The book, entitled "A City under
Siege: Tales of the Iran-Iraq War," was written by Habib
Ahmadzadeh (and translated from the Persian by Paul Sprachman). It
gives us an unusual insight into that war -- one of the bloodliest in
the modern history of the Middle East, but almost never the subject
of either news coverage or fictional accounts. It pitted Iranians and
Iraqis -- inevitably, sometimes they were both Shi'e Muslim, perhaps
of the same family, since there has been plenty of interchange across
the border over the past century -- against one another. Brothers fighting brothers, to
fulfill their leaders' aspirations. Here is a chapter of the book:
Eagle Feather
I see you being dropped off. I stop
the movement of my scope and then I center the crosshairs on you…and
on you waving the driver goodbye. He drives away…leaving you
behind at the place where three roads meet, behind the date grove on
the other side of the river. Now you’re not certain which road to
take! The main road where you’ll wait for the next vehicle to
come by or… the road that I want you to take? Hurry up and choose.
My whole job today depends on your decision. It’s not clear from
far away, but you put something on your back and move off.
You’ve chosen and my happiness is
boundless. You’ve eased the burden of waiting for me …and now
you’re continuing along the paved road that will end up at your
first route. You just continue moving along that line and I’ll sit
in this lookout, waiting on this side of the river, a wait that
should take no more than twenty-five minutes and which will reach its
climax in the last seventeen seconds. And, during these twenty-five
minutes, at least we can speak frankly to each other, though you will
never hear what I have to say, but, perhaps, after those last
seventeen seconds are over, all of what I say will reach your ears.
How? I don’t know. Whatever the case this is the way we think on
this side of the river in this completely surrounded city …and in
any case you are not aware of me sitting here stalking you….and in
this dark keep, with the entire plain, date grove, the roads you’ve
crossed on the other side in sight…and especially…I keep every
step you take under surveillance, and within my sniper scope lest I
forget you. Yes, I am sitting here stalking you and there’s a
shell in a mortar, waiting for my order, an order that will be
broadcast on invisible waves through the air at the promised time via
this radio. Your side’s radios may even receive the signal and
then the waves will pass by your body and you luckily will be
deprived from receiving it and then the radio of our mortar…then
the firing…and it will take seventeen seconds for the shell to
pierce the air, reach its apex and then like a gull diving for fish,
fall on that stretch of road…and then…and then thousands of
pieces of shrapnel both large and small will embrace you…but now
before you reach that point in the road, which will perhaps be the
last place in your life, there are twenty-three minutes left…the
highs and lows of the time depends wholly on the speed of your
steps,…go slower and you’ll add a few seconds to your life…go
faster and you’ll shorten it by a like amount…and now you are
moving. You want me to tell you more precisely how long you have
before the shell that awaits you arrives?
I have only to keep you within the
crosshairs of my sight and then press the button on my stopwatch…but
it’s better not to lose time. Perhaps this twenty-second
friendship will be come timeless with the shell. Would you like to
know what the first question is that I ask after I climb up this
tower and have selected a prey like you? It is: Where are you from?
Khanaqin, Baghdad, Kirkuk, or Basra?…And, as always, Basra concerns
me the most. Perhaps I should tell you why…and the moment the
promised shell hits the ground…What are your parents doing at that
moment? Is your mother making bread in one of those mud houses in a
village along the Euphrates? Your father…What does your father do
for a living? What is he thinking now? Could it possibly cross
their minds that I am sitting here waiting to take the life of their
child in less than nineteen minutes? And, if there is that odd
feeling that exists between a mother and her child, how your mother
will curse me at that moment? But I made my decision ages ago; at
the time your forces surrounded this city. Want to know where I’m
from? It’s not necessary to go very far from here. Maybe only a
kilometer in that direction along this very boundary river, several
years ago, my birthplace was at the hundred meter point along the
river…yes and had I been born just seven hundred meters in the
other direction, I now would be one of you, at the height of military
prowess with those endless munitions which are more than enough to
destroy a city far larger than our small town…and ignoring the
screeches and howling of the women and children of the city…and
drunk with power…I would be shelling them night and day, but now
I’m happy…happy that I was born just seven hundred meters in this
direction and that I am fighting for several things. My mother…Want
to know what my mother is doing now? Like always she’s reciting
the Throne Verse…for me…for my brothers and her brothers and all
the people on this side of the river. What about your mother? Is
she praying for you also? Whatever she prays or has prayed, in about
fifteen minutes more it’ll all be for nothing…
And you keep
moving…perhaps wanting to reach your front line faster to shell or
fire on our city at night again. When you put your finger on the
trigger and the stock shakes on your shoulder, do you have a sense of
power?…Or does the sound of larger explosions thrill you? Do you
dance up and down and clench your fist futilely, when the mortars,
shells, and missiles explode on our side …but when the time comes
and I hear that promised detonation, I will not jump for joy…and
you are still walking toward the chosen spot…you still have
fourteen minutes before I switch on the radio and the sounds form in
my larynx and on that side a mortar round comes to greet you. Can
you recall all the shells and mortars you have rained down on our
city day and night, annihilating anyone and anything in range of your
batteries? Is there any goal in the world more pointless than
obliterating a city? Continue on your path. I have only have a
daily ration of three shells, and, as on the first day, I have
already used up one. Would you like to know how? You’ve stopped,
why? Oh, I see, you’ve put your pack down. So you’re tired!
What could be in the pack that has made you so tired? Your clothes?
A souvenir maybe, for your foxhole buddies? Maybe some of those
homemade cakes your mother makes? You want to know what I would
bring if I could leave this besieged city? My souvenir would be some
more rounds for the mortars. You tired? Sit! A few minutes either
way will make no difference to me, but continue on your way. I fired
my first shell into the middle of this very roadway, and the second
one is ready to strike the same spot. You’ll be there in a few
minutes and you’ll see the powder burn from the first shell on the
ground, and, like your comrades who were there before, you’ll slow
your pace…and, stunned, you’ll stare at the place where the shell
hit, not knowing whether the second shell is coming or not…and this
question will always remain for me: After seeing where the first
shell landed, why didn’t you get scared and start running? You
probably thought that the it exploded and that you were so lucky not
to have been there when it did…this is what caused you to be so
calm but when the second shell comes crashing down…why will you
still be sitting? You want to know more? What will you see if you
reach the place where first shell hit and look at it carefully? Yes,
that it’s one of yours…but make no mistake…it’s not part of
the spoils we’ve taken from you. Look at it more carefully! It’s
one of the dozens of shells that you have brought down on our heads,
one of the few duds that lands here every day. They just have to be
dug out from the ground, their fuses set on safety and their casings
changed for a filed-off fifty-caliber shell…and then…three shells
are the daily allowance; three shells that until yesterday were in
your hands and today are in ours. By the way, your national symbol
is the eagle! Maybe the same eagle that had thought that all of our
cities would be under its wings. On this side of the river we have a
tale known to all about an eagle pierced by an arrow…they
say that when the eagle looked carefully seeing that its own
feather…it said, why shed tears? we are our own undoing?…What
are you doing? Those minutes added to your life aren’t to your
liking? You’ve put your pack back on and you’re moving…yes
you’ll go down the road and I, like yesterday and all the previous
days, will lie in wait for you until you reach the zone of your last
seventeen seconds…seventeen seconds to your death…and seventeen
seconds till the time when the mortar round reaches its target…so I
must recalculate how many steps you have to take during the seventeen
seconds…and the radio will have to be switched on seventeen seconds
sooner than the shell hits and, seventeen seconds later, a crater
will be made where it impact the earth. My eyes, in addition to the
scope, your body, the seventeenth second, the shell burst…and the
launching of thousands of pieces of shrapnel all around and into your
body…every day or so this scene must be repeated several times
until you also on that side of the river are robbed of your security
and realize that every time you go on leave your death will come…and
this thought is many times more agonizing than being killed at the
front itself. The insecurity of the back lines, those tributaries
leading to family and normal life, so tied up with a sense of
safety…but only a daily rations of three shells will cause that
insecurity…and during that entire time you have no choice but to
run down this road…3.5 kilometers of road…even when we are not
manning our lookouts, you must be anxious…anxious that there is
somebody waiting to switch on the radio…yes, with only three
shells…and not with those thousands of shells…and we have decided
to haul the fear and terror from this side of the river to that…and
you’re still on the road, looking up at the sky and perhaps
enjoying it! What wonderful, brisk weather! If I were in your shoes
the only thing I’d want from God is a breeze so that the shell
might be go slightly off course before it hits the road…or that the
charge in the mortar round doesn’t work and the shell doesn’t
fire in the chamber. Ten minutes to go before the seventeen-second
zone. This is probably what you’re thinking: How long will the
roads remain insecure? With ten, twenty, forty more people killed,
you’ll doubt the safety of other roads. Yes, it’s a good
question, you have every right to ask it, and I have every right not
to answer. Today it’s your turn to find a strategy. Likewise it
could be the turn of one of your comrades, someone just passing a few
minutes before you and you would probably inspecting his spattered
blood on the ground; but today everything has conspired to make you
the subject of the conversation. Want me to answer your question?
You have the right to know! In the future if this method doesn’t
work, I’ll find another way. Now everything is in place for the
old method. Do you know what that is? Keep walking along the path
and just listen. “The Mousetrap” is what we call it. At the
same level with the road you are on and the others that go off into
the desert behind it is a telephone pole. We just have to bring the
first shell down on the telephone wires…and a break in
communications…and then the poor lineman who will have to come and
reattach the frayed cables…exactly at the point of impact…and
here a seventeen second wait won’t be necessary…and the second
shell…and the interesting thing is that I had never seen this break
in the lines myself and only became aware of it from the movements of
your linemen.
Taking into account the extra time
accrued when you stopped, we have another eight minutes to chat.
It’s an interesting sort of friendship, don’t you think?
Know how many people are sitting around
our battery waiting for my radio signal? Five…five
artillerymen…Want to know who they are? You have a right to. One
of them is Mehdi who lost his father before the war. His mother was
laundress at the hospital…until one of those thousands of shells
landed on the hospital laundry. Want to know how long it took before
those bloody sheets were white again? And then there’s Hoseyn
who’s only thirteen and keeps the artillery clean. He had to bury
his sister with his own hands; can you understand how hard that was?
Bury bits and pieces of her, that is? Enough or should I say more?
Thousands of rounds launched at the city just to kill a handful of
non-combatants and all we have is three shells at our disposal and,
when today’s work is done, all of us without the slightest remorse
or pangs of conscience will sit down to lunch and then rest and once
again track down some more of your duds so that we can prepare
another three shells for the coming days. We, in fact, don’t even
need the three shells to weaken your resolve. All we have to do
every so often is to mount the kind of action we carried out two
months ago when we got a battalion of your soldiers to turn on one
another. Yes, the same battalion that was sent away from the front
lines and was replaced by your battalion. Nobody on your side knew
the secret behind those leaflets. The leaflets that angered the
leadership of your third army. There shouldn’t be any secrets
between us during these final minutes. In a few days it will be your
battalion’s turn. One of those shells that dispense
leaflets…leaflets that are simple on the surface, promising
amnesty…amnesty with pictures of the Imam…the man that terrifies
you…yes, you have rained thousands and thousands of leaflets on our
homes in the besieged city…give up…until now none of them has
done any good, but our leaflets have alarmed many of you, one little
shell at that…and you never caught on to the trick we played on
your forces! You weren’t in the old battalion, but your comrades
in your present battalion will soon see a shell will open in the sky
and pour leaflets down on them…each leaflet containing a picture of
Imam Khomeini and the promise of amnesty. When we mount our
operations, each leaflet will count as a writ of asylum…and your
commander like the commander of the previous battalion will order
that the leaflets, especially the writs of asylum, be collected and
those in your battalion that don’t give up the writs will be
reprimanded severely; and that in an army known for its collective
punishments. Watch what happens when your battalion commander finds
leaflets without amnesty writs! What’s he supposed to do? He’ll
wonder who’s picked them up. Maybe a number of soldiers have
actually taken them! There’ll put more pressure on the battalion
to find them…If Baghdad gets word of this…your commander will be
under pressure…collective punishment…maybe members of the
battalion will start accusing one another to escape the punishment…
bad blood and suspicion…and in the end a lack of trust in a
battalion some of whose soldiers have hidden the writs of amnesty,
even with their pictures of the Imam…and a lack of trust in war
means laying awake at night fearing betrayal and expecting something
bad to happen. But do you want to know the truth of the matter?
It’s likely that nobody on your side picked up one of those amnesty
writs, because from the very first we made a number of leaflets
without pictures of the Imam and the writs. See how we use our wits
and talents in a city under siege? O Mr. Iraqi eagle! How could one
of your own feathers be the agent of your death? We never learned to
fight anywhere except here during these last few months and if it
weren’t for the war, we’d be in high school in this very city…and
which class would we be in?…Probably math…and here I am
calculating the three minutes you have left to live. Now it’s time
to tell my five comrades down below to get ready. They have to be at
the ready with a tight grip on the chord, as the seventeen seconds
begin. Well, they’re ready…everything’s set against you. Do
you know what I always think at such times? That you and those
before you and those who come after you are probably Basran. I have
a somebody there, or had, I should say, a person that I never saw…my
mother’s sister…who years ago, long before she died, married a
man from there. I always wonder whether you, if you are Basran, know
anything about her or her children. They say she had two sons
several years older than me. Sometimes at such moments like this I
have the feeling that I have those two boys in my sights. Now there
are only five steps before you enter the zone. Four steps, three,
two, one.
Seventeen seconds.
I’ve turned the radio on. The chord
is being pulled and the machinery of your death has been set in
motion. Now a shell that for years remained hidden underground in
the form of ore…was extracted, refined and then forged…and then
made into a container for shrapnel and steel, brimming with explosive
powder…and conveyed by boat over miles of ocean, is on its way to
rack up your death; a shell that has been ordered twice to kill:
once, when used on our city and twice, when used on you. O Iraqi
eagle, here’s your feather back!
Sixteen seconds.
From this moment on the shell is making
its way through the sky, under no one’s control, not even mine.
Our friendship didn’t last very long. You probably would be in
school now…and I, if I could, would take you prisoner to that after
the war you could return safely to your family; but now your are on
that side of the river and I am on this side.
Fifteen seconds.
You’ll have one chance at the
thirteenth second when the sound of the shell reaches your ears. If,
and only if, you pay attention…and stop for a second and sit…when
the shell’s course is fixed…maybe you’ll survive the
explosion…get ready to take that chance.
Fourteen seconds.
If I were in your place and knew what
was coming, I’d spend these last moment asking God’s
forgiveness…for everything and everyone…perhaps God…whatever
the case you won’t need sermons from me when you’re dead.
Thirteen seconds.
The sound of the firing…and you are
still determined to follow the same path. The sound of the shell
didn’t attract attention. What are you thinking about? But
there’s still a chance…the last chance…maybe a breeze will blow
at the last moment, but I pray it doesn’t.
Twelve seconds.
As boldly as possible I must admit that
after killing you and climbing down from this perch, I will have
forgotten the whole thing. By donning that uniform, you have signed
a contract to kill and to be killed.
Eleven seconds.
Clear your mind of everything except
the wind…and me with my allotment of three shells...and that I have
used up one of them…the other is on its way…the third?
Ten seconds.
The seconds remaining in your life have
gone from two digits to one. Death is on the way, my friend.
Nine seconds.
The shell is also on its way. You are
also on the way and my scope is trained on the spot where the shell
will explode. The windfall outcropping whose sole cause is human, on
that side of the river.
Eight seconds.
See: there’s no breeze to make the
shell go off course and the blasting powder in the shell, though it’s
handmade, has performed perfectly, propelling it from the artillery.
Now only a miracle can help you…and, maybe, your mother’s
prayers.
Seven seconds.
How many days will it take for your
family to get word of your death? Two days, five? When it comes,
what will your father be doing? For me it wouldn’t be more than
twenty-four hours. My brother will be the first to know.
Six more seconds.
Time is short. Whenever one of your
soldiers comes from that side of the junction in the direction of the
riverbank, I say to myself, “Chalk up another enemy for our side.”
Five more seconds.
You may be wondering whether I would
have called in the strike if you had been my cousin. Yes, I would
have and I’d be waiting another four seconds. No in another four
seconds you will be at the place where the shell is going to land and
four seconds more before your rendezvous with it.
Four more seconds.
See the waterway for the last time? We
call it the Arvand River and you the Shatt al-Arab. In any case it
won’t make the slightest difference to you. Whatever happens the
fresh water of the river will spill into the sea, becoming salty; as
in the past, the present, and in the future. See how foolish it was
to start killing the people of our city, in the hope of trapping a
river that has never been captive to the man-made?
Two more seconds.
Again, you hear nothing I say; you just
keep walking to the place where the shell will explode at the same
pace. In one second you’ll hear the explosion, but you’ll only
have part of a second to hit the dirt. So get ready and use the last
chance to save your life.
One second.
Our friendship is in its last second.
What are you thinking about during the last moment of your life?
Your intended, who waited until the last second to say farewell?
Your mother? The cold weather? There’s nothing else to do! My
eyes are fixed on the point of impact and you are caught in my
crosshairs and, in this half second, the sound of the shell…and…it’s
all over. The blast happened exactly where it was supposed to,
covering the place in a cloud of smoke and dust that made you
disappear. I sit waiting for it to settle. What happens next means
nothing to me, but for you, if you’re wounded…it is vital…every
second you’ll bleed more than before…and I know exactly what you
are thinking about during this time…about your friends helping
you…but if it’s all over and your soul has taken flight…now
your friends have a dilemma…should they rush to help you? I also
have a friend who could come to your aid…don’t get me wrong…not
to save you…I’ve let you in on our whole strategy…the third
shell is already in the tube so that your friends will suffer the
same fate as you.
The smoke has cleared and you’re
lying on the ground not moving. Your friends are observing from far
away. You’ll be the bait for the next hook and I’ll remain here
waiting for your friends so I’ll use the third and last eagle
feather…
And again another second.
Our friendship is in its last second.
What are you thinking about during the last moment of your life? Can
you imagine how much the firing of one shell, only one shell, has
caused me to think? Where do you come from? I wonder. Who’s
thinking of you? And this is what I do every day, for every one of
you who goes down this road. Do you, before firing all those shells
at us, give my mother the slightest thought? So why is launching
these three shells so painful for you? Three shells with so much
thought versus thousands of shells without any thought, if those
thousands of thoughtless shells had not been fired, then these
thoughtful shells would never be launched. My eyes are fixed on the
point of impact and you are caught in my sights and this
half-second…what happened? Why are you lying on the ground? What
are you looking at? At a dud? So the shell was a dud again! So now
I’ll give you five seconds to get up and run away; if not, I’ll
switch on the radio so and tell them to send the third your way.
I start my stopwatch…one, two, three,
four…run faster! You put my mind at ease! Don’t get me wrong:
I’ve haven’t said this so you’d get away ahead of time. My
third shell needs to fly seventeen seconds, and, if you were late to
escape, it’s possible that there’ll be no one where the shell
hits…now, perspiring, you’ll join your friends…without your
back pack which you left in that appointed place…and now you’ve
seen death with your own eyes…will your finger squeeze the trigger
of your gun again tonight? Will you give the mothers on this side of
the river a thought? Absolutely…so you’ve got my message loud
and clear. With death or fear, it doesn’t matter which, you’ll
transmit you fear to your comrades…like the leaflet-scattering
shell that will explode over your heads in a few days…and maybe you
are one of those who out of fear kept one of those writs of amnesty.
Whatever the case I’ll be waiting for you, until at the
crossroads…someone else is dropped off…perhaps in a couple of
days…and again you my friend….
No comments:
Post a Comment