In Sweden's Sodertalje, Little Baghdad, 2008.

Turner, Brian

Halogen lights flicker in the blue cold. Akhtar stares out over the boat locks as barges and container ships pass by, the snowflakes falling slow as cotton in a land where there is no sun. Tomorrow is the first day at school. His father, Hakim, rests a hand on his shoulder, an unseen weight in his voice-- In the old days, Iraqis hung lanterns high up in the date palms--as a guide for friends and strangers traveling at night. Akhtar imagines those trees in the dark, trunks covered with leaf-sheaves, scars, crowns with pleated segments, swaying. Akhtar, have I told you of the water-spirit, S'iluwa, the one who lives in the river? Or of the Ferij-aqra'a, how he has the tail of a fish, though he appears like an old man, his head bald and red as the dying coals, his beard green, as if grown from moss? Of course he remembers the stories. The Fish That Laughed. The Crystal Ship. Shamshum al Jabbar and The Blind Sultan. He knows The Tricks of Jann, The Stork and the Jackal, The Sparrow and His Wife. His father says, You must remember these things, Akhtar. Do not forget. We come from the land of the two rivers, Akhtar, and long after I am gone, when the world has grown dark and few remember where we come from--you will be the light in the distance.