It all began back in my home town Baghdad in 2003. It was a Friday morning during the Iraqi- American war. The war was almost over by then. My family and I were gone out of town to a safer place. We came back to check on my grandfather who was very loyal and resisted to leave his house just to be in a safer place. He didn’t care about the consequences. I wished he really did though. I knock on the door for about five minutes but he doesn’t answer. The door was locked during the day which is very unusual for my grandfather to do. He always left it open and sat on the porch most of the day. My brother and I were worried. I hopped over the fence that was separating the house from the street. I had a bad feeling. I walk in the house and I see my grandfather lying dead on the floor and holding a knife in a tight grip. The house was a mess. I figured it was a robbery but I was very shocked so all I did is run away. I was only eleven by then and it was the most frightening moment of life. I came back to the house after ten minutes. On the way back I saw my grandfather’s best friend. He knew him for 45 years and they were very close to each other. I tried my best to keep myself down but he noticed my watery eyes and the look on my face. I told him what happened and he cracked down crying. I went back to the house and saw the entire neighborhood gathered around the house and the police were investigating the case. The whole government wasn’t in control of the country so I knew they weren’t going to do much about it. His body was already in the hospital. The situation was very intense and what made it even more difficult is telling my mother about. My mother was in Syria visiting my father who was exiled out of Iraq for political reasons. My two brothers hesitated to pick up the phone and call my mother and tell her about the incident. My grandfather was the closest person to my mother. He raised her since her mother died giving birth to her. He took...
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