Another born complete short stories

I wrote these stories while I was away from Iraq, in the years 1955, 1956, and 1957, when the executioner Nuri was rampant in Iraq, and Baghdad — our capital and our ancestors' capital — was open to gamblers and those with dark intentions, the generals of the buried Baghdad Pact. The Iraqi people were biting their nails with hatred for the traitors, and those riding on the backs of traitors, resentful and prepared for the battle of honor, life, and freedom. And at that time, we who were destined to live outside Iraq eagerly awaited news of the homeland, spoke about it with longing in our sessions and solitude with ourselves, and made every word there pulse with blood. We were furious about the news of tyranny, saying it was a desperate clutch by those fighting death, and we danced with joy at the news of battles and victories, singing songs and chants for its honor, considering them the first rays of dawn. During that period, I wrote these stories. Some of them I wrote in unstable circumstances. I finished writing one of them on a bench in one of the streets of Damascus, on a cold January day, almost homeless! I worked on the story "A Chicken and Four Humans" while returning to Romania after Khlil Keneh mediated to prevent me from entering Syria, then I completed the story in "The Palace of the Pioneers" in Bucharest. I finished the story while in a very comfortable position, different from all the lives I had known: the room I was writing in was very comfortable; the bedding was spacious and filled with light, the heater was nearby, and the kind-hearted house was coming from the mountains of the Qurbat, looking at me to say something in response. Through the wide window, where the sun cast its golden hair on the carpet of the room, I could see a group of children playing in the green square. And there was another group at a distance, dancing in a circle, warming themselves with this beautiful sport, singing in the voices of immature birds that had not yet fully grown their feathers... Everything around me overflowed with happiness, childhood joy, and confidence in tomorrow. But this atmosphere did not make me forget my homeland and the children of my homeland; rather, it increased my feelings for them and my thoughts about their lives. The story I was writing was about two homeless children, one of whom had a crushed chest. I wished that the children of my homeland were happy like these Romanian children. They have a special palace of their own, nannies who supervise them, green gardens where they play, colorful kites they throw at each other instead of throwing mud, and sweet songs they sing instead of their tongues overflowing with curses. At that moment, I was filled with longing, and I began to cross distances and fold dimensions to reach the land of my beloved homeland... where children are homeless and grow old before reaching youth.