Playing Atari with Saddam Hussein: Based on a True Story

Playing Atari with Saddam Hussein: Based on a True Story

At the start of 1991, eleven-year-old Ali Fadhil was consumed by his love for soccer, video games, and American television shows. Then, on January 17, Iraq’s dictator, Saddam Hussein, went to war with thirty-four nations led by the United States. Over the next forty-three days, Ali and his family survived bombings, food shortages, and constant fear. Ali and his brothers played soccer on the abandoned streets of their Basra neighborhood, wondering when or if their medic father would return from the war front. Cinematic, accessible, and timely, this is the story of one ordinary kid’s view of life during war.  "What strikes are the mundane aspects of the brief war: going out to play and explore a familiar but ruined neighborhood, the boredom and fear of awaiting scheduled airstrikes, living with uncertainty about loved ones returning home. Still, there’s room for optimism and humor despite Fadhil’s harrowing experience. "— Booklist "Roy ( Jars of Hope ) and Fadhil, an interpreter during Hussein’s trial, offer a window into what Ali calls “the true Iraq” and a disturbing but accessible portrait of a civilian child’s perspective on war."- Publishers Weekly "This blending of biography, historical fiction, and realistic fiction paints a vivid portrait of daily family life in Iraq and the trials many faced."-- School Library Journal Jennifer Roy is the author of the highly acclaimed  Yellow Star , which won a  Boston Globe-Horn Book  Honor Award for Excellence in Children’s Literature, was an ALA Notable Book, a School Library Journal Best Book, and a NYPL Top Book. She is also the author of Cordially Uninvited and Mindblind and the coauthor of the Trading Faces series. www.jenniferroy.com Twitter:@Jenroybook Ali Fadhil grew up in Iraq and survived two wars by the age of twelve. He worked as an interpreter at Saddam Hussein’s trial and with the U.S. Army in Iraq and Afghanistan. He lives in Dublin, Ohio. ONE Wednesday, January 16, 1991—Day 1 The afternoon the bombs start falling, I get my highest score ever on my favorite video game.      “Boys!” Mama yells. “It’s time!”      I ignore her, too busy taunting my brother Shirzad.      “I am the champion of the universe!” I tell him. Shirzad reaches out, trying to grab the controller from my hand. But I don’t let him have it. Not yet. First I need to put my name up as the high score.      A-L-I. I maneuver the stick and buttons and then hit Enter. My brother’s initials drop down to second place.      “Give me that,” Shirzad grumbles. “It’s my turn and I’m going to take you down.”      “Boys! What is wrong with you?” Mother appears in the doorway. “Put that garbage away and get to the safe room. It’s almost time for the war.” She turns and is gone.      The war. It’s really here. The adults have been talking about it for weeks and weeks. It had seemed about as real as the virtual war I was just playing onscreen.      Until now. The United Nations deadline for Iraq’s withdrawal from Kuwait has expired. It’s time for war.      I throw the controller into the box that holds all our game stuff. Shirzad shuts down the Atari console.      “Race you,” he says, and takes off running. I’m right behind him. It’s hard to run on the tile floor when I’m just wearing socks, and just before we reach the “safe room” I slip and slide. I crash into my brother and we land in a heap on the floor.      Right at the feet of our father.      “What kind of example are you setting for your younger brother and sister?” he says. “Stand up and stop acting like animals.”      “Yes, Baba,” we say together.      Shirzad and I get up. At the last moment, Shirzad stretches his longer legs and steps ahead of me into the room.      “I win,” he whispers to me. But it’s a hollow victory, because the first person in the safe room is the first person Mama puts to work. She tells Shirzad to help Baba move the bed away from the window.      I’m tasked to shut the remaining windows and close the curtains. I go over to a window that looks over the side yard. Baba has already removed the metal air conditioner from the window. If a bomb hits nearby, flying glass will be bad enough, but a flying air conditioner would be worse. A warm breeze is blowing in. Even in January, the weather is mild.      The sun has set. I can still discern the outlines of the date and palm trees in the yard and the gray stone privacy wall that surrounds our house. Beyond the wall is our city of Basra, wrapped in an eerie silence, waiting.      “Mama!” My younger sister, Shireen, bursts into the room. “When will the war start?”      “They said on the radio it will start sometime during the night,” Mama says. “Where is Ahmed? He was just here.”      “I’m back,” my younger brother says, careening into the room. “Shireen made me go get this heavy basket. What’s in here, anyway—?rocks?”      “No, it’s a picnic,” Shireen says. “Flatbread, tomatoes, olives, hummus, and Coca-Colas. And date cookies for des