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In southeastern Turkey a team of Archaeologists is deciphering an ancient Assyrian tablet found in the ruins of a ziyaret (or ziggurat).  The National Geographic posted an article on the tablet at http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2009/12/091209-ancient-tablets-decoded_2.html but the story seems to be avoiding the use of a term which has become quite taboo, even when referencing ancient cultures.  That term is slavery.

The article talks about how this tablet is a superb find because it details administrative issues of a local governing body during the rule of the Assyrian Empire 3,000 years ago.  In cuneiform the tablet details various economic affairs and other management issues.  Interestingly, almost half of the article is spent talking about some 144 names of “Mystery Women,” noting the names were primarily from areas outside of where the tablet was found. 

What the article says is that the Assyrians made a practice of moving people from one area of the other, but it inferred that these people were paid workers and used terms like “deportation.”  Deportation implies the act of returning a person to their homeland, like when the INS deports illegal aliens.  It is quite the opposite of what was going on in the story: instead of sending migrant workers home, they were migrating workers.  Sounds more like exporting and importing than deporting

The article did mention that it is likely the Assyrians used this movement of people to facilitate the destruction of local powers, but nowhere does it suggest that the women were slaves.  Many cultures did indeed move people about to degrade a region’s ability to revolt, but those people were moved about in chains and were not paid.  The article says the tablet recorded “mundane affairs,” so it is probable the Mystery Women were recorded next to other mundane property accounts as how many goats the court maintained and how many bushels of millet were collected that harvest.  The scribes had to work painstakingly to record these things in stone, so why would a leader bother naming each of the women in court records unless he considered them property?

Perhaps the article needs a little editing.  It looks like the Assyrians were enslaving women, probably as part of a campaign of social integration much like the Arab and Persian powers did in various seasons of reign in the same region.  The women, as property, worked the lands of lords, became integrated with the local population of a different area, and eventually people throughout the Assyrian Empire were combined into a single Assyrian identity rather than the multitude of disparate identities each small area would represent.

Or maybe the Mystery Women willingly left their home — one with fields and orchards of its own — and traveled to the other side of an empire to work some other lord’s fields for the social progression, health care, and retirement benefits.

Immediacy.  The word alone does not really mean much, aside from its philosophical sense of “being known from experience” as far as writing is concerned.  For writers it is the act of making the reader associate with the setting to such an extent that they are able to transplant themselves into the story.  I propose a change to the term to better represent both the role and object of this tool: intimacy.

The lacquer on her nails is blood-red, as are the satin dress and the rubies in her necklace and earrings.  Those red nails pick a strawberry from a wooden bowl, plucking the juice-filled fruit from its place among equally choice morsels and carrying it gracefully through the air in an arc aimed at lips as deeply red as the nails.  Auburn hair cascades about fair shoulders as the woman tilts her head to meet the berry. Her emerald eyes sparkle, focused on the man sitting in the shadows of the curtains across the room, as the red lips part and accept the strawberry. 

A teacher once told me to stop writing assumptively.  To him, the assumptive writer leaves out the little details that spark all of the senses.  The assumptive writer would have said, “And she ate the strawberry, arousing the man in the shadows.”  What caused the arousal?  Intimacy brings the reader into the story in such a way that they can truly imagine every detail.

Saying intimacy instead of immediacy changes the focus of this writing mechanic.  A new writer, hearing that she need add some immediacy to the scene, may decide it imperative to start counting bricks and measuring distances.  While this will help recreate the picture of the author in the readers mind, it sure becomes distracting after reading a paragraph describing a meaningless front window of a regular old house.  Intimacy reminds the writer to connect with the reader.  What are the sights, smells, sounds, and other sensations that create the emotions the character so desperately needs to share with his unseen observer? 

Another exercise: a man is walking down a road.  It is obvious that the man is going somewhere from somewhere, so obviously the writer should mention that.  The intimate writer will tell the reader how the man is walking in such a way that it describes his mood and the state of his mind, which in turn develop the plot and conflict of the story.  Are the man’s hands in his pockets and his chin on his chest, or are his arms spread wide with eyes to the sky?  Does he smell fresh-cut grass and blooming flowers, or does he smell last week’s trash?  Does he see a butterflies and flowers or tumbleweeds and brambles?  Details should create more intimacy between the character and the reader.  

Perhaps at this point we can simply change immediacy to immediate, give it a feeling of necessary determination.  We need the reader to be there NOW, right there with our cunning heroine.  We need immediate intimacy, drag the reader into the story from the start and keep them there until the end.  Maybe the reader has never lost a child, so they cannot completely empathize with the protagonist, but the reader almost certainly has a friend they have seen broken down and desperate.  We can create an immediate need in that reader to console their new-found friend in the story we just wrote by making them intimately aware of the salty tears and racking sobs and pain-filled eyes.

So who’s with me, shall we stick with the old immediacy?  I hope a few more out there will join me in calling it what it really is: intimacy.

OK, here we meet my third protagonist, Omar.  The dialogue definitely needs work here, I’m just not happy with it yet and can’t tell why, but I’m trying my hand at bringing the Iraqis into the story.  Let me know how it works!

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Omar Abd al-Majid Hamid al-Dulaymi was going to be home late once again.  Though he had served only three patrons in his beat up, rusted, orange-and-white Mercedes, traveling the highways and byways between the various towns along the Euphrates River east of Al Qa’im had been especially complicated.  Not only was traffic slowed by checkpoints manned by U.S. Marines, but he had to barter with his life to get through or around those controlled by members of Al Qaida and other groups of so-called freedom fighters.  Since these latter groups were ever in need of new vehicles, fighters, suicide-bombers, and money, Omar had to think and speak quickly to escape with all his possessions, clients, and as much money as possible.  In the lawless Al Anbar province of 2005, only the observant and quick-witted survived the perils of traveling those worn, blast-pitted roads.

            Omar’s last patron of the day required even more caution.  As a leader within the Al Anbar Al Qaida, he had directed Omar to drive minor tracks around densely populated areas and U.S. military supply routes.  The passenger went by Abu Muhammad, though Omar knew him as a former Major in the now defunct Republican Guard named Mahmud.  The Guard was Saddam’s best trained and most reliable military unit.  Being almost entirely composed of loyal Sunni officers and soldiers, they were the only ones to offer any resistance to the American forces as they barreled into Iraq, the rest of the units having sabotaged their equipment before the enemy had even crossed the earthen berm from Kuwait and surrendering as they rolled past.  Omar was himself a Captain in the Guard and had served alongside Abu Muhammad for many years.

            The man sitting next to him looked much different than Omar remembered.  His once close-cut, black hair was now lined with gray and hung below his shoulders.  His thick mustache had grown into a long, scraggly beard.  He had traded his old uniform and red beret for a white dishdasha and black-and-white checkered keffiyah, his black boots for sandals.  His black eyes had always shined with greed, but now they burned with and added ferocity from an unnatural zeal as well.  Omar could see his former comrade had become an exceptionally dangerous man, fanatic in his new-found beliefs and allegiances.

            Abu Muhammad directed Omar to many stops during his consignment.  Each time he met shortly with another Al Qaida member identified only by the black headdress each had wrapped around his head to protect hide his features.  They would exchange a few whispered words, Abu Muhammad would pass over a stack of U.S. notes (the denominations of which Omar could not see), and then part ways, the minion stalking into the shadows and Abu Muhammad returning to Omar’s car.  So they continued from stop to stop for three hours in relative silence, but for the rattling and sputtering of the broken exhaust of his diesel-powered 1970’s Mercedes sedan and the occasional perfunctory instructions from the passenger.

              While bumping along a particularly unkempt back road, dust billowing through the open windows, Abu Muhammad made a show of coughing then said, “this next will be our final stop for the day.  Tomorrow I would like you to meet me where I have you drop me off today an hour after first prayer.”

            “Tomorrow morning I am already scheduled to meet with another client to take him to the Syrian border, I’m afraid I won’t be available again until day after tomorrow,” Omar replied.

            “Look Omar, I’m offering you a job as my personal driver.  I have risen through the ranks to be the financier of the entire Al Anbar operation, answering only to Abu Abdullah himself.  I can provide you with good pay, enough to feed your family and get yourself a better car.  You’ve fallen far from your former post in the Guard, and, Allah willing, we will restore ourselves to our former glory in a land ruled by the Holy Qur’an as it should be.”

            “I am humbled by your offer, brother, but at this time I do not wish to become mixed up in this fight against the Americans and our government.  I have put my children in danger of losing their father too many times in the past, now I want only to provide for them as best I can and try to keep them safely away from these hard times.”

            “That is the coward’s way.  The government you speak of is only a puppet regime to the American’s who wish only to steal our oil and subjugate the Sunnis.  It is not only a right but a duty for all Sunnis, including you, to become warriors in this Jihad.  This fight will find your family, whatever you do, so you might as well join with me.  Besides, with your years of experience with explosives you would be an invaluable asset to our organization.”

            Omar winced at the reference to his family, but stood his ground.  “I really do not want to get my family involved, Major.  Our people have lived in this area for thousands of years, and will continue for thousands more, this current struggle will eventually die away and, Allah willing, we will survive as always.”

            “To fight in holy Jihad is Allah’s will, but do as you please, Captain.  You will learn soon enough that you have no choice but to fight.” 

            The two fell back into uncomfortable silence until Omar pulled in front of a closed internet café in a small town fifteen miles east of Karabala.  Abu Muhammad exited the taxi, then, turning around, said, “It would be wise of you to keep my offer in mind, old friend.”  He handed Omar an American twenty-dollar-bill, then turned and entered the café.  Omar quickly turned his car about and headed back the way he had come.

            Alone in the car, with the sunlight turned red in the swirling dust outside of his passenger window, Omar thought of that conversation and the things that Abu Muhammad had not said.  The references to his family had sounded more like veiled threats than good-natured warnings from a friend.  There was not much he could do, though, but vow to move his family to his cousin’s house near Ramadi after he finished with his client the next day. 

            The sun was setting among distant plateaus as he pulled up to his home, isolated with the nearest neighbor a half-kilometer to the north and the town proper another kilometer beyond that.  He parked his car on the south side of his mud-and-brick house, next to a broken-down motorcycle and bags of dates and onions and a box of tomatoes.  As he got out of his car, a handful of scrawny chickens approached and crowded his feet, hoping for some bit of grain.  Somewhere west of the house his mule bayed in his direction.  His only cow was not within sight, though he knew that he would likely find it down by the well they had dug some hundred meters to the north, the bottom of its steep, tractor-dug slope being the coolest place within walking distance and the only source of water in miles.  The family’s three-kilowatt generator was on, rumbling noisily on the north side of the house, giving his wife the electricity she would need inside to prepare dinner on the stove by a single kitchen light.  That light was squeezing into the twilight around the edges of the cloth draping covering the kitchen window on the east side of the house.

            The door to the house was just before the kitchen window, and, passing the window to the sitting room, Omar entered the door, locking the deadbolt behind him.  Inside, his ten-year-old son, Salim, who fancied himself the man of the house in Omar’s absence, was busy commanding Omar’s daughter, six-year-old Jaenan, to perform various important tasks like retrieving his favorite toy and stealing a bite from the kitchen for him. 

Seeing Omar, Jaenan disregarded her latest command and ran up to her father to let him know about all the horrible things her brother had told her to do.  For his part, Salim just stood resolutely in the corner of the sitting room, ready for whatever his father decided to do.  Omar simply smiled, picking his daughter up by the armpits and inspecting her dirty, flower-print dress.  “Have you been helping the hens dig in the dirt today, light of my eyes?”

“No father,” she replied, “mama made me sweep the floors today.”

“Well that’s good, we can’t be living like that old mule outside.”

“But papa, the dirt just comes right back!”

“Yes, I’m sure it does, but if we don’t sweep it out it will pile up, and before we know it our house will just be a big pile of dirt.”

Jaenan giggled at the thought of their house turning into a sand dune, imagining herself sliding down on a makeshift sled.  “That would be great fun father!”

“Perhaps, until you wake up one morning buried under it like everything else.  Then you might wish you had done a little sweeping.”

The thought of being buried in the dune she had thought would be so fun just moments before caused Jaenan’s face to scrunch up, her little nose wrinkling beneath her dark, almond-shaped eyes.  Chuckling, Omar set her down, ruffling her already messy black locks, and turned his attention to his son.  “And what have you been doing today, Salim?” 

“Mother made me bring water up to fill the barrel, which took me all morning having to walk the whole way, then she made me walk to town to buy kebab meat from the butcher.  I haven’t had any time today for fun!”  He stood with puffed chest and hands on hips, defiant in his dark blue sweatpants and Manchester United t-shirt.  He, too, was disheveled, with unruly black hair and a dirty face spoiling his attempt at seriousness.

“Well I’m glad you did as you were told and kept the house together for me while I was gone, son.”  Omar then turned toward the smells of kebab and onion coming from the kitchen where his wife was at the stove in one of the western-style dresses she wore while inside the house.  She alone among them was clean, but for her feet.  It always amazed Omar how she managed to keep herself so tidy in the rural conditions.  For the thousandth time he promised to eventually learn her secret, but sufficed at present by burying his face in her clean, jasmine-scented hair.  “And you, my flower, how did you fare today?”

Zah’ra turned about in his arms and rested her head against his chest a moment before turning back to her work, not wanting to let the meat burn or waste electricity.  “I managed as well as ever, and the children behaved much better than usual, so I have no complaints.  How was your day?”

“I only managed three clients, but received a twenty-dollar-bill and 30,000 dinar out of it all.  That should pay for our needs this week.”  Omar paused, thinking of how to bring up moving them to his cousin’s without causing too much alarm in his wife.  “I heard some news out in town that there is likely to be a confrontation between the Americans and Al Qaida in this area soon.  I think it would be wise if we went to stay with Husayn and his family for a couple of weeks.  I would like to leave as soon as I get back tomorrow afternoon.”

Zah’ra’s eyes were worried, but she did not let it show on her beautiful face, instead she only replied, “Whatever you think is best dearest.  I’ll prepare the things we’ll need in the morning so we can be ready.”

“Thank you, dear heart, I will get myself and the children washed for supper, it looks to be nearly finished.”

“Indeed it is.  It will be served by the time you all are finished.”

Omar kissed the top of his wife’s head, then turned toward the sitting room saying, “Salim go fill us a bucket of water and bring it to the bathroom while I help Jaenan find a clean nightgown to change into.  Then get yourself into some clean clothes while we wash up.”

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