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By Ali Ramtahn Hussein
Translated from the Arabic by Essam M. Al-Jassim
Dear Mr. Sniper,
I am the victim you killed a few days ago.
Regretfully, resolute and unwavering Sniper, I cannot introduce myself to you because with 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 am dead.
Despite what you might think, I seize this opportunity to applaud you! I salute your impeccable aim and precise shot. I am, 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 unflinching dedication to your profession.
Yes, proud of you!
Your bullet struck dead center on my forehead, as if you aimed to perforate my very being. Your bullet was mercifully fast. When it pierced my skull, I felt nothing. I commend you for the speed with which I fell. Surely, your commander must be proud of your valor, and an appreciation letter must await you for your courage. I wonder what command unleashed such a force, full of your unidentified rage.
As I have been so suddenly wrenched from mine, I do wonder if you have a family. Do you miss them? The separation must weigh heavily on you. They must miss you, too, worrying about your safety. I hope you assure them that you are 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 am 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 nephew, Ahmed, or as old as your sister’s son, Alaa. You can tell them that I was standing with my friends, cheering and chanting the love I feel 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, 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 tufts of hair; it must feel soothing, to her and to you. I want you to rub your fingers gently across her forehead and try to press one finger on the center.
Press on her forehead a little, then apply more pressure.
Can you? You cannot.
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 feel the searing pain of your bullet. They’ll carry it forever. They’ll mourn helplessly yet softly, 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 soldier’s 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?
*This story was written during the protests that erupted in Baghdad in 2019 over high unemployment, poor basic services, and state corruption. Many protesters were killed at the hands of the police force and snipers.
About Essam M. Al-Jassim
Essam M. Al-Jassim is a Saudi writer and translator based in Hofuf, Saudi Arabia. He taught English for many years at Royal Commission schools in Jubail. Mr. Al-Jassim received his bachelor’s degree in foreign languages and education from King Faisal University, Hofuf. His writings and translations have appeared in a variety of print and online Arabic and English-language literary journals. Mr. Al-Jassim is a lifelong bibliophile.
