I, Who Did Not Die

by Zahed Haftlang

  “I’m sober. And this is the real reason I came to see you.”

  His offer hung in the air between us. Totally illegal. Totally dangerous and, just perhaps, totally brilliant.

  “It’s a real official passport issued by the Canadian government,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid, just evade any questions you are asked at the airport. Once you get to Amsterdam and board a plane for Canada, destroy the passport on the plane. When you land in Canada, tell the border officials you are a refugee.”

  Jasem asked the bartender for a pen and then wrote refugee in Arabic on a napkin. Then, next to it, he spelled out R-E-F-U-G-E-E. He pronounced the English word slowly and made me repeat it back to him.

  “Memorize that word. Say it when you land in Canada.”

  “But what about you? How will you get home?”

  “I’ll go to the embassy and say I lost my passport.”

  “Is that going to work?”

  Jasem shrugged. I couldn’t believe my ears. I wanted nothing more than a new life in a peaceful country with my brother—nothing, except for marrying Alyaa. It was time to confess that I had a secret family.

  “You are at a crossroads,” Jasem said. “Either risk your life and go back to Alyaa, or save your life so then you can save them.”

  If I could get refugee status in Canada, I could eventually sponsor Alyaa and Amjad to join me. I could give them a new, safe life with me. My Iraqi passport wasn’t a true solution because I’d need to get a visa, and even then I’d only be allowed to stay in Canada for a few months. I heard myself telling my brother I would do it. Jasem ordered a third drink to celebrate.

  “Don’t tell Dad,” I said.

  SEVENTEEN

  MARYAM

  When you sleep in parks and shelters at night, you meet some interesting entrepreneurs with advanced degrees in street economics. And that’s how, after being kicked out of the family home, I found myself working in the field of private collection services. The offer was simple, and right in my wheelhouse: make an unannounced visit to a rich man who had hired workers to tile his floors, and remind him sternly that he forgot to pay for it. Collect the overdue bill, keep a portion of it for my trouble, and deliver the rest to my new boss. And just between you and me, it was a nice change of pace from prison life to be the terrorizer instead of the terrorized.

  I smelled barbecue as I approached my mark, and heard music and at least a dozen conversations floating from the courtyard. There was a big party in full swing, probably right on top of that expensive tile. The man who responded to my knock filled the door frame with his barrel chest and had to duck to keep from hitting the overhang as he stepped out to greet me.

  “You owe some money for your tile work,” I said, thrusting a bill for several thousand dollars into his hand.

  He didn’t even look at it. He picked something out of his front teeth, then kept his eyes locked on mine as he tore the bill into strips and let them flutter to the ground. He stepped back inside and started to shut the door, and I put my foot in the way to block it.

  “Listen. I will be back in fifteen minutes.”

  He chuckled and shut the door.

  I whistled on my way to the gas station, filled a can with five liters of fuel, and returned to the man’s house, and this time I didn’t use the door. I threw the gas can over the courtyard wall, then climbed over it and hopped down to crash the party. There were thirty or so people gathered around a long table that was covered in a white tablecloth, feasting on a banquet of roasted meats and trays of rice and fruit. I saw some of the women point at me, and as I approached with the gas can in one hand, they called out to their husbands in panicked voices. I unscrewed the gas cap, sprinted like a racehorse toward the table, and poured gasoline down the entire length of it, covering the food and splashing the guests. People screamed and poured their glasses of ice water on their skin to wash off the gas, and the men rose to chase me, but I stopped them in their tracks when I pulled a cigarette lighter out of my pocket and held it in the air.

  “Nobody move!”

  “What do you want?” somebody said.

  “I need my money.”

  The man of the house lifted his hands in the air and told me to please wait, that he’d be happy to get it for me.

  “Two minutes,” I said, thoroughly enjoying this. There was no way I was going to burn all these people, but just the fact that they thought I would made me feel invincible, and somewhat of a mastermind. The man returned with cash in a bag. I checked it and it was all there.

  “What about interest?” I asked. “This payment is two years late.”

  The man bolted into the house and returned with another stack of bills. It was so easy; I decided to go for more.

  “Now I need my money. You’ve made me go to a lot of trouble.”

  “What will it take to get you to leave?”

  “Double what you’ve already given me.”

  It was ridiculously easy. I was good at extortion. When you have killed as many people as I had, and had as many friends die as I had, you lose all sense of fear. And encountering someone who is not afraid to die to get what he wants can be terrifying. I thanked the wealthy man for his time and grabbed a kebab off the grill as I let myself out—this time through the front door.

  With the money I made as a bill collector, I bought a bus ticket to Dehloran. I had my own debt I needed to repay, to one Mr. Yadollah for his prized ram. I bought dresses and shoes for his children, perfume for his wife, and a whole box of gaz nougat chews with pistachios. When I got to the village, it was more like a heap of rubble with a slum rising from it, not a solid structure as far as the eye could see. Yadollah had always said his cave was just a temporary refuge until the war ended, but looking around, he’d be better there than in this mess. I had no idea where to begin to look. Just as I was pondering a strategy, an armed bicyclist in civilian clothes who identified himself as “security” directed me to Yadollah’s home. Although “home” is too generous a description. It had only one wall, made of stacked bricks without grout, and it listed like it was about to topple at any second. The other three sides were made from stretched canvas held in place with ropes and stakes, and the front door was a ratty burlap sack. It was a rubble shanty. There was nothing to knock on, so I shouted.

  “Hello, Yadollah?”

  A leathery hand with swollen knuckles parted the curtain, and Yadollah, hunched over and blinking like a mole, peered out at me.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Your face is familiar, but I don’t see so good anymore.”

  “I’m the sorry runt who stole your ram.”

  Yadollah stepped into the light and threw his thin arms around me.

  “My dearest son Zahed; I’m so happy that you are still alive!”

  He took my hand and brought me inside, and the children, a little taller now, still rushed up to me like bouncing baby goats, jostling for the presents in my arms. They tore through the box of candies, and wax paper fluttered like snow as they devoured the treats. His wife looked just the same, although her hair was more salt than pepper now. The family was still living without electricity or a bathroom. Yadollah showed me proudly that he did have running water in a tap in the backyard, where I also spotted a handful of thin sheep snoozing in the soft mud.

  “Where is your flock?”

  Yadollah winced, and I regretted asking. Sore subject.

  “I made a mistake. I herded them into a minefield and lost many. Now all I have left are what you see here.”

  “Have you tried asking the government to help you rebuild?”

  He shrugged it off, and invited me in for yogurt and bread. I pressed again. I’d heard that there was some funding to help people who had lost their homes in the war.

  “The army boys helped us build this,” he said, gesturing at his leaning shack.

  “No, Yadollah, did you apply for a construction grant? The government might help you.”
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br />   “I’m old and illiterate.” He sighed. “I don’t know where to go for those kinds of things.”

  So I began my next job assignment. I set out to become a royal pain in the ass at the Department of Water and Electricity in the nearby city of Ahvaz, demanding the staff send construction workers to Dehloran. I even called in a favor of a former Basiji who was now working in the government office in charge of rebuilding broken neighborhoods in the war zone. Within five months, the road was paved in front of Yadollah’s house and electricity was restored on his block. I used my ill-gotten monies to help rebuild Yadollah’s house with proper walls and a real door. It wasn’t like I brought the ram back to life, but it was what I could do, and I swear he stood up a little straighter when it was all finished.

  “You are a good man,” Yadollah said once the work was finished. We were talking late into the night after the rest of the family had fallen asleep. Yadollah liked leaning against his new walls, saying it helped straighten his back.

  “No, I’m not,” I said.

  Slowly, haltingly, I told him that I had become a common criminal, a thug hired by bigger thugs for extortion services. I told him about the time I scared a whole family by pouring gasoline on their dinner table. That I beat people up, and I’d been arrested and thrown in jail more times than I could count, due to my chosen profession. I was nothing more than a brute who would do anything to get by.

  Yadollah took my hand in his and didn’t say anything for a long time, letting his tea go cold. His hands were gnarled and shaky but still had strength in them.

  “The war has taken so much from you, from me, from all of us,” he said. “We are all just getting by, but you don’t have to hurt people to do it. Don’t chase money, Zahed; it will take you over a cliff every time. Poverty is not lack of money; it’s lack of friends and lack of happiness.”

  He stood up, spread his arms wide, and turned in a circle before me. “Look at this beautiful house,” he said. “I am your friend and forgave you, and you did this for me. Put good deeds out in the world, Zahed, because good deeds eventually come back to you. Put evil into the world and it will come back to devour you.”

  Yadollah was right about one thing. His forgiveness made me happier than I’d felt since childhood. Helping him was like a medicine that temporarily took my anger away. I’d never known contentment, but maybe this was what it felt like.

  “I’ll try to be a good man.”

  “Promise?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Yadollah didn’t look convinced. He needed proof, so I found myself telling him that I would like to help more people. I mentioned my promise to visit the twin sisters in an orphanage in Isfahan.

  “Inshallah, Zahed, inshallah.”

  I found Laleh and Elaheh in a knot of kids in one corner of a barren recreation room, pushing and hollering over something of great interest on the floor.

  “Don’t touch it!”

  “I want this one!”

  “I’m telling; you already had your turn!”

  After explaining in a low voice at the front desk that I was a former army medic fulfilling the last wish of a dying soldier, I was allowed to visit the children. My army boots slapped the linoleum, but the children were too absorbed in their argument to notice me. When I got closer I could see they were crowded around a twelve-inch black-and-white television, and bickering over which cartoon to watch. But the sweet smell of the tray of zoolbia, saffron rosewater doughnuts, I carried caught their attention.

  “Happy New Year!” I said.

  The children encircled me and began shoving anew, and it was impossible to line them up neatly because they were so worried there wouldn’t be enough for all of them.

  “Are you a real soldier?” one of the boys asked. I noticed his teeth were yellow.

  I was wearing army fatigues, because that’s what I bought when I got out of prison. They were comfortable and familiar, plus they had great pockets for concealing all manner of self-protection implements.

  “I used to be, but the war is over and they don’t need me anymore. I just wear these because I like them.”

  “Cool,” the kid said, grabbing for a second doughnut.

  Laleh and Elaheh looked to be about eleven. They had straight black hair that fell to their mid-backs, and they used plastic barrettes to keep it from falling into their eyes. All the orphans, toddlers up to teenagers, were there because of the war in one way or another. Some had fathers killed in battle or in prison; others lost parents in bombings or in political executions during the Revolution. Some had parents who fled during the regime change but for whatever reason left them behind. I did not tell the girls that their father was killed by a sniper, or that he died with his head in my lap in Shalamcheh, nearly seven years before. Instead, I said I was “Uncle Zahed,” and kept them company, as their father had asked. I read stories, colored in coloring books, and played enough games of hide-and-seek to last a lifetime. Eventually the sisters opened up to me and told me they were picked on by the other kids because they were Afghani, so I had a few private words with the bullies. I used what was left of the homecoming money the imams had given me and opened two savings accounts, one for each of the girls. As I was currently unemployed, I had a lot of time to visit the orphans, and I found it so soothing to be surrounded by their innocence that I was soon stopping by almost daily. I realized that I was having a hard time adjusting to civilian life after the war, and going back to childhood gave me a beautiful escape from the hypocrisy and greed of the “real world.” When I became a regular at the orphanage, I began noticing little things that needed improvement. This was a government-funded orphanage, after all, so why weren’t there enough blankets or toys? Just like I had done with Yadollah, I rattled some cages and donated some of my own money for basic supplies, as well as a couple more televisions so the kids wouldn’t have to fight over programs. I searched until I found a dentist who would check and clean the children’s teeth for free. Helping these kids helped keep my mind off the fact that I was an orphan, too—an orphan without the blessing of a place to live.

  As I was leaving the orphanage one day, I passed two young women on their way in. They were wearing black chadors that covered all but their faces, and one of them turned back to look at me just as I snuck a glance at her. I saw just the flash of her rosy cheeks before she caught me, and I quickly shuffled off to find a secluded doorway or thick bush where I could sleep for the night, floating with the sudden exhilaration of a new goal. The next day I asked around at the orphanage, very casually, and learned that her name was Maryam and she was friends with one of the sixteen-year-old orphan girls. A bell went off in my head like I’d just answered a quiz-show question correctly and won a prize. This meant I was all but assured to bump into this lovely Maryam creature again.

  And when I spotted her a second time, I made sure not to ignore fate. I strode over and boldly looked her in the eyes, and then realized I had absolutely no good pickup lines.

  “I’m Zahed. I’m twenty-two,” I stupidly said.

  She looked puzzled, like she thought I might be a little . . . slow. “Is this how you come dressed to an orphanage? Like G.I. Joe?”

  I turned to the window and looked at my reflection. Oh my goodness. I only owned one pair of pants, and it showed. They doubled as daywear and pajamas, and after months of indoor and outdoor living, they’d collected a mosaic of dirt and stains that might as well have been a billboard screaming in bright lights: LOSER! And my hair hung in greasy strings. My skin was ruddy with windburn, and my five o’clock shadow had its own five o’clock shadow. I’ll be the first to admit it: I was not very pretty.

  “You are very pretty,” I said, again stupidly. Then I hustled out the door to get some air and kick myself. And then I marched straight to a barbershop. From there I went to a clothing store and picked out a fresh pair of military pants and a camouflage shirt. I was down to my last few bills; I would need to get a real job soon.

  “Ex
cuse me,” I said to the shop owner. “Is this a good outfit to pursue a woman?”

  He discreetly put my choices back on the rack. “If I were a woman, I wouldn’t take a second look at you.”

  I was a grown man who had never purchased real clothes. As a boy, my mother gave me outfits to wear. Then Mostafa dressed me. Then the military. I kept wearing fatigues because that’s what I knew.

  “So what should I wear?”

  The owner thought I was joking and started to laugh, but then realized I seriously did not know. He put his arm around my shoulders.

  “Haven’t you ever lived among regular people?”

  “Tell me what to do,” I begged.

  “Come with me.”

  He locked up his shop and walked me three doors down to a different clothing store for businessmen. There they put me in a black suit and a blue shirt with buttons, and a tie. I turned to the mirror and couldn’t believe how phony I looked, like I was someone in a movie playing someone he only wished he could be. The tie, especially, looked like such a useless bit of decoration. It made me feel like a pansy.

  “Forget the tie,” I said.

  That night I slept at a friend’s house and changed into the suit in the morning. I felt like such a clown, but when I saw Maryam’s eyes shine at my makeover, I didn’t care one whit about my outfit, nor that it bankrupted me to buy it. She was impressed that I had listened to her complaint and followed her advice.

  “I had to look twice to make sure it was you,” she said.

  “Take a good long look, then.”

  We began making plans to meet on deserted streets after our orphanage visits, so we could talk without being seen. I learned that she was seventeen, came from a home with thick Persian silk rugs, servants, and crystal dinnerware. Her friend at the orphanage was unhappy because she was arranged to marry a man whom she didn’t like. Maryam was trying to use her family connections to help her. During our secret walks, Maryam confessed that she felt something for me even before my new look. She thought it was sweet that I always brought something for all the kids, new sheets or crayons, noticing the small ways I tried to improve the place.