Abbas Khider - The Village Indian

I was in jail in Baghdad. Being in jail in Baghdad is no miracle. In the nineties, it was even the norm. One day, we were taken on an unexpected journey. A never-to-be-forgotten journey. The guards got all the prisoners together, bound their hands, blindfolded them with bits of black cloth and put them in several cars. The cars moved slowly. Everything was dark. I could hear only my fellow prisoners breathing and my heart thumping. Could smell only the others’ sweat and their old, damp clothes. After what seemed like half an eternity, an endless babble of voices reached my ears as did the roar of engines. I could hear the everyday noises of my home town again. The yells of children, the loud music from the music shops and the street dealers shouting: ‘Fresh tomatoes, salad, fruits and vegetables, all fresh. .’ After a while, I could hear only the wind against the sides of the car. Then a sudden bang. The car stopped. The prison guards’ voices drew closer. The door opened slowly and we heard the order, ‘Out!’ I moved, in slow motion, in order not to fall. ‘Sit! On the ground!’ I sucked in the air. It was cold but fresh. I knew this air. We were in the desert. But why?

The guards were talking to each other.

‘We need to change the damn tyre as quickly as possible. Then catch up with the others.’

‘That’s impossible. We don’t have a spare. We’ll have to fix it!’

‘How long will that take?’

‘Half an hour, maybe!’

‘Shit! They’ll kill us. Get on with it.’

For half an hour, there was a deathly hush. The guards spoke little. Then, ‘Get up and get in. Quick!’ The car began to move but suddenly stopped again. Incomprehensible sounds from outside. A minute later, we drove off again. For a while I could hear the strong desert wind, then human voices and the sounds of countless cars. Perhaps we were back in town again. A few minutes later, the car stopped again. Again, the prison guards’ voices drew closer. Again, the door opened. Again, we heard the order, ‘Out!’ I recognized the strange smell of the prison, the smell of damp, the smell of the sagging flesh of imprisoned people. Was it the same prison? Had it just been an outing?

The guards removed our bonds. I was back to the large section of our prison. Only twenty of us now. Where were the others? There’d been so many before. Three hundred, almost.

No one knew.

That evening, a guard came and gaped at us, surprised. ‘Do you realize God loves you?’

‘Why?’

‘You’re still alive!’

‘What! Does that mean the others—?’

‘Yes, they were executed in the desert. That car tyre saved you.’

I swear on all car tyres — the next miracle followed soon after. In Iraqi slang, we refer to jail as ‘behind the sun’. It was clear to me that I’d never be allowed back to life on this side of the sun. Walking from the dark side back into the brightness of lightbulbs I began to consider impossible. Yet the day came when the government declared an amnesty for all political prisoners. Because I’d been charged with minor and insignificant crimes, I was permitted, with all the other minor and insignificant prisoners, to see the light of the sun again. The major and significant prisoners had all been executed long ago. I waited for a month to be released. It was a very long month, longer than a decade! Eventually, though, I was ‘in front of the sun’ again. I got into a taxi. A short time later, I was home. I knocked. My mother’s face appeared.

‘Yes?’

‘Good afternoon!’

‘Good afternoon!’

‘How are you today?’

‘Fine, and you?’

‘Fine. Don’t you recognize me?’

‘No, who are you? Is it one of the boys you want?’

‘Do you really not recognize me?’

‘No!’

‘It’s Rasul.’

She stared at me, speechless, drew her breath in sharply and fell unconscious to the floor. She couldn’t have recognized me! How was she to? A good eighty-five kilos and burnt brown when I left, I’d returned fifty-five kilos and as pale as a piece of Gouda. Eighteen months of hardly any bread and no sun at all had changed me beyond recognition.

I swear on the Amnesty — this miracle needed another miracle in order to really save me. The miracle of the chance to flee Iraq. As expected, the gods and devils of the government wanted me behind bars again — or, better still, hanging from the ceiling. They sent me an official letter, demanding that I end my studies and report to the army. I was also to report to the security police. I decided to flee. I had no desire whatsoever to go ‘behind the sun’ again.

I left our part of town and went into hiding with relatives. There were so many policemen in the streets, you’d have thought they were a people in their own right. But thanks to my friend Abba, I could still be out and about. For the next few months, he supplied me with fake ID more than fifteen times, with just as many names and professions. Each time, I had to learn by heart my new name and all the details that went with it. Even today, I wonder which one of them I really was. And who they all were.

The day finally came when I could leave all those names behind and sail the seas, using my real name. Getting a passport in Iraq wasn’t easy but I managed. Two official documents were required — one confirming you’d done your military service, the other that you weren’t subject to a travel ban. The whole thing cost a million Iraqi dinars, or a thousand American dollars. Even with the best will in the world, I couldn’t meet all three requirements. Of course, I hadn’t reported to the army. Of course, I was subject to a travel ban. And, of course, I didn’t have a million dinars to spare.

An acquaintance of my elder brother worked as a policeman and wasn’t short of contacts with various Baghdad authorities. He offered to alter the data the authorities held on me and to arrange a passport that would enable me to flee to Jordan. He would need two thousand dollars from me, though. Two thousand dollars! Where would I get that kind of money? This time, it was the women in the family who saved me. My sisters sold their jewellery and my mother sold her brother her part of their father’s house. Though my family had barely enough to live on, I managed to get the money together.

Within a week, the policeman managed to alter my data. Eighteen months in jail for political reasons became eighteen months of military service, and a drifter, about to abscond, became an art-college student. Finally, I had a passport with my real name. Even the travel ban vanished from the records for forty-eight hours, giving me two days to leave the country for Jordan. Once all the bribes were paid, precisely thirty dollars remained. The policeman returned them to me — a gesture, to help get me started.

I said goodbye to my family and boarded the bus. It crossed the Iraqi border and continued towards Amman. Even now, I can’t believe I managed to leave Iraq. Years later, I still have dreams about the Iraqi police arresting me at the border and I begging them, in tears, to release me.

On the other side of the world, in Jordan, two men in uniform suddenly boarded the bus. Sat down behind me. Oh God, no! What do they want me for? They’re armed. Should I get off the bus, make a run for it? They’re just Jordanian soldiers. But soldiers are soldiers. Maybe the Iraqi government has put them on to me!

With these, and similar thoughts, I passed the many long hours until we arrived in Amman. I took my bag, got off the bus and ran. Like a world champion. After a while, I stopped — I was sweating — and turned round. No one. The people in the street stared at me as if I wasn’t quite right in the head. An old man, standing outside his food shop, beckoned me over. ‘What’s wrong, my son? Why are you running like that?’