by Hiner Saleem
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, bu
t 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 mokhabarat11 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.
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.
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 family—it was the first time I had lived far apart from them—and I set off for home after a very busy summer.
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.
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.