School Library Journal Review
Gr 5-7-An adaptation of Fadhil's true story of life in Iraq during the Gulf War. Eleven-year-old Ali lives in Basra with his father, mother, two brothers, and sister. Ali thinks he was born with a "silver spoon" as his parents' employment (his father is a dentist and his mother is a math professor) affords them certain luxuries including a home in a nice neighborhood, access to American television, video games, and Superman comic books. Things begin to change in 1991 when the U.S. invades Iraq at the start of the Gulf War. Ali's father leaves to provide medical care to soldiers, and the family is left to worry about his safety. Bombings destroy bridges and buildings, and they go without power and with very little food. The book follows Ali through this scary and uncertain time. This blending of biography, historical fiction, and realistic fiction paints a vivid portrait of daily family life in Iraq and the trials many faced. The writing is straightforward and accessible. VERDICT This book could be used to facilitate discussion of history, culture, politics, or geography with young readers. A good choice for most middle grade shelves.-Tiffany Davis, Mount Saint Mary College, Newburgh, NY © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Publisher's Weekly Review
Fadhil's childhood in Iraq forms the basis of this dramatic fictionalized account of life during Operation Desert Storm, the 43-day war that followed Iraq's invasion of Kuwait in 1991, which conveys both the horrors and banality of war. Eleven-year-old Ali loves reading Superman comics, playing soccer, and watching American television, from which he has learned English. He hates Saddam Hussein and anguishes that "soon, America-the land that I love-is going to try to kill me." Ali's narrative voice captures the tension of a boy who is young enough to cry when his mother burns a comic book to cook their rice and old enough to comprehend the absurdity of Americans dubbing the nightly bombing "the video game war." Ali's experiences include being forced to watch a public execution, fearing his father has been killed, and being irritated that he can't play outside. Roy (Jars of Hope) and Fadhil, an interpreter during Hussein's trial, offer a window into what Ali calls "the true Iraq" and a disturbing but accessible portrait of a civilian child's perspective on war. Ages 10-12. Agent: Alyssa Eisner Henkin, Trident Media Group. (Feb.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Horn Book Review
Eleven-year-old Ali lives with his Christian-Kurdish family in Basra, Iraq, during Operation Desert Storm in 1991. Entranced with American television, comics, and video games, Ali is dismayed to be considered the "enemy"; why can't they just kill Saddam Hussein and leave Ali and his countrymen alone? Young Ali's engaging voice and perspective add appeal to this story based on contributor Fadhil's childhood in war-ravaged Iraq. (c) Copyright 2018. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
Ali's hometown of Basra, Iraq, is near the border with Kuwait, which makes it a dangerous place to live in 1991, during Operation Desert Storm.Eleven-year-old Ali Fadhil is a fan of American television and Superman comic books. He loves English class and playing football (soccer) with his friends. His Christian, Kurdish family's affluent lifestyle is interrupted when a coalition of countries initiates military action to stop Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait. Because of the war, Ali's father is away, bombs fall daily, and Ali sleeps in "the safe room" with his mother and siblings. The food supply is cut off, so the family depends on government rations once their own stores run out. When his older brother, Shirzad, is appointed head of the family in his father's absence and his mother begins burning his precious comic collection for heat, Ali has nearly all he can handle. Based on co-author Fadhil's own childhood, the novel reads somewhat like a journal, detailing scenes in the neighborhood and changes to daily life, but as is often the case with real life, it lacks a solid climax and resolution. While Ali's voice and emotional life lack the vitality that would draw readers in to the story, the snapshot of his society at war is strong, and there are very few children's books in English with Kurdish protagonists.A well-researched piece of historical fiction, just a bit flat as a novel. (Historical fiction. 8-13) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
In my lifetime, we have barely had any peace, says 11-year-old Ali Fadhil as he braces for the impact of 1991's Operation Desert Storm, the second war he's weathered in his short life. Ali loves the West and it's many offerings: comic books, TV shows, and video games. He doesn't love Saddam, Saddam's war, or having to put life on hold while coalition forces strike Basra, Ali's beloved, ancient hometown. Of course, Ali knows better than to criticize the dictator publicly or risk his family's harm. Armed with a brisk first-person narrative, Roy (Yellow Star, 2006) captures Fadhil's real-life recollections of the Gulf War. What strikes are the mundane aspects of the brief war: going out to play and explore a familiar but ruined neighborhood, the boredom and fear of awaiting scheduled airstrikes, living with uncertainty about loved ones returning home. Still, there's room for optimism and humor despite Fadhil's harrowing experience. Roy ends with Fadhil's third war, and his role in bringing Saddam to justice is the poetic finale of a personal fight.--Jones, Courtney Copyright 2017 Booklist
Excerpts
ONE Wednesday, January 16, 1991--Day 1 The afternoon the bombs start falling, I get my highest score ever on my favorite video game. "Boys!" Mama yells. "It's time!" I ignore her, too busy taunting my brother Shirzad. "I am the champion of the universe!" I tell him. Shirzad reaches out, trying to grab the controller from my hand. But I don't let him have it. Not yet. First I need to put my name up as the high score. A-L-I. I maneuver the stick and buttons and then hit Enter. My brother's initials drop down to second place. "Give me that," Shirzad grumbles. "It's my turn and I'm going to take you down." "Boys! What is wrong with you?" Mother appears in the doorway. "Put that garbage away and get to the safe room. It's almost time for the war." She turns and is gone. The war. It's really here. The adults have been talking about it for weeks and weeks. It had seemed about as real as the virtual war I was just playing onscreen. Until now. The United Nations deadline for Iraq's withdrawal from Kuwait has expired. It's time for war. I throw the controller into the box that holds all our game stuff. Shirzad shuts down the Atari console. "Race you," he says, and takes off running. I'm right behind him. It's hard to run on the tile floor when I'm just wearing socks, and just before we reach the "safe room" I slip and slide. I crash into my brother and we land in a heap on the floor. Right at the feet of our father. "What kind of example are you setting for your younger brother and sister?" he says. "Stand up and stop acting like animals." "Yes, Baba," we say together. Shirzad and I get up. At the last moment, Shirzad stretches his longer legs and steps ahead of me into the room. "I win," he whispers to me. But it's a hollow victory, because the first person in the safe room is the first person Mama puts to work. She tells Shirzad to help Baba move the bed away from the window. I'm tasked to shut the remaining windows and close the curtains. I go over to a window that looks over the side yard. Baba has already removed the metal air conditioner from the window. If a bomb hits nearby, flying glass will be bad enough, but a flying air conditioner would be worse. A warm breeze is blowing in. Even in January, the weather is mild. The sun has set. I can still discern the outlines of the date and palm trees in the yard and the gray stone privacy wall that surrounds our house. Beyond the wall is our city of Basra, wrapped in an eerie silence, waiting. "Mama!" My younger sister, Shireen, bursts into the room. "When will the war start?" "They said on the radio it will start sometime during the night," Mama says. "Where is Ahmed? He was just here." "I'm back," my younger brother says, careening into the room. "Shireen made me go get this heavy basket. What's in here, anyway--rocks?" "No, it's a picnic," Shireen says. "Flatbread, tomatoes, olives, hummus, and Coca-Colas. And date cookies for dessert." A picnic for a war? Shireen is only six. She doesn't really remember what war is like. I'm eleven, and I know all too well. This is already my second war. I go around shutting the windows. Normally, at this hour we kids would be getting ready for bed. It should be a school night, not a war night. "Ahmed," says Mama. "Stop fooling around." Ahmed is clutching a small rolled-up rug, running into the wall and bouncing off. Run! Bash! Fall! He comes to a halt and walks over to a pile of small rugs stacked against the wall. My job is done, so I go over and help Ahmed lay the rugs around the room. Five rugs for Mama and four kids. One bed for my father. "I still can't believe that we are at war with the United States of America," Ahmed says. "What could Saddam be thinking?" "For sure he is not thinking about his own people," I say. TWO Saddam Hussein is the president of Iraq. George Bush is the president of the United States. The United States of America is the most powerful country in the world. Iraq, my country, is the most foolish. Last August, five months ago, Saddam ordered our army to invade a neighboring country, Kuwait. Everyone knows you can't just go and take over someone else's country. But my president did it anyway. So President George Bush and a bunch of other world leaders have formed a coalition to stop Saddam and take back Kuwait. Iraq is an ant compared to this coalition. They will crush us like a bug. "I hate Saddam," my sister, Shireen, says loudly. "He's ruining my life." "Shhh . . ." My parents shush her. What Shireen said would be amusing if it weren't so important to be cautious. Yes, we are inside our house, among family. But we were taught to never speak against Saddam Hussein. He is evil. If he heard what my little sister just said about him, he would probably cut out her tongue. Or his henchmen would do it for him. Saddam's people are everywhere. One of the members of his government lives on our street. We have to be extra careful. A cloud of paranoia hangs over our neighborhood games. "Children," Baba says. "Find a place away from the windows and settle down." I claim an orange and brown striped rug and lay it out next to Shirzad's gray one. The younger kids sit closer to my parents. I have two brothers and a sister. It goes: Shirzad, me, Ahmed, Shireen. We all have dark hair, olive skin, and big brown eyes. My siblings look like a mix of both sides of our family. But me? I am a copy of my mother. I look like my mother in boy form. People remark on the resemblance all the time. "Your son," they'll say to Mama, "he's exactly like you!" "On the outside, yes," my mother will respond. Serious and stoic, she is a respected professor of mathematics. I hate math. And school in general. We went to school most days during the last war. This war? School has been canceled! At least something good has come from the mess Saddam has created. "Hey!" I've been hit by a rolled-up sock. A smelly sock. I throw it back at Ahmed, who is laughing like a lunatic. Normally, I'd jump him and wrestle him to the ground, but I see my father's frown. Baba is almost as strict as Mama--his patients love him, but they only see the pleasant, easygoing professional who takes care of their teeth. During the day, my father works his mandatory government job as a dentist. In the evening, he does orthodontics at his own clinic for private clients. He fills cavities for the poor and puts braces on the wealthy. Baba left his small rural town in northern Iraq and worked his way through university and dental school. "I came from nothing and made myself into something," he tells us over and over. He calls us kids lazy and spoiled and soft. It's true, we don't have to work like he did. Until recently we had nannies and a gardener and a cook to do all the work for us. Except for schoolwork. It makes my parents crazy. They expect us to get all As. None of us are A students, but I'm the worst. My attitude is, why spend time memorizing dates and doing math problems when the world is crumbling around us? My attitude is not appreciated. There is one class, however, in which I do get As. English. My English teachers think it's because of them that I'm so good with the language. But really, my best English teacher is the television. I'm obsessed with American TV shows. We have one channel that shows them, with Arabic subtitles. Turn that channel on and I'm like a sponge, absorbing American English. My favorite programs are the westerns, but I like the detective shows nearly as much. Everything about America fascinates me--the food, the celebrities, the freedom. "Enough!" My father is breaking up a kicking fight between Ahmed and Shireen. Only Ahmed gets yelled at, as usual. Shireen is spoiled, just as Baba says, and she gets away with everything. I look around at my family and feel the walls closing in. Oh, how I wish I had been born in a different place, where people are happy and carefree. Where families are not in hiding, hoping to live through the night. For no other reason except their leader is a madman. I go to my rug and sit down. I could be brave. After all, this isn't my first war. I survived that one, didn't I? But I am not stupid. Luck can run out at any time; worlds can be destroyed in an instant. I am scared. I am powerless and I feel betrayed. Soon, America--the land that I love--is going to try to kill me. I'll try not to take it personally. Excerpted from Playing Atari with Saddam Hussein: Based on a True Story by Jennifer Roy, Ali Fadhil All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.