Rose of Jericho (eBook)

1.

Sir, Nora’s not the enemy. She’s an able translator who understands different Iraqi dialects and culture of the country. She speaks better English than half of the personnel at the military base.”

“You’re a competent JAG, John, but I think your judgment’s clouded. How long has your tour been?”

John clenched his jaw. Commander Miller could be obdurate, and his bias against the Iraqi locals bled into snide comments he directed at John.

“Thirty-six months, Sir.”

“Listen, John, I like you. It’s weird to see a North Carolina-bred man wander through the local bazaar tasting that nauseating spicy food. What’s that stuff called? Humma?”

John replied through gritted teeth, “Hummus, sir.”

Miller hated it when subordinates corrected him. He pressed on with his questioning.

“Why not have beers with the guys? You know, do the normal things? We’re not here to film a Discovery Channel documentary.”

A muffled call to prayer rang in the distance. Its haunting tones nauseated Miller, who yearned for the sights of suburban homes and parks in his native Boston.

“The sooner we deal with this Iraqi shit, the better. The decision to hire Nora is yours. Remember, fraternization with foreign nationals in a conflict zone isn’t simply frowned upon, It’s illegal. Besides, people are talking. Your reputation and career could suffer.”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll remember.”

John stormed out of the office before Miller could aggress him any further.

That night, John sat in his bed with his back against the wall. He relaxed as he sipped an amber-colored bourbon. John looked down at the wrinkled leather Bible his mother Janine gave him as a middle schooler in Raleigh, North Carolina. It belonged to his grandmother; Janine often reminded him of that fact. Legacy was important in John’s household. John remembered how the stories from the Bible came to life when Janine retold them with her raconteur’s wit and theatrical expressions.

Janine died during John’s Junior year of high school; she’d been in the middle of leukemia treatment. During her treatment, Janine’s smile buoyed John. He’d taken to calling her “Grace,” and “his Grace,” which was her nickname from childhood. Still, Janine’s faint eyes portended, and it did.

She was the perfect complement to John’s father, Thomas, a successful Senator and a former marine who descended from southern aristocrats. John resented his father because his Senatorial ambitions sapped Janine’s strength. She insisted on making campaign appearances, appearing nonplussed and vibrant under her heavy makeup. Still, Janine tempered John and the Senator’s turbulent relationship. She often remarked that she saw more similarities in the two than either would have liked to admit. However, John inherited his mother’s sensitivity and her compassion for the downtrodden; The Senator wished John were more hard-edged and dispassionate like him.

Janine was a fervent Democrat, which fueled gossip among her Republican neighbors. In their imaginations, Janine spent her days fraternizing with minorities and gays, dreaming up ways to bring a utopian socialist system to the United States. In reality, she championed the rights of people whom the majority ignored. After Janine slipped into a coma and passed away, John took to calling his father “Senator”. It was a title devised to wall up the devastating heartbreak that both men felt over Janine’s death, but that neither dared to confront. John fell asleep thinking of his mother, with the bourbon glass and the Bible inches away from his hand.

The next morning, John typed the last paragraph of a legal memo into his MacBook. A quiet voice broke the clickety-clack of John’s keyboard.

“Sir, I was told you were a lawyer. If you have a moment, I have something urgent to discuss with you.”

John saw a tall, svelte young woman in the doorway. She wore a black and gold Hashimi dress. John motioned her to sit down. He gazed at the level of English and the confidence this woman, dressed in traditional Iraqi garb, exhibited. Her modest and elegant appearance made her look like a cross between a gazelle and a cheetah.

“I’m John Alexander.”

The woman smiled. She did not accept John’s outstretched hand, keeping her hands folded near the tops of her thighs as she sat down.

“Salam Alaikoum, Mr. Alexander. I am Nora Al-Dulaimi. I interpret for the British Embassy in Baghdad.”

“Nice to meet you, Nora. You speak English like a Brit. Where were you raised?”

“I was born and in Baghdad, but I spent my childhood in Cambridge, England.”

“I see. And would you mind telling me why you seem familiar to me? Have we met?”

“No, not that I’m aware of.”

John rapped his desk with his knuckle. His eyes glazed over for a moment.

“Ah, I’ve got it! You’re Aseel’s friend.” John remembered that he once saw Nora shopping with Aseel, a local Iraqi Greek Orthodox Christian. He got to know Aseel because she went on a few dates with John’s friend Aaron, an American soldier from the Carolinas.

“How’s Aseel’s baby doing?”

Nora’s face tensed.

“Aseel’s fine, Al Hamdoulilah.”

John pursed his lips. He turned his head to the side.

“And what’s Aaron been up to?”

Nora fixed her gold-toned eyes on John’s face. She studied him for a moment and wondered how much she could trust him.

“The army sent him back to the U.S. Aseel is in danger. Her family will kill her if they find out she is pregnant by him! That’s why I’m here. We need your help to convince the American Consulate to issue her a visa to reunite with Aaron.”

John nodded. “Where is her family now?”

“Here, in Iraq.”

“Then how will they kill her? Besides, isn’t Aseel a Christian? I thought Christians didn’t commit honor killings.”

“In the Arab world, honor is the highest currency. It isn’t a matter of Muslim or Christian. Her family has resources. They will find her and punish her. I fear for Aseel and the baby’s safety.”

John tapped his black leather briefcase with the nib of a Montblanc pen.

“How does honor play into this?”

Socratic questioning was John’s favorite tactic to corner opponents in court.

“A woman’s chastity reflects her family honor. The family is the smallest indivisible unit of an Arab community, not the individual. A woman must guard her chastity as Mary, May Allah the Almighty exalt her mention, watched over hers.”

John leaned back in his chair. He fixed a pensive stare on the folder on his desk.

“Nora, you said you can interpret. Are you a competent researcher too?”

She straightened her back and leaned in his direction.

“I am. Does that mean you will help us?”

“Yes. But in the meantime, I need an interpreter and a translator. The JAG office is thin on resources, and I could use your help. Think about it and let me know.”

“God bless you, Mr. Alexander,” Nora murmured.

“Whose God?” John quipped. “The Muslim God, or the Christian God?”

Nora blinked in surprise.

“There is only one God, the Almighty, the Creator of everything, and the Supreme. He sustains and protects everything that exists. And he knows what happens to his creatures in this life and what will happen to them in the afterlife.”

Nora’s angelic appearance helped to sell her message, but John was unperturbed by her lofty notions of God.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Nora. Give me your answer soon.”

It was dark when Nora left John’s office. A mixture of dust and rain settled in from earlier that day; it gave the town a somber look. Nora stood on the corner of a dirt road until a yellow cab, covered in dust, pulled up a few feet in front of her. When it stopped, Nora saw two passengers inside. She hesitated to approach the cab, fearful of the passengers in the shadow. The wizened cab driver turned off the bright headlights and got out of the car.

He asked her,

“Where are you headed, dear daughter?”

“The Embassy District, uncle.”

“Come on, we’re going that way.”

The driver’s gentle voice reassured Nora, who got inside the cab. The Embassy District was Baghdad’s wealthiest Sunni neighborhood. It was replete with state leaders’ villas, embassies, luxury boutiques, and gardens. The district was a walking distance from the “Green Zone,” but Nora, a Sunni, preferred to take a taxi to her house as a precaution. Sectarian violence escalated when Shiite families moved into abandoned homes that had been owned by Sunni families.

The two cab passengers, looking-like a married couple, greeted Nora. As the taxi driver pulled up to her house, Nora asked him what the fare was.

“This is Kassim al-Dulaimi’s house. He was a brave man who stood for his convictions. I won’t take any money from you. God bless you and your family.”

The driver waved to Nora and drove away.

Nora’s house stood behind a concrete wall with a gated entrance. Its gray bunker-like exterior led to an opulent driveway lined with gardenia bushes, two large date palms, and a dazzling array of colorful plants. The front entry stood between a dining room on the left and a large formal living room on the right. A family room, designed to seat fifteen people, pervaded the back of the house; it included a kitchen with an...