid you into bed. It's not up to the lady to take advantage of the guy."
"Oh. Hey, that's sexist."
"No, it isn't. You and I know once I chose the big bottle, we were going to get lucky."
"Ok then, I'm sorry for passing out on you."
"Wanna make up for it now?" she ask, slyly grinning at me.
At this point in the narrative, we enter a slippery slope into pornographic. All I can say is, I got mojo! ;)
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
20100808
Lands Edge: A Story Summary
The Boulder
The Boulder is a massive glacial boulder that marks the lair of the dragon of Lands Edge in the outskirts of the Highlands.
Kiryn is the heroine of Lands Edge. She is the daughter of Gylan, the late Highland king who was killed by the Highland dragon in retribution for not maintaining the ancient rituals of worship that summon up the dragon that guard the energies that channel through it to keep the lands fertile and free of death and pestilence.
Dragons here are actually shapeshifters, whose original form was that of a mortal human who were once mages but have been transformed by the primordial energies of the earth into their current form. They can maintain their human form only after doing battle with a dragonslayer, the last one dying in Lands Edge.
After witnessing her father's death, and fearing for her life because she never was taught the art of dragon fighting, Kiryn travels to the last place on her world where she may find the last of the dragonslayers, a friend of her father's.
She passes the Boulder, unaware of the dragon's presence.
Lands Edge Inn is a tavern in the lowland many leagues from the Highland plateau that Kiryn grow up in.
Kiryn finds the dragonslayer, only to be told he no longer trains and is a landowner like her father. She ignores the slight, since the dragonslayer is more like the benevolent aristocratic landlord than a true king who rules over a vast domain.
She tries to shame the dragonslayer into training her, so that she may confront the dragon of Land Edge and learn how to appease the dragon now occupying her former castle on the Highland.
The dragonslayer teaches her fighting techniques, yet never did learn the reason why a dragonslayer fight dragons. This is never revealed in the story.
Two Stones
After training hard, the two humans unleash psychic energy induced by ritual combat which awakens the dragon below.
Alarmed and already sensing the presence of its brother dragon on the Highlands, it knows it must act swiftly to maintain the balance over death and pestilence.
It reaches the surface of its home world at the Two Stones, the place of its battle with the dragonslayer's father, who died due to his slow reaction. The smaller of the Two Stones is a man-sized chip that fell from the Boulder when the dragon's deadly blow missed the dead man.
Also, previously dragon's tears are mentioned and they are the most valuable gems, the dragon's treasure.
A battle ensues, which ends when Kiryn, awakened to the dragon's mind, stops fighting and listens to reason.
Finally, the dragon uses the energy of battle to shapeshift to human form and instructs Kiryn on what must be done to regain her home in the Highlands. This is not clear in the story.
What is clear is that dragons need alcohol to be tamed.
Kiryn returns home and bribes the dragon there to be her husband Draco. Making her his betrothed, deflowering her causes Draco to be bound to her, unable to shapeshift unless she releases him from her spell.
The dragon cult is promoted by Draco in far off lands.
This marks a departure from mages who guard one kingdom or domain. He extracts fealty by warning the fiefdom that if they do not give tribute, a dragon will come out of the land to punish them. Sometimes a fiefdom will disobey him yet he cannot punish them in human form.
So he asks her to release him from the spell.
She replies that their son will do that for them.
Soon she gives birth to a dragon that her magick cannot bind to human form. She complains to her husband, who tells her that he needs to lie in wait for a virgin queen to bribe him with alcohol after a battle.
They send the son to kill the rebel lord of one fiefdom, and tell the people to send a young woman to be raised as warrior who knows the way of the sword and the queen's magick.
The fiefdom picks an orphaned girl.
The tradition of dragon sons conquering fiefdoms in exchange for an orphaned girl to be raised as warrior-mage is established. This establishes a lineage of fiefdoms, since the next fiefdom is conquered by Draco's grandson. Yet Kiryn's magick can give both her and Draco long lives.
Once the dragon lineage is established and no petty lords exist to oppress their own fiefdoms, both she and Draco retire to Lands End.
From time to time Draco would play with the Boulder dragon, staging mock battles for his queen's amusement.
In time Kiryn dies and is buried at her ancestral estate in the Highlands. Draco, freed of the spell cast by his mate, reverts to dragon form.
Draco and the dragon at Land's Edge join forces to prevent the likes of men from ruining the world through corruption.
They use magick to create worms that fly off to find places on the earth in need of protection. Nothing is mentioned of the Highland lineage.
The Boulder is a massive glacial boulder that marks the lair of the dragon of Lands Edge in the outskirts of the Highlands.
Kiryn is the heroine of Lands Edge. She is the daughter of Gylan, the late Highland king who was killed by the Highland dragon in retribution for not maintaining the ancient rituals of worship that summon up the dragon that guard the energies that channel through it to keep the lands fertile and free of death and pestilence.
Dragons here are actually shapeshifters, whose original form was that of a mortal human who were once mages but have been transformed by the primordial energies of the earth into their current form. They can maintain their human form only after doing battle with a dragonslayer, the last one dying in Lands Edge.
After witnessing her father's death, and fearing for her life because she never was taught the art of dragon fighting, Kiryn travels to the last place on her world where she may find the last of the dragonslayers, a friend of her father's.
She passes the Boulder, unaware of the dragon's presence.
Lands Edge Inn is a tavern in the lowland many leagues from the Highland plateau that Kiryn grow up in.
Kiryn finds the dragonslayer, only to be told he no longer trains and is a landowner like her father. She ignores the slight, since the dragonslayer is more like the benevolent aristocratic landlord than a true king who rules over a vast domain.
She tries to shame the dragonslayer into training her, so that she may confront the dragon of Land Edge and learn how to appease the dragon now occupying her former castle on the Highland.
The dragonslayer teaches her fighting techniques, yet never did learn the reason why a dragonslayer fight dragons. This is never revealed in the story.
Two Stones
After training hard, the two humans unleash psychic energy induced by ritual combat which awakens the dragon below.
Alarmed and already sensing the presence of its brother dragon on the Highlands, it knows it must act swiftly to maintain the balance over death and pestilence.
It reaches the surface of its home world at the Two Stones, the place of its battle with the dragonslayer's father, who died due to his slow reaction. The smaller of the Two Stones is a man-sized chip that fell from the Boulder when the dragon's deadly blow missed the dead man.
Also, previously dragon's tears are mentioned and they are the most valuable gems, the dragon's treasure.
A battle ensues, which ends when Kiryn, awakened to the dragon's mind, stops fighting and listens to reason.
Finally, the dragon uses the energy of battle to shapeshift to human form and instructs Kiryn on what must be done to regain her home in the Highlands. This is not clear in the story.
What is clear is that dragons need alcohol to be tamed.
Kiryn returns home and bribes the dragon there to be her husband Draco. Making her his betrothed, deflowering her causes Draco to be bound to her, unable to shapeshift unless she releases him from her spell.
The dragon cult is promoted by Draco in far off lands.
This marks a departure from mages who guard one kingdom or domain. He extracts fealty by warning the fiefdom that if they do not give tribute, a dragon will come out of the land to punish them. Sometimes a fiefdom will disobey him yet he cannot punish them in human form.
So he asks her to release him from the spell.
She replies that their son will do that for them.
Soon she gives birth to a dragon that her magick cannot bind to human form. She complains to her husband, who tells her that he needs to lie in wait for a virgin queen to bribe him with alcohol after a battle.
They send the son to kill the rebel lord of one fiefdom, and tell the people to send a young woman to be raised as warrior who knows the way of the sword and the queen's magick.
The fiefdom picks an orphaned girl.
The tradition of dragon sons conquering fiefdoms in exchange for an orphaned girl to be raised as warrior-mage is established. This establishes a lineage of fiefdoms, since the next fiefdom is conquered by Draco's grandson. Yet Kiryn's magick can give both her and Draco long lives.
Once the dragon lineage is established and no petty lords exist to oppress their own fiefdoms, both she and Draco retire to Lands End.
From time to time Draco would play with the Boulder dragon, staging mock battles for his queen's amusement.
In time Kiryn dies and is buried at her ancestral estate in the Highlands. Draco, freed of the spell cast by his mate, reverts to dragon form.
Draco and the dragon at Land's Edge join forces to prevent the likes of men from ruining the world through corruption.
They use magick to create worms that fly off to find places on the earth in need of protection. Nothing is mentioned of the Highland lineage.
20070418
The Myth of Seung-hui Cho's Life
"Of debauchery, deceitful Charlatans, religion, women and rich kids" — Seung-hui cho, April 16, 2007 7:37 AM
I was born on January 18, 1984.
In 1992, my parents and I emigrated to America. We spent our first year in Detroit. It was hell.
In 2003, I graduated from high school. I graduated from an honors school in Chantilly, VA.
Always I felt lonely, and screamed at by my father for being quiet
Between January 2007 and the first week of April 2007, I was infatuated with Emily. When she first rejected me back in March, I went and bought my first gun, a Glock 19.
Five weeks later, I bought a Walther P22, and a shitload of ammo.
This was just after Emily told me she no longer wanted to be my friend.
A few weeks ago, I was caught by the cops speeding on campus. They were going to tell my parents.
Between 5 am and 7:30 am, April 16, I contemplated a confrontation with Emily and strode into her dorm room around 6:45 AM. By 7:15AM she and Ryan were shot dead.
From 7:30 to 9:00 am, back in my dorm room, I wrote eight pages of my manifesto in which I spoke of debauchery, deceitful charlatans, religion, women and rich kids.
Then I sent a lot of videos and pictures to NBC News. I remember saying at one point,
"You had everything you wanted. Your Mercedes wasn't enough, you brats. Your golden necklaces weren't enough, you snobs. Your trust fund wasn't enough. Your vodka and cognac weren't enough. All your debaucheries weren't enough. Those weren't enough to fulfill your hedonistic needs. You had everything!"
Maybe I wrote in red ink, "Ismail Ax", on my arm. I don't remember; the memories are fading.
Sometime after 8:30 am, I rode into Blackburg to drop off my package to NBC News.
Between 9:01 and 9:25 am I drove from Blackburg to Norris Hall. It took me about 14 minutes to kill 30 more people and wound 15. Finally, as I heard the approach of the police, peace came to me as I shot myself in the head with the last bullet of my Glock. It musta been 9:50 am.
...
So what the hell am I doing in Heaven? Shouldn't I be in some kinda purgatory?
Earlier I hear a voice say to me, "Seung-hui Cho, come forward. Your pain is no more." Then memories of my previous existence flashed before me.
Any hope of closeness with my father disappeared when I was 7. "We will be ok in America," said my mother to me.
In Detroit, I vaguely remember being afraid of black men. But I don't know why I killed Ryan.
Once, a pretty American girl teased me when I was 13. Was that why I killed Emily?
How should I know?
In life, we suffer from birth to death. This is a fact of life. Yet, to avoid this truth, we practise debauchery while deceitful charlatans tried to tempt us, as though religion will save us from our own suffering.
Is it like the Muslims say that women bear the gateway to evil? Or, is it just ignorance?
And these rich kids? Why do they torment anyone who is different from them? Why are their riches not used to educate them to respect others who they deem lesser than they are?
I don't know. I don't care.
All I see around me is a bright light, and my memories of my past life are slowly fading...
Is the truth really that each person is loaned a soul at birth, only to be redeemed on death? If so, then am I returning to the Light?
As they too return to the Light, around me are 32 similar souls forgiving me. "Together we return to the Light, for we are as one."
"Jesus died for the sins of man, so that all people, especially sinners, are reborn in heaven."
"If a good man may be born into the Pure Land, then, should he repent from his old ways, so too may an evil man."
So, in murdering 32 innocent souls, is suicide truly repentance?
I was born on January 18, 1984.
In 1992, my parents and I emigrated to America. We spent our first year in Detroit. It was hell.
In 2003, I graduated from high school. I graduated from an honors school in Chantilly, VA.
Always I felt lonely, and screamed at by my father for being quiet
Between January 2007 and the first week of April 2007, I was infatuated with Emily. When she first rejected me back in March, I went and bought my first gun, a Glock 19.
Five weeks later, I bought a Walther P22, and a shitload of ammo.
This was just after Emily told me she no longer wanted to be my friend.
A few weeks ago, I was caught by the cops speeding on campus. They were going to tell my parents.
Between 5 am and 7:30 am, April 16, I contemplated a confrontation with Emily and strode into her dorm room around 6:45 AM. By 7:15AM she and Ryan were shot dead.
From 7:30 to 9:00 am, back in my dorm room, I wrote eight pages of my manifesto in which I spoke of debauchery, deceitful charlatans, religion, women and rich kids.
Then I sent a lot of videos and pictures to NBC News. I remember saying at one point,
"You had everything you wanted. Your Mercedes wasn't enough, you brats. Your golden necklaces weren't enough, you snobs. Your trust fund wasn't enough. Your vodka and cognac weren't enough. All your debaucheries weren't enough. Those weren't enough to fulfill your hedonistic needs. You had everything!"
Maybe I wrote in red ink, "Ismail Ax", on my arm. I don't remember; the memories are fading.
Sometime after 8:30 am, I rode into Blackburg to drop off my package to NBC News.
Between 9:01 and 9:25 am I drove from Blackburg to Norris Hall. It took me about 14 minutes to kill 30 more people and wound 15. Finally, as I heard the approach of the police, peace came to me as I shot myself in the head with the last bullet of my Glock. It musta been 9:50 am.
...
So what the hell am I doing in Heaven? Shouldn't I be in some kinda purgatory?
Earlier I hear a voice say to me, "Seung-hui Cho, come forward. Your pain is no more." Then memories of my previous existence flashed before me.
Any hope of closeness with my father disappeared when I was 7. "We will be ok in America," said my mother to me.
In Detroit, I vaguely remember being afraid of black men. But I don't know why I killed Ryan.
Once, a pretty American girl teased me when I was 13. Was that why I killed Emily?
How should I know?
In life, we suffer from birth to death. This is a fact of life. Yet, to avoid this truth, we practise debauchery while deceitful charlatans tried to tempt us, as though religion will save us from our own suffering.
Is it like the Muslims say that women bear the gateway to evil? Or, is it just ignorance?
And these rich kids? Why do they torment anyone who is different from them? Why are their riches not used to educate them to respect others who they deem lesser than they are?
I don't know. I don't care.
All I see around me is a bright light, and my memories of my past life are slowly fading...
Is the truth really that each person is loaned a soul at birth, only to be redeemed on death? If so, then am I returning to the Light?
As they too return to the Light, around me are 32 similar souls forgiving me. "Together we return to the Light, for we are as one."
"Jesus died for the sins of man, so that all people, especially sinners, are reborn in heaven."
"If a good man may be born into the Pure Land, then, should he repent from his old ways, so too may an evil man."
So, in murdering 32 innocent souls, is suicide truly repentance?
20061212
What Scares One Iraqi (fiction)
This is a work of fiction and accordingly is not realistic about Iraqis and Japanese. However, it is influenced by manga about modern day warrior women.
"What is it about America that scares me?" asked Sayyid, looking at me through the rear view mirror of his old Buick. We were speeding down a street thick with Iraqi men and women.
It was over a decade after George W. Bush's invasion back in March of 2003. On this particular day, a hot April morning in the year 2014, I was one of the first migrant workers to arrive by El Air from Haifa, returning after a previous stint as military nurse working with Iraqi medical staff.
Only a week ago, President Hilary Clinton had signed executive order pulling out troops from the occupation army left in Baghdad after the official coalition pull-out four years ago on November 12, 2010.
In those four years, the US made good its promise under former President Bush to hand over control to an Iraqi parliament fully under its thumb.
Baath subversives had been selectively culled over the past five years, rounded up into American-run interrogation camps. Nominally Baath Muslims and Baaths with a noticeably violent reaction to seemingly oppressive military occupation were placed together, resulting in only a handful of the uncommitted 'converting' to an Islamic fundamentalism that combined a fear mongering regarding Jewish conspiracies with a rigid mindset that negated the open-minded optimism of Sufi reforms.
Sayyid dodges a bearded man to back up on the curb of the road, shock leaving him mute while his fellow country men and women chant.
"Hilary!"
"No, how does America scare you?" I ask, grinning. Sayyid smiles broadly.
"I need not say. The crowd says who my heart fears most."
"Why, Sayyid? It was Bush who ruined Iraq and readied it while you were a child. Don't you fear the Bushes?"
"Yes, but when we asked to nationalize our oil and he refused, he sealed his fate. We had to use democracy in America to lobby earnestly for change."
I pondered Sayyid's word in momentary silence.
"The crowd is too thick." He shifted the old car into park, and then turned off the ignition. The Buick was black, the windows tinted gray.
"It is ok, Sayyid. Please tell me why you fear Hilary."
Sayyid smile, but kept his silence closed behind gold-fleck teeth.
"She has mastered Arabic and knows the Koran well, it is true." The young Iraqi stopped grinning, his dark face wrinkling into a scowl.
"But all this business wasn't stopped by her husband Bill when he came to power."
Instead, there were rumors the US military built biochem warfare munitions and sold it to Iraq via middlemen, at first openly when George Bush Sr. was CIA chief, and perhaps secretly during later administrations.
That was what had lost Iraq's confidence since every bomb meant less money to take care of children, the elderly and especially women.
Yet Hilary's administration supported a pull-out and worked towards that goal.
Saying as much, Sayyid merely said "Hilary wants the best for us."
"Why fear her?"
Shrugging his muscular shoulders, the Iraqi smiled.
"I know that this is sexist," he said, looking me in the eye. "She is a strong woman, but we Iraqi men fear her power over us because we have to treat her like an equal in a country where Baath influence has evaporated leaving a dirty feeling about women leading men."
I looked at Sayyid, and smiled. "I guess you hate women being on top, too."
Laughing, Sayyid replied "Not if she's my wife and emancipated." He winked at me.
With my left hand I reached out and put it on his shoulder.
In Iraqi, I said sweetly "So, let's get to the priest to bless this marriage, my dearest."
"Yes, my dear Sachiko!"
We drove slowly through Baghdad, following the crowds of people. To any prying eyes, they only saw a fellow Iraqi driving an Iraqi car with a woman in the familiar hajib, her face hidden as is the custom for unmarried Muslim women. When anyone threatening edged closer than comfortable, Sayyid would scowl and touch the Ruger in his lap.
Once a disheveled man, his beard spotted with gray and his eyes wild, rapped on the passenger window to attract my attention. Though my head dropped to my lap, Sayyid caught the bearded man's eye. Then he fingered his Ruger. When I looked up, no one was there.
"I would feel safer when we make it to the government office, my love."
Smiling broadly, Sayyid clasped my hand, his first firm affection semi-privately displayed outside of our apartments in the dormitory inside the Baghdad hospital compound.
A young girl in Western attire watched us through the front windshield, her eyes taking us both in. As we drove by, she flashed the sign for victory. Sayyid stopped the car and backed up. "That's the signal."
He cracked the window open, and shouted.
"Pardon Miss!" he said. "I'm taking my betrothed to the government office for official matrimony. Are you our guide?"
The girl smiled, and crowded close to his window. Men, who should have tried to attract her attention, and perhaps drag here away, never appeared. Instead, Sayyid waited for the crowd of men and women to thin out and motioned the girl to get in beside me.
"Hello, I am Aisha," she said, in Darmune dialect. "One of the moderns." As she turned to hug me in greeting, I noticed a small Roxana handgun, made of gray ceramics, gas-powered, popular among the young women.
"Sachiko," I murmured, only to see her eyes light up in surprise.
"My cousin, how is it that a foreigner has caught your heart?" she said, abruptly, her face a mirror of Sayyid’s scowl.
"My beloved was a nurse at the hospital in 2005."
For a moment Aisha's scowl became a puzzled frown. "Cousin, I was only a child then..."
"Think back, Aisha. You two have met."
Slowly, the young girl's frown melted into a smile.
"Saichi?" she said, warily. I squeezed her hand, smiling, tears in my eyes.
"Ai-chan, I am back."
It's funny how memories come back to tell us something about the past, especially warm ones.
Months after I fell for Sayyid, he'd taken me on the only visit to his village near Fallujah, where the Darmune tribe had achieved total dominance over the past 1000 years through revenge killings and technically illegal activities. That a doctor was once a thug is in itself a miraculous story. Even more stranger is that the doctor is so well respected in Fallujah of 2005 that he can escort a foreigner, female and under threat by violence by citizen and American troops. Yet I was young but not naive.
A child of eight had greeted us, and peppered me all kinds of questions. My grasp of Iraqi was inadequate then. Still, we bonded, Aisha and me.
As long as I wore the clothes other Iraqi women wore, my foreignness was hidden. Muteness and occasional Japanese exclamations could be explained as being simply mad. She taught me much of the Iraqi I needed to deal with Iraqi nurses and with vendors outside the hospital compound.
"Saichi-chan, my friend, I missed you. Because of our previous bond nine years ago, I regret my earlier outburst."
"Aisha-chan, I too missed you. Let's make today another adventure."
Sayyid smiled, and for a moment his face was free of scowls. Then the facade returned, his scowl matched by his right hand moving towards his gun.
"We're here. The marriage office."
To Aisha, he asked, "The priest is aware of Saichi not being Darmune, nor of any tribe?"
"He only cares for the American dollars to grease his palm, cousin." She smirked, and winked at me.
"Saichi-chan, has your dear Sayyid trained you with a Roxana?"
It was my turn to smirk, and rather than answer, I placed Aisha's hand on my right thigh, to feel the tanto in its sheath.
"Oh what good is a big knife with an AK-47 pointed at you?"
"Aisha-chan, you'd be surprised of my surgical precision!"
After the wedding we went out separate ways. Aisha melted into the crowd of roving men and women. We managed to get back to the hospital before Dyncorp mercs came on duty for the dusk to dawn shift. The UN observer troops nodded to us. At least one of them could credit either of us with saving their hides after a fire-fight with rebel troops who strayed too far from Fallujah.
Morning caught us in the operation theatre attending to another casualty of the civil war now dying out. Hilary might scare Sayyid, but to me she symbolizes a new way with the world. It's doubtful what she'd make of a Japanese nurse who's as handy with a tanto blade as with the autoclave.
After surgery, Sayyid takes me into his arms. "Well done, nurse!" he says. He smiles broadly, looking into my eyes.
"Now that we are husband and wife, my love, am I merely your nurse?" I ask.
"In the hospital, yes. As for our home in the dorm..."
My breath catches at the implication of his promises.
Later that night, I lay there as Sayyid snores. His trusty Ruger is on his nightstand, my tanto under my pillow. Outside, the gunfire is faint. More casualties in the morning, hopefully the blood bank will be resupplied...
Then my thoughts return to Hilary and what Sayyid said about her.
I know what scares Sayyid, but the only thing that scares me is losing Sayyid. With our security precautions makeshift and mainly for our peace of mind, we rely on corporate mercenaries at night time inside the compound with the UN troops guarding the perimeter.
No one here trusts the Dyncorp security officers. They seem too slow to respond to the rare security breaches, sometimes insulting the Asian medical staff and mostly trying to out think the quick witted Iraqi staff. We have documented the pilferage of drug supplies and sent our inventory lists to UN HQ encrypted. The master list is entrusted to the UN.
Despite all of this worry and complications, Hilary isn't big on my list of fears as the loss of the man I love dearly.
In the morning Sayyid nudges me. "Sachiko Hattori, wife of Sayyid the doctor... Awaken, princess..." I feign sleep, mumbling, "Please, sir, let me rest." My Iraqi has this Japanese accent, I am sure.
To the UN troops and Dyncorp merc, Sayyid is Doctor Sid. To me, he is Sayyid Muhammad-as-Darmune, a reformed juvenile delinquent who escaped petty tribalism to become a skilled surgeon, putting broken bodies of military men back together in a triage center in Baghdad.
To the rest of the world we are both unknown, except to our immediate families.
A year passes. Once I was visiting my mother at the mausoleum of our home city's crematorium. Now I am back at ho
"Oh Mother, your pride and joy, surgical nurse, first of the volunteer wave of Japan's finest medical staff, outsourced to Iraq due to our military commitments to NATO, is married."
Then I returned to Iraq.
Since 2010 Father never writes, his body a frail husk in the old age home. I'm not even sure where his mind is these days. All my hard earned cash after local expenses gets sent electronically to my bank in Tokyo. The old age home takes out their legally proscribed amount and the rest of my funds accumulate interest.
If I were to die tomorrow, then SDF will notify next of kin, arrange the funeral expenses, and travel costs will be taken out of my estate.
If Sayyid dies tomorrow, his staff would start arrangements alien to me, with Aisha taking care of details of customs so alien to me. As of yesterday I am the spouse of an important citizen of the Iraqi Commonwealth of Tribal States, a Japanese national with a father who does not worry about me and a mother who never will.
And still I am scared of losing Sayyid to death. I have seen death countless times at the surgery bed, but am afraid of waking up from my matrimonial happiness to discover him gone forever.
Yet Sayyid is still afraid of President Hilary and what her policies imply for Iraq. The civil war, the violence, the corruption... This doctor-soldier, who has seen blood outside as well as inside this hospital, is my husband.
Yet he reaches for his gun when the gunfire is too near.
And what of Aisha? Will her Roxana fail her in the middle of a sticky situation, brokering a ceasefire in a country not noted for women warriors such as her?
I open my eyes and look up. Sayyid’s smile is reflected in mine. He's dressed in doctor's scrubs, with his Ruger hidden in a pack on his back.
"Still afraid of Hilary?" I ask.
Sayyid’s smile fades, and he scowls. "Only what she represents."
"What about me with my big knife?" I ask.
"Run from knife, rush gun." He grins, his dark face beaming. His close cropped hair suits him. I get up. My scrubs are all neatly laid out on the divan.
Out of the shower, I restrap the sheath to my thigh, neatly sliding the tanto into it. Sayyid is on his cell phone, his voice loud and booming.
"Tell the Dyncorp pig to leave my staff alone," he bellows.
Recently the security guards have made a game of cornering a nurse and rubbing up against her. Respecting decorum, none of them have aggressively asserted themselves, save for the younger ones who clearly state in English, "Please leave me alone." One orderly, Sayyid’s cousin from Fallujah, even reported the incidents to the UN commander.
So Sayyid took matters into his own hands, being the doctor with the most seniority here. He has been negotiating with the Dyncorp executive in Baghdad over the past month to reprimand the supervisor guarding our hospital complex. Negotiating, because the idiot didn't see a problem with this sick game of cat and mouse played by bored, lonely men. Lately, the negotiation gets strained.
As I get the scrubs on, Sayyid utters an expletive, a curse implying revenge for dishonored relatives. He's hung up the cell phone minutes ago, but is upset.
"Dear one, ready and reporting for work!" I shout as I join him in hall leading to the exit from our dorm.
The electronic lock on the door of our room had clicked shut when I left. When we leave the building it's just a quick jaunt from there to the shuttle car driven by a Dyncorp mercenary, his beady eyes ogling me. Reluctantly, Sayyid ignores this impropriety and just scowls. I can smell the decayed sweat on the guard's body, and feel nauseated. But as a precaution I make a mental note to visit the Obs ward. Jasmeen wants me to take a pregnancy test.
Was it weeks ago that I returned?
Later on today, I also have to return to the Nanotech ward, where Doctor Noguchi wants me to take a refresher course on Iraqi while nanobots restructure my short term memories and the language centres of my brain.
Being pregnant or injected with nanobots doesn’t scare me as much as losing Sayyid, I tell myself.
And he's just worried about a woman president of America!
Noguchi's nanobots and I worrying over my positive test at Obs gets me nauseous. However, I'm breathing deeply now, in the gym, keeping my reflexes sharp as this tanto blade whistling through the air. No Dyncorp merc spying on me, only a UN trooper outside the building, protecting me from corrupt corporate lackeys of America.
Hey Hilary! I yell in Japanese. Think you can take me one-on-one!
Quickly I spin, and kick to block the imaginary thrust of Hilary, the both of us naked. Her breaths are short, gasping. Her katana easily misses me. I dodge and feint, my nausea forgotten.
You scare my husband! I yell, sliding my blade up to slide the length of her blade, burying it deeply in her heart.
Spent, I return to reality around me. No Hilary, just me alone in the gym. I wonder what the UN trooper from Canada thinks of this crazy Asian broad. As I dress, the nausea grips me. I rush to the showers, vomit, and clean myself up.
Later, Jasmeen is monitoring my blood. "It's the nanobots, Sachiko. All he's done is shift your dialect to match Sayyid’s. But there are markers I have never seen before."
"Things used to be simpler before the UN repeal of gene technology in 2009."
That was when Hilary felt the itch to be president. By 2012, she had the job. A lot of countries also had female leaders, due to the glitch in 2010 when world leader, all of them male, made the foolish decision to prove the first batch of nanobots safe by taking them, and ended up like my father, senile and drooling.
It is only in the third world countries that men were spared, but the women of privilege survived those experiments to be quicker witted and the equal of their male peers.
Nanotech senility was traced to an engineering glitch, in spite of the rumors of a feminist agenda. How laughable! Nanotech just affects men and women differently.
Maybe that's why Hilary scares Sayyid. Nanobots, the nanotech senility. Obs had me donate eggs, in vitro, a cloning. Sayyid is even afraid nanobots can burrow through latex.
Still, I am afraid of losing him. I lost my father to nanobots.
All Hilary is a symbol of the ascendancy of women in the aftermath of the failed decade of peace that ended in 2010.
As I vomit in the bathroom of our dorm room, this epiphany comes to me...
What scares one Iraqi pales before the fear of one woman who loses the most important male figure in her life.
It makes me wonder how Bill is doing in that geriatric clinic, drooling and nodding off while his wife conquers the world...
"What is it about America that scares me?" asked Sayyid, looking at me through the rear view mirror of his old Buick. We were speeding down a street thick with Iraqi men and women.
It was over a decade after George W. Bush's invasion back in March of 2003. On this particular day, a hot April morning in the year 2014, I was one of the first migrant workers to arrive by El Air from Haifa, returning after a previous stint as military nurse working with Iraqi medical staff.
Only a week ago, President Hilary Clinton had signed executive order pulling out troops from the occupation army left in Baghdad after the official coalition pull-out four years ago on November 12, 2010.
In those four years, the US made good its promise under former President Bush to hand over control to an Iraqi parliament fully under its thumb.
Baath subversives had been selectively culled over the past five years, rounded up into American-run interrogation camps. Nominally Baath Muslims and Baaths with a noticeably violent reaction to seemingly oppressive military occupation were placed together, resulting in only a handful of the uncommitted 'converting' to an Islamic fundamentalism that combined a fear mongering regarding Jewish conspiracies with a rigid mindset that negated the open-minded optimism of Sufi reforms.
Sayyid dodges a bearded man to back up on the curb of the road, shock leaving him mute while his fellow country men and women chant.
"Hilary!"
"No, how does America scare you?" I ask, grinning. Sayyid smiles broadly.
"I need not say. The crowd says who my heart fears most."
"Why, Sayyid? It was Bush who ruined Iraq and readied it while you were a child. Don't you fear the Bushes?"
"Yes, but when we asked to nationalize our oil and he refused, he sealed his fate. We had to use democracy in America to lobby earnestly for change."
I pondered Sayyid's word in momentary silence.
"The crowd is too thick." He shifted the old car into park, and then turned off the ignition. The Buick was black, the windows tinted gray.
"It is ok, Sayyid. Please tell me why you fear Hilary."
Sayyid smile, but kept his silence closed behind gold-fleck teeth.
"She has mastered Arabic and knows the Koran well, it is true." The young Iraqi stopped grinning, his dark face wrinkling into a scowl.
"But all this business wasn't stopped by her husband Bill when he came to power."
Instead, there were rumors the US military built biochem warfare munitions and sold it to Iraq via middlemen, at first openly when George Bush Sr. was CIA chief, and perhaps secretly during later administrations.
That was what had lost Iraq's confidence since every bomb meant less money to take care of children, the elderly and especially women.
Yet Hilary's administration supported a pull-out and worked towards that goal.
Saying as much, Sayyid merely said "Hilary wants the best for us."
"Why fear her?"
Shrugging his muscular shoulders, the Iraqi smiled.
"I know that this is sexist," he said, looking me in the eye. "She is a strong woman, but we Iraqi men fear her power over us because we have to treat her like an equal in a country where Baath influence has evaporated leaving a dirty feeling about women leading men."
I looked at Sayyid, and smiled. "I guess you hate women being on top, too."
Laughing, Sayyid replied "Not if she's my wife and emancipated." He winked at me.
With my left hand I reached out and put it on his shoulder.
In Iraqi, I said sweetly "So, let's get to the priest to bless this marriage, my dearest."
"Yes, my dear Sachiko!"
We drove slowly through Baghdad, following the crowds of people. To any prying eyes, they only saw a fellow Iraqi driving an Iraqi car with a woman in the familiar hajib, her face hidden as is the custom for unmarried Muslim women. When anyone threatening edged closer than comfortable, Sayyid would scowl and touch the Ruger in his lap.
Once a disheveled man, his beard spotted with gray and his eyes wild, rapped on the passenger window to attract my attention. Though my head dropped to my lap, Sayyid caught the bearded man's eye. Then he fingered his Ruger. When I looked up, no one was there.
"I would feel safer when we make it to the government office, my love."
Smiling broadly, Sayyid clasped my hand, his first firm affection semi-privately displayed outside of our apartments in the dormitory inside the Baghdad hospital compound.
A young girl in Western attire watched us through the front windshield, her eyes taking us both in. As we drove by, she flashed the sign for victory. Sayyid stopped the car and backed up. "That's the signal."
He cracked the window open, and shouted.
"Pardon Miss!" he said. "I'm taking my betrothed to the government office for official matrimony. Are you our guide?"
The girl smiled, and crowded close to his window. Men, who should have tried to attract her attention, and perhaps drag here away, never appeared. Instead, Sayyid waited for the crowd of men and women to thin out and motioned the girl to get in beside me.
"Hello, I am Aisha," she said, in Darmune dialect. "One of the moderns." As she turned to hug me in greeting, I noticed a small Roxana handgun, made of gray ceramics, gas-powered, popular among the young women.
"Sachiko," I murmured, only to see her eyes light up in surprise.
"My cousin, how is it that a foreigner has caught your heart?" she said, abruptly, her face a mirror of Sayyid’s scowl.
"My beloved was a nurse at the hospital in 2005."
For a moment Aisha's scowl became a puzzled frown. "Cousin, I was only a child then..."
"Think back, Aisha. You two have met."
Slowly, the young girl's frown melted into a smile.
"Saichi?" she said, warily. I squeezed her hand, smiling, tears in my eyes.
"Ai-chan, I am back."
It's funny how memories come back to tell us something about the past, especially warm ones.
Months after I fell for Sayyid, he'd taken me on the only visit to his village near Fallujah, where the Darmune tribe had achieved total dominance over the past 1000 years through revenge killings and technically illegal activities. That a doctor was once a thug is in itself a miraculous story. Even more stranger is that the doctor is so well respected in Fallujah of 2005 that he can escort a foreigner, female and under threat by violence by citizen and American troops. Yet I was young but not naive.
A child of eight had greeted us, and peppered me all kinds of questions. My grasp of Iraqi was inadequate then. Still, we bonded, Aisha and me.
As long as I wore the clothes other Iraqi women wore, my foreignness was hidden. Muteness and occasional Japanese exclamations could be explained as being simply mad. She taught me much of the Iraqi I needed to deal with Iraqi nurses and with vendors outside the hospital compound.
"Saichi-chan, my friend, I missed you. Because of our previous bond nine years ago, I regret my earlier outburst."
"Aisha-chan, I too missed you. Let's make today another adventure."
Sayyid smiled, and for a moment his face was free of scowls. Then the facade returned, his scowl matched by his right hand moving towards his gun.
"We're here. The marriage office."
To Aisha, he asked, "The priest is aware of Saichi not being Darmune, nor of any tribe?"
"He only cares for the American dollars to grease his palm, cousin." She smirked, and winked at me.
"Saichi-chan, has your dear Sayyid trained you with a Roxana?"
It was my turn to smirk, and rather than answer, I placed Aisha's hand on my right thigh, to feel the tanto in its sheath.
"Oh what good is a big knife with an AK-47 pointed at you?"
"Aisha-chan, you'd be surprised of my surgical precision!"
After the wedding we went out separate ways. Aisha melted into the crowd of roving men and women. We managed to get back to the hospital before Dyncorp mercs came on duty for the dusk to dawn shift. The UN observer troops nodded to us. At least one of them could credit either of us with saving their hides after a fire-fight with rebel troops who strayed too far from Fallujah.
Morning caught us in the operation theatre attending to another casualty of the civil war now dying out. Hilary might scare Sayyid, but to me she symbolizes a new way with the world. It's doubtful what she'd make of a Japanese nurse who's as handy with a tanto blade as with the autoclave.
After surgery, Sayyid takes me into his arms. "Well done, nurse!" he says. He smiles broadly, looking into my eyes.
"Now that we are husband and wife, my love, am I merely your nurse?" I ask.
"In the hospital, yes. As for our home in the dorm..."
My breath catches at the implication of his promises.
Later that night, I lay there as Sayyid snores. His trusty Ruger is on his nightstand, my tanto under my pillow. Outside, the gunfire is faint. More casualties in the morning, hopefully the blood bank will be resupplied...
Then my thoughts return to Hilary and what Sayyid said about her.
I know what scares Sayyid, but the only thing that scares me is losing Sayyid. With our security precautions makeshift and mainly for our peace of mind, we rely on corporate mercenaries at night time inside the compound with the UN troops guarding the perimeter.
No one here trusts the Dyncorp security officers. They seem too slow to respond to the rare security breaches, sometimes insulting the Asian medical staff and mostly trying to out think the quick witted Iraqi staff. We have documented the pilferage of drug supplies and sent our inventory lists to UN HQ encrypted. The master list is entrusted to the UN.
Despite all of this worry and complications, Hilary isn't big on my list of fears as the loss of the man I love dearly.
In the morning Sayyid nudges me. "Sachiko Hattori, wife of Sayyid the doctor... Awaken, princess..." I feign sleep, mumbling, "Please, sir, let me rest." My Iraqi has this Japanese accent, I am sure.
To the UN troops and Dyncorp merc, Sayyid is Doctor Sid. To me, he is Sayyid Muhammad-as-Darmune, a reformed juvenile delinquent who escaped petty tribalism to become a skilled surgeon, putting broken bodies of military men back together in a triage center in Baghdad.
To the rest of the world we are both unknown, except to our immediate families.
A year passes. Once I was visiting my mother at the mausoleum of our home city's crematorium. Now I am back at ho
"Oh Mother, your pride and joy, surgical nurse, first of the volunteer wave of Japan's finest medical staff, outsourced to Iraq due to our military commitments to NATO, is married."
Then I returned to Iraq.
Since 2010 Father never writes, his body a frail husk in the old age home. I'm not even sure where his mind is these days. All my hard earned cash after local expenses gets sent electronically to my bank in Tokyo. The old age home takes out their legally proscribed amount and the rest of my funds accumulate interest.
If I were to die tomorrow, then SDF will notify next of kin, arrange the funeral expenses, and travel costs will be taken out of my estate.
If Sayyid dies tomorrow, his staff would start arrangements alien to me, with Aisha taking care of details of customs so alien to me. As of yesterday I am the spouse of an important citizen of the Iraqi Commonwealth of Tribal States, a Japanese national with a father who does not worry about me and a mother who never will.
And still I am scared of losing Sayyid to death. I have seen death countless times at the surgery bed, but am afraid of waking up from my matrimonial happiness to discover him gone forever.
Yet Sayyid is still afraid of President Hilary and what her policies imply for Iraq. The civil war, the violence, the corruption... This doctor-soldier, who has seen blood outside as well as inside this hospital, is my husband.
Yet he reaches for his gun when the gunfire is too near.
And what of Aisha? Will her Roxana fail her in the middle of a sticky situation, brokering a ceasefire in a country not noted for women warriors such as her?
I open my eyes and look up. Sayyid’s smile is reflected in mine. He's dressed in doctor's scrubs, with his Ruger hidden in a pack on his back.
"Still afraid of Hilary?" I ask.
Sayyid’s smile fades, and he scowls. "Only what she represents."
"What about me with my big knife?" I ask.
"Run from knife, rush gun." He grins, his dark face beaming. His close cropped hair suits him. I get up. My scrubs are all neatly laid out on the divan.
Out of the shower, I restrap the sheath to my thigh, neatly sliding the tanto into it. Sayyid is on his cell phone, his voice loud and booming.
"Tell the Dyncorp pig to leave my staff alone," he bellows.
Recently the security guards have made a game of cornering a nurse and rubbing up against her. Respecting decorum, none of them have aggressively asserted themselves, save for the younger ones who clearly state in English, "Please leave me alone." One orderly, Sayyid’s cousin from Fallujah, even reported the incidents to the UN commander.
So Sayyid took matters into his own hands, being the doctor with the most seniority here. He has been negotiating with the Dyncorp executive in Baghdad over the past month to reprimand the supervisor guarding our hospital complex. Negotiating, because the idiot didn't see a problem with this sick game of cat and mouse played by bored, lonely men. Lately, the negotiation gets strained.
As I get the scrubs on, Sayyid utters an expletive, a curse implying revenge for dishonored relatives. He's hung up the cell phone minutes ago, but is upset.
"Dear one, ready and reporting for work!" I shout as I join him in hall leading to the exit from our dorm.
The electronic lock on the door of our room had clicked shut when I left. When we leave the building it's just a quick jaunt from there to the shuttle car driven by a Dyncorp mercenary, his beady eyes ogling me. Reluctantly, Sayyid ignores this impropriety and just scowls. I can smell the decayed sweat on the guard's body, and feel nauseated. But as a precaution I make a mental note to visit the Obs ward. Jasmeen wants me to take a pregnancy test.
Was it weeks ago that I returned?
Later on today, I also have to return to the Nanotech ward, where Doctor Noguchi wants me to take a refresher course on Iraqi while nanobots restructure my short term memories and the language centres of my brain.
Being pregnant or injected with nanobots doesn’t scare me as much as losing Sayyid, I tell myself.
And he's just worried about a woman president of America!
Noguchi's nanobots and I worrying over my positive test at Obs gets me nauseous. However, I'm breathing deeply now, in the gym, keeping my reflexes sharp as this tanto blade whistling through the air. No Dyncorp merc spying on me, only a UN trooper outside the building, protecting me from corrupt corporate lackeys of America.
Hey Hilary! I yell in Japanese. Think you can take me one-on-one!
Quickly I spin, and kick to block the imaginary thrust of Hilary, the both of us naked. Her breaths are short, gasping. Her katana easily misses me. I dodge and feint, my nausea forgotten.
You scare my husband! I yell, sliding my blade up to slide the length of her blade, burying it deeply in her heart.
Spent, I return to reality around me. No Hilary, just me alone in the gym. I wonder what the UN trooper from Canada thinks of this crazy Asian broad. As I dress, the nausea grips me. I rush to the showers, vomit, and clean myself up.
Later, Jasmeen is monitoring my blood. "It's the nanobots, Sachiko. All he's done is shift your dialect to match Sayyid’s. But there are markers I have never seen before."
"Things used to be simpler before the UN repeal of gene technology in 2009."
That was when Hilary felt the itch to be president. By 2012, she had the job. A lot of countries also had female leaders, due to the glitch in 2010 when world leader, all of them male, made the foolish decision to prove the first batch of nanobots safe by taking them, and ended up like my father, senile and drooling.
It is only in the third world countries that men were spared, but the women of privilege survived those experiments to be quicker witted and the equal of their male peers.
Nanotech senility was traced to an engineering glitch, in spite of the rumors of a feminist agenda. How laughable! Nanotech just affects men and women differently.
Maybe that's why Hilary scares Sayyid. Nanobots, the nanotech senility. Obs had me donate eggs, in vitro, a cloning. Sayyid is even afraid nanobots can burrow through latex.
Still, I am afraid of losing him. I lost my father to nanobots.
All Hilary is a symbol of the ascendancy of women in the aftermath of the failed decade of peace that ended in 2010.
As I vomit in the bathroom of our dorm room, this epiphany comes to me...
What scares one Iraqi pales before the fear of one woman who loses the most important male figure in her life.
It makes me wonder how Bill is doing in that geriatric clinic, drooling and nodding off while his wife conquers the world...
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