Authors: Hiner Saleem
My Father's Rifle (12 page)
I was of age, even if I was only fourteen on paper. People knew me as a calm but dangerous boy; my friends saw me as mysterious, the government agents as a mosquito, and my mother as a dog with scalded paws who couldn't stand still. As for me, I saw myself as a combination of all these.
“Calm down a bit, my son,” my mother would repeat all day long. But nothing could calm me. I had been neglecting my studies for quite a while; I spent much of my time in my room on the second floor. Soon it was spring, and the pomegranate trees were in bloomâI could see them from my window I gazed out at them, gazed at the early spring light, and gazed down at the book in front of me on my table. I heard the sound of my mother's footsteps as she climbed upstairs. She checked on me when she could. “What are you doing, my son?” she asked. “As you can see, Mama, I'm studying.” My mother leaned over the table and shut the book. She looked at the cover and the first few pages, then looked at me. “My son, why do you mock me? Telling me you're studying!” “Well, Mama, isn't this a book here in front of me?” I joked. “My son, I'm talking about schoolbooks!”
My mother couldn't read well, and she read even less well
in Arabic, but she knew which books were schoolbooks and which ones weren't, for the schoolbooks all had a photo of Saddam Hussein on the cover, smoking a cigar, shooting a pistol, or hunting on horseback in traditional Arab dress, sporting a Kalashnikov ⦠She felt duped, and turned to leave. I saw her small figure in her black jacket, silhouetted in the door, and then I listened to her go down the stairs. I stood up, went to the window, and stared outside. In my mind, I was planning my escape, perhaps to Europe.
in Arabic, but she knew which books were schoolbooks and which ones weren't, for the schoolbooks all had a photo of Saddam Hussein on the cover, smoking a cigar, shooting a pistol, or hunting on horseback in traditional Arab dress, sporting a Kalashnikov ⦠She felt duped, and turned to leave. I saw her small figure in her black jacket, silhouetted in the door, and then I listened to her go down the stairs. I stood up, went to the window, and stared outside. In my mind, I was planning my escape, perhaps to Europe.
I left the house, and I heard my mother cry out to me, “My son, don't come home late.” I ran into my cousin Ramo, and we went to a pub and ordered a half bottle of arak. The Assyrian waiter brought us the half bottle with the customary bowl of chickpeas as meze. Ramo was all ears. “I'm leaving, maybe for Europe,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. He smiled. “I'd like to go too,” he said, “but I'm a year away from my diploma. Wait for me and we'll go together.” I smiled back. Ramo thought I had no future in my studies, whereas he did. He was already branded from having followed me into the mountains, and he didn't want to make the same mistake twice. “Even if everyone could leave Iraq,” he said to me, “you'd never stand a chance. First of all, you have to be a Baathist, and even then, trips are forbidden.” We stopped speaking when two men came in and sat down at a table. One of the two was Kamal. He looked at me. In Aqra everyone knew everyone, but I knew Kamal especially well. He was one of my brother Dilovan's childhood friends, but for the last three years my brother had refused to speak to him, apart from curt hellos: Kamal had become not only a Baathist but a party official. Kamal kept turning to look at me, but this didn't surprise me because I knew I was suspect. I finished my glass of arak and we left the bar.
The next day, I was waiting for my friend Ako in the tearoom in the Saraï Bazaar. The tearoom was full of people; old people and the unemployed played dominoes, smoked
tobacco, and spat on the floor. The steam from the samovar made the air heavy Outside it was drizzling; it was the last cold spell of the season. The big portrait of Saddam Hussein hanging on the glass door made it difficult for me to see outside. The waiter brought me some tea. Through the glass door, I watched Kamal go by, and he saw me. Every time a car drove past, it spattered mud on the glass and on Saddam Hussein's portrait, so the owner gave the waiter a rag so he could clean off the mud right away, which he did. This wasn't a matter of cleanliness or aesthetics, but because it was really dangerous to neglect the president's portrait. Gradually it stopped raining, but there was still enough mud in the street to spatter the portrait. After a while the waiter stopped serving tea and remained posted by the door with his cleaning rag. I saw Kamal walk by the tearoom again and look in at me; he was dripping wet. I felt like standing up and leaving, or like grabbing him by the collar and asking him what he wanted. I went to the door and saw him standing a short way off, motionless, smoking a cigarette. We exchanged looks. I knew I was being tailed, but I couldn't have imagined it would be by Kamal, a Kurd and one of my brother's old pals. I went back and sat down again; I had to wait for Ako, who was already very late. The waiter continued to clean the glass. He spit on a few stubborn drops of automobile grease and wiped them with his rag. I was delighted to see him spit on the portrait. In a flash, the owner left his samovar, pounced on him, grabbed him by the ear, and pulled him to the far end of the room. He smacked him hard in the face. “If someone had seen you, you little ass, my tearoom would have been razed to the ground.” I watched, unable to intervene. Even with the smack, I felt the boy was still the winner!
tobacco, and spat on the floor. The steam from the samovar made the air heavy Outside it was drizzling; it was the last cold spell of the season. The big portrait of Saddam Hussein hanging on the glass door made it difficult for me to see outside. The waiter brought me some tea. Through the glass door, I watched Kamal go by, and he saw me. Every time a car drove past, it spattered mud on the glass and on Saddam Hussein's portrait, so the owner gave the waiter a rag so he could clean off the mud right away, which he did. This wasn't a matter of cleanliness or aesthetics, but because it was really dangerous to neglect the president's portrait. Gradually it stopped raining, but there was still enough mud in the street to spatter the portrait. After a while the waiter stopped serving tea and remained posted by the door with his cleaning rag. I saw Kamal walk by the tearoom again and look in at me; he was dripping wet. I felt like standing up and leaving, or like grabbing him by the collar and asking him what he wanted. I went to the door and saw him standing a short way off, motionless, smoking a cigarette. We exchanged looks. I knew I was being tailed, but I couldn't have imagined it would be by Kamal, a Kurd and one of my brother's old pals. I went back and sat down again; I had to wait for Ako, who was already very late. The waiter continued to clean the glass. He spit on a few stubborn drops of automobile grease and wiped them with his rag. I was delighted to see him spit on the portrait. In a flash, the owner left his samovar, pounced on him, grabbed him by the ear, and pulled him to the far end of the room. He smacked him hard in the face. “If someone had seen you, you little ass, my tearoom would have been razed to the ground.” I watched, unable to intervene. Even with the smack, I felt the boy was still the winner!
Suddenly Kamal reappeared in front of the window and signaled me to come out. I went out to him. I wasn't afraid. “What's up?” “Come along.” I followed him; he walked a
few steps ahead of me; he didn't want people to see us together lest they suspect him. Nor did I, for the same reason. He stopped in an isolated spot, glanced around, and said, “You're Dilovan's brother, and I wish you both well. I know you're about to be arrested; I saw your file at party headquarters. I felt I should warn you before they arrest you.” I listened to him in astonishment, and he continued, “You see, I don't cause anyone harm.” “But you're not just a party member,” I said, “you're an official.” “I'm a ghost official, they don't trust me. I'm a Kurd! It's just that I have to protect my family ⦠I've told you, you must find a solution! If you hear from your brother, send him my greetings ⦔
few steps ahead of me; he didn't want people to see us together lest they suspect him. Nor did I, for the same reason. He stopped in an isolated spot, glanced around, and said, “You're Dilovan's brother, and I wish you both well. I know you're about to be arrested; I saw your file at party headquarters. I felt I should warn you before they arrest you.” I listened to him in astonishment, and he continued, “You see, I don't cause anyone harm.” “But you're not just a party member,” I said, “you're an official.” “I'm a ghost official, they don't trust me. I'm a Kurd! It's just that I have to protect my family ⦠I've told you, you must find a solution! If you hear from your brother, send him my greetings ⦔
Kamal left; I remained on the spot. I was a little frightened and wondered if I should run away immediately But I was supposed to see Ako. I went back to the tearoom, suspicious of every person who crossed my path. Inside Jemal, the son of Abdulla the Communist barber, was waiting for me, looking preoccupied.
“Where's Ako?” I asked. “Ako is having problems; his sister Nazik has run away with a man.” This made me forget Kamal and all my worries. Nazik was the girl who slipped love letters into my jacket pocket whenever I went over to see Ako. “Nazik ⦠she ran away? With a man ⦠?”
I went home and reread her letters. “My dear Azad, you are the love of my heart ⦔ But I wasn't really very sad; the only woman for me, the love of my life, was Jian, the girl who had given me a flashlight.
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On the radio, on the television, and in the state newspapers, we started hearing about Hafiz al-Assad's great wisdom, his rapprochement with Saddam Hussein, and an impending union between Syria and Iraq. I couldn't believe my eyes or ears, even though I knew he was a despotic president and his
state a Baathist state, because up until then Assad had been described as a traitor to the Arab nation.
state a Baathist state, because up until then Assad had been described as a traitor to the Arab nation.
The party organized celebrations everywhere in Iraq, even in Aqra. Everyone talked of the two presidents. Saddam Hussein had merely to say the moon shines during the day and the sun at night, and everyone became blind. With the first signs of unity between the two Baathist countries, movement opened up on both sides of the Syrian-Iraqi frontier, and euphoria set in. Now I was happy at last, for Arab unity was providing me with the chance of a lifetime! For ages I'd been trying to think of a way to get a passport so I could flee Iraq, and during this period all the administrative offices, the police, and the secret police were taken up with the celebrations. I went to the passport office in Mosul and submitted my application. The officer of the secret police glanced at it; my age was the only problem. Officially I was fourteen and had to be accompanied. “I am going with my guardian; he has agreed to this because the Iraqi Baathist Youth is paying a visit to our brothers, the Syrian Baathist Youth. I would hate to fail in my patriotic duty.” The officer looked at me. “Come back with a party certificate and your guardian.”
For the first time in my life, I took a taxi alone. I went straight to the restaurant owned by a relative of ours in Mosul. I lied to him, saying that my family has asked him if he'd become my guardian. The man was about sixty, had a pleasant appearance, and above all spoke perfect Arabic. He climbed into the taxi with me, but after a few minutes asked the driver to stop and whispered in my ear: “If you've become a Baath Party member, I won't help you.” I said: “You know everyone in my family, how could you think we would sell out?” After a moment of reflection, he said to me, “No, I don't ⦠Forgive me. But we live in a time when a father can no longer trust his son. Fine, let's go.”
We arrived at the headquarters of the secret police, the
mokhabarat
. I had remembered to buy the Party newspaper,
Al Saoura
, and I slipped it conspicuously under my arm, but I had no party certificate. The officer took a hard look at the man who was with me. “You consent?” “Of course; the students are leaving for the celebration of Arab unity!” The officer made my guardian sign a paper, and that's all he asked for, forgetting the certificate. “You can come back for your passport at 4 p.m.”
mokhabarat
. I had remembered to buy the Party newspaper,
Al Saoura
, and I slipped it conspicuously under my arm, but I had no party certificate. The officer took a hard look at the man who was with me. “You consent?” “Of course; the students are leaving for the celebration of Arab unity!” The officer made my guardian sign a paper, and that's all he asked for, forgetting the certificate. “You can come back for your passport at 4 p.m.”
At four o'clock sharp, I held a passport in my hand, and felt deliriously happy I leafed through it; a red stamp stated TRAVEL TO ISRAEL PROHIBITED. I didn't care, I didn't plan to go there. I turned the page and saw another stamp, TRAVEL PROHIBITED WITHOUT A GUARDIAN. This alarmed me, as everything was untrue: the purpose of the trip, the guardian ⦠But I had a passport in my pocket! I strolled around Mosul's dirty streets and imagined myself in Europe, an important man, holding hands with a blonde like the Russian woman in Bill
and doing things for the Kurds â¦
and doing things for the Kurds â¦I spent several days at home, scrutinizing my parents' faces. I also gazed at the trees in our orchard, gazed at my town, at the streets, at my pals. I was no longer the same person. My family had suspicions about my imminent departure, but I said nothing. “My son, I see conspiracies in your eyes,” my mother said to me. I smiled. “Mama, your son's eyes are the eyes of a man.” Then I asked, “Mama, you like knowing your son is alive, don't you?” “Oh, you're ruthless, how can you doubt a mother's heart!” She was melancholy “Fine, my son, fine ⦠The important thing is for you to be alive, and that no misfortune befall you ⦔
Given the nature of this separation and the distance involved, I knew I might never see my parents alive again. It was obvious that as long as the Baath Party was in power, there'd be no hope of our finding each other in the future. If I had told them outright that I was going into exile, they
wouldn't have stopped me, but to them I was still a kid, their kid. They couldn't have endured the pain of parting and saying farewell. Who can bear to see tears flowing? But in this country everything was uncertain, everything was ephemeral.
wouldn't have stopped me, but to them I was still a kid, their kid. They couldn't have endured the pain of parting and saying farewell. Who can bear to see tears flowing? But in this country everything was uncertain, everything was ephemeral.
The opportunity presented itself at the wedding of my cousin Galavej. She was Cheto's sister, Cheto of the stunt pigeons, and the wedding was to take place in another town, Erbil. We were all invited. My mother was very fond of her brother's children. On that Thursday morning, for the first time in years, I saw her forgo her black outfit and take out a dark red dress with tiny blue flowers: she was happy So was I, at the sight of her happiness. My father put on his new Kurdish suit. My mother darkened her eyes with kohl; the white, cloudlike spot in the middle of her iris was visible, but she was beautiful and happy
In my room, I packed a small traveling bag. I put in a Kurdish suit, a cassette of Kurdish music, and a book of Kurdish poetry and went downstairs. “Are you ready?” my parents said in unison. I could feel my heart pounding wildly and tears coming to my eyes. I was afraid this was the last time I'd see them. I had no idea what the future held. I went on looking at them, both so happy I leaned toward my mother and picked her up in my arms like a bride, lifted her, and kissed her. She laughed, and so did my father. I continued kissing her for a moment, breathing in her odor, as she had with my brother when he returned from the mountains after all those years. Calmly and gently, I set her down and went to kiss my father. He laughed. “Why are you kissing me? I'm not going away.” “Does a son have to have a special reason to kiss his father?” “Of course not, my son, come here,” he said, and pulled me close and kissed me. It was difficult for me. I felt like crying, but it was better to part this way. “You're leaving before we do?” asked my father. I didn't answer. I looked at him. “Papa, you should know
your son is proud of his father, the general's personal operator ⦔ I left them, with pangs of anguish, and walked down the street. I couldn't bring myself to turn around.
your son is proud of his father, the general's personal operator ⦔ I left them, with pangs of anguish, and walked down the street. I couldn't bring myself to turn around.
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