Baghdad Central by Elliott Colla Read Free Book Online

ear:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  There is no Mutassim I can call
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  And there is no Saladin among us .
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  We sleep at night, and wake at dawn wounded ,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Stabbed, killed .
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  How do we make peace with tyranny?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  How do we shake hands with Satan?
    For some reason, it’s the Mosuli’s face that makes Khafaji think of these lines.
    The American comes back in, followed by a man in a black hood. They sit down in the metal chairs opposite Khafaji. Someone places the blanket on his shoulders again, and Khafaji pulls it around his body as tightly as he can.
    As the American opens a file, Khafaji stares at the hood. The man will only look at the ceiling.
    The American turns to the hood and asks in English, “Is he Muhsin Khadr al-Khafaji?”
    The voice inside the hood asks, “Inta Muhsin Khadr al-Khafaji?”
    â€œNaam.”
    The American asks in English, “Can he confirm that he serves as Party chairman and commander in the Qadasiya militia?”
    The interpreter begins, “Mino ygool…?”
    Khafaji interrupts. “What? No. Police. Not military.”
    The American and the interpreter look at one another. Khafaji interrupts them again. First in English. Then again in Arabic: “You’re looking for someone else, aren’t you?”
    They get up and leave in a hurry. When the door cracks open again, Khafaji sees the Mosuli looking in. Standing next to him is a slight man. Another business suit. Two more perfectly polished shoes. The only thing different about him is that he’s wearing a hood. The Mosuli speaks to the man then points. At first the hood nods. Then it shrugs. Khafaji imagines another hairless pink face behind the mask. A hand shuts a door somewhere and Khafaji is alone again. The pain in his sinuses and head is unbearable now. He closes his eyes and tries to disappear.
    This wasn’t the first time it happened. Once, early on,there was an official notification about a job promotion. It was addressed to him, Muhsin Khadr al-Khafaji. A huge promotion. A leap over ranks and pay scales. As soon as Khafaji saw the letter, he rushed home to show it to Suheir. They celebrated by going out to dinner at one of the new restaurants on the river. Suheir’s brother Nidal and his wife Maha joined them and they all drank too much arak. That was on 16 July. He could never forget it. Late the next morning, Suheir woke him up and together they listened to the news of the coup. Arif on a plane to London. Ahmed Hassan al-Bakr, the new president. As he straightened his tie in the mirror that morning, he realized that the whole world had changed while they were sleeping.
    But that letter was meant for someone else, another Muhsin Khadr al-Khafaji. Long after the mistake was corrected, Suheir loved to tease him about how much money they spent on their celebration. For his birthday the next year, Suheir had framed a photograph taken of the four of them at dinner, embossed with the words “Congratulations on your success!” It was one of the few photos from that period Khafaji still possessed. That evening, and that mistake, became one of the brightest moments of their life together.
    The second time it happened was just after Kuwait. A boy in a uniform appeared at the door. When Khafaji opened it, the boy rushed to shake his hand and embrace him with genuine tears and compassion. Khafaji was too stunned to interrupt. The boy said little at first, just vague praise for martyrs. Over tea, he launched into a long story about his friendship with Khafaji’s son. They were more like brothers than friends. He talked about how their entire unit sent its regrets. By this time, Khafaji was so confused he did not know what to say. Three years before, when Uday wasexecuted, there had been no visit and no condolences. No body recovered. No burial.