I took off my sneakers and left them next to the door; I waited for him to show me the way. He led me to what looked like the living room. I wondered why the bastard had never visited me. Not even once.
“So did they release you?” he asked.
I lied: “Yeah, they said those of us whose condition wasn’t serious are better off at home. They’re out of food and supplies.”
“Oh, I see,” Abbas murmured.
I wasn’t sure he bought it.
“We moved in a few months after the accident to take care of the house. You still don’t remember anything?”
“No.”
A few framed family photographs hung on the wall across from where I sat, right under one of Saddam in civilian attire. I got up to look at them, and asked him: “Do you have any pictures of my parents and siblings?”
“Yes, we have an album somewhere. We put them away. It was too sad, you know.”
He approached and pointed out a photo of his wife and three children, two of whom were married and living with their own kids. The youngest, a girl named Madiha, was still here. I nodded but couldn’t muster any genuine interest.
“Did they catch him?” I asked, as I went back to the couch.
“Who?”
“The bastard who killed my family.”
He hesitated a bit before answering: “No. They didn’t. By the way, are you thirsty? You must be.”
Before I even answered, he called out to his wife and daughter to come and greet me. The mother was in her late forties, heavyset, and wearing a veil, even though there wasn’t much worth covering. She didn’t even shake my hand, just said: “Praise the Lord for your safe return.”
The daughter, Madiha, had wavy black hair, big hazel eyes, and luscious lips. Her breasts were already budding beneath the green blouse she wore. I extended my hand to shake hers. She couldn’t look me in the eye. “Hi there,” I said. But she didn’t reciprocate. They both left, and then Madiha came back fifteen minutes later carrying the tea tray. Her hands were shaking and the clinking stopped only when she set the tray in the middle of the table. Was it the cold? Or was having an amnesiac cousin terrifying? I guess it wasn’t just amnesia. There was the depression too. Once one goes to al-Rashad, even for just a week, they’re considered insane. I stayed there for eight years. Even if you are sane, they add the in to be sure.
The remainder of the day was weird—there were long stretches of awkward silence in between talking mostly about politics. What were the Americans planning to do? Where did Saddam go? My uncle claimed that they’d wanted to visit me and had done so a few times. But the doctors told them that it would affect my treatment negatively. I laughed when he said that.
“What treatment? It was more like psychological torture,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
He was probably lying anyway. I had a feeling he was a scoundrel. He was probably worried now that I might start charging them rent or just kick them out. But I wasn’t going to do any of those things. Not right away, at least. I needed time to think and figure out how to put my life back together.
The wife was a decent cook. Her eggplant tabsi was yummy. It was my first homemade meal since I was committed. Well, actually . . . the best ever, since I can’t remember a fucking thing before that. I slept on a comfy mattress in the guest room and jerked off thinking of Madiha’s mouth milking me dry.
IV. Jasim Stays Home
When I woke up the next morning, they were gone. Just like that—no car in the garage. I couldn’t understand why. Was I that scary? Maybe he saw the way I was looking at his daughter and was afraid I’d knock her up. They left some food in the pantry. Cans. The fridge was empty. I remembered him telling me that they’d emptied and unplugged it on account of their having no electricity. They took the generator with them. But they left so much stuff here. Well, I wouldn’t know if it belonged to them or my family.
I spent the next few days in the house. I found a small radio and some batteries, and listened to the news every once in a while. No one knew what had happened to Saddam. There was chaos and looting.
I found an album in a box in the storage room and studied the photographs, but I needed someone to tell me who was who. I went into what I’m sure was Madiha’s room. She’d left some of her clothes and underwear behind. I slept in her bed. It smelled good. I used her panties to jack off.
V. Jasim Goes Out
After three days, I ran out of food and had to go out. I had seen a bakery and some stores five blocks away the day I came back. Everything was closed that day, but I was sure the bakery would be open. The streets were slightly busy and I saw a crowd of about ten men outside the bakery. I waited and bought two bags of pita. I also got some cheese and corned beef from the shop next door. On the way back, I heard someone calling my name. When I looked I saw a man about my age in the driver’s seat of a black four-wheel-drive. He stopped the car and got out. He was dressed in all black, had very short dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, piercing coffee-colored eyes, and a broad smile.
“Jasim, it’s you, isn’t it?” I took a step back. Yet he moved in and hugged me tightly. “It’s Zayn, man! Hey, buddy! I’ve been asking about you since I got back.”
“Sorry, but I don’t—”
“We went to school together,” Zayn said. “We used to hang out and play soccer all the time. So, what they’re saying is true . . . amnesia . . . and what happened to your family?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry to hear that. That’s heavy. No worries, I’ll tell you everything you need to know about me,” Zayn said, laughing. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.”
I was going to tell him that my house wasn’t far, but I got in anyway. The car was clean and relatively new. There was a green ribbon tied around the rearview mirror and a sticker showing the face of a turbaned cleric on the dashboard; The Islamic Brigades of Iraq was printed in tiny letters under the image. Zayn saw me looking at it.
“You don’t even remember the martyr, do you?” he asked.
“Not really,” I told him.
“That is al-Hasani—Saddam executed him back in 1980,” Zayn explained. “Right around the time he executed my father, deported our family, and threw us across the border, claiming we were of Iranian descent. But the fucker is gone now.” He paused and then asked the inevitable question: “So is it true that you were committed to the loony bin?”
“Yes. I had a nervous breakdown and couldn’t remember anything.”
“Man! When did you get out?”
“Last week, but tell me about you and me,” I urged, wanting to fill in more of my memory.
“Well, we were best friends. Went to the same school and hung out and played soccer all the time. Man, I can’t fucking believe you don’t remember any of it. Are you sure you didn’t fake this amnesia stuff so you’d avoid going to the army or something?”
I didn’t answer him so he thought I was offended.
“I’m sorry, man. Just kidding.”
“No worries.”
After twenty-three years he still remembered where our house was, and stopped the car in front of the gate. I invited him in for tea.
He told me how the Baathists took them one night and drove them to the border, after separating them from their father. They later learned that he died in prison. They confiscated their house and turned it into the local branch of the Baath Party. He, his mother, and two siblings stayed in a camp on the Iranian side, near the border, for three months, before being moved to another camp and later to cheap housing on the outskirts of Tehran. His mother married another man, an influential figure in the Iraqi opposition—also a sadistic asshole who beat Zayn and his siblings. He enrolled in school in Tehran, learned Persian, and later volunteered and joined the Brigades. He went through their military training, which was his ticket out of misery. The Brigades had entered Iraq from the south just a few days ago and drove up north to Baghdad. He was staying at a hotel in al-Jadiriyyah, but was planni
ng on returning to his family’s home here in the neighborhood after fixing it up.
“The Baathist cowards ran away, but I’m gonna find them,” Zayn promised. He then took the last sip of his tea and stood up to leave. “Listen, I’ve got to head back, but I’m so happy that I saw you. If you need anything, here’s the number of my hotel.” He took out a hotel business card and wrote down his room number.
“But the lines are down,” I reminded him.
“Shit, I forgot. Keep it just in case. They’ll be fixed sooner or later. I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after. Do you need anything?”
“No thanks.”
VI. Jasim Has a Job
Zayn came back two days later, and brought shawarma sandwiches and cans of Pepsi. We sat down to eat, and with a bite of food in his mouth, he asked: “What are your plans?”
I thought about that for a second, but couldn’t find an answer. “I don’t have any yet.”
“Do you wanna help out and make some money?”
“Sure, but how?”
“I need someone I can trust.”
“To do what?”
“Watch my back and stay by my side,” Zayn said. “We have a lot of unfinished business.”
“What kind of business?”
“Catching the Baathist rats who are hiding.”
“But what about the police and security services?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he hissed. “There is no police or security now. Plus, they were all criminals themselves.”
“So you’re just going to catch every single Baathist?” I asked. “How?”
“Not every single one—just the bigwigs. We have a list.”
“And then what?”
“Have the Angel of Death interview them,” Zayn said. He smiled and pointed to the gun he was carrying. “I’ll get you one, of course.”
“I don’t know how to use it.”
“Very easy. You’ll learn in half an hour.”
“But why me?” I asked.
“Why you? I vouched for you, because I trust you. You’re the perfect candidate. No past. Well—sorry for being blunt—no access to the past. No sentimental attachments. And I’m sure you wanna get back at them for killing your folks.”
“I’m still not sure who did it.”
“We’ll find out,” Zayn assured me.
I ate the last piece of pickled beet that came as a side with the shawarma and took a sip from the cold Pepsi can. “Okay, I’m in,” I said.
“Great! You’ll start out on a freelance basis for a couple of weeks, and then I’ll introduce you to my commander and we’ll make it official.”
It was the first time I’d been excited about something since I came home. I was getting bored sitting around doing nothing. I still had no idea what I was going to do with my life.
Before leaving, Zayn gave me five $100 bills and said: “Here’s an advance. We’ll get you a sturdy but comfortable pair of shoes, and some new clothes too.”
VII. Jasim Is Trained
The next day, Zayn picked me up and we drove south on al-Qanat Highway for half an hour. I was surprised that we didn’t have to go through an American checkpoint. He said that was precisely why we went this way, then added: “I have a special permit that would get me through their checkpoint. We’ll get you one soon too.”
Zayn took a sharp right onto a dirt road and we drove by some orchards. The spot he chose for practice was close to where his father’s cousin used to have a farm with a small house.
“We would come here on holidays. Roam around and play. I checked things out a few days ago. There’s no one here. The house is abandoned. Just some stray dogs.”
“And where is your relative?”
“Last I heard, he’s in Syria,” Zayn said. “He took his family there in the late 1990s.”
He parked the car under two tall palm trees that stood in front of the house. Their low fronds had withered. Three bunches of dried dates were dangling from one of them. He went back and opened the car trunk and took out a leather bag. A couple of pigeons flew from the roof of the house. It looked deserted. Most of the windows were broken and the front door had come unhinged.
“We’re not going inside,” Zayn explained. “The spot is in the back, behind the house.”
I followed him as he went to the left and around the house. I could see through the broken windows—there was some graffiti on the walls: Raad is a faggot . . . Tayaran League Champions . . . Asshole . . . Real Madrid . . . I fucked your mother . . . War . . .
There was a wide-open space behind the house that led to the river. Zayn placed the bag on the ground and took out a plastic bottle filled with water; he walked about thirty feet to a giant mulberry tree and set the bottle at its trunk. He walked back and took out a gun from the bag.
“This is a Beretta 92,” Zayn said excitedly, as if he were introducing me to a friend of his. He gave me a quick rundown about the parts, how to load and empty the magazine, the best posture for firing, and how to attach the silencer and shoot.
“Go ahead and give it a shot,” he told me, handing the gun over.
I missed the target the first two times, but hit it the third time, and the bottle was blown away.
“You’re doing great, man. Very steady. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”
“I might have. I wouldn’t know.”
We both laughed.
“Okay. Take off the silencer and do it raw. It’s good to hear the sound to appreciate the power of what you’re carrying,” Zayn said. “Just aim at the trunk of the mulberry.”
I fired two shots in a row. They were deafening.
“Go ahead and empty the whole cartridge.”
VIII. Jasim Works
Zayn had a list with names and addresses of the “comrades.” We would drive around a neighborhood, park near a house, and wait until the target came out. I watched how Zayn did it: two shots to the head and another two in the chest after they fell. Then we would drive away. It was two weeks before I got to finish a comrade by myself. He was a university professor. It felt good.
IX. Jasim’s File
While Jasim was settling into a rhythm and helping Zayn go down the list, the officials at al-Rashad Hospital had secured help from the newly formed local militia to protect the building. The damages were being assessed and windows fixed. Some inmates returned voluntarily, while some families brought others back. The outside world was too chaotic. Fifteen miles away, near the outskirts of Baghdad, a boy was going through the heaps of trash that had been dropped off for the first time in weeks. He found a piece of paper, and tried to read the first few lines: Jasim Hamza Khidir . . . Place & date of birth: Baghdad, November 9, 1969 . . . Amnesia . . . Killed his entire family. The boy threw the piece of paper away and went on looking for something valuable. One of his three goats ate it.
This story was originally written in English
A Sense of Remorse
by Ahmed Saadawi
Bataween District
Jibran’s room was dark and dingy, stuffy from the stale smell of old furniture and the thick layer of aromas from the flavored tobacco he had smoked in his shisha during his nightly ritual of drinking alone. His younger brother Yasser believed the room, by helping to isolate Jibran from his family and neighbors, suited a man who had grown increasingly depressed as the years went by. But could Yasser really have any insight into his brother’s behavior and temperament?
Yasser wasn’t in the habit of visiting Jibran’s house. Even when Yasser first heard his brother was dead, he hadn’t been able to like him. Jibran had been bad-tempered, overbearing, and foul-mouthed. During his childhood and early youth, Yasser had suffered greatly at Jibran’s hands. He had managed to put that behind him, but only when he moved to his own rented house in the Bataween area—in the center of Baghdad—where the rest of the family lived. Jibran had stayed with his wife and children in the big family house, with its damp walls and broken floors.
Out
of compassion, Yasser racked his brain to remember the details of his last meeting with his older brother, but he couldn’t come up with anything important. He managed to dig up a few incoherent fragments, including Jibran’s sad, wrinkled face—the face of a man who had been greedy and rigid in the past, yet in more recent times was no longer happy about that history. Yasser remembered a short conversation he’d had with his brother about drinking:
Jibran was sitting on a wooden chair, leaning on the small square table he had set against the wall in his room. He placed two ice cubes in a glass of arak and stirred it a little before taking a sip. A song by Saadi al-Hilli was playing softly on an old tape player on the same table. Jibran didn’t want to listen to Saadi al-Hilli at that moment, but rather the words of his younger brother, who now, after years of living on the sidelines, had become a police officer working in the criminal investigations department. He told Yasser he didn’t feel any remorse, and that this annoyed and depressed him. He spoke vaguely about mistakes he had made in his life but he didn’t tell his brother what they were.
“Why don’t you feel any remorse?” Yasser asked.
“I don’t know. Perhaps there’s something wrong with me. I don’t feel like I’m a normal person.”
“No, you’re a normal person who drinks too much. That’s all.”
“Drinking doesn’t bring remorse, but I’ve gotten used to drinking now, even without remorse.”
Yasser suddenly felt sad, as he remembered the conversation. He sympathized, but at a very late stage, with a brother who had ruined his own life and caused problems for everyone. Perhaps he was just unlucky. Yasser kept repeating those words in his head as he walked around the room. He examined the contents of the room, and despite the daylight that flooded the space, he shone his flashlight at everything. He went up to his brother’s body, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it, though seeing corpses was nothing new to him. He looked at the bottle of arak that was still sealed and set in the middle of the table, at the plate of mezes garnished with cucumber and yogurt. It didn’t look like Jibran had even started his evening. He had gone to his death without a final drinking session. Yasser examined the glass next to the limp arm stretched out to the middle of the table. Jibran’s head, with disheveled hair, was resting next to it, and he noticed some gray powder at the bottom of the glass. He glanced around and saw a small, crumpled piece of paper that had been thrown under the table. Yasser smoothed out the paper and saw traces of something black. He quickly guessed that it came from the same substance as the powder in the bottom of the glass.
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