Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (17 page)

Hamid said, “We’re concerned for your safety.”

Hilmi Amin said, “A single incident in this motorcade could result in an international scandal. And the Iraqis are determined to extend services to the Kurds in every part of this inaccessible mountain.”

I had walked these mountain paths before. Once with Hatim early in my stay in Iraq and later during my visits to compile information. But most roads then connected the major cities. This road was different as it got to the faraway villages. I was happy whenever I heard or read about paving new roads in the middle of these rough mountainous areas and thought it contributed to the development of the region and extending services to all Iraqis, especially medical services, schools, and factories. But some Kurds have told me that the goal of building new roads was security, not development. I thought this view was not fair: the state had a right to protect itself and keep the peace. I had to admit that I never supported the view that the Kurds had the right to secede because I believed in unity, even though I also believed in their right to a life of freedom and dignity within their own country, Iraq. I was also a firm believer in their right to fight for social justice and developing their country. My views on the Kurdish revolt became clearer as time passed and as I read a lot about Kurdish history, about their failure to establish a Kurdish republic in recent history at least. I was quite surprised and pleased to learn that, for a few days, they did have a state: the Mahmoud or Mahabad Republic. The day I found that out I went to Hilmi Amin with my discovery after spending a whole night summarizing the history of the region in a neat timeline.

I told Hilmi, “Finally, I found a twin to the Zifta Republic.”

“Where?” he asked.

“Here in beautiful Kurdistan. I read this somewhere:

In the 1920s, the leader of Kurdistan was Sheikh Mahmoud al-Hafid (the Grandson) who was called ‘the King of Kurdistan,’ who tried to wrench recognition of the Kurdish kingdom at the San Remo conference where Ottoman possessions were divvied up, but the British preferred to unite Iraq within Iraq’s borders. The rebellion of Sheikh Mahmoud al-Hafid was put down. In the 1930s Sheikh Ahmad Barzani, the older brother of Mullah Mustafa Barzani, led a large Kurdish rebellion throughout Kurdistan with the blessing of the Soviet Union. That rebellion was quelled by the king of Iraq with the help of the British in the forties. In 1952, Mullah Mustafa Barzani declared the Mahabad Republic in northeastern Iraq on the Iraqi–Iranian borders but that rebellion was quelled by the shah and the British together. When the Republic fell, Mullah Mustafa Barzani fled on foot, walking with his followers on mules, seven thousand kilometers, then he sought asylum in the Soviet Union. The Soviet army gave him the rank of general and called him the ‘Red General.’ He stayed in the Soviet Union until the coup d’état that ended the monarchy in Iraq, and Barzani was welcomed as a patriotic hero. Quiet prevailed until 1962 when the Kurds staged another rebellion that continued to simmer, and Kurds kept fighting for independence until the second Ba‘th coup of 1968. Then came the March 1970 declaration that gave the Kurds autonomy, with free elections to follow, but the Iraqi government did not live up the terms of the declaration and another rebellion started.”

Hilmi Amin said, “You didn’t find this last part in books.”

I replied, “Yes. This is what the Kurds told me, in explaining the reasons for the renewed rebellion.”

I went on to say, “The rebellion continued on and off, then was back on in 1973 during the Kilometer 101 negotiations in Egypt until Iraq signed the Algiers Treaty in 1975 and the shah stopped
supporting the Kurds. The law of March 1975 was declared and implemented, giving Kurds autonomy, and a general amnesty was declared. An agreement was concluded whereby it was stipulated that the government of Iraq would include five Kurdish ministers and a vice president.”

Hilmi said, “Bravo, Nora! Great work. The Republic of Zifta declared its independence from the Kingdom of Egypt after accusing the king and the political parties of corruption. But their most beautiful achievement was building a music kiosk in the middle of the only public park in the republic.”

I said, “How romantic! I found information about it in the book
Days in History
by Ahmad Bahaa al-Din.”

He said, “All revolutions are romantic, despite the sacrifice and martyrdom. Writing about history needs people like us, non-historians, to make it a little more human and less formal.”

I looked at him closely. He did fit the description of a romantic dreamer. Dreams pushed one in the direction of revolution and change, and being a romantic made one face the brutality of regimes with words and art while unarmed.

I read a sign saying “To Hajj Imran.” I asked, “Is it a village or a town?”

Hamid said, “It is the last post on the Iraq–Iran border. The last small village.”

I contemplated the towering mountains. How like those solid rocks the Kurds were! They say that Kurds are obstinate. Why not? Isn’t a person the product of his environment? I observed a herd of black goats. I was surprised how small and short they were the first time I saw them. That day I asked myself as I followed a herd of cows: how do such short and thin legs support fat cows? It seems they get that way from moving around the mountains.

I noticed terraced gardens on the mountains, pear, plum, and walnut trees. Where, I wondered, did they plant wheat, clover, and rice? They had to have wheat at least since most of their food was green wheat kernels.

The elaborate preparations for the motorcade and the heightened security measures told me that the Kurdish question was more complex than I had thought. The narrow path around the mountain swerved, presenting a scene among the most splendid I had ever seen. The mountains receded quickly and gave the land room to stretch and then the mountains stood sentinel at a distance, making it possible for the sky to let the golden rays of the sun bathe the whole scene. I was enthralled. The flow of the motorcade going down toward the plain continued. I asked the driver to stop for a little while to take some pictures. He said, “The road is narrow. If we stop the whole column will have to stop also.”

I said, “I won’t have another opportunity to take pictures on our way back because it will soon be dark.”

He looked at Hamid and began to talk to him in Kurdish. Hamid said, “By all means, please.”

The driver swerved at the bend and hugged the rocks of the mountain, stopping the car to let the other cars pass just barely, and said, “You can get off here, please.”

I took two or three pictures of the Harir plain and dashed back to the car, which had kept moving so that the last car in the column would not pass us even though the whole convoy had slowed down involuntarily. I noticed that Hamid and the driver were uneasy. I looked up at the mountains searching for ghosts. Thank God there were none.

We arrived at the small village that had a few houses with big gardens and traditional crops: wheat and corn and some fruit trees. The village was famous for its birds being the tastiest. We went into a huge pavilion. A red-haired petite Kurdish singer got on the stage. She was obviously very popular. The audience repeated the words of the songs after her and girls stood in front of her with their bright gilded costumes dancing dabka shoulder to shoulder with young men. The singing summoned everyone who had stayed behind in their houses and the pavilion got very crowded. I learned from Hamid that inhabitants of the surrounding villages had been there since noon, awaiting the caravan. Old women sat on mats
away from spectators’ seats. Everyone got busy singing and dancing. The people of the village called out to one of the young men and forcibly brought him to the stage. He shared the microphone with the singer and began singing with her. The whole place lit up when a group of horsemen with beautiful costumes came onto the stage riding thoroughbred horses. The scene was unreal, as if everyone had just come out of the pages of a book I hadn’t read before. It was much better than any scene in the movies and more real than actual reality. I looked for the security men and the police cars that escorted us to the Harir plain but couldn’t see any of them. No one could guess or predict Iraqi security measures. They come suddenly onto the scene in an orderly manner and they disappear just as suddenly, always shrouded in mystery. As a matter of fact, all aspects of Iraqi life were shrouded in mystery, perhaps because it was a different way of life, unfamiliar to me. Or perhaps because I had not dealt with the state in Egypt or elsewhere. I had lived the life of an Arab student away from formalities. What would I know about authorities or regimes? But in Iraq it was different. Definitely different.

I heard quick rolling drums and beats on the long tabla that I loved, then the voice of Anwar Abd al-Wahab rang out in tones reminiscent of Indian songs. The singing was in Arabic and was received with wild, loud applause. I couldn’t believe that they appreciated Arabic singing with such enthusiasm. But then this was Iraq. I saw from a distance a beautiful young woman coming toward me. I recognized her at once. It was the poet Nariman. We had met on one of my previous visits and she had given me a copy of her first collection of poetry written in Kurdish. When I asked her how I could read it, she said, “Learn the title of your weekly article in the Kurdish magazine.”

I opened the book and read the presentation above her autograph in the corner of the page: “To a beautiful Egyptian poet in whose eyes we saw love, so we all loved her.”

I was overjoyed and kissed her. She took out of her handbag a necklace of dry clove buds strung together with red corals, and
placed it around my neck. It had a strong fragrant smell. I held the coarse necklace laughing and said, “Isn’t the poetry collection enough?”

She said, “This is part of our culture. Kurdish women whom you’ve loved and written about wear it.”

The clove reminded me of the dentist. Iraqis used it a lot in cooking. I was very happy with it and began to imagine fingers piercing the thin, coarse buds and stringing them in magnificent clusters studded with coral. I said to myself that perhaps they pierced the cloves while they were green and soft. Nariman also invited me to a poetry festival they planned to have in Erbil so that I could meet Kurdish poets. I told her I’d be delighted to go.

I knew that she worked as a doctor at the Erbil hospital during the day, then volunteered in the evening shifts in nearby villages, and yet took the time to attend all cultural events. I asked her how she got there. She said, “By the cars on the road.”

I said, “But, is that safe?”

She shrugged and said, “What can a citizen do? One must live and move around. This is my country.”

We got engrossed following a man singing Nazim al-Ghazali songs. I discovered that most of those attending spoke Arabic and we shared in the joyous celebrations. We were then invited to supper at long tables in the open air. They served us their famous dish of cooked green wheat and mutton and rashta, which is a kind of pasta, with cracked wheat.

Jamal said, “The artistic caravan will continue for three days and in the morning the medical and agricultural caravans will also begin their work. But you will go back with the police cars to Erbil to sleep at the hotel.”

Time passed in conversation with friends, then the groups that were to spend the night in the Harir plain left and officials from the culture directorate stayed with us.

I asked Hilmi Amin, “Why don’t we go back with Hamid’s car rather than wait for the police cars?”

Laughing, he whispered to me, “Hamid is a Kurdish Ba‘thist with a price on his head from the Kurdish rebels because he works with the authorities and they consider him a traitor.”

Hamid sent one of his assistants to the police station to ask why the cars were late and the man came back and said they were on their way. At 2:30 a.m. one of the men came in and whispered a few words to Hamid. Hamid said, “Let’s take the car. The police will follow.”

We headed for the mountain guided only by the car’s headlights in the middle of the pitch-black night. I liked this adventure of moving on the mountain, when every rock lit by the car lights appeared like a mythical animal. The quiet was so beautiful. I looked behind and I couldn’t see the police car. It hadn’t followed us yet. As time went by I sensed an unspoken tension coming from Hamid’s direction. I attributed this to its being late and everybody being tired and, in Hamid’s case, to the serious responsibilities he had. Then I remembered what Hilmi Amin had said and wondered why they considered him a traitor. Didn’t everyone have a right to believe in an idea and defend it? I thought that Hamid was faithful to his country and believed its future to be in unity, not in secession. Iraq was a special country after all. But what did a Turkish Kurd, a Russian Kurd, and an Iraqi Kurd have in common and what tied them together? Peoples live together as neighbors and they unite. They invent reasons for uniting, to gain strength in numbers. These people, however, are looking for ways to be divided. Once again I looked behind me and I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t like the silence that enveloped the car. I asked Hamid, “Won’t the police car follow us?”

“Yes,” he said.

Rasha, who woke up frightened, said, “Are the armed rebels going to attack and kill us?”

I said, “Look behind that rock there: there’s a whole armed battalion of lions and tigers.”

“Really?” she said. Then she figured out I was joking and burst out laughing. Our laughter grew louder whenever we saw a big boulder and imagined it to be a tank or an armored vehicle. We
kept shouting, “The barrel of a gun! A soldier on the move. Dust of their feet! Sounds of explosives!” I mimicked the Egyptian comedian Sayyid Zayyan in the Egyptian version of
My Fair Lady
shouting, “Remove the house! Remove the house!” We continued mimicking comic lines we had heard on the radio, moving from play to play and from one program to another, and had a lot of fun. We laughed so hard that we shed tears. I felt that Hamid was shocked to see this rare Egyptian talent of turning any situation into a laughing matter. I saw Hilmi Amin smile in a dignified manner as he saw us in the rearview mirror and as he undoubtedly heard us. His smile gave way to uproarious laughter and Hamid was also drawn into our laughter, which seemed to wipe the frown off his face. But his clenched hands clutching the steering wheel told me he was not relaxed despite our loud laughter, which I suspected reached foxes in their holes and wolves in their hiding places on the top of the mountain.