by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
Jolo interjected. ‘It is sinful, Tobbiash. Under Americans, safe haven very, very good for our people. British and Americans fight evil people. Saddam cannot kill more of us. Muslims cannot kill us. Then are coming all these foreigners – from Iran, from Syria. And Turks, these are spying on us.
‘None of these outsiders care for Iraq or people of Iraq. They do not care for Kurds! And they do not care for us! They hate us and call us Devil worshippers! We do not worship Devil! They claim God is their master, but they do not understand things about God. They are given evil teaching. They kill women and children and will not fight face to face. They are like criminals. They use human beings as bombs and hide their face in black mask. They love guns and death and beg for money even when they are not poor. They have lost sight of God. They blame everyone but themselves. Their Devil lives inside their own hearts, for they are blind.
‘We, not they, are the Defenders of the Tradition!’
Ashe was transfixed. Beneath the starry canopy of a northern Iraqi sky, not far from the ruined Assyrian cities and lost palaces of Nineveh and Khorsabad, Ashe was listening to an ancient voice. This was a voice whose strange, majestic, poetic beauty seemed to come if not from another world, then from the pages of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom or the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
It was not what Jolo was saying, so much as the hidden music and mind within and between his words. But why, Ashe wondered, did this Iraqi man refer to the Muslims as though referring to something almost alien? Was he a Christian? There were many Christians in Iraq, and their churches were as old as any in the world, though their voices were seldom heard.
Could he be a Mandaean, one of those who claimed John the Baptist as the last prophet and who lived in the marshlands south of Baghdad? At least, that is, until Saddam wrecked the ecology of the marshes and persecuted the people there.
‘Tell me, Jolo—’
Ashe suddenly stopped himself. Behind Jolo, the horsemen were rounding up the surviving Arabs, tying their hands behind their backs, treating their wounds. What with the horses, the men, the heightened atmosphere, the burning fire of the wrecked oil derricks in the distance – it was as if he was standing in the midst of some vast epic. Then he realised: he was.
Ashe had strayed into history, the kind of history that makes legends. To meet a man like Jolo – a man living in extremis, beyond natural limits – was to encounter a life in which something other is generated: something pertaining to the soul. Ashe could see how, when this quality collides with memory, legend is produced: naturally and poetically coalescing in the ancient forms of myth.
Hamo Shero was as real and present to Jolo as Major Richmond and himself.
‘Tell me about the horses, Jolo.’
‘Very good for night-time work. Very good for all work. Ezidis are great horsemen. We have fought on horse for hundreds of years, against Egyptians, Turks, Iranians, Arabs. We have fought in Russian cavalry! When Berlin falls and Adolf Hitler kills himself, two Ezidis there also – the first in Berlin since a hundred years. Before Jesus and Moses, we were there.’
Ashe enjoyed the heroic exaggerations but wished to get the conversations back down to earth. ‘Where did the horses come from?’
‘From Khuda.’
Richmond butted in. ‘He’s saying the horses are a gift of God. But in reality they were brought from the hills of the Transcaucasus – from Georgian Armenia – at very great risk to his people.’
‘We are used to risk, Major Richmond.’
That word was ringing in Ashe’s ears… Ezidi. Did he mean Yezidi? Ashe had read about these people before – an ancient tribe with mysterious customs and traditions.
‘Is Jolo a… Yezidi, Simon?’
‘Didn’t I make that clear?’
51
Zappa returned from the group of captured jihadists carrying a large backpack full of passports and border permits.
‘Yup, we got the usual shit here. We got Yemenis, Saudis, Jordanians, Syrians – just like you said, Major. We got some Iraqis from Tikrit. We even got us an Algerian. We may even have us a leader of Ansar al-Sunna. Won’t that look nice in the report?’
He threw the bag up into the air; it landed with an empty thump on the ground. Jolo’s horse began chewing at it.
‘No, Bucephalus! Later!’
‘Bucephalus?’
‘Captain Jolo, this is Vincent Zappa, DIA, Mosul.’
‘Honoured, sir!’
‘Wasn’t Bucephalus…?’
‘Alexander the Great’s horse, yes Mr Dappa. His spirit returns to us.’
‘It’s Zappa, Captain.’
‘Yes, Dappa.’
‘OK, it’s Dappa! Pleased to meet you. And you must be the Scourge of the East!’
Jolo laughed.
‘Like I said, Major. We got us a fine bag. Medals all round.’
‘Medal?’ Jolo’s eyes lit up. ‘I like a medal. I put it on my sash.’
Richmond started coughing, feverishly, then passed out.
‘Hasil! Hasil! How long for helicopters to come for Major?’
Hasil shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Then call again! Emergency!’
Ashe got on to the Humvee and found a blanket for Richmond. Hasil nodded to the contact on the other end of the mobile. ‘They come soon! They come for Major!’
‘Don’t forget poor Laski here!’
‘No one is forgotten. Come with me, Tobbiash, to friends in Bashiqa.’
‘Bashiqa… That’s in the Sheikhan, isn’t it?’
‘Not very far from Mosul. East. Good country. The Sheikhan is good country. Our country.’
‘What about Vinny and the major?’ Ashe was thinking of his task.
‘Mr Dappa, will you join us?’
‘Captain Jolo, I’d just love to join you and Toby and all the Yezidis at Bashiqa. Really I would. But I got work to do in Mosul. There ain’t much time.’
‘Oh yeah? Nice try, Vinny. I know you’re fed up of me hanging round your neck. But I don’t think my superiors are gonna be happy with my taking a paid sabbatical.’
‘Hey, bud, don’t get me wrong. You’ve done your share. And I love your company. But how about giving Vinny some arm- and leg-room here? I’m workin’ best on my own.’
‘But—’
‘Listen, my clever friend, the second I got beans on our Turkish friends Yildiz and Yazar, you’ll hear from me. Might even bring ’em to you direct! Express service, how about that? Now give Vinny a break. You head off with Jolo. Hell! You’ll be a lot safer with him in Bashiqa than with me in Mosul. I don’t want you slowin’ me down.’
Jolo looked upset. ‘Turks, Mr Dappa?’
‘Not friends necessarily, Captain. But I’d know better if I could just locate ’em.’
‘We help you. My people help you.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
For all his curiosity about the Yezidis, Ashe wasn’t ready to part from Vinny and Richmond. ‘Really, Vin, it’s Mosul for me, come what may. I’ve got to see the major’s all right and stay close to things.’
‘Now, Toby—’
Jolo pointed to the skies. ‘Look! Choppers!’
Three Chinooks from Tel Afar swooped down towards them. Seeking landing space, they hovered overhead, their lights darting beams across the desert floor.
Zappa waved at the chopper crews. ‘Hey, taxi! Over here!’
The Chinooks landed and three US medics leapt out and raced over to Richmond. Zappa rushed to greet them. Pointing at Ashe, Zappa tried to say something to one of the medics, but couldn’t be heard against the roar of the choppers. He steered the medic towards Ashe, then returned to help with Richmond.
‘Dr Ashe?’
‘Yeah. Hadn’t you better help with the major?’
‘He’s gonna be just fine. My colleagues can handle him, sir. Hear you’ve had some trouble here. How ya feelin’?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Breathing, sir. Are you feeling breathle
ss, Dr Ashe?’
Ashe was taken aback. ‘Breathless? Well, since you ask, it’s been a bit tight since the battle. I hadn’t really noticed.’
‘Yeah, I can see y’all been busy here. Wait there please.’
The medic ran over to consult his colleagues as they strapped the major’s stretcher to one of the Chinooks. Returning with a stethoscope, the medic smiled. ‘Shirt up, Dr Ashe! Now breathe in and out slowly.’
The Chinook carrying Richmond rose into the sky, whipping up the sand. The medic started coughing. Ashe was anxious to get away, but the medic held his shoulder, pressing the stethoscope diaphragm firmly to Ashe’s chest and back. ‘Now cough, sir. And again. Once more. Now breathe in slowly, sir. And out again.’ He took the stethoscope from his ears. ‘OK, Dr Ashe. If you’re a medical doctor, I won’t have to explain pneumothorax to you.’
‘I’m a doctor of philosophy, Doctor.’
‘OK. You’ve had quite a shock. Been knocked about? Heavy weight on your body?’
‘You could say that.’
‘OK, you’ve had more than the usual amount of air in your lungs. Abnormal breathing. I don’t want you in the chopper, sir.’
‘Not you as well!’
‘I can’t be sure right here, but I think you might have excess air in your pleural space – between your chest wall and lungs. The atmospherics up there could exacerbate a pneumothorax. I am not joking, Dr Ashe. You better stay on dry land, sir, and try to take it easy. Can you do that?’
Ashe nodded.
‘If breathing is not completely normal tomorrow, or if you feel at all uncomfortable with it, or if you have a dry cough you can’t explain, you get your friends to take you to an army hospital, d’ya hear? And, Dr Ashe, I recommend you keep far away from stressful situations. At least for a few days.’
‘I’ll try.’
Zappa returned to Ashe. ‘What was that about stress?’
‘Very clever, Vinny.’
‘I was concerned for you, Toby. I knew you wouldn’t take it from me. I’ve seen these things before.’
Ashe looked over to Hasil and his fellow horsemen as they lined up the Arab prisoners for the long walk back to the US base at Mosul. ‘Couldn’t I go with them?’
‘Stress-free, Toby. Guarding terrorist prisoners is not what I’d call stress-free. Now I don’t want to hear any more about it. And I gotta run. May the good Lord bless and keep you, Toby. You’re in good hands.’
Ashe smiled. ‘I’ll miss you, Vin.’
‘And d’you know somethin’, you Limey bastard?’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll cope.’
As Zappa disappeared into the third Chinook, Ashe looked up to see Jolo waiting on horseback.
‘Is destiny, Tobbiash. Come!’
With a final burst of energy, an exhausted Ashe climbed onto Bucephalus and he, Jolo and a detachment of thirty Yezidis rode eastwards beneath the stars to Bashiqa.
52
Long before the detachment of Yezidi irregulars crossed the waters near the point where the Great Zab River disgorged her bulging foam into the long-drifting Tigris, Ashe had fallen asleep. Some silent will kept his arm around Jolo’s waist, his head resting on Jolo’s tireless back.
Ashe woke as Jolo brought the horse to a standstill. The anvil-hot sun, glowing rich and red, rose from the horizon. Jolo dismounted and raced forwards to kiss the ground where the sun’s rays touched the earth. He crossed his arms before his chest and bowed three times. He kissed his forefingers and brought them to his forehead. Then he pulled up the collar of his shirt and kissed that.
Ashe glimpsed this curious ritual between half-closed eyes. Was he dreaming?
Jolo rejoined his horse and apologised to Ashe. ‘It was not I who woke you, Tobbiash, but Sheykh Shems. He brings you light.’
The words meant nothing to Ashe, but he had a vague sense of déjà vu. ‘You know, Jolo, where I live in England, there was once a saint.’
Jolo listened eagerly. ‘Yes? Who was this holy man? Was he Ezidi?’
‘His name was Chad, or Caedda.’
‘Caedda. This word is like Kurmanji name, Khidr. Like our word for God: Khuda.’
‘I suppose it is. Chad, it is said, awoke at dawn and went outside to stand by a well. There he greeted the rising sun with hymns.’
Jolo’s eyes lit up. ‘Your saint in England. He is friend of Sheykh Shems. The sun is for everyone on earth. From here in the Sheikhan to you in England. When you visit shrine of Sheykh Shems, you may pray to your… Caedda. You may speak to him, and he will speak to you. Yes!’
‘That would be something.’
‘Your saint with Khuda in Paradise, Tobbiash. To him, years are nothing. Your Caedda is one of the living ones. He speak to you.’
Rain began to fall, heavily and sharply. Jolo led Bucephalus by the reins and his men followed in the blue dawn light. The detachment joined the old track west of Mosul, avoiding the new road that had brought so much harm. The track took them through wet cornfields and beanfields, their booted feet cushioned by the sweet-smelling clover called nofil that grew everywhere.
As the sun rose higher and ruddy continents of clouds streaked the sky, Ashe realised the desert was far behind – on the other side of the night; the blood and killing on another side of himself.
For the irregulars, the night had brought a small victory – amply justifying their recruitment and payment. The extremism of the jihadist – no stranger to the ways and history of the region – left Yezidi families with little choice but to resist where possible. Not being ‘people of the Book’, as Muslims are defined by the Koran, nor being Christians or Jews, Yezidis were continually exposed to ancient hatreds in Iraq, Turkey, Georgian Armenia, and Iran.
Ansar al-Sunna demanded an all-Islamic, fundamentalist state in Iraq. Christians might be subjected to dhimmitude – humiliating second- or third-class status – while Jews would barely be tolerated. For Yezidis there was no place at all: in the event of Ansar al-Sunna’s fulfilling its dreams, the only options for Yezidis who wished to stay in their homeland, would be to convert to Islam or be butchered. Yezidis had never willingly converted, and their enthusiasm for life and their faith had kept them alive.
The men now resembled a posse of pilgrims come to some sacred place, quite different from the furious force of the previous evening.
As they approached Bashiqa, Ashe was struck by the peculiar whitewashed cones, like little steeples, that adorned the shrines around the town. They rose out of the olive groves as if they too were paying homage to the sun.
Ashe felt a gentle hand touching his shoulder.
‘Tobbiash! Come!’
A golden light cast dappled shadows across the tiny stone room in which his camp bed had been placed. Squatting on a Persian carpet was an old lady, wide-eyed and grinning. Her face was like an old stone, cut with gorges and fissures, her eyes like suns.
She removed the silk scarf from around her greying hair, dipped it in a bronze bowl of water and wiped Ashe’s face as he perched on a low stool.
‘Welcome to Bashiqa, English gentleman. English gentleman very welcome here in home of my son. My son, Jolo’s cousin. He is with Khuda now. He waits for the Resurrection. He sit then in judgement on Saddam’s soul. Saddam kill my son. Yes.’
Tears came to the woman’s eyes. ‘I am Gulé, Englishman. I wash your clothes.’
Ashe sat up. ‘Gulé. You must forgive me. If I’d known, I would not have brought my dirty clothes into your good house.’
‘It is God’s will you come here. The Kochek tell us so.’
‘Kochek?’
‘He sees through this world. You have two eyes. He has other eyes, like peacock. Kochek know about you, Tobbiash! You come from bad happening in England. You are hurt, Tobbiash. You come to Sheikhan to find answer.’
The lady dipped her headscarf again in the bronze dish and wrung it out thoroughly before retying it about her hair. Gulé had once been a beauty. Now the beauty shone i
nside.
53
A growl of thunder shot across the dull green mountain to the north. Ashe looked at his reflection in the big muddy puddle in the centre of the street. It was dotted with dying buttercups, like poppies around a wreath, and Ashe thought he looked different. Large droplets of rain splashed in the puddle. The image was distorted.
Ashe hurried back to Gulé’s house. Gulé was sitting beneath a stone archway decorated with olive branches that led to the courtyard, mending a white woollen shawl.
‘Jolo waiting for you.’
‘I like your cap, Gulé.’
She pointed to her little turban, ringed with bright silver coins. Ashe nodded. Gulé giggled. ‘I have it when young girl. It is called cumédravé, Tobbiash.’
Jolo emerged from the courtyard carrying two glasses of tea. ‘You don’t see these things now. All girls used to wear them. Gulé has it for the Sarsaleh – our Spring Festival. You miss it. Every Nisan – that is, your April. You have April Fool; we have Sarsaleh!’
‘And is foolishness permitted?’
Jolo laughed. ‘Do you like dancing?’
‘The English have forgotten how to dance.’
‘Very sad, Tobbiash. We could teach them again! Bashiqa best dancing in the Sheikhan. Everybody used to come for Sarsaleh at Bashiqa! People come from Kirkuk and Mosul! Dancing here is best.’
Gulé nodded. ‘Tell him more, Jolo.’
‘There are buttercups round the doors and all the women wear red flowers in their hair. And the girls… they dance the debka.’
‘Debka?’
‘A mountain dance. In a circle. The arms are raised. Like this!’ Jolo demonstrated. ‘Everyone loves this dance! And the boys join in, and a lamb or a chicken is sacrificed. We put the sacrifice blood on our houses to remember. And the meat is cut and shared for the poor. See the graves! The women are at the graves, giving food to passers-by. And the qewwals play… Oh, Tobbiash! The daff and the shebab – music like you never hear anywhere else in the world.’
‘Daff and shebab, what are they?’
