In point of fact, the inhabitants of Tawuq had never once thought of opposing the government, about which they knew nothing. All they had wanted was to bury Qara Qul in their village so that their fields would be blessed and their flocks fertile. The attack that the police had launched against them, killing two of them, however, had turned them into rebels, if only to save their skins. These men, who were armed with rifles, were anxious about their future. They did not know what to do except to wait once Agha Mamand, whose influence covered tens of villages located between Kirkuk and Erbil, including Tawuq, refused to intervene to negotiate a settlement with the government, on the grounds that Tawuq was a dependency of Kirkuk and therefore fell within a region of special control by the Iraqi government, the affairs of which he felt it inappropriate to second-guess, even though he was a deputy in the parliament in Baghdad for this whole region, including the village of Tawuq.
For this reason, the arrival of Hameed Nylon in the village of Tawuq at the wheel of his car caused the children to race behind it, cheering and screaming in the dust that it stirred up. Women emerged from their houses, which were made of mud and stone and surrounded by walls at the tops of which had been planted broken bits of colored bottles to prevent thieves from other distant villages from scaling them. The men returned from the fields when they heard the continuous barking of the dogs that raced on both sides of the vehicle from the moment it entered the village.
Hameed Nylon stopped his car in front of an open hut. On either side of its wide entrance was a horseshoe-shaped, mud-brick bench, which was covered with dirty but colorful rugs of the type that Kurdish village women weave. It was obvious that this was the village’s coffeehouse. The man who had been preparing tea in a corner of the hut came out and yelled at the dogs, which backed off a bit. When they saw the car door open and Hameed Nylon climb out and enter the coffeehouse, however, they lowered their heads and moved off to their former locations. Hameed Nylon greeted the three men who were sitting in the coffeehouse and ordered a tumbler of tea. He knew that curiosity would be consuming the hearts of these villagers, who would want to know the secret that brought this stranger to their village in his automobile, although they would not dare ask him. When they realized that he spoke Kurdish like them, they felt somewhat more at ease and drew him into a conversation about where he came from. One of the men said, “You must be from Kirkuk. The only people with pretty cars like this live in Kirkuk.”
Hameed Nylon smiled. “Oh, it’s a car like any other.” Then he added, “I’ve come to help the village of Tawuq. I can’t say any more than that. I hope you’ll trust me.”
Anxiety was apparent on the faces of the villagers, who normally doubted everything. They kept silent. The man who was preparing the tea, however, said, “Fine, how can we assist you?”
Without beating around the bush, Hameed Nylon asked, “How can I contact the rebels who made off with Qara Qul’s body?”
One of the men asked, “Are you from the government? What do you want with them?”
Hameed Nylon smiled once more. “I can only tell them that; I’m asking you to trust me.”
Hameed Nylon was forced to wait till evening, after he had placed his car in a shelter at the other end of the village, before he could make his way through fields, thickets, and valleys to the men, who had taken refuge in an orchard, which was packed with walnut, fig, pomegranate, and plum trees and grape vines and which lay between two valleys through which a small river ran. Hameed Nylon was accompanied by two armed young men who led him silently in the dark down rough paths, through thick groves, and along waterways. The only sound was their footsteps on the grass and leaves, which were wet with dew. They finally reached the hideout where the villagers who had fled from the police had taken refuge. Through the trees they saw the light of two lanterns placed in front of a large boulder before what seemed to be the entrance of a cave and specters collapsed on the ground. One of the two youths called out in a loud voice, “Peace upon you.”
The ghosts, which appeared to have been taken by surprise, jerked and rose, staring. The reply came: “Who are you?”
The youth said, “It’s Mahmud. Everything’s fine.”
Four or five of the rebels approached and greeted them, kissing the shoulders of some. They took the two bags the young men accompanying Hameed Nylon had been carrying. “We’ve brought you some bread, sugar, and tea,” said one of the young men.
Hameed Nylon shook hands with the men, who were prevented by good manners from even asking his name. The other young man, however, said, “The gentleman has come from Kirkuk and wishes to speak to you.”
The men waited for Hameed Nylon to say something, expecting that he was a government representative who had come to inform them of a pardon that would allow them to return once more to their fields and orchards because the word “gentleman,” which the youth Jalal had used when introducing Hameed Nylon, had made a good impression on these villagers, who believed that anyone who wore trousers was from the government. Those were Hameed Nylon’s hardest moments. In fact, this was the most difficult time in the history of the armed revolution that spread from the countryside around Tawuq. On the basis of his experience, which rarely let him down, Hameed Nylon realized that everything depended on this moment. If these villagers were not satisfied with what he said now, they never would be.
Hameed Nylon took out a pack of cigarettes from a pocket, extracted one for himself, and threw the pack to the men. He said, as though affirming an established truth, “Excellent; I’ve come to you to be with you. It doesn’t matter that I’ve used different names in the past; the name by which the world will know me and which was granted to me by the revolutionary command is Lieutenant Colonel Anwar Mustafa. The revolution will burst out from here to engulf Kirkuk and all the rest of Iraq. From here, we will liberate the nation, one village at a time, and teach the police who have been pursuing you lessons in courage and pluck.”
This was the last thing that the men, who had sought refuge by the mountain in flight from the government forces they could not confront, expected to hear. One of the men ventured to say, “We were expecting the issuance of a pardon, and then you come to invite us to a rebellion.”
Hameed Nylon responded, “There’s nothing easier than obtaining a pardon for you. I met King Faisal II several months ago and I can do that again. But what have you done that requires a pardon? Yes, you wanted to have a saint buried there in your village. And that’s your right. But Qara Qul was buried in Kirkuk, where the tombs are filled with imams. In fact, the police continue to pursue you now for no reason at all. I’ve come here to tell you that Qara Qul belongs to you and that Tawuq will have him one day.”
The rebellious villagers had at first viewed Hameed Nylon with some suspicion and so had concealed their feelings, but he knew how to gain their affection and trust. First and foremost they were dazzled that Hameed Nylon was a lieutenant colonel. Then, too, he promised that each of them would receive a monthly salary from a revolutionary command that they had never heard of before. He affirmed to them that King Faisal II supported this movement, which opposed Nuri al-Sa‘id, Abdul’ilah, and the English, who were all enemies of Islam. The following day Hameed Nylon slipped into the village and took from the trunk of his car three rifles that the Chuqor community had liberated during the battle of the cemetery. He took these back to the base camp and distributed them to men who had no personal rifle. Into his belt he tucked a revolver he had purchased from the thief Mahmud al-Arabi.
On the first night and the subsequent ones that Hameed Nylon passed at this hideout in the valley, he was able to sleep only fitfully. He felt something between delight and anxiety because here, for the first time in his life, he was successfully taking the first step on the long road to revolution. He was not, however, totally certain about the resolve of these villagers, whose thoughts revolved around the women, flocks, and fields they had left behind. Because he had spent his whole life among people who resembled these men i
n every respect, he knew that nothing could ignite belief in their hearts more effectively than power and wealth. If they felt that the revolution offered this, they would not hesitate to risk their lives for its sake.
On the seventh day after his arrival, Hamid Nylon stood on a protruding boulder facing his men and made a short speech in which he announced the actual beginning of the revolution. Then he drew out his revolver and fired one shot in the air. That was the revolution’s first shot. He was a bit sad that he had not been able to obtain a red cloth from which to make the flag that would flutter over Iraq. Pleased by this gesture, the villagers applauded and raised their rifles too and fired into the air, announcing their allegiance to the revolution, which Hameed Nylon termed a peasants’ revolution.
From that day forward the revolution’s “squadrons”—the term chosen by Hameed Nylon for his forces—went on the offensive. The men began to visit Tawuq and neighboring villages, even during the daytime, resolved to fight off any attack the police might launch against them. Indeed, they openly began to call on people to join the revolution. Hameed Nylon had succeeded in attracting a number of other farmers and school students, on whom he relied to keep tabs on the enemy.
When Hameed Nylon returned to Kirkuk, he was certain that the revolution had actually begun. He realized, however, that a lot had to be done before the revolution became an indomitable force. His heart was inundated by waves of contradictory emotions: sorrow and happiness all at the same time. What a strange life a man is destined to live! The revolution—this limitless act extending into the future—let him make it a present reality. He saw his hand reaching for the revolver that would make him famous and felt all choked up. It was spring, and the cursed particles of pollen left him so congested he had difficulty breathing. “Why is it my destiny to suffer from this allergy?” He had not killed anyone yet. “But I definitely will kill. It’s not possible for a revolution to be a revolution without blood.” He thought that there was always a price to be paid. On the road he saw the land of Iraq stretch before his eyes. He stopped his car and held a handful of dirt in his palm: moist earth. “This is sacred earth,” he murmured to himself. Then he scattered the dirt in the air. Blood on the ground…. There would always be blood on this purple carpet, on this large coffin called the fatherland.
Many matters occupied Hameed Nylon’s mind, which was consumed by the revolution. He knew only a little about revolutionary teachings and contacted Faruq Shamil and Najat Salim to ask them for books with information about peasant revolutions. These no longer existed, having been thrown into ovens and burned, for fear that the security men who raided homes from time to time would discover them. Faruq Shamil, however, who possessed a powerful memory, wrote down the instructions he had memorized on a piece of paper that he presented to Hameed Nylon, who stuck it in his pocket, thinking he would study it when he returned to the base camp.
News of the revolution had reached many in the city, but they made fun of the rumors that circulated concerning it: “That would be the last straw if the naïve villagers who kidnapped Qara Qul liberated us.” Indeed, the Communists, whose hearts were shredded by envy, claimed that Qara Qul himself was directing the rebellion, since as usual they mocked anyone who did not agree with them. After it was too late, they regretted making this claim when they realized that many people believed it. In fact, all of Kirkuk was discussing Qara Qul’s return to fight for the poor.
Hameed Nylon seized this opportunity and contacted his young relative Burhan Abdallah, who was a gifted stylist, telling him, “Great, Burhan, I believe that the time has come for you to become one of the heroes of the revolution.” So Burhan Abdallah drafted the first manifesto that Hameed Nylon released. It astounded the political parties with its elevated literary language and powerful logic. Someone who worked at the Turkish consulate in Kirkuk set the type and ran off copies on a Roneo press. The police had trouble identifying the source because there was no registration for private printing equipment in foreign consulates. One night Hameed Nylon himself distributed this flyer throughout the city. He stuck it to walls in front of mosques, cinemas, coffeehouses, and government agencies and poked it through holes in the doors of homes and in the souks. Although the next day the police arrested a number of suspects who had been sitting in coffeehouses chattering away against the government, they did not have a clue as to the source of these manifestoes that called on the people to join forces with the revolution. Thus Hameed Nylon realized in one blow and in the course of a few days what many others had failed to achieve during twenty years. The Communists contacted Hameed Nylon after it reached their ears that he had recruited many of the Imam Qasim community’s unemployed youth, who spent their time leaning against walls, but he informed them that he did not have enough time to conduct unproductive negotiations. He proposed to them that they should join his movement without any preconditions, if they were serious about their revolutionary claims.
In reality, Hameed Nylon’s mind was not focused on anything that related to the Communists or to the many new followers who had joined his movement and been sent by him to the mountain, traveling by foot and even without any weapons, which he lacked. He was, instead, preoccupied by the treasure that Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri had left behind him and which no one had been able to find. As a matter of fact, everything hinged on finding this treasure. Unless he could get his hands on enough cash, everyone would leave him. He was sure of that. No matter how ebullient they were, emotions did not suffice. He would have to feed and arm his men and to provide a generous supply of food to the families they had left behind.
Everyone had totally despaired of looking for the treasure when Hameed Nylon began his own laborious search. When it did not produce any results, he too almost surrendered to despair. Although he searched in all the probable and improbable sites, attempting to assume the mullah’s personality so that he could think like him and thus be guided to the hiding place he had chosen for the treasure, he failed to uncover the secret. This matter caused him to drink to excess once again, after a long abstention. He did not recover his strength until Burhan Abdallah asked him one day, when the point that Hameed Nylon had reached alarmed him, “Is this the way you want to lead the revolution, Hameed? You can’t tell the difference between your head and your toes now. Why are you doing this?” Hameed Nylon blushed because the boy had made him feel ashamed, and his criticism was justified. So he replied graciously, “There won’t be any revolution, Burhan, unless I find the wealth that the damned mullah hid. A revolution without capital doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. Everything will collapse after a month or two unless we acquire an adequate number of rifles and pay salaries to the combatants.”
Hameed Nylon was on the verge of tears. He was lamenting his revolution, which would die stillborn. He had promised his men salaries that he had not yet paid and knew he would not dare return to them unless he discovered the treasure, in which he had placed all his hope. Everyone would mock him: “This wannabe who called himself Lieutenant Colonel Anwar Mustafa.” He was thinking to himself: “Fine, Lieutenant Colonel, your days are numbered,” when he was taken by surprise by the smile plastered across the boy’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me right away? The matter may not be as difficult as you think.”
“Not difficult? What are you saying?”
Burhan smiled again. “I’ll help you find the treasure. That’s what I’m saying.”
Hameed Nylon became very alert. He asked hesitantly, “Do you know where the treasure is located?”
Burhan Abdallah shook his head, “No, but I’ll know this evening.”
The wind went out of Hameed Nylon’s sails again. He did not even want to ask what made the boy so certain that by evening he could unravel this mystery that had baffled everyone. Realizing that the man did not believe him, Burhan Abdallah left to avoid any more questions that he would not know whether to answer or not. He waited until evening before heading to the house in which the small angels lived and rapped on the
door. Silence enveloped the house in the dark of the alley, where the only light was from a lamp hung in the distance. A long enough time passed that he thought no one was home. All the same he knocked a second time without hoping that anyone would answer. He waited a moment and then started to walk away, thinking that he would return later. He noticed, however, that the door was opening and that a voice filled with affection was calling him, “It’s you, Burhan. Come in. We were waiting for you.”
Music coming from some place in the darkness reached his ears. It resembled the sound of men’s footsteps descending a mountain. He was afflicted by a sudden terror, for no apparent reason. He even thought about running away and forgetting everything. The old man, whose face was divided by the darkness and the light, stood in front of the door, which was halfway open. Sensing the hesitation of the boy who stood there staring at him, he stretched out a thin, veined hand, gently grasped Burhan’s wrist, and pulled him inside the house, which was illuminated by tongues of flame from the fire pit at the center of the courtyard. Then he closed the door behind him calmly and silently.
Ten
Hameed Nylon reached the mountain riding a mule on which he had thrown embroidered saddlebags filled with the mounds of dinars he had brought. He was wearing a military uniform that he had decorated with two red badges attached to the shoulders. He was brimming with the life that spread before him. This fresh arrival by Hameed Nylon, like a king returning to his subjects after an absence, caused the revolution to spread to neighboring villages even faster than Hameed Nylon could have imagined. He knew that nothing is as persuasive as cash. The moment he returned to his base camp, he paid back salaries to his fighters, who could not believe that their pockets were filled with all those dinars—more than they had seen in their entire lives. He said, “A revolution that fails to feed its children does not deserve to exist.”
The Last of the Angels Page 24
