Authors: Hiner Saleem
My Father's Rifle (7 page)
I met Jian. She was even more ravishing than the girls in the Indian films I used to watch on my uncle's television. She didn't dress like the other girls. She wore jeans and big sweaters, and she had snow boots. We knew that her father
was an important person and that he went abroad often, particularly to America. She was so beautiful that the boys didn't dare approach her, except for Sertchil. He was also well dressed and had an important father. No one had the courage to compete with Sertchil, who threatened anyone who got near Jian. But I didn't care because Jian was interested in me. One day Sertchil and I scuffled. I had to change classes, and Jian followed me. I always left for school early to meet her.
was an important person and that he went abroad often, particularly to America. She was so beautiful that the boys didn't dare approach her, except for Sertchil. He was also well dressed and had an important father. No one had the courage to compete with Sertchil, who threatened anyone who got near Jian. But I didn't care because Jian was interested in me. One day Sertchil and I scuffled. I had to change classes, and Jian followed me. I always left for school early to meet her.
One Monday, on the little bridge where the Nauperdan checkpoint had been set up, I heard gunshots and saw a man fall under a hail of bullets. The gunman was immediately arrested and headquarters ordered him killed right then, at the scene of the crime. A man was chosen to execute the sentence. I was convinced the killer was a collaborator and therefore deserved his punishment. But I was surprised to see he showed no fear. Unable to bear his gaze, the fighter who was supposed to execute him told him to turn around. The man refused. “No, I won't turn around.” The fighter insisted, then ended up firing two bullets, one into the man's head, the other straight into his heart. I applauded along with everyone else, yelling, “Long live Kurdistan! Long live the general!”
Then I learned that this man had not been a collaborator. He had killed to avenge his honor. For me, only traitors to the cause deserved execution.
I arrived late to my appointment with Jian, regretting that I had applauded.
Jian and I had been selected to sing in a choir that was to accompany the singer Mahmad Shekho, a tall, thin man who wore eyeglasses with thick lenses. His accompanist was a young musician whose name was Timar. They were Kurds from Syria who had joined our movement to champion the Kurdish cause. This was the first time I'd seen Kurds from
the other parts of Kurdistanâphysicians, engineers, performers, artists, all kinds of people who came from territories occupied by Turkey, Iran, and Syria. Mahmad Shekho repeated constantly that our country couldn't be liberated just with guns, that we also needed violins and drums. And we recorded many songs for our radio station, Voice of Kurdistan.
the other parts of Kurdistanâphysicians, engineers, performers, artists, all kinds of people who came from territories occupied by Turkey, Iran, and Syria. Mahmad Shekho repeated constantly that our country couldn't be liberated just with guns, that we also needed violins and drums. And we recorded many songs for our radio station, Voice of Kurdistan.
Winter arrived, snow began to fall, and I saw more and more wounded and dead brought in on mules and in trucks. And still our planes didn't fly from our clandestine airports.
One night, we heard low-flying Iraqi planes overhead and our window broke into pieces. We rushed outside. Someone started screaming, “They're our planes! Don't fire!” My brother Rostam and his comrades directed hails of anti-aircraft fire at the planes. They knew full well they weren't ours. One plane was hit and burst into flames. We cheered loudly and the planes disappeared without bombing us.
The sky became calm again; we all went down to congratulate and embrace Rostam and his companions. I was fascinated by this brother who reigned over his antiaircraft battery.
As for my father, he continued to work on Morse code signals in the military office and still waited to be summoned by the general. It didn't dawn on him that there were now much more efficient operators than he in Barzani's employ â¦
The planes returned. I was at school. We all rushed outside and went to hide in the trenches that had been dug in case of air raids. I wanted to hold Jian in my arms and protect her, but I was too shy. I looked at her, I looked at the sky; napalm bombs were falling all around us.
When calm returned, we gathered around our teacher. “When will our airplanes be called in?” “They'll be called in, they'll be called in ⦔ said our teacher with a sad smile.
When I got home, I asked my father, “Papa, we were supposed to have left for a one-month picnic ⦔ But my father turned his head away.
Soon there were bombardments every day. Our schedules were disrupted: school now started at nightfall. We would huddle around the oil lamp to listen to our lessons; it was very cold. After school, Jian walked home with me in the dark. The ground was covered with snow, and above us the black sky was studded with stars. Jian had a flashlight to light up the road. One night, as I was shivering with cold, she took a bar of chocolate out of her coat and we nibbled on it.
I found my parents at home, warming themselves around the stove. They hadn't eaten anything and they sent me out to get bread at the
peshmergas'
baker. We were entitled to two free loaves of bread per day, per person. My mother prepared tea. Rostam came to share the meal with us, then he retired with his young wife behind my father's long turban, which had been unrolled and hung up to protect their intimacy.
peshmergas'
baker. We were entitled to two free loaves of bread per day, per person. My mother prepared tea. Rostam came to share the meal with us, then he retired with his young wife behind my father's long turban, which had been unrolled and hung up to protect their intimacy.
Jian gave me one of her anoraks and a flashlight. The whole class envied me. Jian loved me, and I loved her as much as I loved Kurdistan. Now, thanks to Jian, at night, during recess, I could take part in the flashlight competition, to see whose light could be beamed the farthest.
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Then the school had to close down: there were air bombardments day and night, and still no planes of ours in the sky. We started to lose hope.
The headquarters withdrew even farther north and we had to abandon the house. We went to hide in two huge caves, one for women, the other for men. There were no more days or nights. Between bombings, I would somehow manage to meet Jian. My father sent Morse code messages uninterruptedly from the men's cave. We were surrounded
by wounded people who had to be cared for with inadequate means. Those killed in the bombings were buried immediately. I helped the nurses and slept with my father's Morse code beeping on one side and the moans of the wounded on the other. As I was getting up to go see Jian, a wounded man next to me was moaning his children's names, then suddenly stopped. He had just died. I scratched the nape of my neck and found blood on my fingertips. I scratched myself again and realized I was covered with lice. This was even more unpleasant than the worms of the Zab River. I ran to the women's cave to find my mother and show her what was happening to me. She smiled on seeing me so upset, then I saw her eyes fill with tears. She led me to the edge of a stream and washed my clothes while I shivered, wrapped in a big blanket. She sheared me like a lamb, and I didn't go see Jian.
by wounded people who had to be cared for with inadequate means. Those killed in the bombings were buried immediately. I helped the nurses and slept with my father's Morse code beeping on one side and the moans of the wounded on the other. As I was getting up to go see Jian, a wounded man next to me was moaning his children's names, then suddenly stopped. He had just died. I scratched the nape of my neck and found blood on my fingertips. I scratched myself again and realized I was covered with lice. This was even more unpleasant than the worms of the Zab River. I ran to the women's cave to find my mother and show her what was happening to me. She smiled on seeing me so upset, then I saw her eyes fill with tears. She led me to the edge of a stream and washed my clothes while I shivered, wrapped in a big blanket. She sheared me like a lamb, and I didn't go see Jian.
Word went out that Iraq and Iran were about to conclude a treaty, at our expense, with Kissinger's consent.
On the Kurdish radio station, a poem was declaimed describing the heavenly beauty of our mountains and the pure water of our rivers, the Tigris and the Euphrates. But I was no longer a kid. The mountains I saw were harsh, the rivers full of worms, and the sky saturated with napalm bombs.
We received orders for the women, children, and old people to head for the Iranian frontier. We could no longer think things through rationally or soundly. A mortal solitude swept over our people. We were being betrayed by the Americans as we had been previously betrayed by the Soviets. On a beautiful March day, Saddam Hussein of Iraq signed a treaty with the shah of Iran;
8
we were losing our last support. A long letter by General Barzani addressed to Kissinger, begging him to keep his promise, was read over our radio, but Kissinger abandoned us to our fate.
8
we were losing our last support. A long letter by General Barzani addressed to Kissinger, begging him to keep his promise, was read over our radio, but Kissinger abandoned us to our fate.
I went to the
peshmergas'
baker, but there was no longer anyone there. There was nothing but our clandestine radio station still broadcasting appeals to the entire worldâJesus, Muhammad, Gandhi, Buddha, Abraham Lincolnâto come to the aid of our people. I saw some
peshmergas
commit suicide in despair. Others wanted to hide in the mountains and resist, but the general understood we were caught in an inescapable net: the choice was between accepting defeat or extermination. We took the road of exile.
peshmergas'
baker, but there was no longer anyone there. There was nothing but our clandestine radio station still broadcasting appeals to the entire worldâJesus, Muhammad, Gandhi, Buddha, Abraham Lincolnâto come to the aid of our people. I saw some
peshmergas
commit suicide in despair. Others wanted to hide in the mountains and resist, but the general understood we were caught in an inescapable net: the choice was between accepting defeat or extermination. We took the road of exile.
Along with other families, we piled into a truck bound for the Iranian frontier; there was no alternative. After several kilometers, we climbed out of the truck, exhausted, our bundles of belongings on our shoulders. We crossed the frontier under the supervision of the Iranian police and were herded up a small hill where we sat on our heels, surrounded by soldiers. I felt as if I were in a cemetery, with all those people around me, the crouching women in their dark dresses, their heads buried in their knees, weeping. We were annihilated, and I started to cry. We were taken to a camp made up of tents. It was a gift from the United Nations. We were refugees.
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Then the men arrived, heads lowered, defeatedâamong them my two brothers and my father, General Barzani's personal operator. Out of fear of Savak, the Iranian secret police, we couldn't cry out against the Iranians' betrayal of us.
Dozens of refugee camps stretched along the Iranian border. We were forbidden to go out without a Savak safe-conduct. And yet this land, too, was Kurdish; it was one of the quarters of our heart according to the sketch of our young teacher in Nauperdan. I set about looking for Jian, without success. Passing by a tent, I heard a man moan:
it was Timar, one of the Kurdish musicians from Syria. It started to rain; our camp became a field of mud.
it was Timar, one of the Kurdish musicians from Syria. It started to rain; our camp became a field of mud.
The summer went by with its blazing heat, and then winter came, bitingly cold that year.
We were moved to another camp. We now lived in long sheds with small square cells giving out on a central passageway; each family was assigned a cell. Time stood still; we had nothing to do. A few boys and I would leave the shed and walk around and around inside the camp, like dogs. Once, I spotted my brother Dilovan standing apart with some friend. I wanted to go up to him, but he signaled me to keep away; they were getting drunk.
That evening, when I returned, I saw Dilovan stretched out in his cell. He was hiccuping, and tears streamed from his closed eyes. He howled continually: “I want to go back and fight in our mountains.” He threw up in a saucepan and his wife wiped his mouth. Day in, day out, this was a recurring scene, for him and for others.
Classes started again. I still wanted to be a judge or a lawyer, and I was still looking for Jian. But deep down I knew I would never see herâor Kurdistanâagain.
Passing in front of the corner of the shed where my uncle Avdal Khan and his family lived, I heard someone singing and playing the
saz
, the beautiful Kurdish lute. I went to look, and found Mahmad Shekho, the other singer from Syria with whom Jian and I had recorded songs for Voice of Kurdistan. He was scrawnier than before, but his voice hadn't changed; it was still just as beautiful as ever. He smiled at me, and I went out of the room, haunted by the words of his song: “The more time goes by, the more my heart beats slowly, my beloved ⦔
saz
, the beautiful Kurdish lute. I went to look, and found Mahmad Shekho, the other singer from Syria with whom Jian and I had recorded songs for Voice of Kurdistan. He was scrawnier than before, but his voice hadn't changed; it was still just as beautiful as ever. He smiled at me, and I went out of the room, haunted by the words of his song: “The more time goes by, the more my heart beats slowly, my beloved ⦔
My father gave me a bit of pocket money. I and a slightly older friend got passes for a few hours and went to Mah
b
d: Mah
b
d, the city that had been the capital of the
Kurdish Republic, where Mustafa Barzani had become general in 1946; but also the city where the Kurdish president Qazi Mohammed had been hanged by the Iranians barely one year later, in March 1947.
bd: Mahbd, the city that had been the capital of theKurdish Republic, where Mustafa Barzani had become general in 1946; but also the city where the Kurdish president Qazi Mohammed had been hanged by the Iranians barely one year later, in March 1947.
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