My Father's Rifle (8 page)

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Authors: Hiner Saleem

BOOK: My Father's Rifle
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Everyone spoke Kurdish in Mah
b
d, but no one ever discussed politics; fear reigned. A banner read, “The shah's orders are God's orders.” We stopped to eat a kebab and the owner of the little restaurant wouldn't let us pay; he understood we were refugees, defeated Kurds. My friend, who was very talkative, asked the owner, “Why don't you fight against the shah to liberate this part of Kurdistan?” After a long, thoughtful pause, the owner answered, scratching his head, “If the shah orders us to, we shall obey.” The owner told us there was a movie theater in town, so we decided to go. They were showing an Iranian film. When I saw the image appear on the screen, I got very excited, and once again I vowed to myself that, someday, I would bring Kurds to the screen.
Savak summoned all the Kurds in the camp to come and listen to an Iraqi minister who had arrived by helicopter to tell us that an amnesty had been granted and we could go home. We didn't believe him; we thought it was a trap. Who could possibly trust the Baghdad putsch leaders? The Baathist minister was booed, then everything degenerated: his leg was broken and soon he was covered in blood. I was in a rage, and I punched the minister along with the others. Then the Savak men fired into the crowd and killed twelve people. Helped away by his bodyguards, the minister took off in his helicopter, in a cloud of spit and insults. After this visit, everyone did start to wonder: what indeed were we doing here, closely watched refugees, in this camp, with no future?
Some families managed to obtain visas to the United States, others to Canada. Why wouldn't we emigrate as well? My father held a family council to consider the question.
Each of us imagined himself already in America—my father a journalist, my mother a supermarket manager, my brother a general, and I making a great Kurdish film. Then my mother started talking about her brothers, her orchard, and her pomegranate trees; my father brought up his fortress-house, his friends, his land; and I thought about my partridges, my cousin Cheto's pigeons, my school, and my river. Soon we were all weeping.
That settled the matter; we would go home. And my father concluded, “It's more honorable to die on our own land than to become American immigrants or militiamen working for the shah.” We gathered our meager belongings. I went to pick up my school certificate and we set off for the border.
 
 
On the road there were many families, like us, going to give themselves up to the Iraqi authorities. Our small truck came to a stop; we climbed out and, after loading our skimpy bundles on our backs and walking past the Iranian soldiers, we crossed through a no-man's-land of about a hundred yards between the two armies. In the distance we heard the Iranians bid us farewell, but we didn't have the courage to turn around; we were already under the watchful eye of the Iraqi army. At the frontier a large banner awaited us: “Welcome to the land of the Mother Country.” Iraqi officers and soldiers awaiting us approached and helped us carry our belongings. Behind us, our people still on the Iranian side of the border watched attentively to see how we were being welcomed, and turning around furtively, I saw several of them follow in our footsteps. Still escorted by the soldiers, we made our way down a small hill, and Iran disappeared from our view. Instantly the behavior of the soldiers changed. They threw our bundles into a military truck and ordered us to get in. Two soldiers flanked us, their weapons cocked at
us. And I thought of the image of partridges used as hunting bait to attract their fellow creatures. This is what we had become, and I felt guilty. We had served as bait; the others would follow us and suffer the same fate. After about a half mile, the truck pulled over and we were ordered to get out with our hands on our heads. We had to jump from the high floor of the truck; my mother fell to the ground and a soldier yelled at her to stand up at once. Then, surrounded by military personnel, the men and women were separated. We were taken to a building where we were ordered to undress. We were embarrassed, but under threat of the soldiers, we had no choice. I ended up next to my father, naked, with my hands on my head. I didn't dare look at him. While the soldiers were searching every fold of our garments, my father, humiliated, was hiding his genitals with his hands, his legs trembling with shame. A soldier forced him to put his hands on his head; then, using his bayonet, he made him spread his legs apart and, jabbing him with his weapon, made him pivot. When the search was over, we were allowed to put our clothes back on. Filled with shame, I thought about my mother, my sisters, my sisters-in-law, and what they were being subjected to, and I began to think it might have been better to die in the Iranian camps than be reduced to this. In the next building, an officer waited for us with our papers, which he seemed to ignore. We had to state our names, and our dates and places of birth. When it came to “profession,” I was curious to see what my father would say. For the first time, he didn't give his usual proud answer, “I'm the general's personal operator.” He said, “Baker.” Then it was our turn to state our occupations: student for Rostam and me, teacher for Dilovan, my older brother. Full of contempt, the officer called us asses for having believed in America and for having challenged Baathist Iraq.
And for our crazy dreams of Kurdistan.
We went into another room for identity photos. We were
all together again, men and women, and I saw my mother in front of the camera, her face under the lights. She sat in profile, presenting her right side. The military photographer ordered her to face the camera, but she didn't move. He repeated his command, in vain: she didn't understand Arabic. He went up to her and turned her head: she was blind in her left eye, which had a spot in the shape of a white cloud. Her face was pale and expressionless. When the photo session was over, we returned to the first officer. He took fingerprints of each of us, on the bottom of a blank sheet, and we were ordered to wait outside.
We sat on the ground, under the triumphant gazes of the Iraqi soldiers. In my mind's eye I saw the barbed wire at the frontier, behind the hill, and another family crossing it, as we had a short while ago. My father, turning unobtrusively to my mother, whispered in her ear, “And what if we escaped to the United States?” My mother didn't even bother responding. Rostam, glancing at the soldiers around us, asked, “How?” “It's still possible; the border is right in front of us,” said my father. “Once we get there, we go to Tehran, straight to the American embassy.” My older brother Dilovan, who was sketching in the earth with a twig, head down, said only, “It's over, Papa, we've lost everything.” My father took out his tobacco pouch and rolled himself a cigarette.
A soldier arrived and ordered us to follow him. He led us to an office where a man in civvies was waiting for us, a pistol lying on his desk. He was holding a stack of papers. He counted us, called out our names, then handed the papers to my father. “Here are your new papers, you can leave.” My father took the papers and, incredulous, asked, “We can leave?” “Yes, go home.” And we left his office. We retrieved our belongings and a soldier pointed to some waiting taxis. After a last check, we piled into a taxi and set off for Aqra.
During the trip, my father looked at our new papers:
photo, name, place of birth, and one word stamped in red across the entire page:
aïdoun
.
9
At the entrance to Aqra, while the police were checking our papers, I caught sight of a huge banner above our heads with portraits of President al-Bakr and Vice President Saddam Hussein on each side, announcing, “
oumma Arabia wahida zat. Risaala khalida,”
“The Arab nation is one. It is the bearer of a divine message.”
This time, no one in our neighborhood came to welcome us as they had in 1970. No one ran to embrace us or escort us to our house. The house was still standing, but it was occupied. Children were playing in front of the door. A man and a woman came out; we introduced ourselves as the owners. The man replied that he had no knowledge of this. “But this house is ours,” said my father. “Come back tomorrow, we'll discuss it,” the man said. Three months went by and this man and his family went on living in our house.
We moved into my uncle Avdal Khan's house, the uncle with the television. He was still in the camps in Iran. I pictured him with Mahmad Shekho, the tall, skinny singer and saz player, singing songs of hope that were swept away by the wind.
When he died, his family had to surrender to the Iraqis in order to be able to bury him, out of respect, on his land. We then had to give his house back to my aunt, his widow, and their six children.
So my father returned to see the man who was still occupying our house. My father looked him in the eye. “Brother, this house belongs to me. I built it with my own hands,” he said, showing the palms of his hands, “and with my children's
help. My previous house was torn down and set on fire. This one is in my blood. I plan to die here. I'm an
aïdoun
, but you listen to me: even if you have the entire Iraqi government on your side, if you haven't cleared out in a week, I'll kill you.” Three days later our house was vacated.
I resumed my adolescent life. One day, with my cousin Cheto and some other friends, we went to the cemetery to gather almonds, but not a single one remained on the almond tree; you'd think the dead had eaten them all. There was a bare hill overlooking the cemetery, where we spotted Slo's donkey. The donkey was roaming free; he had become useless, he was scrawny and sick, abandoned by Slo, fated to be devoured by a wolf or a wild dog. He had climbed halfway up the hill to get to the leaves of the one tree on the slope, but he had fallen just before reaching the tree. We got closer. He was struggling to get back on his feet. We pushed him up to the top of the hill. Cheto stood aside; he knew what we were about to do, but he could do nothing to check our violent impulses.
When we reached the top of the hill, we threw the donkey down into the ravine and laughed at the sight of the poor creature rolling to the bottom. Cheto was heartsick but tried to hide his sorrow, hoping to be spared our sarcastic remarks. To tease him we brought up his stunt pigeons. Ramo answered for him, “That time's over, the time of the stunt pigeons … Now, it's
Dilma
.”
10
Cheto had replaced the pigeons with a she-cat; for us, a she-cat was a woman's animal. It was our belief that since his father's—my uncle's—murder, poor Cheto, who was an only son, was far too spoiled by the women in his house—his mother, his two sisters, and his two aunts.
Having let off some steam, we hurtled down the hill and all of us climbed an enormous white mulberry tree to stuff
ourselves with fruit. When we were sated, we began crushing the fruit on our genitals and jerking off, competing to see who would ejaculate fastest. This was the first time I masturbated, and it was Zorab who won.
 
 
My school certificate covering the period I had spent in the mountains and in Iran was not approved, and I was back in the same school, in the same classroom, on the same bench. I was four years behind. I had to take my classes over again in Arabic. I passed my final exam and could finally enter high school. I was given new books with a photo of the president on the first page, and on the back cover the inevitable inscription:
oumma Arabia
… “The Arab nation is one …” My school had changed its name. It was no longer the Peace School; it had become the Baath School. Next to the headmaster's office, there was a room occasionally occupied by a man with a thick, drooping mustache, the distinctive feature of Baath Party members; he met with Baathist students there. The whole school was getting ready to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the party's rise to power. I was summoned to the office of the man with the thick mustache. A “Do Not Enter” sign was posted on his door. I found myself with several classmates; he made us sing one by one, in order to select the best voices. When my turn came, he noticed that I didn't know a single Arabic song and ordered me to leave. I went—delighted. But he called me back almost immediately and, pointing at me, ordered me to get my hair cut. “Young Iraqis must be clean and disciplined.” As soon as school was out, I ran to the barber, Abdulla the Communist. The painting of the young Kurdish girl was no longer hanging opposite the mirror; it had been replaced by a large photograph of the president. In the entire town, I couldn't find a single work by the painter Sami. As for Sami himself, I would sometimes come across him at a specific
spot in the center of town: he would be standing on one leg, leaning back against the wall, a cigarette between his lips, contemplating the town for hours. When the cigarette was no more than a butt, he'd take it out of his mouth with a slow gesture and stub it on the ground. Passersby would greet him quickly, as though reluctant to disturb his thoughts, and he would calmly reply,
“roj bash
,” hello. Whenever I saw him, I'd stand a bit removed, off to one side, inconspicuously, and follow his gaze. He always stared at the same things: clothes drying on clotheslines, the shiny sheet-metal water containers on the rooftops, featureless people sadly going into and out of their houses. What could he have been thinking about for all those hours, looking at such sights?
He would walk off with short steps and melt into the crowd.
I started painting again. I wanted to become a great painter, like Sami. The school was organizing an exhibition, so I brought over some of my best canvases. I was very excited to take part in this exhibition. On the day before the opening, I was summoned by the official in charge. One of my paintings was propped up against the wall: it represented a chained man raising his eyes to the sky.
I recalled that when I had initially painted this picture, the figure had the same skin color as I, but dissatisfied with the color, I had repainted the skin black. The official in charge of the exhibition wanted to know why I had painted such a skinny man. “You make it look as if Iraqis are dying of hunger. And why those chains? What's the significance of that?” To cover myself, I replied, “He isn't Iraqi, he's African.” He ordered me to paint other subjects: the accomplishments of the Baath Party, the nationalization of oil, the Palestinian struggle against Zionism and imperialism. “I'm still a young painter,” I replied. “I haven't had time to paint
all those subjects, but I'll surely get around to it.” My paintings were returned to me. I was rejected for the exhibition.
 
 
It was a warm day in late spring 1979. I saw my father hurrying home. His eyes were sparkling, and as was his habit, before even reaching the entrance to the house he was unrolling his belt while walking. I hadn't seen him so worked up since we had become
aïdouns
. I could tell that something was happening. When he was right near the house, he called out to my mother. As soon as she appeared at the doorstep, he threw her his belt and drew her inside. “Haybet,” he said, “there are people who have returned to the mountains to fight!” My mother stopped in her tracks, astounded. I thought she would regard this as marvelous news, but I was wrong. “What's the point?” she said, and there was a long silence. Then my father came up to me, finger raised. “Listen to me carefully, my son. What you've just heard must not get out. If the government has any suspicions, we'll be in great danger. We're
aïdouns
, we're all suspect.”
As
aïdouns
, we were denied access to many jobs—at the university, in the government, or in any sensitive position. But in fact the rule was applied to all Kurds. If a person pronounced so much as one word that displeased the government, he would disappear. The mosques were called “Baathist mosques,” and so were the streets, the neighborhoods, the hills; everything was now “Baathist,” even the brothels. Everyone lived according to the proverb “Hold on to your hat so the wind won't blow it away.”
Hundreds of thousands of workers from all the Arab countries moved into our region. They took up the jobs that were vacated by the ousting of
aïdouns
and many other Kurds. With the victory of
oumma Arabia
, our country became a tourist paradise for Iraqis and Arabs from the Gulf
countries; they came to our mountains to relax. Large hotels, camping sites, and villas sprouted everywhere. The Kurds had been crushed once and for all. Arab tourists strolled down the streets in djellabas, throwing contemptuous glances our way often enough. Some Western tourists also came, but they were escorted by the
mokhabarat
11
to ensure they had no contact with us. Our town became a bit livelier, but we were demoralized.
I decided to leave Aqra during the summer holiday. I was curious about everything, and I went to look for work in the region around Dihok, where there had been no tourists before the Kurdish insurrection. I heard that a movie theater in Sarsing was looking for a projectionist. I hurried there: for me there was no more appealing job. I could see films, which would be an initial apprenticeship. I was received by a tall, dark-haired man. I couldn't fool anyone with my Kurdish accent in Arabic. He asked me quietly, “Are you from the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan or from the Kurdish Democratic Party?”
12
He expected to trip me up. I was dealing with someone from the intelligence service. I replied as quietly as he, “I'm a student.” Someone called out to him from the far end of the screening room and he left, giving me an appointment in the afternoon. I decided not to go back, and disappeared in the town.
The streets were crowded—I saw happy Arab children enjoying the tourist paradise; the Kurds sold fruit juices and refreshing yogurt on the sidewalks. I left Sarsing and went to Anichk
, where there was a camping site with trailers. I became the assistant of a Kurdish electrician who was employed by the government. We were given lodgings in Soulav, in a luxury state-owned hotel perched on a hill and
surrounded by mountains. I shared a room with a man who always listened to the same cassette, played very loudly. I was an assistant electrician, but I had to do a multitude of other tasks—cleaning the swimming pool, helping in the kitchen … Everything there belonged to the state, and we were the state's employees.
Summoned to fix the electricity in a trailer, I was received by two fifty- or sixty-year-old men from Baghdad. They were drinking raki under a tree. As I got nearer I saw their hair was dyed. They were clearly rich; perhaps they were high-level government employees … Pointing to the trailer, they explained what was wrong, and I went over to it with my toolbox. Inside the trailer, I saw a very handsome boy, around ten years old, lying on a large bed. He was staring up at the ceiling with his big eyes. I did my repairs without exchanging a word with him. When I came out, one of the two men from Baghdad, suspicious, stood up and went to the caravan to check on the boy. Then they invited me to join them for a drink because I was young as well. I turned them down, with a perfunctory smile, my heart filled with hatred.
Upon returning to the hotel, I found my roommate stretched out, listening to his music as loud as ever. While I was taking my shower, a hotel employee came to fetch me. The manager wanted to see us. This did not put my mind at ease. He was a party member, of course; I sometimes would see him with a group of men and women, always at the same table by the swimming pool, facing my country's magnificent landscape. Seeing him savor that natural beauty made me jealous. It was as if the hills and mountains were my sisters and he was mentally undressing them.
It was at 7:30 p.m., on July 14, 1979, when I went downstairs, reminding my roommate that the manager was expecting us. He didn't react at all, still absorbed in his music: “She left her father's house to go to the neighbors'.
She walked by without greeting me. Perhaps my beauty is angry …”
I tore down the stairs like a criminal. Perhaps I was under suspicion? Perhaps someone had informed on me for some trivial reason? I went into the big reception room where all the hotel employees were assembled. I was surprised; everyone except the manager looked cheerful, and there were many bottles of champagne on the tables. My first thought was of a marriage or birthday. My roommate arrived last, and leaned against the wall near the door. The manager, wearing a green suit, opened his arms, invited us to take our seats, and then seated himself. I still had no idea why I'd been summoned. I looked at him, in suspense; he was searching for his words. Finally he began, “This evening, at eight o'clock p.m., President Ahmed Hassan al-Bakr—” As soon as we heard the president's name, we applauded mechanically, but the manager stopped us “—resigned.” A hush fell over the room. My immediate thought was that there had been a coup d'état, but the manager continued his speech, “And Vice President Saddam Hussein has become president.” We didn't know whether we were meant to applaud or not. He looked at his watch and switched on the television. We saw al-Bakr appear on the screen. He repeated almost word for word what the manager had just said and finished by saying, “May the people and the Baathists remain loyal to the new president.” We had never seen the president look so downcast. We had known for a long time that President al-Bakr would have been happy to have the power his vice president had.

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