Authors: Hiner Saleem
My Father's Rifle (9 page)
Then it was the new president's turn to take over the screen. Saddam Hussein's portrait was accompanied by the newscaster's excited commentary, followed by anthems to the glory of the Baath Party and the “divine message” of the Arab nation. The champagne bottles were uncorked to the beat of this martial music. I was tasting champagne
for the first time; it was a gift of the Baath Party made at the wish of the new president. While we were drinking, the manager went out. There were some large portraits of the former and new presidents in the hotel. Immediately after the “cocktail,” we were ordered to take down all the portraits of al-Bakr. I was well acquainted with the new president; since 1968 my father's radio station had been referring to Saddam as “the gangster from Tikrit.” I had grown up with him. No one made the slightest comment as we returned to our rooms. We had already been afraid of him when he was vice president; now that he was president, the wisest thing to do was to fall into a deep slumber.
for the first time; it was a gift of the Baath Party made at the wish of the new president. While we were drinking, the manager went out. There were some large portraits of the former and new presidents in the hotel. Immediately after the “cocktail,” we were ordered to take down all the portraits of al-Bakr. I was well acquainted with the new president; since 1968 my father's radio station had been referring to Saddam as “the gangster from Tikrit.” I had grown up with him. No one made the slightest comment as we returned to our rooms. We had already been afraid of him when he was vice president; now that he was president, the wisest thing to do was to fall into a deep slumber.
Ten days before the end of my work term, I was dismissed: I didn't have a Baathist Youth card. This made me rather happy. I missed my familyâit was the first time I had lived far apart from themâand I set off for home after a very busy summer.
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When school started, we had a new math teacher. As soon as I saw him I assumed he was an Arab and a Baathist. I put my elbows on my desk and buried my head in my hands. Damn, I said to myself, I'm already hopeless in math; with this guy, I'm sunk! He paced in front of the blackboard and introduced himself: “My name is Jacob.” Then we called out our names one by one. Without looking at us, and still pacing in front of the blackboard, he asked, “What dialect do you speak?” I was convinced his question was a trap. No one responded. Unable to suppress my patriotism, I said dryly, “It's not a question of dialects. We're Kurds, that's all.” The teacher stopped pacing. “Calm down, brother! I'm a Kurd too.” We were all amazed; we looked at him, incredulous. The following day, my doubts were dispelled when I saw him strolling with Jamil, one of my brother Dilovan's friends.
Every time my brother came home, he and Jamil would spend hours talking together in the safety of our orchard about the struggle, and about the fact that aside from their mountains, the Kurds had no friends. Being an
aïdoun
, Dilovan wasn't allowed to teach. He had been forced to look for a new job, and had found work with a tailor who did alterations in Erbil.
aïdoun
, Dilovan wasn't allowed to teach. He had been forced to look for a new job, and had found work with a tailor who did alterations in Erbil.
I hadn't been wrong about Jacob; it's true he had wanted to know our political leanings, but his intentions were good. I now saw him as a very brave man, for a great many people in the schools worked for the Baath Party. Before long we became friends, and he invited me to his house, and lent me books by George Bernard Shaw and Régis Debray. I would have one week to read them; other readers were waiting their turn, for these books were forbidden. I also read Gorky's
Mother
and Sartre's
Being and Nothingness
from cover to cover, without understanding a word (nor had the Arabic translator, probably), and I was a week late in returning them. For me, reading these forbidden books was a patriotic duty. I devoured Jack London's
The Iron Heel
and learned that Che Guevara had changed his first name to Ernesto in homage to its hero. In the process I discovered the French Revolution and Nehru's
Glimpses of World History
, where the Kurds are discussed. We readers from this underground circle recognized each other from certain turns of phrases and words, but we had to remain very discreet. Jacob started inserting pamphlets between the pages of the books he lent me; I was aware of the danger involved, of course, and knew that if just a single pamphlet was found on my body it could cost me my life. The Baath Party was watching. Our crazy dream of Kurdish independence lived on. We were recovering from the defeat of 1975. Underground networks were regrouping.
Mother
and Sartre's
Being and Nothingness
from cover to cover, without understanding a word (nor had the Arabic translator, probably), and I was a week late in returning them. For me, reading these forbidden books was a patriotic duty. I devoured Jack London's
The Iron Heel
and learned that Che Guevara had changed his first name to Ernesto in homage to its hero. In the process I discovered the French Revolution and Nehru's
Glimpses of World History
, where the Kurds are discussed. We readers from this underground circle recognized each other from certain turns of phrases and words, but we had to remain very discreet. Jacob started inserting pamphlets between the pages of the books he lent me; I was aware of the danger involved, of course, and knew that if just a single pamphlet was found on my body it could cost me my life. The Baath Party was watching. Our crazy dream of Kurdish independence lived on. We were recovering from the defeat of 1975. Underground networks were regrouping.
One day, Jacob asked me if I had the courage to fire a few shots. I assured him I did. He gave me a loaded sixteen-shot pistol with a long barrel. It was even older and rustier than
my father's Brno. I thought it probably wouldn't work. Jacob advised me to test it before using it: “Just fire a bullet into a wet pillow.” I took the pistol, wrapped it up in a sheet of newspaper, slipped it into an ordinary plastic bag, and, before going home, covered it by filling up the bag with tomatoes. One of the streets I had to take had Baath Party offices on one side and residences of Baathist employees on the other. I was always unsure where to look when I walked on that street since I didn't want to arouse suspicion. I started walking, but when I reached the party office building, someone called out to me from the front steps. I turned my head and saw one of my teachers, who was a Baathist official. The way he called out to me was not like a teacher calling out to a student but like an officer calling out to a soldier. He walked up to me and asked me some ordinary questions. “How are you? What's new in the world?” While I answered with something like “Everything's fine,” I was figuring out how much time I would need, should he go beyond mere questions, to pull out my weapon and kill him, how long it would take me to run to the orchards, which I knew like the back of my hand, and what roads to take so I wouldn't be impeded in my getaway. But he only glanced briefly at my plastic bag, lingered by my side for a minute, which seemed an eternity, and headed back to the office building. My heart slowly stopped pounding. When I got home, I went directly to our orchard to bury the pistol under a pomegranate tree. Several days later I returned to the place where I had hidden it because the day was approaching when I would need to use it. I noticed right away that the earth had been dug up. Yet the pistol was still there. My brother Rostam came to me and said, “If you people need anyone, count me in.” He had discovered my hiding place when he had gone to water the trees.
my father's Brno. I thought it probably wouldn't work. Jacob advised me to test it before using it: “Just fire a bullet into a wet pillow.” I took the pistol, wrapped it up in a sheet of newspaper, slipped it into an ordinary plastic bag, and, before going home, covered it by filling up the bag with tomatoes. One of the streets I had to take had Baath Party offices on one side and residences of Baathist employees on the other. I was always unsure where to look when I walked on that street since I didn't want to arouse suspicion. I started walking, but when I reached the party office building, someone called out to me from the front steps. I turned my head and saw one of my teachers, who was a Baathist official. The way he called out to me was not like a teacher calling out to a student but like an officer calling out to a soldier. He walked up to me and asked me some ordinary questions. “How are you? What's new in the world?” While I answered with something like “Everything's fine,” I was figuring out how much time I would need, should he go beyond mere questions, to pull out my weapon and kill him, how long it would take me to run to the orchards, which I knew like the back of my hand, and what roads to take so I wouldn't be impeded in my getaway. But he only glanced briefly at my plastic bag, lingered by my side for a minute, which seemed an eternity, and headed back to the office building. My heart slowly stopped pounding. When I got home, I went directly to our orchard to bury the pistol under a pomegranate tree. Several days later I returned to the place where I had hidden it because the day was approaching when I would need to use it. I noticed right away that the earth had been dug up. Yet the pistol was still there. My brother Rostam came to me and said, “If you people need anyone, count me in.” He had discovered my hiding place when he had gone to water the trees.
When the day came, I returned to the orchard. My brother Dilovan and his friend Jamil were there. I had to
wait for them to leave. Time went by. They didn't move, and the hour of the meeting was drawing nearer. Finally they left, but I no longer had time to test the weapon. I grabbed it and ran. At 8 p.m. sharp, I was in front of the restaurant where the head security officer went drinking every evening. Another schoolmate was waiting at the spot chosen for our assassination attempt. As soon as he saw that we were in our assigned positions, my teacher Jacob, who could pass for an Arab, entered into the walled area around the restaurant. He was supposed to let us know if the head security officer was really in the garden. We were then supposed to jump over the wall and kill him. We were waiting for the signal to go into action when I saw a fourth accomplice arrive on the scene; he ordered us to stop everything: the restaurant was surrounded by plainclothes policemen.
wait for them to leave. Time went by. They didn't move, and the hour of the meeting was drawing nearer. Finally they left, but I no longer had time to test the weapon. I grabbed it and ran. At 8 p.m. sharp, I was in front of the restaurant where the head security officer went drinking every evening. Another schoolmate was waiting at the spot chosen for our assassination attempt. As soon as he saw that we were in our assigned positions, my teacher Jacob, who could pass for an Arab, entered into the walled area around the restaurant. He was supposed to let us know if the head security officer was really in the garden. We were then supposed to jump over the wall and kill him. We were waiting for the signal to go into action when I saw a fourth accomplice arrive on the scene; he ordered us to stop everything: the restaurant was surrounded by plainclothes policemen.
My brother Dilovan and his friend Jamil disappeared. My sister-in-law was the only person in on their secret. Three months later, on my father's old Russian radio, we heard my brother calling out, in a moving voice, “Voice of Kurdistan speakingâ” It was the pirate radio station of the resistance. And once again I heard the national anthem
Ey Raquib
⦠“Oh my friends, be assured the Kurdish people are alive and nothing can bring down their flag ⦔ But this time my father didn't say, “In a year we'll be free,” as he usually did. He switched the radio off, disillusioned, and we were fearful: my brother's voice could be recognized by anyone who knew him, and this was very dangerous for us all. As my mother put it, we were “in the eye of the hurricane.” So whenever a neighbor told us he had heard my brother, we fiercely denied it was he; we feared denunciations.
Ey Raquib
⦠“Oh my friends, be assured the Kurdish people are alive and nothing can bring down their flag ⦔ But this time my father didn't say, “In a year we'll be free,” as he usually did. He switched the radio off, disillusioned, and we were fearful: my brother's voice could be recognized by anyone who knew him, and this was very dangerous for us all. As my mother put it, we were “in the eye of the hurricane.” So whenever a neighbor told us he had heard my brother, we fiercely denied it was he; we feared denunciations.
At school, I was summoned to the office with the “Do Not Enter” sign on the door. The man from the security forces made me sit down and asked me straight off, “So when do you plan to sign up with the Baathist Youth?” “It's a good organization, but I've never thought about the question,”
I said. “Listen, the school, the books, the notebooks are all gifts of the party, which does everything for all of you. We must be loyal to the party and its principles.” Scratching the fuzz beginning to grow on my chin, I thought desperately about how to extricate myself from this situation. Watching me, he asked, “What's that you have? A Ho Chi Minh beard?” I played innocent. “Him, I don't know; it's more like a Leonardo da Vinci beard.” Before letting me leave, he added, “We're patient, you still have a bit of time to think about it.” At the door he stopped me and said neutrally, “Don't forget we know who your brother is.” I was crushed. So the security people knew that my brother was the announcer on the new radio station of the Kurdish resistance. I realized my days in school were numbered. But that wasn't the worst of it.
I said. “Listen, the school, the books, the notebooks are all gifts of the party, which does everything for all of you. We must be loyal to the party and its principles.” Scratching the fuzz beginning to grow on my chin, I thought desperately about how to extricate myself from this situation. Watching me, he asked, “What's that you have? A Ho Chi Minh beard?” I played innocent. “Him, I don't know; it's more like a Leonardo da Vinci beard.” Before letting me leave, he added, “We're patient, you still have a bit of time to think about it.” At the door he stopped me and said neutrally, “Don't forget we know who your brother is.” I was crushed. So the security people knew that my brother was the announcer on the new radio station of the Kurdish resistance. I realized my days in school were numbered. But that wasn't the worst of it.
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A new presidential decree stipulated that any eighteen-year-old without a degree would have to leave for military service. I was still in school, and since I was four years behind it was easy to calculate that I wouldn't have my diploma by the time I was eighteen. Now I would never become a judge or a lawyer.
My father knew a government employee at the town hall who was in charge of the registry office. He gathered all my papers and we set off for the town hall. At the market he purchased two plump roosters, and we continued on our way.
When we came to the employee, we sat down with the two roosters at our feet, and the discussion started. “What can I do for you, Mr. Shero?” Leaning toward him, my father began. “Four years before my son's birth, Azad here present, I had a son with the same first name who died. When this one was born, I called him Azad, and since the two boys had the same first name, we used all the first child's papers for the second one. At the time, the problems of age,
school, and military service never crossed my mind. Now I'd like to set the record straight by obtaining a death certificate for the first Azad and a birth certificate for this one, who is very much alive. He must be made four years younger.”
school, and military service never crossed my mind. Now I'd like to set the record straight by obtaining a death certificate for the first Azad and a birth certificate for this one, who is very much alive. He must be made four years younger.”
The employee deliberated for a long time, opened old registers, turned pages, stood up, and closed the book. “It's very difficult to make one son die and give birth to this one.” My father resumed. “Listen, I have two dreams in my life: I won't tell you what the first is [I could easily guess]; the second is that I'd like to see my son go to university and become a judge or a lawyer. And now I'll die without either of my wishes coming true.” The employee lit a cigarette. My father realized that two roosters were insufficient. Standing up, he got closer to the employee, then reached into his pocket and handed him a pair of earrings. “Look, here is the last gold jewelry we have.” As he put them in the employee's hand he added, “Do something.” Glancing quickly at the earrings, the employee put them away in his drawer. “Come back tomorrow, Mr. Shero, I'll see what I can do ⦔ We left our papers with him. My father signaled me to take the two roosters, and before leaving he said, “Tell my son where your house is.” When I returned to the same office the next day, I saw my date of birth had been changed from 1960 to 1964, and I heard the employee whisper to my father, “I'm a good Kurdish patriot.” I thought, Roosters or patriotism, who cares, my problem is solved.
Halfway home, my father signaled me to stop. He was tired and sat down to rest. He rolled himself a cigarette, and for the first time, I noticed my father had aged. I was very touched by my parents' sacrifice: they had given away my mother's last gold earrings so that I could pursue my studies. We started walking again. I laughed and said to him, “Papa, the employee changed my date of birth because he knows you were the general's personal operator.” He looked at me, and his face lit up with a small smile. Then he swallowed,
fell silent for a long time, and said gently, “My son, you must go to university. But I don't want you to become a judge or a lawyer anymore. I talked that way thinking of the time of the king. Today, we're in another world, the police are hard at work for the people, they even do the work of judges and lawyers. Do what you feel like doing. The important thing is that Azad, Shero Selim Malay's son, obtain a university diploma.” He stopped, looked me straight in the eye, and added, “Promise?” “I promise,” I answered.
fell silent for a long time, and said gently, “My son, you must go to university. But I don't want you to become a judge or a lawyer anymore. I talked that way thinking of the time of the king. Today, we're in another world, the police are hard at work for the people, they even do the work of judges and lawyers. Do what you feel like doing. The important thing is that Azad, Shero Selim Malay's son, obtain a university diploma.” He stopped, looked me straight in the eye, and added, “Promise?” “I promise,” I answered.
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I was entering the years of awakening: painting, books, my math teacher, Sartre, George Bernard Shaw, everything was helping me grow out of childhood. I made new friends: Jemal, Ako, Imad ⦠Jemal was a student in the technical school of agronomy, Ako was in the teachers' training college, and Imad was the musician of our group. He played the lute and the violin extremely well. We liked to get together at Ako'sâespecially me, because his sister Nazik was fond of me. She was a small brunette full of vitality, with black eyes and long hair. Whenever I left her house, she would slip love letters into my jacket, and as a way of winning me over, she would mix references to Kurdistan and patriotism with words describing my “beauty” and her love for me. Sitting in a room, we would liberate Kurdistan and give power to the working class. Jemal, the son of Abdulla the Communist barber, would talk to us, in no logical order, about the glory of Stalin, Ceau
escu, and Brezhnev, the genius of Erich Honecker, the courage of Enver Hoxha, the technological progress of the Eastern bloc countries. “But why are all these great men friends of Saddam?” Jemal's reply to me was, “Your father listens to Voice of America too much.” At that point Imad would take out his lute and we'd start singing, and Nazik, under the pretext of serving tea, would walk by me several times, throwing me ardent glances.
escu, and Brezhnev, the genius of Erich Honecker, the courage of Enver Hoxha, the technological progress of the Eastern bloc countries. “But why are all these great men friends of Saddam?” Jemal's reply to me was, “Your father listens to Voice of America too much.” At that point Imad would take out his lute and we'd start singing, and Nazik, under the pretext of serving tea, would walk by me several times, throwing me ardent glances.Other books
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