Dolma

-2003-

"Put it on...Put it on...Quickly." Zamir's mother breathlessly yanked him around by the shoulders. She knelt down and roughly threaded his arms through the loops of his tattered backpack. The one he took every day to his madrasa where he learned to read and write and make his father proud.

She turned him back around and held him steady at arm's length. The look on her face was one Zamir had never seen. Total devastation. She covered her mouth with her hand while tearfully choking on her words, "You be good. Be my good boy."

Zamir looked over to the door to see his uncle Kaleed. His body turned to the outside, he held the door open a crack, barking commands to the other uncles and male cousins.

Zamir's older sister Aya busied herself sweeping the same section of rug. With each crackle of gunfire outside she'd startle, forcing her to start over. The shots kept getting closer. The trucks grew louder by the second. His younger sisters, Nada and Rasha, were nestled upon Nada's bed roll, up against a cushion. Rasha's cries were softer now, thanks to Nada cradling her while singing a lullaby their mother had always sung to them.

"Mother!" Zamir pleaded, "Where is baba? What is happening outside?"

Uncle Kaleed abruptly shut the door, he looked down to him and snapped, "your father is dead now. Come on, let's go."

Zamir's mother shot Kaleed a stern look that said: Idiot, you didn't have to tell him that.

He shot her a equally disdainful glance. Clearly this was not a time for niceties.

She returned her eyes to Zamir's. "It is true. They are killing the men and boys. The girls they take. Your uncles are here to protect the girls, and to get you far away from here."

Her intense focus brightened, if only briefly; she hurridly motioned to Aya, uttering something Zamir could not hear.

Aya dutifully swiped their mother's little black notebook from the table strewn with clay bowls and crushed spices. She dusted it off at her hip and handed it to their mother who then reached around Zamir. "Here," she said, stuffing the notebook in the pocket of his backpack. "Take this to where you are going. With this you will not forget about me."

Consecutive rounds of gunfire filled the night, the family went quiet. Those were machine guns, Zamir know that much. As the trucks neared, nighttime flickered with approaching headlights. The air reeked of smoke.

Under Kaleed's orders the uncles engaged. Crow bars shattered windshields. Axes killed headlights. Men yelled and screamed. The incoming men packed pistols and machine guns. The uncles had one pistol amongst them, otherwise they were wielding the axes and crow bars belonging to them. A man bellowed orders but was silenced by two gutteral whacks of something, most likely to the face.

In an instant Uncle Kaleed scooped Zamir up in his muscled arms. "Keep your head down!" he demaned and rushed the door. Outside, Zamir reached his arms beyond Kaleed's shoulders, he popped his head up and screamed, "Ummi! Ummi!" His mother shut the door. He heard her pounding and shrieking on the other side.

While the uncles and cousins fought off the men and the trucks, Kaleed sprinted, one arm around Zamir's lower back, another one holding his head down on his shoulder. "Almost there." He muttered. "Almost there."

Kaleed hurled Zamir into the rear of an idling pick-up. Zamir landed hard on this back and rolled to his side. His mother's notebook had dislodged. He grabbed it, stuffed it back in. Uncle Kaleed clumsily covered him with burlap, cardboard, blankets. Whatever was in there. Kaleed slapped the rear of the pick-up and shouted, "Go! Go!" As the truck sped away, Zamir heard his uncle shouting, ya kalb! kol khara! Filthy dogs get the hell out of this town! A round of gunshots followed.

-2020-

Zamir quickly wiped his hands on a dish towel, he then leaned over the counter of his food truck to take his next order. "Hello," he said. "What may I prepare for you?"

His customer was a regular to this farmer's market. Petite and pleasant, early twenties, she sported a blonde ponytail atop her head. "Hi," she said with a glossy smile. "May I have the falafel plate with a side of majaddara?" she started to giggle. "Did I say that right? I butchered it last time!"

Zamir nodded and couldn't help but smile at her eagerness. "Yes. You said it correctly. That is a good job." The last three words he pronounced quickly, as if one word. Agoodjob.

Satisfied, she went on. "And a dolma too, would be great. I love those. Thanks."

"Coming right up," he said. Zamir enjoyed that phrase. Coming right up. He said it often. Coming right up. It was a fun phrase to say. Coming right up. English was fun. Coming right up. America was fun. Coming right up. He side-stepped over to his burner to start the falafel.

His final moments in Iraq dripped within his brain just as the olive oil spread within the pan. He remembered Uncle Kaleed throwing him in the truck. He remembered staying in a camp with charity workers buzzing about. He remembered landing here in California and meeting his foster parents. They were, and still are, so very good to him.

With the falafel cooking, he grabbed his mother's little black notebook from the shelf above the stove. He flipped to her recipe for majaddara. Lentils, tomatoes and chopped peppers with a pinch of nutmeg. He knew the dish by heart, of course, but still found comfort in seeing her handwriting. The pages were wrinkled. Some stuck together. His fingerprints, smeared with sesame oil, now covered her own prints. She was right, he thought, by preparing her recipes he never forgot her face, or the aroma of spices wafting through the air as she cooked, or the lilt in her voice calling him to the table.

Minutes later he laid the plate down on the counter. He selected a grape leaf dolma with the tongs and placed it to the side of the lentils. He then slid the plate to the nice customer.

"Thanks," she said cheerfully.

She glanced behind her to make sure no one was waiting. "Hey," she said, turning back around. "I'm curious. Where are you from?"

"Oh, I am from Iraq," Zamir said politely. "I had to leave when I was eight years old. In the middle of the night."

She put her hand to her chest. "Really?" she exclaimed, genuinely concerned. "Why?"

"The Islamic State. They beheaded my father, and many others, in the public square. Afterwards, they swarmed the villages, killing the men and the boys. My uncles surrounded our house. Uncle Kaleed, he threw me in the back of a pick-up truck."

He reached over and swiped his black notebook. "And you can see, now I am making my mother's recipies." He handed her the book.

She thumbed through it. Passing a finger over his mother's swirly writing. Turning the pages in wonder. She looked up wide-eyed. "Oh. My. God. This is ahh-mazing." She handed it back after closing it and brushing her hand over the cover.

Zamir felt warmth shoot through him. "I felt so very lonely when I started high school, so I began cooking from my mother's book. My foster parents drove me all over town to help me find the ingredients. Preparing my mother's dishes made me feel at home with her and my father and my sisters." He returned the book to the shelf and went on.

"Senior year, my foster mother told me her book club would love for me to prepare for them an authentic Iraqi meal. I cooked for days making pomegranate soup, kofta, and masgrouf. For dessert I made a batch of kleicha cookies. They were delicious. Turns out, it wasn't her book club, she just didn't want me to be nervous. She had entered me into the Junior California Culinary All-Stars contest. I had no idea. And I won the grand prize. Twenty thousand dollars! The money helped me buy this food truck. I am currently working with a bank to open a restaurant.

Her blue eyes stayed upon his black ones. "I so love that," she swooned. She notcied others waiting to order and jolted. "Hey, I'll let you get back to work, but quickly tell me, what about your mom and sisters?"

Zamir nodded. "Uncle Kaleed married my mother. They take care of each other. My oldest sister Aya is married. She has three little girls of her own. Nada is in Baghdad working for women's rights. And Rasha is soon married. I do hope to see them again."

"Wow. Just wow," she uttered. She picked up her plate and gave a little wave. "See you next week." Her pretty ponytail bounced along as she walked away.

The next customers stepped up. A bearded man wearing a Harley Davidson T-shirt stretched to the limit, and his wife in a denim vest. "Hi, uh, yeah, could we both get the lamb kebabs with a side of turshi?"

"Yes of course," Zamir said as he wrote down the order.

The wife chimed in. "And extra tzatziki sauce with that please?"

Zamir looked up. "The sauce will cost extra fifty cents, is that okay?"

"Sure," the woman agreed. "That's fine."

Zamir smiled. "Coming right up."