My Father's Rifle by Hiner Saleem Read Free Book Online

went back to the party headquarters, followed by my brother, his Plimout in hand. The worst had just been avoided! A delegation of religious Iraqis had gone up to the mountains to meet with our general and to give him a golden Koran as a gift; without their knowledge, it had been filled with TNT by Saddam Hussein’s agents. Just as they were presenting the Koran to the general, it exploded, but miraculously he escaped unharmed, protected by the man who was serving him tea. Order was later restored. 7 My father put his Brno away under the mattress and my brother’s Plimout found its niche again above the conjugal bed. As for me, I filled baskets with figs and, against my mother’s advice,
went to sell them to the soldiers in the barracks to earn some pocket money.
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    One Thursday, Cheto and I were standing behind the barbed wire of the barracks, crying out, “Figs, apricots, blackberries,” when two soldiers walked toward us. They were not the young conscripts we were used to having as customers. They were older, stronger, and much tougher-looking. They were carrying truncheons and wearing the red armbands of the military police. We wanted to turn on our heels, but they called to us, “Children, don’t leave. Bring us your fruit.” As soon as we were near them, they pounced on us. They insulted us as they hit us. “Children of savages … You come here with your shitty fruit to spy on us!” They hit harder and harder, pummeling and kicking us. We were raw from their blows. Our fruit was trampled underfoot. When they had had enough, they let us run away, limping and stumbling, and shouted after us, “If you come back here, we’ll cut off your heads like sheep.”
    When I returned to our neighborhood, I passed tearful women from our family, walking behind a coffin carried by the men, my father and my uncle in the lead. I went up to Ramo. “Who died?” “No one.” “So what’s this coffin for?” “It’s empty.” “Then why are the women crying?” “We’re going to kill cousin Mushir.” I asked why, but he made no reply.
    When they arrived in front of his door, my father and my uncle Avdal Khan, tense, shouted “Mushir!” Our cousin climbed up on the roof to escape. My uncle called out to him, “Come and see, we’ve brought you your coffin.”
    Mushir, panicked, was stranded on the rooftop. My father added, “You’ve dishonored the family,” and my uncle called him a collaborator and fired on him. The women were still weeping around the coffin. Avdal Khan fired a second shot.
“Why do you go to Mosul so often? To meet whom? The security people? Have you become a spy, Mushir?” Mushir, terrified, tried to hide as best he could. “I’m not a collaborator!” he yelled. My uncle broke down the door, climbed up to the roof with my father tagging behind, and caught Mushir. My father looked at him sadly. “There have been rumors about you for some time … We didn’t want to believe them … But you were never willing to say what you’re up to in Mosul. You’re out of work yet you always have money. We must avenge the honor of the family …” My father was interrupted. My uncle had just fired a bullet into Mushir’s knee.
    He was on the verge of firing a second time but my father pushed the gun aside with his hand and addressed Mushir again. “If it’s true that you’re not a collaborator, here, take my gun and fire a bullet into your head! Then we’ll believe you. Otherwise we’ll have to kill you.” Mushir tried to stand erect as best he could. He moaned and pleaded, “I go to Mosul for business!” “What business?” my uncle shouted. My father exhorted him, “Mushir, kill yourself … Your coffin is ready … We’ll make sure you’re buried with dignity.” As he tried