* * *
I prepared myself well for war. Instead of cleaning my gun, oiling my rifle, and counting bullets for battle, instead of squad attention, stand at ease, squad turn to the right in file, and other futile preparations, I was readying what I needed to welcome them. I put flowers in my pocket, and learned a few English words so we could understand each other. I was practically delirious with joy. I stood next to the other soldiers and felt like I was grinning to myself, just remembering that they’d be here in just a few days. I felt like my heart was jumping for joy, that it might fly out of my chest like a bird. That’s what egged the baker on and kindled his doubt. Even the party propaganda officer with the parachute trousers started monitoring me.
‘Why are you so happy?’ The baker asked me once.
‘I’m happy … because we’re going to win!’ I said. And then he shut up.
The war didn’t last long. It was a walk in the park. The first shot sent my ears ringing. It sent a voice into the eardrum of my missing ear, a voice saying that the time for change had come. The key was turning in the door. The moment had come for things to change. And on that day in particular I felt like there was another side to things, that a rainstorm was coming to wash everything clean. To wash away the dust that had stifled our lungs.
‘The American army is advancing.’
The wind howled so loud, like a woman wailing.
Early the next morning, the propaganda officer sent a squadron of soldiers to get a sense of what the enemy meant to do. But the soldiers made a blunder out of their mission. They dragged their huge leather shoes through the heavy mud as the storm pushed them on, to the beat of a military march, to the beat of the propaganda officer’s voice. They came back two days later all out of step. I felt like they’d been defeated without ever fighting a battle.
‘We’ll be here, on this hill,’ the officer said.
Near the hill was a fish market, and rubbish piles littered with dead cats, and all day the wind blew the foul stench our way.
‘Couldn’t we have picked someplace better?’ I thought to myself.
‘It’s a strategic position!’ The officer with the parachute trousers said.
But no one passed by our strategic position. The American forces went straight to Baghdad and brought down the statue of the president. The baker and the party propaganda officer vanished that day, and no one heard from them again. They disappeared into the storm like shadows. The ground we stood on began to smell like corpses. Food disappeared from the squadron shop. The baker, the driver, and the dogs were all gone. The only dog left was the commander’s. It used to eat from the squadron’s garbage, now it went out looking for something to eat and found nothing.
‘You should take the idea of “winning the war” with a grain of salt. You really need to take a historical perspective on it all. America’s better, even for the dogs,’ a teacher who’d been drafted told the officers, trying to convince them to surrender.
* * *
There we were, waiting for the Americans. I washed my face twice that morning, and got the flower in my pocket ready. I climbed the hill.
‘Halt!’ They shouted.
‘Friends…’ I answered, in English.
And before my hand reached my pocket, I heard the shot.
The silent sun trickled through a cloud of dust. Something like shattered glass was dripping from my head. Deserts of rubble fell from me. I imagined I heard the blood’s soft voice as it flowed from my body, somewhere. The American turned towards me, smiling. Looked carefully at his shot. The only noise that reached him was the noise coming from my head.
‘Son of a bitch!’
It must’ve been a figment of my imagination. For some strange reason, I didn’t believe that I was dead. I felt something else, something closer to terror, a tangled mess of fears I couldn’t even explain to myself.
* * *
I ascended to the heavens. As soon as I could see, I spotted TV antennas. Soldiers’ berets flying up like a murder of crows at first dawn. Worn underclothes. Discarded plastic bags. Rubbish rising up from Iraq. I felt, for the first time, an end to worry and sighs, I felt like my soul had slipped through a hole in the sky and fallen through itself, then entered an endless corridor, and I started gasping. At the end of the corridor stood an angel.
‘Who are you?’ He asked.
‘Corporal Sobhan.’
‘Who?’
‘Corporal Sobhan … don’t you know who I am? I’m the one whose brains got splattered by an American sniper, just like bird shit. I’m a war hero, a martyr, and Saddam Hussein said martyrs go straight to Heaven: they get a free pass, and get in right away.’
Skepticism began to cloud the angel’s face.
‘But you reached into your pocket to present the sniper with a flower, didn’t you?,’ he asked with raised eyebrows and a gesture.
‘Yes, I did. Is that what’s keeping a decision from being made?’
‘Of course,’ said the angel. ‘You wanted to give your enemy a flower, and now you want to be considered a martyr? You can’t truly be serious.’
I stared into the angel’s face like an idiot, wishing he would give me a straight answer.
‘O kind angel, what do you make of me: martyr or not?’
‘That depends. You’re not a martyr, but you’re not a regular casualty, either. At this point, you’ll need to wait with the other unresolved cases.’
His response cheered me up a bit. It gave me a bit of hope; maybe in the end I’d get lucky, become a martyr, and get into Heaven. I thought about this for a minute.
‘This has happened to me all my life, O dear angel,’ I told him. ‘I was stuck in limbo for a long time when I was promoted to corporal, because the officers found out I’d taken two days more vacation than I was allowed, and so it took longer for them to recognise my new rank. Inside the unit I was a corporal. But … a corporal in limbo. See, I’ve often been in limbo: a corporal in limbo, a martyr in limbo … can I ask you, O dear angel, will I have to stay like this for long?’
‘In truth, time is immeasurable here. We are in eternity here, as you know. Your journey to the end of this corridor has taken a hundred years.’
‘Are you serious? My journey took a hundred years … that’s amazing. Could I see what happened to my country in all that time?’
‘Just concern yourself with yourself. Don’t trouble yourself with the matters of people on Earth. Besides, there are many others like you here. We haven’t finished the Ancient Greek period yet; in other words, you’ve got a long wait ahead.’
‘So where should I go?’
‘You could take a stroll around. You’re allowed in this area.’
‘Thank you, O kind angel,’ I said, and turned a bit to face the great throne on which God was sitting. A short man was facing him, speaking confidently. I turned back to the angel.
‘O angel … O angel! Just one last question—who’s that man that God is judging, isn’t that some American actor? I think I’ve seen him before, in a Hollywood film they show on Channel 7 in Iraq.’
‘Him? Of course not … didn’t I tell you we’re still working on the Ancient Greek period? That’s Socrates, of whom you’ve heard. The philosopher, Socrates.’
Socrates, with his bald, dome-like head, was arguing with God, asking question after question.
‘Socrates, you are asking quite a lot of questions,’ said God, growing angry. ‘You must answer what I am asking you.’
‘Yes my Lord, you are right. But I believe that sending so many prophets to the people of Earth confuses them; they find it all beyond belief. Instead, it would be far better if you released one of the dead, from time to time, to leave his grave and tell people what happened to him.’
It was clear that God found some sense in what Socrates was saying. He fell silent and stroked His chin, thinking.
Why not take advantage of this opportunity and ask Him to send me down to Earth? I thought to myself. I raised my hand, and as s
oon as the Lord noticed, He shouted, ‘Who are you?’
‘Corporal Sobhan, my Lord.’
‘Who?’
‘Corporal Sobhan, my Lord, I’m the one whose brains the American sniper splattered, like bird droppings into the wind. I thought I was a martyr, but it sounds like my case is still under consideration. Seeing as the matter is going to take a while, why not order me to be sent down to Earth, my Lord? As a dead man who awoke from his grave, to tell the people of Earth what I’ve seen. You know I come from a region that’s caused problems in the world … and I want to see what’s happened to my country after the war.’
God paused for a moment, and then nodded. Socrates smiled, and the angel got ready to carry me down to the people of the earth.
* * *
Dear gentlemen, I am telling you the truth: as I descended to Kut, I felt that a change had occurred during my journey. It all felt very different from my ascent to the heavens. I’d seen rubbish flying up from Kut in all directions during my ascent: gunpowder, plastic bags, tattered underclothes, auto parts from the junkyard, crows, flies.… My descent was completely different.
‘I think you might’ve made a mistake,’ I told the angel when he placed me on a cloud for a break.
‘Made a mistake? Have you gone mad?’ The angel chastised me.
He carried me from the cloud where he’d put me, holding me by my shirt collar while I kicked as if I was swimming in space, and I flew. Oh, what ecstasy, what bliss, as I flew through the air. Suddenly a shape materialised, appearing before my eyes—it was Kut, like a pair of soft, parted lips, her golden day waking with the light. Her river recumbent, reclining. It looked like Heaven, her lights not veiled by dust, her bold breasts like a deluge of moons. As we got closer, I saw paradise-like changes. Light reached the heavens on the wind, water mixed with earth. I smiled as the angel and I approached through wispy white clouds surrounding the city. Bit by bit, I saw it was Kut. The river was the first thing I recognised; the Tigris of course, its bends like a wriggling snake, green earth around its banks. Its light, pure waters, translucent blue in the depths. Towering trees around the grassy ground.
Is this Las Vegas? Manhattan? Miami? What happened to my city, choked with flies and dust like somewhere in Pakistan? How was it transformed into such a magnificent city? I cried and laughed, and asked the angel, ‘O angel of the Lord, tell me honestly, have we come to the wrong place? Did you get dizzy? Did you get turned around, and head north instead of south? It happens! Drivers in Iraq do it! You tell him you’re going to the city of Kut, he takes you to somewhere else! He says he’s lost and steals your money too! Are you lost, mate … could be! I won’t tell God. I won’t tell on you, I wouldn’t want Him to punish you. Just tell me what city you’ve taken me to.’
‘Kut,’ said the Lord’s angel, without another word.
‘The Kut I knew was more like a Pakistani village!’ I told him. ‘You couldn’t walk two feet without your nose filling with dust from the road, without sweating like you’d stuck your head in the oven, without the flies swarming at your eyes like they were two pools of spit.’
The Lord’s angel wouldn’t keep carrying me while I argued with him like that. He told me to be quiet: he was an angel of the Lord after all, the real deal, no imitation. An angel of the heavens, not a plastic one made in China. In my day, China manufactured pictures of our imams, embroidered prayers, religious banners, prayer beads, incense burners, and so on. This, on the other hand, was an angel, straight from the source! I brought him from the heavens, an angel crafted by God, no forgery manufactured in a Saudi or Iranian factory.
So could he have gotten it wrong? He couldn’t have. I figured I’d be quiet and see where this ended up.
‘O angel of the Lord, let me down where I lost my life, where my head was blown off by the American sniper. There, right near the river, on the hill we used as a military position in the war, by the rotting fish market and the rubbish where they throw the dead cats.’
The angel made a big arc, cutting a wide circle in the air, and with a single graceful movement he landed gently. He stopped. He carefully set me down on my feet, somewhere spacious and clean, near the gate of a big building, made of clear glass. The building was so tall I couldn’t count how many floors there were, maybe a hundred. It looked like a skyscraper, with a tower piercing the sky. The bright sun was reflected in the glass, and a couple of women were walking through the entrance. The ground was paved with smooth white stones. The street across the way was fairly wide, surrounded by big trees on either side shading the pavement, and a cool, sweet breeze blew from their shadow. It eased the heat of the midmorning sun.
‘This is where you were killed,’ the angel of the Lord said. He turned towards the sky, and in a moment he had disappeared.
I landed gently. I felt my face with my hands. I looked around.
The thing that struck me was the metro gate across from the big building, the metro that Iraqis had awaited for so long. Across the glass threshold there was a big sign, written in transliterated Arabic: Bawabet Al-Hubb—Gate of Love.
God, I said, have they changed the names too? A nearby street sign read Al-Ushaq Avenue—Lover’s Avenue, and a big park with a wall nearly six feet high was called Jana’n Al-Rahmeh—Gardens of Compassion.
* * *
Gentlemen, I spent three hours strolling down the big avenue across from the Metro of Love, through the Gardens of Compassion, Zuqaq Al-Tasamuh—Goodwill Lane, Maktabet Al-Shuara’ Al-Suada’—Happy Poets Library, Mat’am Al-Tabi’ato Al-Jamileh—Nature’s Splendour Restaurant. People passed in front of me, smiling. They were dressed in smart, clean clothes, like they were going to a party. Their faces shone with good health. Their bodies were athletic, like Spartan youth. In that moment, I recognised the square that used to be filled with beggars, and I stopped right before it. There were columns of radiant glass, and a big sign with the name: Sahat Al-Amal—Hope Square. It was beautiful now, with lots of fountains shooting right out of the ground in time with music. A bunch of children were playing happily near the tall trees. Sure, I knew it was Kut Square. The square where they had once executed deserters. About five minutes later I stood in front of the hill where my head was shot off. Behind it was a building. They had preserved the front, and named it Tallat Al-Musiqa—Music Hill. A band was playing peaceful songs, and in front of them, several lovers were dancing.
* * *
At Friendship Corner, I stopped a handsome man with his arm around a dark young woman’s shoulder. The man was in his thirties, very smartly dressed, and his smile was the first thing I noticed.
‘Hey mate, I’ve got a question,’ I called out to him.
He was startled at first, and then stopped. He looked at me, and the expression on his face changed.
‘Pardon?’ He said in soft, dulcet Arabic.
‘Yes, I have a question: is this the city of Kut?’
‘Indeed, that it is. But why are you speaking so angrily, has something injured you? Is there something the matter?’
‘Me? No, not at all, I’m not angry. I just think your voice is really low; you’re speaking in a different language to the one I left the people of Kut speaking a hundred years ago.’
‘A hundred years ago?’ He replied, confused.
‘Yeah. I’m an Iraqi soldier who was killed here in the city of Kut during the war with the Americans a hundred years ago.’
I felt like the man didn’t believe me, as if he’d stumbled across one of the People of the Cave. (That’s a story from the Quran, about a group of people who believed in Christianity during the time of an unjust ruler who was persecuting them. To protect them, God froze them for a hundred years, and when they came back, they discovered that the city had become Christian, and everybody there knew their story.)
It was clear from the way he spoke that the man was surprised. I was talking in highly explosive capital letters that sounded like battle. Whereas today, the people of the city spoke so serenely. Their voi
ces came out softly, tenderly.
‘Democracy must have even changed your voices!’ I said, and thought to myself, America—didn’t I tell you America could work miracles?
‘To be honest, I don’t understand what you are saying. Forgive me please, and calmly tell me what you want, so I can help you.’
Meanwhile, the young woman at his side soothed me with a sweet smile and a heartfelt laugh.
‘Listen, sir, I’m an Iraqi soldier who was killed a hundred years ago, my story’s a long one, I don’t know if you’ve heard the tale of Corporal Sobhan or not! Just like the Christians of old heard the tale of the People of the Cave!’
‘Forgive me, I’m not familiar with it.’
‘Basically, I’m Corporal Sobhan, whose brains an American sniper splattered like bird shit, right here on top of this hill! I went straight up to the heavens. But the day of judgement is taking a long time; there’s lots of wars—Iraq’s wars and the Muslims’ wars, and they take time, there’s lots of casualties and martyrs; the battles of the market in Kut from back then need ages for God to divide the good from the bad and judge them. Our problem, don’t you know what our problem is? You see, the age of the prophets is over: a wise Greek man suggested that from time to time, God send one of the dead to preach and spread religion. And so God picked me, He picked Corporal Sobhan, He told me: “see here Corporal Sobhan, go to Kut and preach to the people.” So in short: I came back to the city I was killed in, the city of Kut, to spread religion. I’m not a prophet, but I’ve been sent to preach.’
‘Religion? We have no need for religion, sir! Learning about God’s justice and laws is for barbarians! The problem is that people interpret religion however they see fit, to support their own barbarism and savagery. We have no need for that, we are civilised folk. We know God, we govern by God’s justice, love, forgiveness, and equality between all people. Whoever has God has no need for religion.’
‘What do you mean you don’t need religion?’
Iraq + 100 Page 6
