Escape from Saddam by Lewis Alsamari Read Free Book Online Page A

my school to sign the piece of paper that I hoped would be my ticket out of Iraq: “I, Saadoon Alsamari, give my permission for my son Sarmed to travel out of the country before returning to attend university.”
    I couldn’t believe how readily he had granted his permission, but I still required permission from my school. It was not simply a matter of gaining a signature from the right person, however. I approached the registrar with gifts of baklava and bananas—which were scarce at the time because of the sanctions—and literally begged him to take the relevant document to the dean to be signed.
    The next step was to take the three documents to military headquarters in Samarra, for that was where my paternal family was originally from, along with the application fee of 15,000 dinars—at that time worth about $300. “Sure,” said my father, “I’ll take you to Samarra.”
    “When can we go?”
    My father shrugged. “Two weeks, maybe three.”
    “But it’s already the middle of July,” I told him. “They would expect me back in the country at the end of August—it won’t give them enough time to process the application.”
    “Well, I’m sorry, Sarmed. I’m busy here—I can’t just drop everything to take you to Samarra. You’ll have to be patient.” Suddenly his attitude seemed to be changing, as though he knew I was going to encounter these difficulties but was pleased that I would not be able to pin them precisely on him.
    “Okay,” I replied, “I’ll take the coach to Baghdad and get Uncle Saad to take me.”
    My father turned stony-faced, as he always did when my uncle was mentioned. “Saad, eh?
Arrooj.
Peg-leg. Very well.”
    I had one more favor to ask. “I need the application fee,” I told him. “Fifteen thousand dinars.”
    His eyes went flat. “I’m not going to give you that sort of money,” he told me adamantly.
    “Please,” I begged him. “If you don’t lend me the money, there’s no way I can get out of the country—no way I can study to become a doctor. The only other way I can raise it is to sell all my stuff.”
    “What stuff?”
    “My computer, my bike…”
    “They’re not yours to sell. They’re mine—you only borrow them. Everything in this house belongs to me.” He turned to leave the room. “If you need money,” he said with a hint of sarcasm, “maybe
arrooj
can give it to you. But somehow, I doubt it.”
    My father left me to simmer on that thought for a while. The following day I called Saad. I told him about the conversation as he listened quietly. “Okay,” he said when I had finished. “Get the coach to Baghdad and we’ll sort it all out.”
    “What about the money?” I asked.
    “Don’t worry about that—I’ll get the money.”
    “Where from?”
    “I said don’t worry about it. Just get here.”
    My father seemed uncharacteristically unconcerned when I informed him boldly that I was going to Baghdad. With any luck, I was to be departing Mosul for the last time before leaving Iraq, but he clearly did not think my chances of success were high. “I’ll see you soon,” he told me before I left. It was almost as though he knew something I did not.
             
    The office in Samarra was deliciously cool, and the immaculately dressed military official who was to authorize my application made a stark contrast to Saad and me, rumpled and sweating from the torturous heat of the car journey from Baghdad. The room itself was bleak—a table, three chairs, and an old metal filing cabinet in the corner—but the official maintained an imperious bearing nevertheless. We needed this man’s help, so we made every effort to be scrupulously polite. “What is the boy’s name?” he asked as he examined my papers. His voice was thick with the accent of Samarra.
    “This is my nephew, Sarmed Alsamari. He wishes to make an application to travel outside the country.”
    “I’m sure he does.” He eyed me with suspicion. “What is his