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The Telling Room: 'Sparrows'

Courtesy the Telling Room

Every Friday this summer, we're featuring the work of young writers, in partnership with the Telling Room In Portland. This week's entry is titled "Sparrows," by Omar Raouf of Portland, who left Iraq eight years ago with his family at the age of nine.

When I was nine, I had a sparrow that lived in a small cage by the window. One day, I left the cage door open and the sparrow flew out the window. I never thought I would see the sparrow again, but later that day he came back. My grandmother had thrown breadcrumbs in the garden and he had come back to eat them. It's almost impossible to tell one sparrow from the rest, but I knew he was my sparrow. There were many little things that were different about my sparrow from all the other sparrows, but I can't really tell you what they were. I just knew he was mine.

Trying to recognize one sparrow from another for humans is like trying to tell apart the two factions of Islam if you're not a Muslim. For our family, however, in 2006, the blind hatred between two religious groups was terrifying. People in both groups were killed, whether they were involved in the conflict or not. One blind-minded group wanted to avenge what they thought was a terrible offense against them over 1,000 years ago. They believed they still needed to avenge this offense. That's a long time to hold a grudge.

Therefore, my father decided we had to leave Baghdad. He said we had no choice. Leaving the place you grew up in makes you feel like a tree being pulled, roots and all, from its environment. Then you get planted in a different place. I can clearly recall the day I got into the GMC with my family to leave Baghdad, perhaps forever, I thought then. I was leaving behind nine years of laughing, crying, and playing with family and friends, leaving behind the smell of my aunt's sweet flatbread and me eagerly awaiting my small piece. I remembered my grandmother breaking open olive green cardamom pods and adding them to our small cups, called istikan, and then pouring the red tea over them. The cups are not at all like European cups. Istikan are shaped like upside-down bells. I remember the echo of the spoon hitting the edges of the cups as everyone stirred their tea. The sound is still ringing in my head.

This is only one of many memories of my life in Baghdad. I will tell you more as they occur to me. The time got slower as we walked closer to the GMC. Our feet knew what our hearts felt and they didn't want to go either. As I turned around, my eyes fell on my dad. I saw him brushing a tear off his cheek, and I felt his sadness and love for our old home. I felt his sadness for being forced to leave and love for the family, friends, and the streets where he grew up and spent his best days. I was shocked, watching my dad. I looked at the rest of my family and saw we shared the same look of sadness and love.

As we rode out of Baghdad, I sat in the backseat looking through the windows, trying to see as much as I could of my home, a huge city, as the sunlight hit my eyes. The car carried me further from home. Everything blurred into lines of lights, buildings, and people, all flashing by like the pages in a book being turned so quickly that I couldn't read the words.

When we stopped in the traffic I felt better because I could recognize the buildings and give them a last look, I could say goodbye. The line of traffic was so long that I couldn't see the light when it turned green. The only way I could tell was when I saw the brake lights of the cars ahead of us turn off. That meant we'd move forward and further. It was like this over and over again until we left the city and got on the highway, where we moved faster. Then, after a short time on the highway, I couldn't see the city that we had left behind and couldn't tell when we would stop.

I kept asking my dad how long it would take until we reached our new home. He told me, "In seven or eight hours, son." As we went further on the highway, the landscape became a desert. I leaned my head back, but there was nothing left to see. Asking myself all sorts of questions about today and yesterday, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, the sun was about to set. The sunset in the wild was the best thing I had ever seen; I didn't want to close my eyes, even for a second, so that I could enjoy every moment of that view. It was something I had only seen in cartoons and never thought I would see in reality. It was one of the best moments that I have ever enjoyed with my family. It seemed to ease our minds and lighten the pressures that we were feeling. The sun kept moving until that blazing orange sank behind the horizon. That was when darkness covered the wild, and all I could see were clusters of stars, like candles that light the sky.

I could hear my dad and the driver talking about "the border," but I didn't know what it was or what it would look like. Then my dad asked my mom for the passports, another subject I didn't understand, even though they were speaking in Arabic, my first language. My mom had prepared some food for the car ride and told me that as soon as we reached our new home she would cook my favorite meal. While I ate my sandwich, I could see the sand particles reflecting the moonlight out over the desert.

All night we drove closer to the border, but we were still on the very dangerous highway. It was almost sunrise as I looked through the window to tell where we were and what was going on around us, even though I couldn't recognize the places. After I woke up, I saw this weird dark shape on the side of the road. Some smoke was coming out of it. It was visible because the orange sun was once again in the sky. I could see a shape that had once been an automobile, but I had never seen one burn before.

Just after this scene I looked at my dad. I could see he was getting more worried. I don't remember my dad's face looking relaxed at all during the trip. I had many questions that I was anxious to ask, but every time I looked at my dad I stopped myself because I didn't want to bother him with my silly questions. There were other cars on the highway and I could tell that they were fleeing Baghdad, too, from the suitcases piled on top of the car or stacked in the back window. I felt better knowing that other people were leaving and that we were not the only sparrows.

After a few more hours, I could see several long rows of cars ahead of us. I began trying to count the number of cars ahead of us so that I would know how long it would take us to reach the border. I could see that we would have to wait for about ten cars to go before it was our turn. As I was counting, I stuck my head out the window a little bit so that I could see more clearly. When my mom saw me, she told me to pull my head back in the car quickly. American and Iraqi soldiers and snipers manned this checkpoint, armed to their teeth. They got suspicious of anyone leaving their cars or appearing out of the windows, suspecting that they might intend to shoot at them. Their primary strategy was to shoot anything that moved out of place.

My dad had prepared all of the paperwork, and I could see that he was less worried than he had been, but our driver was getting increasingly nervous because he was the one who was usually responsible for taking care of the paperwork. Finally, we got to the checkpoint. It was dark outside, but there was some light in the checkpoint building. The driver left the car with the paperwork. Some time later, he came back and asked my dad to go inside with him for a security check, and as my dad left with the driver two policemen came up to our car holding flashlights and machines that beeped. They checked the car.

Inside, my dad had to give his fingerprints and put his face to a machine that would take his eye print. However, my dad's vision was deteriorating and his retina was damaged, and the police got suspicious because they did not find him on their computers. He had to stay there for a while. The driver came back and told us what happened. My mom was praying. I was even more worried than she was because I didn't understand what was happening or what they might do to him. Fortunately, our fears were not realized. My dad came back to the car unharmed and we were able to pass the checkpoint.

We finally reached Syria, passed through Damascus, and were approaching Tartus. While we were still on the road, we stopped at a restaurant and I tasted the Syrian bread and food for the first time. I was hungry so I had no choice but to eat, and after I finished I realized that it wasn't bad to try new foods. While we were eating our lunch, I listened to the people speaking around me. I could tell what they were talking about, but I couldn't speak the same way; they were speaking much faster than I was used to. I was afraid to talk because I felt as though I would reveal myself as a stranger, someone who didn't belong.

We got back on the road, and the closer we got to my new home the more the things I saw excited me. Tartus is a beautiful city lying next to the Mediterranean Sea, surrounded by valleys with rivers cutting through it. I could see olive trees on the steppes and covering the sides of the mountains. As we drove, I wondered what school I would be going to and what it would look like. Would I still be able to chase a ball? Would I easily make new friends? Would I ride my bike in my new neighborhood? All these thoughts hit me in the head. For a moment I felt sad. I had never worried about being a stranger to a place before and once I did I knew I would always miss the old things I loved. Suddenly, my view of the whole experience of this new city changed.

My worries, however, ended up being fleeting. Once I got to know the city that would be my new home-the buildings, the houses, the mosques and the churches-I learned that it wasn't that different from my old city. What I really liked was the view and smell of the sea. The water reflected the sun's light, like the sand did in the moon's light in the desert. I would learn to love this place as much as my former home in Baghdad. Sparrows are very adaptable; they can be happy anywhere. Maybe they have no choice.

Omar Raouf is now 17 years old and a student at Portland High School. He is originally from Baghdad, Iraq, and has lived in Maine for three years. This year, he was a member of the Young Writers and Leaders program at the Telling Room - a non-profit writing center dedicated to the idea that children and young adults are natural story tellers.