My Father's Rifle (10 page)
Authors: Hiner Saleem
My friends were several years older than I. They wore sideburns, but I didn't have enough of a beard to grow mine. So I colored them in with my mother's kohl.
On Thursdays and Fridays we would spend the evenings in a bar owned by Armenians. We would drink raki with our meze, and the waiters thought we were artists. One evening, I saw Sami the painter come in. He greeted us and went to sit in a corner. We didn't dare invite him to our table, knowing that he liked to be alone. He ordered some raki and lit a cigarette. I was glad to be frequenting the same bar as he. My friends and I were once again remaking the worldâand drinking, too. There was no one in the bar but Sami and us, and even though we were having a lively conversation, the waiters didn't seem to be paying attention to what we were saying. To my great surprise, Sami called out to us, “We Kurds will never amount to anything. We are cursed, that is our destiny. Look at our history, we're the most ancient people in the region, and yet the Turks, who came after us, have their own state, and we have nothing.” Finger pointing to his temple, he added, “But the strangest thing is that in spite of the massacres, we're still here. The Chaldeans, the Babylonians, the Sumerians built empires and nothing is left of them. As for us, we're still here, speaking our language, and yet unable to make anything of ourselves. We refuse to be subjugated, we rebel, and we're still nothing ⦔ Imad turned to Sami, smiling. “What you're saying is contradictory.” “You can't speak,” replied Sami calmly, “you signed up.” Imad turned pale; he was speechless. Signing up meant joining the Baath Party. How else could he have been accepted into a school as politically sensitive as the Baghdad Music Conservatory?
The evening ended without incident. We, his friends, knew Imad had signed up only because of his passion for music. And being seen with him, a party member, was a good cover for our group. But the security forces knew how
to manipulate us and sow the seeds of doubt in each of us. We all suspected each other, friends, brothers ⦠But as one of our proverbs says, “The mouth is not a hole in a wall that can be filled in with mud.”
to manipulate us and sow the seeds of doubt in each of us. We all suspected each other, friends, brothers ⦠But as one of our proverbs says, “The mouth is not a hole in a wall that can be filled in with mud.”
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For July 17, the anniversary of the Baathist Party's coming to power, loudspeakers were set up around the town hall on Aqra's main square. The walls were decorated with slogans and photos of the president. The local Baath Party leader was going to speak, and students, government employees, everyone had to attend. I was present when the party leader began his speech with greetings to the president. Half the people assembled on the square belonged to the security forces; they began applauding and we followed suit. Someone cried out, “Long live the president!” and we all chimed in, “Long live the knight of the Arab nation!” Everyone cried out in unison. The speaker resumed his speech. Quiet had returned when someone in the crowd began to shout, “Long live General Barzani! Long live Kurdistan!” The scattered security officers immediately converged on the spot where this shout had originated. It was Sami the painter. He had stripped off his clothes as a sign of protest. We saw the policemen grab him like a wisp of straw while Sami continued to shout, “Long live freedom! Long live Kurdistan!” I never saw Sami again, nor his paintings of Kurdish women nor his portraits of the general.
I was told that he spent his time writing letters to Kurt Waldheim, Jimmy Carter, Giscard d'Estaing, asking that they assist the Kurds.
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One day I was summoned by the headmaster during math class. Jacob, my teacher, looked slightly worried as he gave me leave. I followed the caretaker up the long hallway to the
headmaster's office, but before I reached the door, the caretaker signaled to me to enter the neighboring office, the one with the “Do Not Enter” sign. I knocked and walked in. The man with the drooping mustache was waiting for me, but he wasn't alone. Two other men from the security forces were present. Strangely, I was no longer afraid. This wasn't the first time I'd been summoned. I wasn't trembling; I already pictured myself a martyr. Immediately the man with the mustache asked me if I had enrolled in the Baathist Youth. “Sir, the only thing I care about in life is painting,” I replied. “My dream is to study art in Europe. After that, I'll be worthy of joining the party.”
headmaster's office, but before I reached the door, the caretaker signaled to me to enter the neighboring office, the one with the “Do Not Enter” sign. I knocked and walked in. The man with the drooping mustache was waiting for me, but he wasn't alone. Two other men from the security forces were present. Strangely, I was no longer afraid. This wasn't the first time I'd been summoned. I wasn't trembling; I already pictured myself a martyr. Immediately the man with the mustache asked me if I had enrolled in the Baathist Youth. “Sir, the only thing I care about in life is painting,” I replied. “My dream is to study art in Europe. After that, I'll be worthy of joining the party.”
“Bravo,” he said, “the party will help you. You have the choice: either sign up and the party sends you to Europe, or don't sign up and the party sees to it that you disappear.” The two other men rose, impatient, and my interlocutor told me to follow them out. “They have things to see you about.” I followed calmly in their footsteps. They made me climb into a white Land Cruiser parked in front of the school, and I sat squeezed between the two of them. They took me directly to the security offices opposite the hospital. There they asked one of their colleagues whether they should bring me to the basement. I started to become truly frightened; I knew, as everyone did, that the basement was where they tortured and executed people. Finally, they led me into a small room on the ground floor, with no window or light, and locked the door. A half hour later, the door opened and I was pulled into the office of the head security officer. He had a tape recorder on his desk, and he started questioning me about my brother the fighter. “I know nothing at all about him.” He showered me with questions. “What about his friends, what do they say? What do they know?” “I don't know them, they're too old for me.” “Why didn't you report him when he joined the fighters?” “Among us, a younger brother doesn't have the right to ask
his older brother anything!” “Fine, that's true ⦠We're kind to decent people. I'll let you go, but come back to see me regularly, whenever you have something to tell me.” The session had lasted about forty minutes. I left his office and found myself at the door of the security building, blushing with shameâand worried, for if someone should come down the street at that moment and see me leaving unharmed, they would assume I was a collaborator.
his older brother anything!” “Fine, that's true ⦠We're kind to decent people. I'll let you go, but come back to see me regularly, whenever you have something to tell me.” The session had lasted about forty minutes. I left his office and found myself at the door of the security building, blushing with shameâand worried, for if someone should come down the street at that moment and see me leaving unharmed, they would assume I was a collaborator.
I walked down the street, head lowered, glancing furtively around to see if any acquaintances were passing by. Fortunately, there was no one, and I ran off as fast as I could. Only when I was some distance away did I begin to think about the questions the head of security had asked me. I was dealing with an intelligent man who believed he could use me as an informer by employing gentle methods.
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All the librarians had received a list of books that had to be sent to Baghdad to be destroyed. These were old books whose flaw was that they didn't follow the Baathist line. Because he trusted me, our town librarian had given me some Kurdish books, and I considered it my patriotic duty to hide them for safekeeping.
I was prepared to do anything for the Kurdish cause. I wanted to make movies, but I knew that I had no chance of being admitted to the film institute: the school was for Baathists exclusively, and advantage was given to Arabs. I wanted to skip ahead, catch up in school, and make up for lost time. I was eager to become a man, and to be more brilliant and courageous than my friends. I wanted to be a hero and come up with new fighting methods for my people. And I felt my time had come. I spent days in endless palaver with my friends, my head brimming with ideas, but I was disappointed in my pals, who weren't active enough. I became solitary.
Up in my room, on the second floor, I mulled these things over, including the fact that the secret police were at my heels. I had to make a decision.
My cousin Ramo dropped by to see me, well dressed and very perfumed, his sparse beard clean-shaven. He wanted us to go for a walk downtown, and invited me for lunch at his parents' house afterward. But that day I had come to a decision and had other plans in my head. I went downstairs and saw my mother, in her black dress, busy with the housework; I watched her for a long time as a way of saying goodbye. She said to me, simply, “Don't come home late, and be careful.” I smiled at her to put her mind at rest. “
Dayé
, Mother, don't worry, your son isn't a kid anymore.” I was dying to kiss her, but I was afraid of revealing my plan, and feared she might cry and stir up the whole neighborhood.
Dayé
, Mother, don't worry, your son isn't a kid anymore.” I was dying to kiss her, but I was afraid of revealing my plan, and feared she might cry and stir up the whole neighborhood.
I left the house with two cents in my pocket and headed straight for the bus station. Ramo, who very much wanted me to regard him as a courageous person, followed me. “Where are we going?” “How much do you have on you?” He rummaged through his pockets, “Twelve dinars, why?” “We're going to join the partisans.” “What? We're going to the mountains? Why didn't you warn me so I could be prepared?” “Real men must always be prepared.” I was a person of conviction. I added, “But if you don't want to come ⦔ Full of pride, he cut me off immediately, “The Kurds have a saying,
Kem bijî
,
kel bijî.
13
Come on, let's go!”
Kem bijî
,
kel bijî.
13
Come on, let's go!”
At the station, we got into an old shared cab and drove off. We had to cross about a dozen checkpoints and show our student identification papers. I had a contact in the village of Harin. When the cab dropped us off, we continued on foot toward the mountains.
We arrived in Harin at sunset. We were welcomed by roving dogs that barked when they saw us trying stealthily to
find our way. I located Said's house; he was the contact who was going to help us join the partisans. I knocked on the window. He was sitting with his wife and baby, drinking tea in the one room of the house. He opened the door and welcomed us warmly. He was my sister-in-law Dijla's brother-in-law. In a few words, I told him we wanted to join the fighters. He turned to his wife and asked her to serve us tea, then he went out, telling us to wait for him. We were left alone with his wife, who was very shy, and the baby, who was poking his finger at a partridge huddled in a cage. The baby went around the cage trying by every means to touch the bird. Each time he managed to do so, the bird would let out a plaintive cry and peck him, but this didn't dissuade the little boy, who continued his game. The partridge hopped up and down to escape his young torturer, but when his head hit the top of the cage, the child poked him in the head. His mother sat silently in front of the teapot. Every once in a while, she pulled the child toward her, but as soon as she let him go, he went back to the cage. The baby carried on like this the entire time we waited for his father. Said finally returned and motioned for us to leave. Ramo and I would gladly have spent the night at Saïd's, but he didn't have the courage to make such an offer. Before parting from us, he filled our pockets with raisins.
find our way. I located Said's house; he was the contact who was going to help us join the partisans. I knocked on the window. He was sitting with his wife and baby, drinking tea in the one room of the house. He opened the door and welcomed us warmly. He was my sister-in-law Dijla's brother-in-law. In a few words, I told him we wanted to join the fighters. He turned to his wife and asked her to serve us tea, then he went out, telling us to wait for him. We were left alone with his wife, who was very shy, and the baby, who was poking his finger at a partridge huddled in a cage. The baby went around the cage trying by every means to touch the bird. Each time he managed to do so, the bird would let out a plaintive cry and peck him, but this didn't dissuade the little boy, who continued his game. The partridge hopped up and down to escape his young torturer, but when his head hit the top of the cage, the child poked him in the head. His mother sat silently in front of the teapot. Every once in a while, she pulled the child toward her, but as soon as she let him go, he went back to the cage. The baby carried on like this the entire time we waited for his father. Said finally returned and motioned for us to leave. Ramo and I would gladly have spent the night at Saïd's, but he didn't have the courage to make such an offer. Before parting from us, he filled our pockets with raisins.
Said pointed to a road leading out of the village about a hundred yards from his house, and told us that someone was waiting for us a half mile from there. “He's your guide. When you see him, say âTetras'. He should answer âLion.'” We left the village cautiously. “What if Said is an informer?” It was a pitch-black night and we saw the glow of a cigarette. A man approached us. We cried out, “Tetras.” We were blinded by a beam of light that swept up and down over us. Then we heard a loud roar of laughter. I repeated “Tetras”; still no answer, just laughter. So I yelled “Tetras” curtly. He finally answered “Lion.”
“Hey, townsfolk, where are you going in your elegant clothesâto a wedding?” I was wearing denim trousers and a matching shirt with an embroidered rose on the front. “We didn't want to attract the attention of the policemen at the checkpoints ⦔ In spite of our explanation, he went on laughing. We were beginning to fade from exhaustion, but we followed him, as he went prancing like a gazelle about fifty yards ahead of us. He'd turn around, wait for us to catch up, and laugh again at the sight of us. His welcome greatly disappointed me, but I said nothing. Soon we had covered quite a distance, and all we could think about was stopping to rest for a few minutes, but he completely disregarded our fatigue. At sunrise we reached a small hamlet. He made us go into a house while he remained on the doorstep whispering with the owner. After five minutes, our guide poked his head through the half-open door and said, “My mission is accomplished; now he'll take care of you,” and he left. Our new guide introduced himself; his name was Khidir. While he was making breakfast, we dozed off for an hour.
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As we walked in the mountains, I noticed that a bird had been flying above us for some time. It would land about a hundred meters away and wait until we reached that point, then fly off and land a bit farther on. The bird's song was sorrowful. Very pleased with this new companion, Khidir followed the flight of the bird attentively, and spoke to us about the struggle for Kurdish independence with an optimism that reminded me of my father's, years earlier. He could talk forever, praising the courage and political genius of the fighters we were joining, while the bird went with us every step of the way Then Khidir began telling us the story of the bird. “In the age of Solomon, two sisters lost sight of each other. In their search for one another, they changed into birds and flew all over the sky ⦔ Ever since, it has
been said that the bird flying over us is one of the sisters, eternally seeking her sibling. He spoke of the grief of the two sisters changed into birds, and deeply believed in his story. As I watched him, I was overcome by pity. How could a people so naive ever liberate themselves in the days of Henry Kissinger and Andrei Gromyko, the most cynical politicians of the century? The bird triggered something in my mind. Suddenly I no longer believed in our fighting methods.
been said that the bird flying over us is one of the sisters, eternally seeking her sibling. He spoke of the grief of the two sisters changed into birds, and deeply believed in his story. As I watched him, I was overcome by pity. How could a people so naive ever liberate themselves in the days of Henry Kissinger and Andrei Gromyko, the most cynical politicians of the century? The bird triggered something in my mind. Suddenly I no longer believed in our fighting methods.
I continued to follow Khidir. He was a good man, dependable and very attentive. As soon as he would see us slow our pace, he'd find a pretext for stopping. “Brothers, I'm a little tired, let's take a rest.” He'd dig in his pocket and take out some dried figs, walnuts, or a piece of bread, which we would share. He took us to the top of Mount Gara. Then he told us to wait. He disappeared for a short time and reappeared with three fighters with Kalashnikovs on their shoulders. He embraced us and, by way of farewell, expressed the wish to see us again, the next time in a free country. Then he made his way back through the mountains to return to his family The fighters greeted us; one of them made tea, another stood guard; and they all took some bread out of their bags. We ate, the Kalashnikovs on the ground next to us. The leader didn't say a word to us. At nightfall, he asked me my name. I told him I was Azad, son of Shero, the general's personal operator, but his expression didn't change.
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