by Ali Bader
Hassan Qazlaji was a Kurdish man who took part in the political struggle against the despotic rule of Reza Khan. After the downfall of Reza Khan in the early forties, following the invasion of Iran by British, Soviet and US forces, he established with a group of young revolutionaries the Komeleh Party, an anti-Fascist, Kurdish nationalist group. The party was later joined by Qazi Mohammad, the leader of the Republic of Mahabad, which was declared in 1945 but collapsed in 1946. Qazlaji was one of the founders and leaders of the party. After the fall of the Republic of Mahabad, however, Qazlaji fled to Iraq, where he published the Regay newspaper. He remained in hiding in Iraq, doing various jobs at restaurants, cafés and tobacco farms. He worked in the business of dying shoes and as a photographer in Sulaymaniyah in order to keep body and soul together. He was then arrested in Iraq and sent to jail, from which he was freed only after the 1958 Qasim revolution. He stayed for a while in Baghdad, and was introduced to Haidar at the house of his friend Hekmat Aziz. He then immigrated to Bulgaria, and after the success of the Iranian revolution in 1979, returned to Iran to take charge of the Kurdish edition of Mardom, the mouthpiece of the Tudeh Party of Iran.
Haidar Salman stopped in front of him and said: ‘Would you help me?’
‘Of course, Maestro!’
‘I’d like to escape to Syria!’
‘Consider it done,’ he told him.
Haidar Salman waited for the signal from Hassan Qazlaji. Pari knew nothing of the matter, nor did Mohammad Taqi or anybody else. Qazlaji insisted that the matter remain a closely guarded secret. Otherwise, the Pasdar (the revolutionary guard) would surely kill Haidar Salman. To vary his daily routine, Haidar stopped going to Naderi café and started a new itinerary. Every morning he would walk from Azadi Square to Khurasan Square, and then take the bus to the bazaar, where Mohammad Taqi and his friend Mirza Tabrizi sat at a small café.
Mohammad Taqi sat reading the morning papers and drinking his tea, while Haidar Salman sat facing him reading a biography in Persian, translated from the Russian, of the composer Tchaikovsky. Next to Mohammad Taqi was his friend Mirza Tabrizi, a merchant from Tabriz who’d been a farmer living off the pistachio trade, but who, after the revolution, had become a great merchant. Tabrizi naturally supported the clerics. Every time the two friends met, a heated political discussion took place. Mohammad Taqi adjusted his collar as he spoke; he wore thick glasses and his grey hair gave him a dignified look; when he coughed, his dry voice was sharp and raucous.
Haidar realized then that the liberals constituted a huge force in Iran. They were supported by President Abulhassan Banisadr and his intellectual ally, Engineer Mehdi Bazargan, the leader of the Nehzat-e Azadi movement, as well as his team at the Shura Council in coalition with the members of the nationalist Melli Front. He saw that they were supported by the largest organized popular and political opposition force on the streets. This was no less than the Iranian Mujahideen Khalq Organization, under the leadership of Massoud Rajavi. It was also supported by the Democratic Party of Iranian Kurdistan and the Fida-e Khalq Organization as well as other leftist organizations such as Al-Kifah, Al-Kadehin and Komeleh.
‘Do you think the clerics can snatch the revolution from the thinkers and intellectuals?’ asked Mohammed Taqi.
Haidar felt the weight of history in Iran as he felt it in Iraq. He suddenly found himself caught up in the fray, in the conflict between the clerics who wanted an Islamic republic and the Islamic liberals who wanted a democratic Islamic republic. He sensed this conflict in the old leftist Mohammad Taqi. From the moment he entered his house, he was extremely agitated. He would unbutton his shirt which he wore without a tie and throw the papers onto the sofa, shouting, ‘This isn’t an honest fight for power between the clerics and liberals, it’s an attempt by the clerics to dominate. At the beginning, they wanted to secure a few seats but now they want them all. Establishing a religious state means that they alone will be in charge.’
Haidar realized that the clerics wanted to tighten their control and authority, which was why the assassinations and imprisonments had begun. The clerics were staunchly supported by the peasants who’d come to the cities, by the faithful and their children, by the illiterate and the ignorant. Haidar Salman watched the political events unfold in Iran. At the café he’d find Mohammad Taqi trembling because the government had shut down the opposition papers. He explained the situation with great agitation, his eyes red and his lips trembling. In front of him sat his friend, Tabrizi, who was also furious.
Haidar Salman stopped going out with Pari. He would walk the streets aimlessly. He let his beard grow long and buttoned his shirt at the top in the manner of the Islamists. He continued to watch the demonstrations, conflicts and civil unrest until the Mujahideen Khalq Organization declared an armed struggle, which made it impossible for him to go out. So he would watch the streets from the window of his room. On 20 June at four o’clock in the afternoon the Mujahideen Khalq took to the streets to begin the armed revolution. They attacked some government buildings in Tehran and other cities. The Revolutionary Guards, Hezbollah and the Revolutionary Committees stood against them, and before darkness fell they had succeeded in defeating and dispersing them in Tehran and other cities.
He wrote to Farida: ‘There are fires everywhere. Buildings, cars, offices, theatres, headquarters and houses are on fire. Fights, assassinations and executions are taking place. In Iranian Kurdistan, where the Democratic Party of Iranian Kurdistan controls large areas, there have been firefights with the authorities. The party has allied itself with Banisadr and has begun expanding its sphere of influence.’
One day, he was surprised to be contacted by Farrah Nikdahar, one of the young people connected with Fida-e Khalq, an organization specializing mainly in assassinations. Farrah wanted to meet him at Naderi Café on Wali al-Asr Street. He was extremely civil and courteous. He was also clean-shaven, with long dark hair. His eyes looked remarkably serene.
A book in Persian and a few newspapers lay on the table.
‘We know you well. You’re the leftist composer, Haidar Salman. I’ve been sent by Reza Shaltoki.’
Shaltoki was a leftist officer who’d spent more than twenty-five years in the Shah’s prisons and had been tortured mercilessly by the SAVAK.
‘What exactly do you want from me?’
He smiled. ‘On the contrary, we ask you what you want from us. Hassan Qazlaji has been murdered by the Revolutionary Guards. You’d asked him for something, and we’ll do it instead.’
‘I want to get out of here.’
‘Where do you want to go? We can guarantee your exit from Tehran to the country of your choice.’
‘Syria. Damascus. The closest place to Baghdad. I need to try to get to Iraq.’
The following day, Haidar told his host Mohammad Taqi that he wished to move to another house. Mohammad Taqi felt that Haidar Salman might be worried about living under the roof of a man known by the Revolutionary Guards to support the liberals. ‘This is your home,’ he told him. ‘Any time you wish to come, you’ll be most welcome.’
When Pari came home that evening, she learned from her mother that Salman was planning to leave the house.
During the night, she went up to his room. He was so totally engrossed in his writing that he didn’t notice her come in. She caught him in the act of writing with invisible ink. He sat near the bed, with his suitcase packed and placed in the corner. He took off his scarf and gave it to her. With tearful eyes, she took off her own shawl and fell into his arms, kissing him and crying. She showered his lips with kisses and melted in his embrace.
She stood up slowly, her hair falling luxuriantly on both sides of her face. She took off her jacket, her dark eyes sparkling and her breath heaving. She took off her shirt and trousers. She took his shirt and threw it aside while he took off his trousers himself. She wrapped herself around him, her belly white and her hips warm. She then began to move her belly towards him. In a final bending motion that seemed like dancing, she
took off her knickers and threw them on the sofa. Her arms reached out to embrace him, her elbows bent, her torso motionless, her pelvis shaking. Her body produced a faint noise as it rubbed against his. He ran his hands over her firm body, bronze buttocks and smooth pubic area. She spoke some words in Persian that he didn’t understand. Their eyes met with an increasing intensity until they fell onto the bed, drenched in sweat.
On the following day, he found a small apartment on the second floor of a two-storey building near Revolution Square. He obtained a ration card from the mosque. The woollen collar of his dark coat was speckled with dandruff. In his left hand he carried a suitcase tied with rope. His shirt cuffs were not clean and he was utterly exhausted. The small room he’d rented echoed with the sound of emptiness. He sat in a corner that had no windows. An unmade bed, a tattered rug, a small paraffin cooker, a pot and a frying pan, as well as his suitcase, were the only objects in the room. After untying the rope he took a sheet and a blanket out of the suitcase and spread them beneath the dusty window. Without a pillow or a quilt he settled down to sleep. The room seemed like a cave. The ceiling lamp reflected off the cold floor. He had nothing with him except his suitcase and a book on contemporary art that he’d bought at a bookshop on Wali al-Asr Street. He felt that his life was without meaning or value. He curled up facing a bare wall that was splattered with paint.
In a couple of days, he was contacted. The organization had got him the passport of a man who’d died in a car accident a few days earlier. It was in the name of Kamal Medhat Hassan, an Iraqi merchant married to a woman from Mosul called Nadia al-Amiry. She had married him a year earlier and was now living in Damascus. She had been the widow of a Syrian called Mohammad Aqla from Hama, who’d been killed in the confrontations between the Islamists and the state. That was all he knew about his new identity.
A journalist came by and dropped the passport in the tank of one of the toilets at the Royal Park Hotel in the north of the Iranian capital. Haidar picked it up a short while later, to avoid it being discovered.
As soon as he read his new name and saw his photograph and date and place of birth in the passport, he felt that the persona of Haidar Salman had vanished without a trace. Suddenly he felt so alienated from it that it seemed to have been imposed on him. He had a far greater sense of identification with the new character of Kamal Medhat.
VIII
Tobacco keeper
From Kamal Medhat’s life
(1933-2006)
‘Oh! I know him. He is the tobacco keeper, devoid of metaphysics.
The tobacco keeper goes back to his shop driven by a divine instinct.’
From Álvaro de Campos Tobacco Shop
Spartan wars and the end of romanticism and love
He entered Damascus with the new name of Kamal Medhat and a new passport with a new date and place of birth. This was his third character, the personality that corresponded to Álvaro de Campos from the poem Tobacco Shop. It was the sensual character of the tobacco keeper, the man obsessed with gratifying the senses of taste and touch, the person wishing to live in a stupor off the two previous characters and soar in a world of smoke, pleasure and sex. In every corner of his soul there was an altar to a different god. But would the shadows of the previous two characters vanish for good? Never.
The strength of the new character lay in the fact that although it stood in contrast to the earlier characters, it depended on them and often overlapped. This was the source of Kamal Medhat’s strength. Although he lived in a state of isolation and nihilism, his personality was more solid than the other two. Pessoa created a clear biography for this character. Álvaro de Campos was born on 15 October 1890 in Portuguese Tavera. After studying marine engineering in Glasgow, he travelled to the East to find pleasure, relaxation and laziness. He justified the trip on the grounds of his relentless search for opium to take back home. For the East, opium represented consolation for its honour. Like Álvaro, Kamal Medhat had a well-defined biography. Born in Mosul in 1933, he became a well-known merchant who frequently travelled to Iran and back. He was a man who indulged in enjoyment and pleasure. It would not be surprising, then, if the authorities in Damascus suspected him of bringing a quantity of opium with him from Iran.
This is what we’ll discover from the answer to the following question. On what day did Kamal Medhat arrive in Damascus and how?
The latest date for his arrival in Damascus was early November 1981. But how did he travel? There are actually two contradictory stories. The first alleges that he escaped to Turkey (though Orhan didn’t confirm this view) and went to Damascus through Mardin. The second story claims that he flew from Tehran to Damascus on Syrian Air. The airfare was paid with a sum of money offered to him by Mohammad Taqi’s daughter, Pari. He arrived at Damascus airport in early November, although we couldn’t verify this piece of information because he never mentioned it in his letters. What is certain, however, is that he was arrested on his arrival at Damascus. He referred to this clearly in one of his letters to Farida: ‘When I arrived in Damascus, I was detained by the authorities for four days. I was held in a room that was no bigger than five square metres, together with more than twenty others: smugglers, common criminals and Syrian politicians. They all stank and their hair was infested with lice.’
In prison, he was taken blindfolded through a dark corridor. Two gigantic wardens on either side lifted him by his armpits and dragged him along. Suddenly they stopped, removed the blindfold and allowed him to walk along the corridor with his eyes dazzled and half-closed. There was only a small window looking out onto a yard that was empty but for a single tree.
Kamal Medhat had no idea why he was being detained. But when they seated him on a wooden chair in a small room lit by a dust-covered bulb, with cigarette butts littering the floor, the officer asked him: ‘Be brief. You have opium.’
‘No, I swear to God. I’m a small merchant and I have no use for such things.’
‘We have information that you’re bringing opium with you from Iran.’
‘That’s never been my job.’
At the beginning, the investigator didn’t believe him, although he didn’t force him to confess or torture him. After two or three days of interrogation, he was released. That was the end of his detention. Some of the people we met in Damascus, however, believed that Kamal Medhat did enter Syria with a package of opium that he’d brought with him from Tehran and that he sold it at one of the cafés in Al-Bahsa. The money that he spent in Damascus, they argued, came from selling that package. The question we asked was whether Kamal Medhat himself smoked opium. Nobody, in fact, confirmed this, except one of the political exiles that we met in Damascus, Saadoun Mohammad. He was the one who introduced him to Jacqueline Mugharib. He told me that he once went with Kamal to a secret café in Damascus where he smoked hashish in hookahs specially prepared for the purpose. We can neither confirm nor deny whether he entered Damascus carrying a package of opium. But it is worth noting that he thought music produced a kind of trance similar to the effect of opium. Furthermore, he composed a piece of music, the ‘Opium’ Concerto, which was permeated with Iranian culture. All this made me wonder where and when he consumed opium for the first time. I’m sure that he got it from Iran because opium was widely available there. His first use of opium must have been during his stay in Tehran rather than anywhere else. But when, exactly? Was it in the fifties, when he lived with Ismail al-Tabtabaei at Pahlavi Street? Or in Enqelab in 1963? But that wasn’t a long enough period for him to experiment with opium. Or was it when he stayed at the house of Mohammad Taqi and his daughter Pari?
Concerning Kamal Medhat’s life in Damascus, all the documents confirm that he arrived at noon with his new passport and new personality. He tried to find some space for his new hedonistic, pleasure-seeking character within a politically explosive landscape. His arrival corresponded with the most violent confrontations between the regime and the Muslim Brotherhood. This was a period rife with ethnic, sectarian, racial
and ideological hatred. The region was at the height of uncertainty and indecision. It seemed to have muddy feet and a savage, cruel face. So how would this self-indulgent, indolent character fit into this context?
The cab that Kamal Medhat took crossed the Victoria Bridge with its freshly lacquered handrails. He sat looking out of the window at the people as the cab drove through the streets of Damascus. When he heard the news of a booby-trapped car that had been blown up near the Cabinet building in Seven Seas Square he felt he was inside a simmering cauldron. Any suspicious person on the streets was arrested without much ado. In this environment was it possible, as the double of the tobacco keeper in Tobacco Shop, to find an outlet for his passionate, pleasure-seeking nature? How would he treat his sense of self-importance, his unsettled view of himself and the image he wished to create for his own identity?
‘What’s your name?’ he asked the driver.
‘Ammar. If you want some fun, I have a beautiful young girl,’ the driver said. He was a dark man with thinning hair, sharp eyes, a thick moustache and a broad, athletic chest. Kamal Medhat wasn’t surprised at the driver’s offer to pimp for him, for drivers almost everywhere in the world did exactly the same. But he didn’t feel completely at ease with this driver. He was unsettled by the man’s acne and his high cheekbones. He disliked him and found his conversation tiresome, but he wished to use him to find somewhere to stay.
‘I want somewhere cheap,’ he told him in a low voice, wiping his forehead.