Driving Back
We left the business and were driving back to my hotel. The chill air of the evening was a contrast to the heat of the day. I leaned back in the seat and watched Rashida as she drove with a precision as fine as the curves of her face.
“You’re staring, “she said without taking her eyes off the road.
“Sorryâ€, I said, not meaning I had any regrets. “Your English is very good.â€
“So is yours,†she said with a smile.
“Well I was born in America, so English is my native tongue.â€
“My mother was born in America too. I learned to speak it from her.†she said. “My parents met in college in Philadelphia. My father was from Iraq. When he came home, he brought her home as his wife.â€
“What did your father do?†I asked.
The smile left her, and she responded in a matter of fact tone. “He was a government official in the Ba’ath Party. I was five years old when the Halabja attack occurred. My father was appalled that Saddam would attack his own people.â€
“That’s the chemical attack on that city in Kurdistan? “
“Yes.â€