During the 2019 protests in Baghdad, the gatekeepers held the power to determine the fates of individuals by deciding who would live and who would die. This authority was exercised in the midst of the demonstrations against the high levels of unrest and discontent in the region.
Ali Ramthan Hussein
Translated by Essam M. Al-Jassim
Dear Sniper,
I’m the boy you killed a few days ago.
Regretfully, resolute and unwavering sniper, I cannot introduce myself to you because, having lived for little more than a dozen years, I had no significant achievements to boast of — nor did I have an illustrious heritage. A small, inconsequential being in this vast world. Only a marginal soul in this life. My identity was just taking shape when you delivered my end.
Simply put, I was merely a young boy with a pulsating love for his country. I knew nothing about the murky, unsavory realm of politics. And yet — and yet I’m dead.
Despite what you might think, I seize this opportunity to applaud you! I salute your impeccable aim and precise shot. I’m, in a strange way, proud of you — yes, proud of you! — for being an Iraqi who can snipe with such accuracy. Your skill is a testament to rigorous training and an unflinching dedication to your profession.
Yes, proud of you!
Your bullet struck the dead center of my forehead, as if you aimed to perforate my very being. The projectile was mercifully fast. When it pierced my skull, I felt nothing. I commend you for the speed with which I fell. Surely, your commander is impressed by your valor, and an appreciation letter awaits you for your courage. What command unleashed such a force, full of your unidentified rage?
As I have been so suddenly wrenched from mine, I wonder if you have a family. Do you miss them? The separation must weigh heavily on you. They must miss you, too, and worry about your safety. I hope you assure them that you’re completely safe, properly protected by your gear. I’m sure you will visit them when you are on leave. You will have the opportunity to see them, hug them, talk to them, and enjoy their company.
My dear sniper, will you tell your family about the bullet you put through my head? Will this act of death-dealing add to your achievements in their eyes? I’m asking to know if your taking my life was at all worthwhile for you.
Recount for them the story of the unarmed boy you killed. Please, give them the full account. Try to weave a plausible tale or create a heroic narrative. Try to turn something ugly into a beautiful anecdote.
I don’t think you will be able to.
Perhaps you can tell them I was as young as your brother’s son, Ahmed, or as old as your sister’s son, Alaa. You can explain how I was standing with my friends, cheering and chanting of my love for my homeland. Tell them the boy you killed had dreams of mending the terrible ruptures that have torn apart this land and our society. Tell them he was a passionate boy who was simply trying to stand up for what he believed in. He was not harming anybody, any property, any soul. Tell them he was not a threat to you or your puppeteers.
Tell your wife, as she cuddles your daughter in her loving arms, that the boy you killed was rallying to support the creation of a decent healthcare system for the next generation. Assure her of this — it will give your story a poignant, unforgettable flavor.
My dear sniper, tell me about your daughter. Do you love her? I picture her on your lap, her smile brightening as you gently stroke her soft hair. It must feel soothing, for her and for you. I want you to caress her brow and try to press one finger on the center.
Push her forehead a little. Then apply more pressure.
Can you? I don’t think you can.
Why?
Because the pressure would hurt her, and you care for her deeply.
The discomfort she might feel is but a fraction of the anguish my parents endure. I felt nothing, but they suffer the searing pain of your bullet. They’ll carry it forever. They’ll mourn helplessly, their hearts shattered, clinging to each other in piercing grief.
Ah, the tender bond of a mother, the compassionate embrace of a father. They’ll live through each other’s agony.
Don’t forget to tell your loved ones the little boy you killed was a false enemy. I was not trying to attract the soldiers’ attention. I wanted nothing to do with the imminent war. I posed no threat, standing in front of you with a face mask and a bony bare chest. I was innocent, kind, good-natured, and poor. Yet, inexplicably, you confronted me with a sniper’s deadly precision.
One last question, sniper: WHY did you kill me?
Unfortunately the first casualty of any war is always innocence.
The translation was more than wonderful.
Wow! Thank you Essam for bringing such a powerful story to a wider audience.
I am proud of your likes and proud of the translator, Mr. Essam