I think…. I do not know what to think. I am only 13, and a girl, so I guess I don’t have to think anything. I hate Iraq... I hate it because Al-Hadiye died last week. “You should hate the American soldiers”, Papa said, but I don’t. I know it is not their fault, It is that depleted uranium.

I can barely speak of it, even now. He smiled, his body battered but his eyes, still loving and pure. “I will look down on you”, he said, “right on through into your heart.” And then he was silent. Not just the sleeping silence or the sober silence. The silence that told me the real Al-Hadiye was gone, up to a special place, and this was just the leftover Al-Hadiye.

I used to love living here, but now even the simplest pleasures are gone.

Sometimes I wonder if I even belong here.

No one really cares; Mama is only concerned with staring into space. It is strange… she was so sad about Al-Hadiye dying, but even now as I am her only living child, she seems even less part of our world… and more part of her own little circle of grief, but one that I hope is slowly coming down to make her realize that he really is dead, but she still has me.

I earned a dinar last week, for helping deliver Marin’s baby, and helping build their house. Usually they wouldn’t get me, a girl, to build a house, but I am very strong and the boys were not here.

I remember how it used to be… we used to not even be allowed outside. If I was not with Papa, the men would throw things at me and beat me with a stick. I also miss how it used to be… there was no bombing, or children writhing and screaming on the ground; some without an arm, or legs, or a whole bunch of people staying at our home all the time, because they did have one, or my best friend Daliat being taken away by the officials… or Al-Hadiye dying, or Mama ignoring me.

There are some times when I do not cry, but rather smile. Yesterday, a soldier gave me a doll, a very beautiful one, with a cloth body, beautiful braided black yarn hair, with a woven blue silk dress. I called her Amal, which means hope. She comes with me everywhere.

The Red Cross workers have come now, I admire them because they love us so much. Last month, in the bombing, two workers were killed because they went back into someone’s house to save a baby. Just as they thrust the baby out, the building exploded.

I do not understand it. We are so very rich, our country I mean, but it is not divided evenly at all. Papa earns 3 dinars a week, but even he is lucky he has a job. Daliat’s father could not support her family, so they protested and were taken away. I must stop talking about her or I will cry.

I am glad Mr. Hussein is gone. He came to our house once, and yelled at Papa for not voting for him. He really scared me. And then the soldiers found him, hidden in a hole. And they took him away.

I wish that we had money, I wish that this war was over. I wish that loved ones didn’t have to die, I wish that Daliat didn’t have to leave, I wish that Mama still cared about me. But for now, I’ll just keep praying and hoping that Allah will see our pain and bless us. I have very strong faith, Papa says. I smile.