by Mona Yahia
—You didn’t tell me what you need. Something to be darned? More books? What should I bring you next time? Medicine? Fruit juice? They let everything pass recently. Nuts and dried fruit last quite long, they’re better than baked goods perhaps. You look thin and pale. You shouldn’t go on hunger strike any more, you’d upset your father. What about chocolate? You used to …
—Please Mama, Shuli whispers with an impatient tone. Don’t bring so much food. It’s a waste. I don’t eat that much and … and anyway, most of it gets stolen.
—You never told me!
Shuli pulls away from her and gives me a fast farewell hug. Suddenly, he seems eager to get rid of us. Mother and I follow the warder out. See you, I cry out as the wooden door closes on him. Too late to pass him Adel’s regards from Yom Kippur last year.
After the warder has received his dirhem, we make our way back with empty baskets to Enquiries.
—Not only do they lock him in, they also steal his food! Wlad al haram, bastards, haven’t they got a conscience? Haven’t they got any dignity?
Mother’s complaints cease at last at the Enquiries. When he has signed our way out, the adjutant remarks,
—It’s all right for you to drive down here. Only don’t forget, oukhti, Jews aren’t allowed to travel more than thirty miles from their city of residence. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?
—Thirty miles? Since when? That’s a new regulation, isn’t it?
—Don’t ask me. I heard it only last week, from an officer friend. Thought you’d better know and keep yourself out of trouble.
Zeki slides his hand into the pocket of his sports jacket. Assuming it is the keys of his car for which he is reaching, I stand up, as I am taught to do when bidding our guests farewell. But the three grown-ups continue to sit and Zeki’s hand soon reappears with a new packet of cigarettes. I remain on my feet, embarrassed by my faux pas. If I sit down again, my misunderstanding, or worse still, my secret wish to see our guest leave, will be exposed. Quickly, I clear the empty teacups away and carry them to the kitchen. On my return, father asks me to switch on the television. Zeki, who has hardly taken any notice of my actions, raises his brow in surprise. It is too early for the news, and we are not in the habit of having the TV on unless we are watching it.
Is it possible that he has not heard about the special broadcast scheduled for this afternoon?
A Lebanese commercial is shown. Abu Zeid is back from bird-hunting, his white sherwal is drenched with mud. Instead of resuming my place, I pull up a chair beside father, leaving the middle cushion on the sofa, the space between mother and Zeki, sagging and empty. Sherwalek, ya Abu Zeid, ma byendaf, illa be Tide, your trousers, Abu Zeid, can be cleaned only by Tide. I know the song by heart. Zeki’s puzzlement is about to turn into irritation, when Abu Zeid is succeeded by a TV announcer.
“In a few minutes, ladies and gentlemen, you will be transferred to the Tribunal of the Revolution, where you will see with your own eyes the traitors who made us lose the war.”
Zeki goggles at father and mother alternately. He has indeed missed the newspaper headlines this morning, as well as my rude hint ten minutes ago. His watch tells him that it is too late to start off home. As required by oriental hospitality, father implores Zeki to stay longer. To make up for his half-hearted tone perhaps, he asks me to fetch a bowl of pistachios which he places – together with a glass and a bottle of arak – on the tea table, within his friend’s reach.
Zeki rests his back against the sofa and puts on his spectacles, getting ready for the show.
A song by Feirouz, adapted for television, follows. While the vocalist is singing, shots of refugees are shown, of Jerusalem, of flags fluttering in the wind, of strafing planes and advancing tanks, of more and more refugees. Feirouz’s picture is superimposed, at times full-length, at times only down to her waist. This song, too, I know by heart. Feirouz is interrupted in the middle of a verse, and the plight of the Palestinian victims is replaced by a court of justice, obviously the Tribunal of the Revolution. The camera moves from one man to the other, mutely introducing the main characters. Sitting on the tribunal is the judge, a colonel, with an assistant officer on either side. On a lower platform, another officer, lower in rank – apparently the public prosecutor. In the box opposite them, men in civilian dress are whispering to each other. They stop talking when the camera is aimed at them and stare at us with childish wonder.
—The journalists, Zeki remarks.
Mother sticks a cigarette between her lips. Zeki snaps his lighter, and stretches out his hand, slightly leaning towards her. The familiarity with which she accepts his light without looking at him brings my old suspicions to life again.
—Mahkamah, a deep voice cries out, announcing the opening of the trial.
—That cry makes my skin crawl, mother murmurs. It reminds me of those awful Mahdawi trials.
Although she was muttering to herself, mother nevertheless spoke in the Moslem dialect. It occurs to me that we Jews never keep to our dialect when we are in the presence of non-Jews, although our Arabic is as comprehensible to them as theirs is to us. The unwritten rule applies to friends, officials, subordinates, and strangers alike. At school, not only does a class of forty students shift to the Moslem dialect in the presence of one Moslem teacher, but the headmaster too, in spite of his being the teacher’s superior and employer. It is comparable to the rules of gender in French grammar. Let one valet stand amid four hundred dames and the entire group will be designated as beaux, élégants, charmants.
The defendants are led into the court in a line while their names are read out by the judge. They are dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and ties. As they march towards the dock, I jump up. Hai Rahamin! Did he say Hai or Haim? Couldn’t it be another Hai? My wish barely outlives its articulation. There he is, my very own Hai, limping, seventh in the line. I have never seen him in a suit, never heard his full name before. With heavy steps, he climbs up to the dock. The camera focuses on him, displays his sunken cheeks and his freshly shaven face then flits to the man behind him.
—My swimming instructor, I inform Zeki, to warn him away from ugly thoughts.
—At least we know now that he’s alive, father mumbles.
Why should he be grateful for Hai’s life? Is he withholding some crucial information from me? Impossible! I am the one who brings most of the news and rumours from school. The name Mrad Aboudi restores my attention to the screen. I recognise his silhouette, third from the right.
The rest of the men are strangers to me. Many are quite young. Most of them bear Jewish names, which my parents keep linking to friends and acquaintances. Zeki listens to their associations in silence.
The prosecutor reads out the bill of indictment. The spy-ring was founded by the Zionist enemy two years ago, and charged to work for the interests of Israel and imperialism. Since then, the ring has been collecting military information and dispatching it to Israel and the CIA through Iran. Its further aim was to sabotage bridges, pipe-lines, private cars, and other civilian targets in order to undermine the socialist regime and distract our army from the liberation of Palestine.
Zeki pours himself another glass of arak.
The judge summons each man for an initial interrogation. The defendant is asked his name, his religion, the date of his birth, his profession, and his place of residence. Then the prosecutor reads out the charges against him.
They start with the alleged ringleader, a short elderly man, the Jewish kitchenware merchant from Basra. He is charged with setting up the spy-and-sabotage network, recruiting its members, and collecting top-secret military information. By means of a wireless set, the ringleader had been regularly transmitting to the US consulate in Abadan reports about the positions and movements of our military units in Basra, about the navy and airbases in Basra, and about Soviet weapons in use by the Iraqi army.
When the kitchenware merchant pleads not guilty, laughter rises from the media section.
Hai loo
ks haggard, as thin as his own skeleton, as if he has lost thirty pounds in the five months of his detention. To the standard questions put to him, he replies that he is Jewish, that he was born in 1920, that he is a fisherman, that he lives in Baghdad. Thank God, he has left the swimming lessons out, mother murmurs, stealing a glance at father. Hai is charged with receiving a sealed message from the ringleader in Basra and delivering it to a member of the ring in Baghdad. The content of the message remains untold. It is my turn to thank God. Hai’s case sounds moderate. He has not been directly implicated in military information or in terrorist activities.
Zeki lights another cigarette. His smoking and drinking seem to know no end. His countenance, however, refuses to reveal his position.
It is Mrad’s turn to stand for interrogation. In his large suit and with his fallen face Mrad has acquired the looks of an aged youth. At each question, his lips tremble, as if he is about to burst into tears. But he does not. He holds himself together and forces his answers out. That he is Jewish, that he was born in 1949, that he is a secondary school pupil, that he lives in Baghdad.
—That’s not true! mother cries out. The boy was born in ’51, in the same week as Lili, Dudi’s sister. Um Dudi told me that yesterday. She said she had shared the room with Mrad’s mother in the hospital. The boy’s definitely under age. He’s only seventeen, haram on you!
Mrad is facing serious charges. He has allegedly been trained in the use of explosives and time-bombs by Israeli agents in Abadan, has participated in blowing up a bridge in Basra, and received money for it. He keeps shaking his head and swallowing and pleading not guilty.
One after the other, the seventeen defendants – thirteen Jews, two Christians, and two Moslems – all plead not guilty. The prosecutor insists on their guilt again and again and promises to supply the court with enough evidence in the coming sessions. In the name of the Revolution, and in response to public pleas, he demands the death sentence for each member of the ring. Their execution will frustrate the dreams of the Zionist-imperialist alliance, and will provide moral support to our heroic armed forces at the front.
—Just what do they teach them at Law School, the judicial system or nationalism? mother bitterly remarks.
Zeki glares at her. What is he defending? Certainly not the reputation of the Law School in Baghdad. Nor this new regime which he himself loathes. Mother glowers back defiantly, showing no consideration for his feelings this time. Fully absorbed in the proceedings of the court, father seems unaware of the silent battle taking place between the two edges of the sofa.
The appearance of the defence counsel draws them back to the screen.
The defence counsel, a civilian appointed by the court, pays his respects to the judges and opens his speech with an apology for having to plead for the traitors of the country. He promises to fulfil his assignment and defend the spies, but assures his audience that he does so only out of legal necessity and not because of any doubts he has as to the justice of the Tribunal of the Revolution.
—Who needs a prosecutor with such a defence? father mutters.
The judge adjourns the trial. The journalists cheer the Tribunal of the Revolution. Mother switches off the TV. Father and Zeki do not budge. As our guest makes no sign of leaving, mother invites him to have supper with us. Zeki ignores her offer and, without removing his eyes from the blank screen, starts to speak, slowly and carefully, lest one unnecessary word slips from his tongue,
—Six months ago, my brother, Hashem, passed through Abadan on a business trip. Hashem imports spare parts from the States by way of Iran, and somehow, at the last minute, he needed an official stamp from an American government office. But there wasn’t any in Abadan. So he had to travel to Khorramshahr, or Ahwaz, I don’t exactly remember, but that’s not the point. What I definitely remember was his grumble about the absence of an American government office in Abadan.
Father does not reply. He knows better than to let emotions or opinions on this matter come between him and his friend. Zeki goes on,
—What I’m saying is that this story … well … at least this part of the story, can’t be true. What was his name – this kitchenware merchant? He couldn’t have transmitted his messages to the American consulate in Abadan, because … because there isn’t any!
—You’re unusually cautious with your conclusions today! mother retorts. Is it the only flaw you noticed during the whole session, Zeki?
Zeki wears the face of a child who has been treated unfairly. How much more does she expect of him? Is he supposed to condemn this show trial in plain words? To identify with the defendants the way we do, and not even question their innocence? Father frowns at his wife but does not put in a good word for his friend. Zeki gets up and quietly bids us farewell. Father rises to his feet too, ready to accompany his guest to the car. Mother says to remember her to Dunia. With one foot outside, Zeki turns, casts her a hungry look, and mumbles some decorous formula in return.
If their romance was merely a fiction and I was its author, I would find no better moment than this to end it.
—What do you think? Does he believe them? I ask her while we prepare supper.
—Hard to tell. I’m afraid he doesn’t know himself what to believe and what not to. Basically, Zeki’s an honest man, and by no means naive or narrow-minded. But when it comes to Israel, he’s no exception. Israel’s like a wishbone stuck in his throat. As he can neither swallow it nor expel it, it continues to strangle him with hate and delusion.
By the time father is back, tea, toast, cheese, and luncheon meat have already been served at the tea table. Mother asks why he took so long. Father explains that Zeki had not parked his car in front of our house, as he usually does, but in front of an empty plot, two streets away.
Tahrir Square
No sooner have I cracked my soft-boiled egg than Abd blows his horn in front of our gate. Mother rushes from the kitchen, wrapping the sandwich she has just prepared for me.
—You haven’t even combed your hair! How is it that the rest of the children manage to be on time while you always have to be honked out?
—It’s not true! Abd honks in front of every house, I protest and glance at father imploringly.
Coolly, he winks his consent to drive me to school. Grateful for the extra minutes, I go to the front door and wave Abd away.
We get to school shortly before eight. School buses coming from different neighbourhoods have jammed the street. The car in front of us is honking. Without unloading her children, Dudi’s mother is reversing and gesturing to us to do the same. What is she doing? Father is perplexed. The scene in the street strikes me as like the end of the school day rather than its beginning. Pupils are streaming out of the gate, on to the buses, while the older boys are cycling away. Something is wrong, father says. Dudi hops out from the front passenger seat and dashes towards us. I roll down the window.
—Go home! Quickly, he gasps. They’ve executed them … they’ve hanged the spies …
—I see, father murmurs without moving his lips, and immediately reverses the car.
I switch on the radio. The first local station is broadcasting martial music. The next is blaring out an interminable speech: “Today is your feast, great people of Iraq. Leave your work, take the day off, and go to your Liberation Square to celebrate the demise of our traitors. Traitors who have maliciously prepared the ground for the Zionist bandits to realise their aggression in June ’67. Traitors who have exploited the generosity of the country which has tolerated them, fostered them, and treated them as her equal citizens. Traitors who …” On the third station, the announcer is reading out the torrents of telegrams which are flooding the radio station from all over the country, congratulating the government for its brave revolutionary action.
Father switches off the radio.
The opening of the trials was transmitted live on TV four weeks ago. After that there were only snatches of sessions, tape-recorded and broadcast on radio. For security reasons, the tr
ials were conducted behind closed doors. In the fragments, we heard the taped voices plead guilty to the charges against them. Mrad confessed that he had been trained in explosives in Abadan, that he had taken part in the bombing of a bridge in Basra, that he had been paid a hundred dinars for his assignment, and that he had further orders to sabotage another civilian target in Baghdad. Similarly, all the other defendants confessed their crimes, testified against and implicated each other. Except for the old kitchenware merchant from Basra, the alleged ringleader, and Hai, who both persisted in pleading not guilty.
We stop before a bookshop. I jump out to buy two local newspapers.
Father asks me to read out the headlines. “Death Sentence passed on Fifteen Spies! A Real Revolutionary Start”. “No Spy Will Stay Alive on Noble Iraqi Earth”. “The Traitors Convicted By the Revolution Have Stabbed Us in the Back and Assisted the Filthy Zionist Monster to Suck Our Blood”. “The Fair Trials Have Proved How the Spies Were the Direct Cause of Our Naksah in June ’67”. The names of the fifteen men sentenced to death are published in both newspapers. Hai Rahamin and Mrad Aboudi are among them. The elderly kitchenware merchant from Basra too. According to the newspaper, the verdict was announced on Radio Baghdad at two o’clock this morning.
At home, mother is sitting by the window, waiting for us. Ululations of joy emanate from the transistor radio on her lap. Since dawn, the corpses of eleven of the executed men have been hanging in Tahrir Square in Baghdad, while the other four bodies were flown to Basra to be similarly exhibited in a public square. Crowds of demonstrators are marching through Rashid Street, heading towards Tahrir Square, cheering the executions and shouting their support for the Council of the Revolution.
Father’s face contorts, as he begins to cough in short raucous bursts. Only when he convulses on to the armchair and tears well up in his eyes do I realise that my father is weeping. It is the first time in my fourteen years that I have witnessed him in tears. And so loud! Father has always kept quiet about his sorrows, as though words aggravated his wounds whereas silence swathed them in clean bandages. Not even the news of his mother’s death several years ago could extract a groan from him. I recall him watching television the entire evening while furrows kept accumulating on his forehead, and the veins bulging in his temples throbbed with an alarming ferocity.
