Authors: Hiner Saleem
My Father's Rifle (11 page)
We spent a week with them, walking with no apparent goal. Due to fatigue, hunger, and cold, Ramo could no longer think straight. As for me, I thought we should bear with them a bit longer, to give them a chance to get to know us better. Then, perhaps, they would tell us their plans. It was natural for them not to trust us immediately During a rest period, as the leader drank his tea, he told me he knew who I was. Angry, I asked him to give me a weapon and fighter's clothes and send me out on an operation.
He told me we were going to be sent to another region where men were needed. I wanted to leave at once, but he replied, “In a week.”
He told me we were going to be sent to another region where men were needed. I wanted to leave at once, but he replied, “In a week.”
At every stopping place, someone was elected to stand guard. My turn came. A fighter was ordered to lend me his weapon. He handed me his Kalashnikov and I went to the designated site. Leaning against a rock, I looked out over the vast landscape and surmised that the black spots in the valleys were destroyed villages. I aimed my weapon all around me, feeling like a true Napoleon. I wished the entire Iraqi army would show up so I could take it on single-handed. And then I recalled my father's old Brno. What had we gained from all those years of struggle? Something else was needed, but what? I had no answer. I looked at the Kalashnikov, and it seemed clearer and clearer to me that we couldn't dig a tunnel with a needle. I began to weep over our fate. And then I heard footfalls. Two hours had gone by. I wiped my eyes; someone was coming to relieve me.
Two weeks went by and the leader still said nothing about transferring us to another group. Finally, he asked both of us to come talk to him alone. We sat under a tree and he drew a circle on the ground, which he divided into four sections: in the north, Turkey; and the south, Iraq; in the west, Syria, and the east, Iran. “This is our homeland. You're students; our people need educated persons, and they also need fighters in the towns. If you're courageous, return to your town, go back to your studies, and help us organize acts of sabotage.” Then he spent several days teaching us how to handle explosives and weapons. Someone would contact us when we returned.
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The group of fighters escorted us to the last village before the Iraqi lines. We were given five dinars each. I was worried: how were we going to get back into the zone controlled
by the Iraqis? It wouldn't be so easy Before we parted, the leader said only, “Comrade, life is a risk; being born is a risk.” He took leave of us, and we saw him go back into the mountains with his men. A peasant was supposed to help us cross the Iraqi lines.
by the Iraqis? It wouldn't be so easy Before we parted, the leader said only, “Comrade, life is a risk; being born is a risk.” He took leave of us, and we saw him go back into the mountains with his men. A peasant was supposed to help us cross the Iraqi lines.
We were ready to leave before dawn, but the peasant told us it was too early I knew the Iraqi army came to the villages at dawn and combed through them and I didn't want to dawdle. I insisted, but the man remained indifferent. I wondered if we weren't in the hands of a collaborator and if he wasn't playing a double game with the fighters. Ramo and I went outside the house to avoid the risk of being surrounded. Finally our host followed us, slipping a pistol into his belt, and we set off. He showed us the bridge guarded by Iraqi soldiers that we had to cross. “May luck be with you,” he said, and made an about-face. We walked down to the bridge with our prepared answers: we were volunteers for the literacy campaign. We approached the soldiers; I greeted them with a resounding “hello” and a smile, and they answered in kind. More soldiers were at the other end of the bridge. I avoided looking at Ramo, who was deathly pale. I wondered if they hadn't let us pass in order to trap us in the middle of the bridge between the two checkpoints. We were still wearing our city clothes, but we were visibly filthy and gave off a strong odor. We reached the second checkpoint and greeted them; no one asked us anything, and then we were on the main road. Our sangfroid had prevailed. I became convinced they had taken us for informers. Relieved, I said to Ramo, “The sun protected us, Zarathustra is on our side.” We hailed a shared cab. There was only one free seat, but the driver accepted both of us. Ramo climbed in front, and I climbed in the rear, next to a fat, well-dressed man with a cigarette between his fingers, who was sprawled out, squeezing me into a corner. I tried to make myself tiny, but he kept crushing me. I looked at him, annoyed, and pushed
back a little. He glared at me and cramped me even more. I said, “May the devil be damned,” and he retorted, “May the infidels be damned.” It was a real squabble, with us locking horns in the rear of the cab, and then we came to an abrupt stop: an Iraqi army commando was pointing weapons at our car. I was prepared for anything. The officer leaned in the window and asked for the passengers' papers. Just as Ramo was about to be checked, my fat neighbor raised his hand and greeted the officer. The officer bent down and responded in kind, then gave us the go-ahead. My neighbor was a pro-government Kurdish militiaman who was known to the military. I stopped giving him the evil eye, and even conceded a bit more space: in spite of himself, he had become my protector, my
laissez-passer.
He looked at me and I responded with a broad smile, even though deep down I wanted to kill him. To my surprise, he smiled back, and I realized he assumed I was a collaborator! Fortunately we didn't exchange a word. And thanks to him we got through every checkpoint all the way to the first big town, Amadiyeh, and never once were our papers checked. We had to change cars; I hoped that our neighbor would continue on with us, but he had reached the end of his trip.
back a little. He glared at me and cramped me even more. I said, “May the devil be damned,” and he retorted, “May the infidels be damned.” It was a real squabble, with us locking horns in the rear of the cab, and then we came to an abrupt stop: an Iraqi army commando was pointing weapons at our car. I was prepared for anything. The officer leaned in the window and asked for the passengers' papers. Just as Ramo was about to be checked, my fat neighbor raised his hand and greeted the officer. The officer bent down and responded in kind, then gave us the go-ahead. My neighbor was a pro-government Kurdish militiaman who was known to the military. I stopped giving him the evil eye, and even conceded a bit more space: in spite of himself, he had become my protector, my
laissez-passer.
He looked at me and I responded with a broad smile, even though deep down I wanted to kill him. To my surprise, he smiled back, and I realized he assumed I was a collaborator! Fortunately we didn't exchange a word. And thanks to him we got through every checkpoint all the way to the first big town, Amadiyeh, and never once were our papers checked. We had to change cars; I hoped that our neighbor would continue on with us, but he had reached the end of his trip.
It was a Friday and the cab station was overrun with soldiers on leave. As soon as a car drove up, they would take it by storm. We couldn't compete with them; they had priority. Then a cab drove up and parked in an isolated part of the station. The soldiers threw themselves on it, but the driver stepped out and declared that his car had broken down. I watched him as he went to drink some tea and had a feeling he was deceiving the soldiers. I went up to him and asked him if he could take us to Dihok. “My car broke down.” “How much do you want?” He asked for double the normal price. I went to ask the few civilians at the station if they would agree to pay double the price. If not, we would remain stranded in this town full of soldiers. I succeeded in
convincing three of them. Then we had to solve a major problem: how were we ever going to take this cab away right under the soldiers' noses? I told the driver to drive off from the station and to wait for us in a specific spot in town; we would walk to meet him there.
convincing three of them. Then we had to solve a major problem: how were we ever going to take this cab away right under the soldiers' noses? I told the driver to drive off from the station and to wait for us in a specific spot in town; we would walk to meet him there.
I no longer had a cent in my pocket. In the cab I sat next to an older man who seemed well off. He kept looking at my wristwatch. He wanted to buy it, but I explained that it was a very cherished gift and I couldn't part with it. Ramo was shoving me, but I signaled him to keep quiet. We were approaching Dihok and the driver began asking each of us for our fares. As usual, someone had to be in charge of collecting the money I volunteered and handed the money to the driver. While driving, he glanced down at the bills, and pointed out that two fares were missing. “That's true,” I replied, unperturbed, “it's my friend and me. We don't have any money.” He almost lost control of the car, and the passengers raised their arms in alarm. “What?” yelled the driver. “You arranged everything, you agreed to pay double the price, and now you're telling me you can't pay!” “There are two possible solutions,” I said calmly “Either you drop us off at the side of the road, or you understand that we have to get to Dihok and you'll be nice to us.” The driver fell silent; we were getting to town and he really had no choice. In any case, he was getting off lightly since three out of five passengers were paying double the fare. When we arrived, I thanked him, and then caught up with the elderly gentleman who wanted to buy my watch. “I agree to sell you my watch. It's difficult for me to part with it, but as you may have noticed, we don't have a single dinar.” After bargaining briefly, I sold him my cheap watch for a good price. And for the first time, I felt truly dishonest.
Pocketing the money, Ramo and I ran to a restaurant. Like two famished wolves, each of us devoured a chicken, bread, onions, parsley, and cucumbers, and washed it all
down with several beers. We had spent hardly a quarter of our fortune. In the afternoon, we left for Mosul, where my friend's sister lived. For the first time in twenty days, we plunged into delightful baths, and in the evening we went to see an Indian movie at the Semiramis.
down with several beers. We had spent hardly a quarter of our fortune. In the afternoon, we left for Mosul, where my friend's sister lived. For the first time in twenty days, we plunged into delightful baths, and in the evening we went to see an Indian movie at the Semiramis.
When we got home, Ramo's sister greeted us very angrily She saw me as having compromised her brother. We decided to part and return to Aqra separately, not knowing what was lying in store for us. I didn't see him again for a while; his family wouldn't allow him to see the person responsible for our escapade.
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Other friends started to avoid me. I knew that some among them now held me in higher esteem, but I represented a danger. I was still free to do as I pleased, though the security forces knew of my activities; they were letting the fruit ripen, waiting to see whom I came into contact with so they could haul us all in. From the fighters there was dead silence; no one brought me explosives or weapons. I spent most of my time at home reading and painting, and I watched my father become increasingly despondent; he would get irritated over nothing, brood despairingly, and isolate himself more and more often. Looking out the window, I watched him walk around the orchard, stop, gaze at the pomegranate trees, and walk back toward the house when my mother called him, hands behind his back, hunched over, looking shattered.
Zilan, my little niece, fell sick. Her whole body was swollen. Two days earlier, during singing class, instead of singing the song to the glory of the president and the Baath Party, she had intoned a patriotic Kurdish song. The schoolmistress, a Baathist, dragged her to the headmaster's office and quizzed her to find out who had taught her the song and what she and her family thought of the president
and the Iraqis. Zilan felt guilty. She realized she had made a mistake, and we advised her never to do it again. The better to persuade her, we said to her, “You could endanger your father's life if you sing that kind of song.” And following that incident, she fell sick. Sitting in the garden, my father called out to her; she came out, pale, and threw herself in his arms. Zilan was our little favorite, and my father wanted to put her mind at ease. “My girl, don't worry for your father, he's safe in the mountains, and the Iraqis can't hurt him.” He asked me to take her to the hospital, as he was too tired to go. I took Zilan in my arms and we set off. Along the way, we stopped to drink some Coca-Cola; she wanted to walk, and we continued on foot.
and the Iraqis. Zilan felt guilty. She realized she had made a mistake, and we advised her never to do it again. The better to persuade her, we said to her, “You could endanger your father's life if you sing that kind of song.” And following that incident, she fell sick. Sitting in the garden, my father called out to her; she came out, pale, and threw herself in his arms. Zilan was our little favorite, and my father wanted to put her mind at ease. “My girl, don't worry for your father, he's safe in the mountains, and the Iraqis can't hurt him.” He asked me to take her to the hospital, as he was too tired to go. I took Zilan in my arms and we set off. Along the way, we stopped to drink some Coca-Cola; she wanted to walk, and we continued on foot.
In the hospital, the nurse, who was addressed as “Doctor,” hardly examined her, and then gave me tablets wrapped in newspaper. Upon returning home, I resumed painting. Zilan lay on a mattress next to me, wrapped in a blanket. I was very fond of her, and when I told her I wanted to paint her portrait, she threw off the blanket and stood up happily
Jacob, my math teacher, wanted to see me. To avoid attracting attention, we agreed to meet in an Arab cafe in Mosul, seventy kilometers away. When I arrived, Jacob was reading
Al Saoura
, the Baathist newspaper, and on the table in front of him was a cup of tea swarming with flies. We went out and walked toward Bab el-Tob, the noisiest working-class neighborhood in the city. While walking, lost in the crowd, we could safely talk. I no longer thought much about the revolution and its old methods; I wanted to move on to something else. I returned to Aqra at nightfall. Zilan had become more seriously ill and my father was tucking in her blankets. When he saw me, he begged me, with tearful eyes, to go back to the hospital with her. He was worn out. I smiled at him. “Papa, I couldn't have imagined that Shero, the general's personal operator, could be so demoralized.” He said only, “That time is over, my boy, it's all
done in.” I bent down and kissed Zilan. A wheeze rose up in her tiny chest; she was breathing with difficulty, and her condition was worsening. I took her in my arms, wrapped her in a blanket, and headed back to the hospital. She was trying desperately to breathe. I kissed her to reassure her, and quickened my pace, taking a shortcut that ran in front of the Baath Party offices, a dangerous street at night because they were known to shoot on sight. More and more she seemed to be suffocating. When we finally arrived at the hospital, I put her down on a bed in an empty room and asked the nurse to call a physician immediately He ran out, and I returned to Zilan's bedside. I was beside myself. I kept kissing her, saying, “Everything's fine, the doctor is coming.” The nurse returned without the physician and I sent him away again, insisting that a doctor come at once. I went back to my niece's bedside and watched over her breathing, fearing it might stop. Minutes went by, interminable minutes, and still there was no doctor. I couldn't bear it anymore: I ran down the corridor to the door of the physician's office and banged on it, to no effect. Returning again to Zilan's bedside, I saw a vague glimmer of light in her eyes, but the doctor still didn't come. I went back to his door and hammered away on it, and finally he opened it. He was combing his hair. We had already seen each other at the headquarters of the secret police. He gave me a nasty look before walking slowly down the corridor. I ran ahead of him. When he came into Zilan's room, I cried, “She's stopped breathing!” Impassively, the doctor asked, “She's the terrorist's daughter?” “She's a child, that's all. Do something!” He started yelling, “You monkey, you think you can order me around?” I implored him. He signaled to the nurse to bring oxygen bottles. I helped him carry them; they were very light and I thought they might be empty. I looked at both of them. “They're empty ⦔ The doctor ignored my remark. I no longer knew what to do. I saw him place the mask on
Zilan's face. I saw her move her head slightly, and two minutes later the doctor removed the mask. “It's over,” he said curtly to the nurse, and walked out. I looked at Zilan and felt all my energy drain out of me. I broke down over the body of my niece. Then I stood up and went out. I was calm, but I began to cough up blood. The nurse returned Zilan's body to my father, wrapped in a white sheet, in the back of a pickup truck.
Al Saoura
, the Baathist newspaper, and on the table in front of him was a cup of tea swarming with flies. We went out and walked toward Bab el-Tob, the noisiest working-class neighborhood in the city. While walking, lost in the crowd, we could safely talk. I no longer thought much about the revolution and its old methods; I wanted to move on to something else. I returned to Aqra at nightfall. Zilan had become more seriously ill and my father was tucking in her blankets. When he saw me, he begged me, with tearful eyes, to go back to the hospital with her. He was worn out. I smiled at him. “Papa, I couldn't have imagined that Shero, the general's personal operator, could be so demoralized.” He said only, “That time is over, my boy, it's all
done in.” I bent down and kissed Zilan. A wheeze rose up in her tiny chest; she was breathing with difficulty, and her condition was worsening. I took her in my arms, wrapped her in a blanket, and headed back to the hospital. She was trying desperately to breathe. I kissed her to reassure her, and quickened my pace, taking a shortcut that ran in front of the Baath Party offices, a dangerous street at night because they were known to shoot on sight. More and more she seemed to be suffocating. When we finally arrived at the hospital, I put her down on a bed in an empty room and asked the nurse to call a physician immediately He ran out, and I returned to Zilan's bedside. I was beside myself. I kept kissing her, saying, “Everything's fine, the doctor is coming.” The nurse returned without the physician and I sent him away again, insisting that a doctor come at once. I went back to my niece's bedside and watched over her breathing, fearing it might stop. Minutes went by, interminable minutes, and still there was no doctor. I couldn't bear it anymore: I ran down the corridor to the door of the physician's office and banged on it, to no effect. Returning again to Zilan's bedside, I saw a vague glimmer of light in her eyes, but the doctor still didn't come. I went back to his door and hammered away on it, and finally he opened it. He was combing his hair. We had already seen each other at the headquarters of the secret police. He gave me a nasty look before walking slowly down the corridor. I ran ahead of him. When he came into Zilan's room, I cried, “She's stopped breathing!” Impassively, the doctor asked, “She's the terrorist's daughter?” “She's a child, that's all. Do something!” He started yelling, “You monkey, you think you can order me around?” I implored him. He signaled to the nurse to bring oxygen bottles. I helped him carry them; they were very light and I thought they might be empty. I looked at both of them. “They're empty ⦔ The doctor ignored my remark. I no longer knew what to do. I saw him place the mask on
Zilan's face. I saw her move her head slightly, and two minutes later the doctor removed the mask. “It's over,” he said curtly to the nurse, and walked out. I looked at Zilan and felt all my energy drain out of me. I broke down over the body of my niece. Then I stood up and went out. I was calm, but I began to cough up blood. The nurse returned Zilan's body to my father, wrapped in a white sheet, in the back of a pickup truck.
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