Ibrahim | Teen Ink


November 24, 2014
By PFD102 BRONZE, Halsey, Oregon
PFD102 BRONZE, Halsey, Oregon
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

First Entry

I’ve decided to start reflecting on my life in this journal. one cannot keep a memory forever, especially with having many life changing moments in such a short life. My name is Ibrahim Hassan al Moslawi (al Moslawi translates to something like “a guy from Mosul, Iraq”). I am part of a generation who is said to suffer childhood trauma for the rest of their lives. I want my words in this journal to be a haunting reminder of what cruelty any human being is capable of.

Second Entry

At the age of eight I would wander through the twisted, crumbling ruins of the building my brothers were lucky enough to call school. Who is responsible for the destruction of these of schools ;it has always been a mystery to me. I had always wanted to go to school, my two older brothers were able to graduate from the University of Mosul. From a young age my brothers had always bought me books. However midway through the war my brothers disappeared (probably because they were in support of equality & socialism) my monthly book restocks went away to. So after exploiting all the books from the near by school ruins, I decided to go scavenger for books at the university (University of Mosul). The university was relatively near, but the road there was dangerous with multiple checkpoints & U.S snipers aiming at your head. So i decided to walk along the “dangerous road”, but through the Nineveh ruins. Once the capital of the  powerful Assyrian Empire, it now lay far from its former glory. As I walked by I could feel myself traveling back in time, the cracked, crumbling buildings rebuilt themselves to marvelous pieces of architecture, covered with half man, half animal creatures carved into the walls and painted in extravagant colors. Only my imagination could lead me there: for I knew inevitable for it to be harmed  by this ongoing war. As I climbed the north wall of Nineveh, which had failed to defend this great city: the university came into view, with only a few brave souls daring enough to still roam there and continue their education. My target was the political sciences building (it had been blown up early in the morning today according to my dad), I would find allll the book I could, then run as fast I could home. I casually walked to the building ( the university students didn’t say anything as I walked by, they would just smile at the sight of a eight year old walking through campus). As reached the remains of the political sciences building, I saw an old man crying at the entrance of the building, he seemed to be a professor so I simply asked, “Are there any books remaining in the building, professor?” At first he laughed at the question (while still crying) not knowing who had asked it,  but as he raised his head to see who had asked the question, his laughter and tears transformed into a smile. He seemed to be amazed that a eight year old was asking for books. So without hesitation he got up and searched the building for any remaining books. I stood still surprised with his reaction. After finding a few books he set them in my hands and asked, “What is your name young lad?” Startled by his question I told him my name, then he proceeded to say, “Ibarhim you will be the light of your generation, you will save this country. Now away with you, go home, study hard, and may Allah send an angel to safely guide you home!” As I ran out of sight from the political sciences building I heard many footsteps, an argument between the professor and some other men, then I heard a single horrific shot. As I peeked around the building that blocked the view of the political sciences building, I saw a group of American soldiers laughing over the professor’s dead body. I then ran home as fast as I could and tried to forget what I had just witnessed, but how can one forget such a thing.
Third Entry

My brothers were always an inspiration to me. Abdullah as nineteen and Omar was twenty one  when they disappeared. Both of them were like teachers to me, providing me with the wisdom, and guidance, always preaching to me the importance of education. It always seemed to me that they saw me as a student rather than a brother. They seemed to not want me to get too attached to them. They protected me from everything including ever missing them if they were to not be their for me one day. So when they disappeared my way of mourning them was to read every single book they had ever given me and in the process not talking to anyone.


     ISIS invaded the city yesterday, my son, Ibrahim is dead. Shot dead while praying in front of the Political Sciences building in memory of “the professor”. May my son be considered a martyr in the eyes of a Allah.
       - Anwar Hassan al Moslawi 

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