Mubshir was beautiful. He was the first man who ever made me climax. I told him I loved him, and he said the same to me, but we were pretending, and both knew it. We wanted a love story. It made our imminent demise romantic. He had a girl back home in Baghdad. I think all he ever wanted was to be her husband, her provider and protector, the father of her babies. He didn’t lie or try to mislead me, and the way he spoke of her made me love her too. I didn’t mind when he called me by her name, or that he pretended my body in his arms was hers. Sometimes I imagined I really was her. I thought it was the closest I would ever come to being loved by a man.

Then the Americans rolled in on their monstrous tanks, smiling from their perches, flowers thrown at them from all sides. I don’t know what became of Mubshir. I’d like to imagine him with his girl, but I’ve seen enough of our world to know better. Charred corpses of fleeing Iraqis burned stiff in every conceivable configuration littered the desert sand for miles and miles in what became known as the Highway of Death.

Jehad had been back from Amman less than a month when American soldiers swarmed our streets. He was a few centimeters taller and his whiskers had bloomed into a proper mustache and beard. I wanted to hear about university, but in that month he was preoccupied by our situation and spoke of little else.

“I think the Americans orchestrated all of it and our stupid leaders, especially Saddam, are playing right into their hands,” he said, taking a hit from his inhaler. I noticed he was doing that more frequently now. He wanted to help the resistance defend Kuwait, but he felt the same kinship with Iraqis as he did with Kuwaitis. He could not fathom harming Iraqis and cursed Saddam for bringing such division among brothers. He cited historical examples of American treachery, spoke of Iran’s shah and several CIA coups against Arab leaders. The malice of it all vexed him.

I was both impressed and annoyed with him. I didn’t want my brother to be engulfed in politics the way so many men were. I was so emotionally invested in his future that I neglected to examine my own ambitions. I too wanted to learn. I wanted to leave and love and live something else. I didn’t yet know what, mostly because I needed to ensure that Jehad could find his way first.

“Teach me something in Russian,” I begged. “Please?”

“Kak pozhivaesh?”

“What does it mean?”

“It means, how are you?”

“No. I want to know dirty words.”

I learned several fabulous words that day but forgot them all except one superb line: “Otva`li, mu`dak, b`lyad!” It means: Fuck off, you asshole, fuck!