Authors: Hiner Saleem
My Father's Rifle (5 page)
He had a new weapon and was examining it with my
father. It was a Plimout. The weapon was the size of his forearm, unlike my father's long Brno. Besides, it was an automatic, and the magazine held thirty-six bullets. It was a short-range combat weapon. I was fascinated. My father placed the Plimout in my hands. “Be careful, it's loaded. With the slightest jolt, a hail of bullets can go off.” I was dying to shoot a little, and my father added, “You're not a kid anymore, you're a man. Take it and fire as many bullets as you like.” For the first time, thanks to the Plimout, my father called me a man. I seized the weapon and I darted off, running through the orchard toward the hills. I was proudâI had a weapon and I wasn't a kid anymore. I felt like a man, as my father had said. I looked all around me for a target. There was a flock of birds, but they were flying too high in the sky. I tried to find a rabbit or a snake, but no luck. Finally I aimed my weapon up at the sky, in the direction of God, and I fired a hail of bullets. I was like a madman, a drunk. At that moment, I could have killed a man, I was fearless. I fired a few more rounds and listened to the hail of bullets echo in the hills. The odor of gunpowder was intoxicating. Virile. After emptying the magazine of its thirty-six bullets, I smelled the barrel of the Plimout and headed back home, replete.
father. It was a Plimout. The weapon was the size of his forearm, unlike my father's long Brno. Besides, it was an automatic, and the magazine held thirty-six bullets. It was a short-range combat weapon. I was fascinated. My father placed the Plimout in my hands. “Be careful, it's loaded. With the slightest jolt, a hail of bullets can go off.” I was dying to shoot a little, and my father added, “You're not a kid anymore, you're a man. Take it and fire as many bullets as you like.” For the first time, thanks to the Plimout, my father called me a man. I seized the weapon and I darted off, running through the orchard toward the hills. I was proudâI had a weapon and I wasn't a kid anymore. I felt like a man, as my father had said. I looked all around me for a target. There was a flock of birds, but they were flying too high in the sky. I tried to find a rabbit or a snake, but no luck. Finally I aimed my weapon up at the sky, in the direction of God, and I fired a hail of bullets. I was like a madman, a drunk. At that moment, I could have killed a man, I was fearless. I fired a few more rounds and listened to the hail of bullets echo in the hills. The odor of gunpowder was intoxicating. Virile. After emptying the magazine of its thirty-six bullets, I smelled the barrel of the Plimout and headed back home, replete.
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My mother killed a rooster and prepared a feast. My uncle Avdal Khan, who worked for the oil company, had just been put on early retirement. The government no longer wanted Kurds in sensitive positions, such as in the oil sector. And my uncle had decided to return to his hometown.
I was delighted. I had new palsâmy cousin Sardar and especially his sister Shahla. She and I were the same age and she was very beautiful.
But the most beautiful thing was that my uncle came back with a television set! A television!
In the evening, as soon as the programs were to begin, I darted over to their house. First we had the privilege of hearing the party anthem, followed by endless speeches by President al-Bakr and Vice President Saddam Hussein. I was seeing the two Baath leaders for the first time. I looked at them, incredulous. Al-Bakr was an old man; he looked like our neighbor Babik the ice-cream vendor. But Saddam was young and slender, with a black mustache, and he was taken seriously because he very seldom smiled. Soon I could no longer bear to sit through the anthems or the speeches to the glory of Pan-Arabism and Baath nationalism. I would come in time for the Egyptian soap opera
Anter and Abla
. The plot revolved around a wealthy young man, Anter, who was in love with Abla, a black slave. The entire neighborhood talked about my uncle Avdal Khan's television. We all wanted one, except my mother, who regarded TV as the devil.
Anter and Abla
. The plot revolved around a wealthy young man, Anter, who was in love with Abla, a black slave. The entire neighborhood talked about my uncle Avdal Khan's television. We all wanted one, except my mother, who regarded TV as the devil.
When my father received his meager pension, he added to it a little money he had saved and bought a television set. I went with him. It was a small set that worked on a car battery. The owner switched the set on. We saw the image of Saddam Hussein appear, bright and clear, and he quickly switched off the set. My father stood up, and after protracted bargaining, the deal was settled. The understanding was that once the set was bought, it couldn't be returned. We went home. My father was pleased with his purchase and I was delighted. The television was set up in the upstairs bedroom. To please my father more, my mother fixed us some good tea. The entire family sat down in front of the set while my father tried to tune in the image. But it remained blurry, the tea got cold, and we began to lose all hope of seeing
Anter and Abla
, our favorite soap opera. My mother asked my father, “Why did you buy a television set that runs with a battery when we have electricity?” My father didn't answer. He started to get worked up, turning the antenna in every direction. Our enthusiasm vanished, and worriedly we watched
our father seething. We knew he was capable of anything in this state.
Anter and Abla
, our favorite soap opera. My mother asked my father, “Why did you buy a television set that runs with a battery when we have electricity?” My father didn't answer. He started to get worked up, turning the antenna in every direction. Our enthusiasm vanished, and worriedly we watched
our father seething. We knew he was capable of anything in this state.
My father began to realize he had been swindled, and for the benefit of the salesman, he screamed, “May my donkey bugger your wife!” Exasperated, he stopped to drink his glass of tea, which, having been poured long before, was cold by then. He became annoyed at my mother and threw the half-full glass against the wall. Fearing the worst, we all got up and went downstairs to the first floor to sleep. My mother muttered that he had let the devil into the house.
A little while later my father called to us: the image was in focus; we could come back. We got out of our beds and went upstairs, only to discover indistinct shadows that strained the eyes. Soon even the shadows disappeared. We went back to bed while my father continued to curse the salesman and his wife. At around two in the morning, my father got dressed to go out. All of us were awake, fearing he would take his Brno with him. Fortunately, he didn't. Holding the television under his arm, he told me to follow him. We went back to the salesman and made him get out of bed. He understood as soon as he saw us. He said only, “Couldn't you wait until morning?” My father cut him off with a dry, categorical “No.” “Here's your TV, give me my money back.” Seeing my father so furious, the man didn't argue, and we left.
There was still my uncle's television, but he was growing weary of the constant visits from the neighbors' children. At first, he had welcomed us with tea and fruits. We would settle down like little pashas in front of the Egyptian soap opera. Now, we had to ring the bell at least ten times before he'd open the door. I would sometimes ask my mother to come with me, so when he asked, “Who is it?” I could answer, “My mother and I.” And I'd often ask my mother to answer instead of me. As soon as I was in front of the television, I'd make myself as inconspicuous as possible, huddling
in a corner. I waited for the adults to go to bed before making myself comfortable.
in a corner. I waited for the adults to go to bed before making myself comfortable.
After
Anter and Abla
, they ran a documentary about the fish in the sea narrated by a tall, thin, very serious man in a red hat who spoke for at least half an hour in a strange language that frightened me. I was well aware that we spoke Kurdish, that Iraqis spoke Arabic, and that the rest of the world spoke English. What mysterious language could the man possibly be speaking? My uncle's television also broadcast Indian films. But I was disappointed, for there was nothing in my language. I was very intrigued. Perhaps our voices couldn't be transmitted on a screen? Or perhaps the television language was chosen in the country where the sets were manufactured? I longed to watch Kurdish television. I knew that the most important thing for my father was that I become a judge or a lawyer, but my wish was to create a television that would speak our language. I saw myself simultaneously as an inventor, as a maker of shows like
Anter and Abla
, as a musician and singer. And I vowed that one day I would make that machine speak Kurdish.
Anter and Abla
, they ran a documentary about the fish in the sea narrated by a tall, thin, very serious man in a red hat who spoke for at least half an hour in a strange language that frightened me. I was well aware that we spoke Kurdish, that Iraqis spoke Arabic, and that the rest of the world spoke English. What mysterious language could the man possibly be speaking? My uncle's television also broadcast Indian films. But I was disappointed, for there was nothing in my language. I was very intrigued. Perhaps our voices couldn't be transmitted on a screen? Or perhaps the television language was chosen in the country where the sets were manufactured? I longed to watch Kurdish television. I knew that the most important thing for my father was that I become a judge or a lawyer, but my wish was to create a television that would speak our language. I saw myself simultaneously as an inventor, as a maker of shows like
Anter and Abla
, as a musician and singer. And I vowed that one day I would make that machine speak Kurdish.
In those days of peace, my town, Aqra, was bursting with life. Singers came from everywhere to give concerts, theater troupes performed epics and plays, including
Mem and Zim,
our
Romeo and Juliet
. I went to the shows in the school hall, surrounded by women and children, and we danced to Kurdish folk tunes.
Mem and Zim,
our
Romeo and Juliet
. I went to the shows in the school hall, surrounded by women and children, and we danced to Kurdish folk tunes.
This was the first time I saw young girls sing and dance on a public stage. Between each number, a master of ceremonies chanted proverbs about the glory of women, exhorting them to take part in the political and social struggle. “Women are half of our society,” he said. “A lion is always a lion, whether male or female. You can't applaud with just one hand ⦠A bird can't fly with just one wing ⦔
And we were all supposed to applaud.
Salma was one of the young girls appearing onstage. She
wore a yellow jacket, the color of General Barzani's party, dotted with red flowers. She was self-confident, and my brother was in love. He never missed any of her performances. I had no idea whether she was in love with him, but what counted was that my brother was in love with her.
wore a yellow jacket, the color of General Barzani's party, dotted with red flowers. She was self-confident, and my brother was in love. He never missed any of her performances. I had no idea whether she was in love with him, but what counted was that my brother was in love with her.
My brother confided in my sisters. They spoke to my mother, who broached the subject with my father. Not a moment was wasted; my parents, along with several notables, went to request Salma's hand. Her family accepted. Wasn't Rostam the son of Shero, the general's personal operator? Rostam's wedding was celebrated with a concert of honking horns, hails of bullets from his Plimout, and shots fired from my father's old Brno. Who said weapons were meant only for warfare? From that day on, I never again saw my young sister-in-law onstage. Though a bird can't fly with just one wing, let others provide the wingânot my sister-in-law.
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One day, my father came home agitated. He filled his tobacco pouch, pulled out his Brno from under the mattress, and went back to the party headquarters, followed by my brother, his Plimout in hand. The worst had just been avoided! A delegation of religious Iraqis had gone up to the mountains to meet with our general and to give him a golden Koran as a gift; without their knowledge, it had been filled with TNT by Saddam Hussein's agents. Just as they were presenting the Koran to the general, it exploded, but miraculously he escaped unharmed, protected by the man who was serving him tea. Order was later restored.
7
My father put his Brno away under the mattress and my brother's Plimout found its niche again above the conjugal bed. As for me, I filled baskets with figs and, against my mother's advice,
went to sell them to the soldiers in the barracks to earn some pocket money.
7
My father put his Brno away under the mattress and my brother's Plimout found its niche again above the conjugal bed. As for me, I filled baskets with figs and, against my mother's advice,
went to sell them to the soldiers in the barracks to earn some pocket money.
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One Thursday, Cheto and I were standing behind the barbed wire of the barracks, crying out, “Figs, apricots, blackberries,” when two soldiers walked toward us. They were not the young conscripts we were used to having as customers. They were older, stronger, and much tougher-looking. They were carrying truncheons and wearing the red armbands of the military police. We wanted to turn on our heels, but they called to us, “Children, don't leave. Bring us your fruit.” As soon as we were near them, they pounced on us. They insulted us as they hit us. “Children of savages ⦠You come here with your shitty fruit to spy on us!” They hit harder and harder, pummeling and kicking us. We were raw from their blows. Our fruit was trampled underfoot. When they had had enough, they let us run away, limping and stumbling, and shouted after us, “If you come back here, we'll cut off your heads like sheep.”
When I returned to our neighborhood, I passed tearful women from our family, walking behind a coffin carried by the men, my father and my uncle in the lead. I went up to Ramo. “Who died?” “No one.” “So what's this coffin for?” “It's empty.” “Then why are the women crying?” “We're going to kill cousin Mushir.” I asked why, but he made no reply.
When they arrived in front of his door, my father and my uncle Avdal Khan, tense, shouted “Mushir!” Our cousin climbed up on the roof to escape. My uncle called out to him, “Come and see, we've brought you your coffin.”
Mushir, panicked, was stranded on the rooftop. My father added, “You've dishonored the family,” and my uncle called him a collaborator and fired on him. The women were still weeping around the coffin. Avdal Khan fired a second shot.
“Why do you go to Mosul so often? To meet whom? The security people? Have you become a spy, Mushir?” Mushir, terrified, tried to hide as best he could. “I'm not a collaborator!” he yelled. My uncle broke down the door, climbed up to the roof with my father tagging behind, and caught Mushir. My father looked at him sadly. “There have been rumors about you for some time ⦠We didn't want to believe them ⦠But you were never willing to say what you're up to in Mosul. You're out of work yet you always have money. We must avenge the honor of the family ⦔ My father was interrupted. My uncle had just fired a bullet into Mushir's knee.
“Why do you go to Mosul so often? To meet whom? The security people? Have you become a spy, Mushir?” Mushir, terrified, tried to hide as best he could. “I'm not a collaborator!” he yelled. My uncle broke down the door, climbed up to the roof with my father tagging behind, and caught Mushir. My father looked at him sadly. “There have been rumors about you for some time ⦠We didn't want to believe them ⦠But you were never willing to say what you're up to in Mosul. You're out of work yet you always have money. We must avenge the honor of the family ⦔ My father was interrupted. My uncle had just fired a bullet into Mushir's knee.
He was on the verge of firing a second time but my father pushed the gun aside with his hand and addressed Mushir again. “If it's true that you're not a collaborator, here, take my gun and fire a bullet into your head! Then we'll believe you. Otherwise we'll have to kill you.” Mushir tried to stand erect as best he could. He moaned and pleaded, “I go to Mosul for business!” “What business?” my uncle shouted. My father exhorted him, “Mushir, kill yourself ⦠Your coffin is ready ⦠We'll make sure you're buried with dignity.” As he tried to escape, Mushir was brought to a halt by a bullet fired by my uncle. He fell from the roof, among the women, right near his coffin.
Later it was discovered that Mushir had kept a mistress in Mosul. He had not been a traitor.
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The situation was deteriorating from day to day. The number of security officers grew steadily, and the tension kept rising. Trenches were dug around our town and everyone got ready to defend their neighborhood. My father and seven other men mounted guard in a trench opposite the barracks that dominated the town on the little hill behind our orchard. They expected an imminent attack. At the
slightest signal from General Barzani, they were ready to launch an assault against the Iraqi barracks. The women and children were to be grouped together in a shelter. My father immediately offered our fortress-house. “I had it built especially for a time like this.” No one questioned the sturdiness of the walls in our house, but the problem was its orientation. When it was built, my father had wanted all the windows to face away from the town in the direction of the orchard and the hill overlooking the house. It was a beautiful view. He couldn't have foreseen that within a few months barracks would go up on that hill, a few hundred yards in front of our windows. This was why, to his great sorrow, it was decided that the women and children would go to stay at my uncle Avdal Khan's house.
slightest signal from General Barzani, they were ready to launch an assault against the Iraqi barracks. The women and children were to be grouped together in a shelter. My father immediately offered our fortress-house. “I had it built especially for a time like this.” No one questioned the sturdiness of the walls in our house, but the problem was its orientation. When it was built, my father had wanted all the windows to face away from the town in the direction of the orchard and the hill overlooking the house. It was a beautiful view. He couldn't have foreseen that within a few months barracks would go up on that hill, a few hundred yards in front of our windows. This was why, to his great sorrow, it was decided that the women and children would go to stay at my uncle Avdal Khan's house.
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