Authors: Hiner Saleem
My Father's Rifle (6 page)
I didn't want the happiness of this recent periodâthe joy in the freedom, the concerts, the paintingâto disappear. But it was obvious the putsch leaders no longer respected Kurdish rights and Kurdish autonomy. This being the case, I wanted a gun and I wanted to join the men in the trenches. But since there weren't enough weapons to go around, I was put in charge of supplying the fighters. My father and his men were very confident. Their morale was boosted by Voice of America, which referred to us as heroes and freedom fighters. It was truly reassuring to have an ally as important as America. My father kept repeating, “We're Indo-Europeans, like the Americans!” And to reassure himself even more, he added, as his father had, “We're British.” Radio Moscow was now treating us as rebels, but we couldn't have cared less: let them “march to socialism” with the Baath Party! Even kids younger than I knew the names Nixon and Kissinger, and we loved them. We stayed in our trenches for several days without anything happening. Then we were given orders to move out of the town because our tanks and airplanes were going to rid the town of all the Iraqi forces and allow us very shortly to return, victorious.
When my mother asked, “Where are the tanks and planes the Americans gave us?” my father said with conviction, “They're hidden in our mountains, and the planes are sheltered in clandestine airports.” All of us waited for a sign from the general to march on Kurdistan and liberate it.
When my mother asked, “Where are the tanks and planes the Americans gave us?” my father said with conviction, “They're hidden in our mountains, and the planes are sheltered in clandestine airports.” All of us waited for a sign from the general to march on Kurdistan and liberate it.
Â
Â
That was how we left for the north, for the mountains, convinced we would return, victorious, a month later. It was as though we were leaving on vacation. The roads were congested with vehicles heading north. We stopped for a picnic along the way and arrived in Bijil in the afternoon. Perched on top of our possessions, in the back of the pickup my father had rented, I saw Iraqi policemen captured by our men. As he passed them, my father honked his horn to greet his friend Rajab, from Bill
, among the fighters. Rajab returned his greeting, raising his gun in the air. I heard my father, radiant, say to my mother, “You see, we're going to capture all of them, without even firing a shot.” Our friend Rajab ran after the pickup and called out to my father, “Shero, we need you desperately. We've retrieved a Morse transmitter at the police station, but those sons of bitches sabotaged it. Come help us repair it!” My father climbed out of the truck and told the driver to continue on with us. I saw him disappear, his old Brno on his shoulder, with his friend. It began to rain.
, among the fighters. Rajab returned his greeting, raising his gun in the air. I heard my father, radiant, say to my mother, “You see, we're going to capture all of them, without even firing a shot.” Our friend Rajab ran after the pickup and called out to my father, “Shero, we need you desperately. We've retrieved a Morse transmitter at the police station, but those sons of bitches sabotaged it. Come help us repair it!” My father climbed out of the truck and told the driver to continue on with us. I saw him disappear, his old Brno on his shoulder, with his friend. It began to rain.There was unimaginable chaos in the village of Bijil. The peasants, returning from their pastures with sheep, goats, cows, horses, mingled with countless cars crammed with passengers on their way to the great revolutionary picnic. People and animals were wading through mud, and the rain kept coming down. We were somehow privileged, so my mother, my sisters, my two sisters-in-lawâDijla the villager and Salma the dancerâtheir children, and I were put up in a room in the house of an acquaintance of my father. My
two brothers had gone to join the fighters in the mountains. In spite of all the commotion around me, I felt lonely. The village made me sad. I decided to join my father at the police station, where I found him surrounded by armed men. Facing them were six Iraqi policemen, unarmed and wearing no belts. My father was trying to repair the Morse transmitter; it was connected to a battery, but there were none of the characteristic beeps coming out of the machine. This was the first time I'd seen a transmitter. My father rolled a cigarette and offered it to one of the Iraqis. I was surprised. Then he rolled another one, for himself. He lit it and, looking the policeman straight in the eye, asked, “Tell me ⦠What did you do to the machine so that I can't fix it?” The policeman held his head up high. “How could you possibly imagine I sabotaged it?”
two brothers had gone to join the fighters in the mountains. In spite of all the commotion around me, I felt lonely. The village made me sad. I decided to join my father at the police station, where I found him surrounded by armed men. Facing them were six Iraqi policemen, unarmed and wearing no belts. My father was trying to repair the Morse transmitter; it was connected to a battery, but there were none of the characteristic beeps coming out of the machine. This was the first time I'd seen a transmitter. My father rolled a cigarette and offered it to one of the Iraqis. I was surprised. Then he rolled another one, for himself. He lit it and, looking the policeman straight in the eye, asked, “Tell me ⦠What did you do to the machine so that I can't fix it?” The policeman held his head up high. “How could you possibly imagine I sabotaged it?”
I saw my father as a judge. He went on, “If you tell me what you did to this machine, I'll let you and your friends go, unharmed.” The policeman shrugged his shoulders and said, “I swear by Allah I didn't touch that machine. I don't know why it doesn't want to work ⦔ And to show his goodwill, he tried to help my father repair it. Standing around them, we followed their every gesture very attentively. Rajab, who greatly mistrusted the Iraqis, asked, “What are we going to do with the prisoners if the machine doesn't work?” My father didn't reply; he went outside to smoke a cigarette and calm his nerves, and Rajab followed him. Back inside, my father bent down over the machine again, helped by the policeman, but with no greater success. Rajab marched back into the room like a madman and, aiming his rifle at the policeman's chest, made it clear to him, in broken Arabic, that he was giving him one hour to repair the transmitter, or else he and his companions would be buried along with it. Panicked, the policeman turned to my father and pleaded with him. My father calmed down Rajab, who stepped away, cursing the devil. My father returned to the
policeman. “Listen, my brother, I know you sabotaged the machine. Either you repair it immediately or we execute you right away.”
policeman. “Listen, my brother, I know you sabotaged the machine. Either you repair it immediately or we execute you right away.”
The policeman went back to work on the machine, invoking Allah. I saw him tinker with a part. When my father saw that the policeman had started the transmitter going again, he pushed him aside and made a show of repairing the apparatus himself. It started sending out the Morse code again, and my father straightened up, puffing out his chest. “We're proud of you, Shero, the general's operator,” Rajab said to him. Then they picked up the secret codes transmitted by the Iraqis and let the policemen go unharmed, advising them to tell our Arab “brothers” that the Kurds weren't enemies of the Iraqis but were simply struggling for their freedom. Our fighters would have liked to keep my father there as their operator, but he declined, declaring, “The general is waiting for me ⦔
When we were back with our family, my father described in great detail how he had fixed the transmitter. I said nothing.
Â
Â
We spent three nights in Bijil, whose population swelled with each new day. Fear of an Iraqi invasion intensified. Bijil was only a stopping point; we were to continue climbingâhigher, farther north. We set off again in the direction of Nauperdan, where our leader, Mustafa Barzani, had his headquarters. We were three families traveling on foot. At nightfall, we reached the bank of a wide river. “Is it the Tigris?” I asked my father. “No, my son, it's a tributary, the Zab. Remember? The river where we caught fish in Bill
.”
.”At this spot, you could cross the river without swimming, and we first had the women and children go, huddled together on our little group's horse. I was scared of the water, particularly at night. Yet I swam like a fish. Then came my
father's turn. With his rifle safe and dry on his shoulders, he clutched the horse's mane and headed into the river. But he was so tense that he hampered the horse, and we saw the current carry them away. We heard my father's cries as the horse thrashed the water furiously with his hoofs. The owner of the horse yelled out, “Let go of his head ⦠Hang on to the belongings.” We were very frightened. Finally, the men and beasts managed to come out of the river about a hundred yards downstream. And my father, dripping wet, came to dry himself off by the fire.
father's turn. With his rifle safe and dry on his shoulders, he clutched the horse's mane and headed into the river. But he was so tense that he hampered the horse, and we saw the current carry them away. We heard my father's cries as the horse thrashed the water furiously with his hoofs. The owner of the horse yelled out, “Let go of his head ⦠Hang on to the belongings.” We were very frightened. Finally, the men and beasts managed to come out of the river about a hundred yards downstream. And my father, dripping wet, came to dry himself off by the fire.
We parted from the two other families in a village on the riverbank and continued our journey on foot, on horseback, or by car, depending on the opportunities that arose. At long last we arrived in Nauperdan, headquarters of the Kurdish resistance. This was the most protected village in Kurdistan. My brother Rostam was waiting for us there with a house. We felt very important; we were with the families of the top leaders. Our new house, perched on a hill, had only one room. It was a replica of our Bill
house. My father was convinced that it had been put at our disposal by the general himself. My brother Rostam set him right and showed him the antiaircraft equipment hidden behind the house. “I'm responsible for the antiaircraft defense, I've got to be operational twenty-four hours a day. That's why I was given this house on the hill.” My father went down to headquarters, where the general's secretary warmly welcomed him and my father explained he was at the general's disposal.
house. My father was convinced that it had been put at our disposal by the general himself. My brother Rostam set him right and showed him the antiaircraft equipment hidden behind the house. “I'm responsible for the antiaircraft defense, I've got to be operational twenty-four hours a day. That's why I was given this house on the hill.” My father went down to headquarters, where the general's secretary warmly welcomed him and my father explained he was at the general's disposal.There was much activity in the village, with
peshmergas
coming and going incessantly. Iraq had just launched a large-scale offensive. Our town of Aqra and all the other towns in Kurdistan had fallen into the hands of the Iraqis, and hundreds of thousands of people had taken to the roads and were converging northward. But our faith was unshakable. America was behind us, and so was Iran, its ally. Our radio station, Voice of Kurdistan, kept us informed of events hour by
hour. The newscaster spoke in an impassioned voice of the heroic resistance of our troops. My father then listened very attentively to Voice of America, which called us “freedom fighters.” And then it was the turn of Radio Moscow, which called us vulgar rebels, acting against Saddam Hussein, “champion of socialism!” But my father wasn't worried. America and Henry Kissinger were on our side.
peshmergas
coming and going incessantly. Iraq had just launched a large-scale offensive. Our town of Aqra and all the other towns in Kurdistan had fallen into the hands of the Iraqis, and hundreds of thousands of people had taken to the roads and were converging northward. But our faith was unshakable. America was behind us, and so was Iran, its ally. Our radio station, Voice of Kurdistan, kept us informed of events hour by
hour. The newscaster spoke in an impassioned voice of the heroic resistance of our troops. My father then listened very attentively to Voice of America, which called us “freedom fighters.” And then it was the turn of Radio Moscow, which called us vulgar rebels, acting against Saddam Hussein, “champion of socialism!” But my father wasn't worried. America and Henry Kissinger were on our side.
Â
Â
War or no war, life continued, and I had to go back to school. I was very happy because classes were once again in Kurdish, and I became an active member of the Kurdish Youth Association. A young officer from the resistance gave us political education classes after school. He always wore an impeccable Kurdish suit, and on his hip he sported a gun with a white-plated butt. He began his classes by writing on the blackboard: “1946: creation of the Kurdish Democratic Party, birth of the Kurdish Republic. Capital: Mah
b
d.” Then he wrote the word
democracy
, separating each syllable. “DE-MO-CRA-CY” He always repeated, “This is a Greek word which means government by the people.” He would draw a large map for us, with Turkey in the north, Iraq in the south, Iran in the east, and Syria in the west. In the center, with red chalk, he drew a crescent-shaped country, Kurdistan. He explained how the British and French had divided our country into four parts, and in the course of his demonstration he enlarged the Kurdish territory, adding a half inch here and half inch there. Then he drew a blue heart on Kurdistan and cut it into four parts. “This is how the heart of the Kurds is broken apart.” His words were beautiful, and they made me melancholy.
bd.” Then he wrote the worddemocracy
, separating each syllable. “DE-MO-CRA-CY” He always repeated, “This is a Greek word which means government by the people.” He would draw a large map for us, with Turkey in the north, Iraq in the south, Iran in the east, and Syria in the west. In the center, with red chalk, he drew a crescent-shaped country, Kurdistan. He explained how the British and French had divided our country into four parts, and in the course of his demonstration he enlarged the Kurdish territory, adding a half inch here and half inch there. Then he drew a blue heart on Kurdistan and cut it into four parts. “This is how the heart of the Kurds is broken apart.” His words were beautiful, and they made me melancholy.
Other books
Snake Agent: A Detective Inspector Chen Novel by Liz Williams
My Cousin, the Alien by Pamela F. Service
The Thief by Clive Cussler, Justin Scott
Counterfeit Conspiracies by Ritter Ames
The Admirer's Secret by Crane, Pamela
Eagle’s Song by Rosanne Bittner
All Natural Murder by McLaughlin, Staci
Me by Martin, Ricky
Falling for You by Jill Mansell