TRANSLATED BY ELISABETH JAQUETTE
The true identity of the alleged soldier apprehended two nights ago in a café, speaking about his life and the circumstances surrounding his death, has still not been confirmed. The things he claims to have experienced are historically quite possible, as they are supported by records. News of the man has spread quickly, although there is little information available. According to the Kut Observer, two days ago local metropolitan police detained a strange, angry man speaking in an accent apparently dating back one hundred years. This individual claims to be a soldier in the American War, who was born in 1960 in Nasiriyah, promoted to the rank of corporal, and then killed in the city of Kut in 2003. Investigators are looking into his testimony and outlandish claims. Meanwhile, the man insists that what he says is true, and will not stop repeating his tale.
* * *
I’ll tell you everything, if I can, except for the falling, from Heaven to Earth. My voice echoes … boom … and I’m dying all over again. I don’t know what my death looks like this time, what it’s like at all.
What’s important is I’m someone else today, not the soldier I was a hundred years ago. I’m not scared anymore, not like I used to be. I’m intent on telling the truth, no matter the cost.
They say truth is timeless. This tale happened at a specific time, though: the time of the truth. It would be pretty grand if I told you the truth, and went into every detail.
Whatever the cost. Especially since you know I’m not alive, that I’ve been dead for a long time. The truth is, I’m a fallen hero. That’s right, a war hero, the last soldier in the American War. You want details? I’m a fallen Iraqi hero. How’s that? Well, to make a long story short: an American sniper shot a bullet through my forehead in 2003, about a hundred years ago.
* * *
My name is Sobhan. I was born in 1960 in Nasiriyah, and grew up to be just an average soldier in the Iraqi army. ‘Iraq’s Army of Heroes’ the media called it back then. I can’t tell you any more about my job or the military operations I served in. That’s because I was part of every heroic operation the army undertook since I enlisted, including the one where I laid down my life in Kut. I give you my word: everything I’m telling you is the honest truth. Fact, not fiction. The real truth, no deception. I can’t conceal the things I’ve seen. There was enough nonsense in the world I lived in a hundred years ago, I don’t need to add any more.
* * *
I joined the Iraqi army when I was eighteen. I was just a teenager back then. Tall as a ladder. Faint moustache, like a sparrow’s tail feathers. Nose that stuck out like a rod. On it, a few spots like dried droppings scattered along the side of a road. I served for twenty-two years and six months. From the Iran-Iraq war in 1980 until I was killed on duty in a little battle with the American army in 2003. A minor battle, far from the main action. The war had ended two days before the day I was killed. ‘Mission Accomplished.’ And we’d wanted to surrender, too; hadn’t wanted to enter combat in the first place. We were on that fated hilltop when their patrol took us by surprise, and when we sighted them the world turned upside down.
We heard a voice say Halt.
And we told them Friends.
But not one of them believed us. Me, I smiled at them. I turned, slightly, to reach into my pocket. My pocket, where I’d put a rose. But the American sniper sitting at the back raised his M24 rifle and fired a shot, just one shot. Boom. It hit me in the forehead. The idiot raised his weapon before I could say hi or give him the flower I’d been keeping in my pocket.
He raised his brand-new, well-oiled rifle; not like the scrap metal we had for weapons. He fired a shot. Boom. Hot blood poured down my forehead.
I didn’t believe it at first. Had he wounded me? I wasn’t sure. I felt something hot streaming across my face. A small smile on the face of the black soldier in front of me. He lowered his rifle from his right eye to check whether he’d aimed well and hit his mark. A wide smile sealed the scene. And that was it.
Son of a bitch, he was good … were the last words that passed my lips. And really, they were words of admiration for the U.S. army.
* * *
I started my life as an average soldier in the 3rd Commando Regiment, the one that wrought destruction dozens of times throughout Saddam’s endless wars. I didn’t sacrifice my life in any of his wars (Saddam’s, naturally), but I was injured seven times and promoted to the rank of corporal. I received a Medal of Bravery in the Kuwait War. I joined the Air Landing Assault Regiment in Hafar al-Batin when it was reformed, after most of its soldiers were lost in battle. I made it through all those battles alive. Once during a battle east of Basra, I got shot in the ear, and something fell into my pocket. Luckily, the Iranian soldier was a poor shot. He’d aimed at my forehead but missed. Instead, his bullet hit my ear and tore it clean off. I felt blood run down my neck. I asked the doctor for my ear so he could stitch it back in place, but he couldn’t find it. A few days later I felt something soft and cold in my pocket. I realised it was my ear, and shouted happily, ‘I found it!’
But the doctor said, ‘It’s no good. It came off days ago, and it’s useless now. Throw it away, bury it, or do whatever you want with it. It’s not coming back.’
‘What do you mean it’s not coming back?’
‘Mate, it’s an ear, not a tire on a car. If a couple days go by and it’s not stitched back on, the veins and arteries die. That’s it, what’s done is done.’
So I buried it on the battlefield, while the rest of the regiment stared at me, bug-eyed, adjusting to the sight of me with my one remaining ear.
* * *
I wasn’t ugly or repulsive with one ear; at least I didn’t think so and neither did my wife. The problem was the officers, who didn’t call me by my name anymore. No, they dubbed me ‘Corporal One-Ear’, and that’s what the whole unit started calling me from then on. They took the piss out of me for that little cadaver, even though they knew it was lost in service to the nation, and not to their arses. But my ear wasn’t my only casualty. There’s other things I could tell you about: a piece of shrapnel ripped through my shoulder, I got another piece in my arse, and there’s a third still stuck in my arm. Even with all that, I kept my sense of humor. When anyone told the littlest joke during bombings or attacks, I’d still keel over laughing.
War taught me all about laughter and levity. Even though I’ve got three busted ribs, none of the guts in my belly work right, and most of my teeth are about to fall out, when we were attacked we’d work through it, oil our weapons, squad attention, stand at ease, squad turn to the right in file, right turn, and on and on.
I’m telling you, my performance in combat was excellent, just as my military title suggests. Not like the other soldiers, who were no better than sheep shit. It was my job, my profession, and by choice or by force I loved it. The next unit I joined was the Republican Guard. We were known as Saddam’s Guards, the Golden Division, Men of Death, Lions of the Desert, and other names that would make our enemies shit their pants if they heard we were coming for them.
I never considered killing people in war to be a crime. It was just a job, and a job that paid. A respectable one, just like any government job. It wasn’t a great job, but it was an honourable thing to do for the country, for sure. I wasn’t a hired killer, burglar, or thief; I was a soldier. A corporal, in fact. Part of the Iraqi army. I was just like all the other soldiers. We weren’t allowed to question our orders for a mission, not allowed to ask anything, retreat, flee, oppose, or grow weak. We were there under orders: the military commanders’ orders, the section officers’ orders, the party’s orders. And there was no discussion when it came to that, none at all. We were assigned to units, we killed, we attacked, we occupied, we earned medals, and we boasted that we were part of the Iraqi national army. That was it. I don’t think the soldier who fired the shot, hit me in the forehead, and smiled, was any different to me when it came to that. He wasn’t allowed to ask questions, retreat, flee, oppose, or debate either. Just like me, he was assigned to a unit. He trained, he defended, he occupied, he attacked, he fired a well-aimed shot at the enemy. That’s exactly what he did to me. When he hit me, he lowered his binoculars a bit and smiled, gazing at my forehead and what felt like bird droppings behind me, sprayed in the wind. He smiled when he saw he was right on the mark. When he realised he’d planted his bullet smack dab in my forehead. Son of a bitch, I said, when I realised he’d stuck it right in the centre. I was impressed with him, with how skilled he was. Not an idiot like the Iranian soldier who’d hit my ear instead and ripped it clean off. The American was well trained. I must have been carrying around assumptions about how skilled some of the American soldiers would be, but he was clearly very talented--a sniper who’d probably graduated from one of America's top military academies.
* * *
Even though the state news didn’t talk about the war in the early days, we knew the Americans were coming. We were ready for a battle we didn’t understand. We didn’t have the guts to wonder or talk about it. They didn’t tell us anything. But everyone knew they were coming: me, the officers, sergeants, platoon intelligence, grenadiers, artillery battery drivers, all the soldiers in the corps, the unit baker. Even though it was something we couldn’t say on the news or make public. We didn’t openly discuss it, but we whispered and found ways to talk about it covertly; we’d say something vague that each man could interpret however he liked.
In those days, the only thing we could really talk about was orders: military commanders’ orders, unit orders, party celebrations and the leader’s birthday! We talked about our military capability, and how we could defeat every imperialist platoon, even if their weapons were top notch and ours just pieces of junk.
The man responsible for propaganda was an officer from the countryside who barely knew how to put his trousers on straight. ‘We can defeat the biggest army in the world, just by believing in our homeland and our leader,’ he told us.
For this guy, whose trousers were so puffy they looked like a parachute, it meant that we, with our junk for weapons, junk for planes, junk for tanks, junk for rifles, junk for guns, that we could beat the biggest army in the world.
‘See, we want you all to talk,’ said the party official who coordinated Iraqi propaganda and combated Western propaganda.
And as the fleets advanced across the oceans, it was our job to look the other way, to refrain from acknowledging that what was there was there. After all, we were disciplined soldiers: the leader’s soldiers, Republican Guard soldiers, heroes, defenders of the nation.
We didn’t want to end up like Sayeed, the dumb arse with the thick glasses. He worked it out himself and told us, ‘The American army’s coming, it’s inevitable! When the whole army’s on our borders, it’ll all be over for sure. They’re going to attack … and if not, well then why are they here? The swarms of military battleships and planes crossing through the region, do you think they’re there for a picnic?’
‘But we’re gonna beat them, right?’ the baker asked him.
The baker was unshakable and followed the propaganda officer around like a dog. He couldn’t hold his tongue. He was always asking, ‘What’s this? What’s that?’
Sayeed shook his head in frustration.
‘Maybe.’ But there was doubt in his answer. He added, ‘Basically, our weapons are different.’
The baker, with his pockmarked face, wasn’t pleased with the response. Without pressing the matter he asked, ‘What do you say we get real close to them, so our tanks and armoured vehicles face off with their tanks and armoured vehicles, and when we come into range, we get ‘em with our bullets and grenades and handguns.’
‘There’s no way we’ll get near them,’ said thick-glasses Sayeed. ‘American tank shells have a longer range than Iraqi tank shells, and that means they’ll pick us off before we get near them.’
Thick-glasses Sayeed was an idiot, there’s no doubt about that. But he didn’t say they would pick us off like flies. He didn’t say they’d scatter us across the ground like dog shit. Not at all.
‘But we’re gonna beat them, right?’ The baker asked.
Sayeed shook his head wryly. He shook his head and slunk back to the platoon break room.
The baker wasn’t happy with any of this. He informed the party propaganda officer about Sayeed. He didn’t do it that morning, but by nighttime he’d gone into the officer’s cabin and told him what happened with Sayeed, the thick idiot with the thick glasses.
The party propaganda officer didn’t like men with glasses, and it wasn’t just him: most platoon officers felt that way. Men with thick glasses were cowards: they didn’t like war, they didn’t have their hearts in it, and they weren’t ready to lay down their lives, said the baker to the platoon driver.
A few days later, they hung thick-glasses Sayeed up on the wall across from the bunk hall, and then they shot him. Tata, tata, tata. Tshck, tshck, tshck. His glasses flew up into the air, and then hit the ground, flecked with blood. They shot him full of holes because he’d been spreading counter-propaganda to demoralise the soldiers.
The baker was one of the riflemen. He wiped his mouth with a rag. Stood towards the left of the execution squad. Blew his nose and took good aim. He brought Sayeed with the glasses to the ground like a rag riddled with bullet holes.
* * *
I wasn’t hiding anything from them. Not one of us thought we would beat the Americans, or that we’d even win a battle. Not even the party propaganda officer himself. But we were forbidden from saying it, even the half of it. We were forbidden from thinking about it, too. So that’s what happened in the first days of the war, even when the Americans started mobilising their platoons and warships, and closed in on our borders. We looked into each other’s eyes like complete idiots. We were supposed to pretend we didn’t know what was going on around us. We were supposed to be silent. Feign ignorance, stupidity, indifference. Even though just one look around exposed everything we couldn’t say as a farce. No one had the guts to say a single word, even in jest. Exchanging that kind of news—the kind that everyone knew, but that no one spoke about—was enough to bring you down to the ground like a rag flecked with blood too, it was enough to make your brains explode in the air like bird shit in the wind.
But then suddenly everything changed. We received orders, bit by bit. They didn’t say it straight out at first, but they started to be more realistic. It was clear we were preparing for war. We prepared around the clock, and soon it was time to mobilise. In the beginning we’d talked about war as a possibility, or the war ‘at our gates.’ Then we started talking about certain war, decisive war. It would have been stupid to think that all those preparations were just a drill, or for just the officers’ fun, or because the general in command got a kick out of it.
Little by little, we started talking about the war at hand, war but not all-out war. A decisive war, no doubt. A war we needed to prepare for, a war we needed to win. Then the officers started insisting: there will be war. And we’d repeat after them: ‘Yes, there will be war.’
Even the party propaganda officer, who’d denied it all from the beginning, started saying, ‘Yes, there will be war.’ Despite hundreds of people having been killed for saying as much just a couple days earlier! But we weren’t just saying: Yes, there will be war. We had to follow that with another, obligatory sentence: We’re going to win, by God we’re going to beat them!
The second sentence had to answer for the first sentence’s sins, or at least lighten the burden of such heavy words. And there were other things we knew in our hearts. No one could say anything about our ancient weapons that looked like they belonged to a bunch of bandits. About our faces, which looked like those of primates. About our morale, which was as low as a dog whose owner just died. Or about the men coming for us with their high-tech tanks and warships and aircraft carriers to defeat us. No, not once. The propaganda officer with his parachute trousers, with his country face that looked like a piece of dough that had fallen in the oven, he believed that if we just puffed out our chests we could make their bullets tremble and fall mid-air. That our black moustaches alone, if twisted well, were enough to scatter their high-tech jets like dust in a storm.
* * *
The Americans will come, and they’ll bring democracy. Baghdad will be like New York, Amarah will be like Chicago, Sadr City will be like Las Vegas. Ramadi will be the city of dreams, our dusty folk clothes will be no more, and our sombre faces will be replaced with clean ones, brimming with health. That’s what I hoped for with all my heart, that’s what I hoped for, silently, without saying a word to anyone. Without a single word that might hint at it, not to a soul on Earth, not even people I was closest to. Even that idiot baker started to have doubts. He asked me about it once when we were waiting in the truck yard to get our shiny, new bayonets. (The officers were as stupid as mules, no doubt about that. They thought we could face the Americans in battle with light artillery alone, so naturally we’d need bayonets.)
‘Hey Corporal, d’you think the Americans will beat us?’ he whispered nastily in my ear.
He had no more brains than a dead buffalo. He thought I was an idiot like Sayeed. He thought I was stupid enough to say yes, and then he’d stand in line and take aim at me with his rifle, blow his nose and then blow me to the ground like a rag to wipe the floor.
‘No!’ I told him.
But in my heart, I said Yes! And I know how to get revenge, you son of a bitch. I’ll make you lick a lamb’s arse for two days and then drink camel piss, you pig.
* * *
I said I wouldn’t hide anything from any of you. I’m telling the truth today just like I did a hundred years ago. I say it without batting an eye, without a crisis of conscience. There’s not much left of my honour, what with the number of insults I’ve had to swallow in my life, speaking to cocky men in the army, and serving fools who didn’t come up to my knee. I engaged in frivolous wars that blew half my body away. That was enough to convince me that my country’s problem wasn’t occupation: it was that it hadn’t been occupied long enough.
Right from the start, I believed we were better off with them than without them. We were talking about America, guys. Oh who do you suppose is more advanced, Baghdad or New York? Sadr City or Las Vegas? Kut or Chicago? Amarah or California, Ramadi or Miami? Oh come on, you’d be an idiot, a right idiot if you thought we were better off without America.
I wasn’t the only one saying it, lots of Iraqis believed we’d be better off with them. Everything they’d bring us would be wrapped in cellophane. Everything would be new, still in its box, and wrapped in cellophane. It’d be like flowers on your birthday. Everything they’d bring us would be delightful, they’d bring us happiness itself. American soldiers weren’t angels, sure, but it wasn’t their job to be. I firmly believed that if they said they’d do something, they would. I believed them. I was as sure of this as I was sure of myself, my salary, my ear that fell into my pocket, my shattered ribs, and my stomach ruined by gunpowder, hunger, and beatings.
I’m telling you, I didn’t have the slightest doubt about any of it. The Americans would bring everything great to our crummy country. They’d come to our streets choked with dust and flies, and everything they’d bring would be brilliant white like a young girl’s tits. The Americans would give me back the ear that fell into my pocket. They’d fix my ribs and intestines, they’d remove the shrapnel still lodged in my body, and they’d tell me, ‘You’re just great, Mister Sobhan.’
I just love the idea of the word ‘mister’ leaving their lips. I’m not kidding, I swear. ‘Mister’ is the greatest word any man on Earth can say. You think I’m making too big a deal? Guys, these are Americans, after all, not Saddam’s party members. And whoever doubted it was the biggest idiot on the face of the earth.
* * *
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 soon 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 voices 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?’
‘We’ve no need for it at all; why should we? We’ve managed without it for quite a long time, and things are much better than they were before. We learnt that the blissfulness of religious existence makes people cruel-hearted, just as any kind of faith does. It desensitises them.’
‘I can barely believe this. How does life go on when people live without religion?’
‘Quite the opposite, in fact—it’s been years since this city has seen a single dispute. There are no more Sunnis, Shi’as, Christians, or Jews. No more conflicts or civil wars, and no one judges anyone else over his religion.’
‘Really? There’s something I want to know, but please don’t make fun of me … are you sure that I’m in Kut? Or did I end up in some other city?’
‘Yes, you are in Kut. Sir, you are here in the civilised world, where we have no need for religion. Many wars have been sparked by extremism, religion, sectarianism, and so on. But thank God, who delivered us from religion. We’ve grown so happy without it. He who has God has no need for religion.’
‘You’re right, but there’s something else I want to know. Has all this happened thanks to democracy, or.…’
‘I’m not sure how it happened, exactly. But history has taken a big turn. Just take America: now it’s an extremist state, gripped by religion.’
‘America became an extremist state?’
‘Yes, you didn’t know that? It looks like you really don’t know where you are, sir.’
‘Right. Like I told you, I was killed a hundred years ago during the war, when the Americans came and occupied Iraq, for democracy’s sake.’
‘Ah, well. We know history quite well. The problem, as you recall, was that sectarian war broke out right after American democracy. People hated the way things were; they hated bigotry, hatred, and terrorism, and started to hunt down extremists. The extremists found refuge in America, and that’s the problem now. America has become an extremist state, overrun by religious intolerance. Religious radicals destroyed their buildings and civilisation … it’s become like Afghanistan was a hundred years ago, when it was ruled by the Taliban.’
‘Are you telling the truth, sir?’
‘Yes, of course. Do you doubt me?’
‘To be honest, I … how could I have doubts. I’ve been dead for a hundred years. But I feel like an idiot. What you’re saying is hard to believe. Has America given up on democracy?’
‘Yes, America is a rogue state now. It’s part of the axis of evil. The civilised world is trying to bring the country back to its senses and bring back democracy…’
‘Good Lord, what are you saying? Who is part of the civilised world, sir?’
‘The three civilised, industrialised, democratic nations: Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and Iran! As you know, after Iraq’s transition to democracy, the religious governments in the other two nations fell, and they became secular, democratic countries.’
‘Iran and Saudi Arabia?’
‘Yes, they are now the vanguard of the civilised world, just like Iraq. The problem is with the West—that’s right, the problem is with the West, which has been transformed into an oasis of terrorism, a haven for religious intolerance and hatred. We have a great duty, sir, to restore democracy to these countries and make the world a safer place. But please excuse me, I’m pressed for time; my girlfriend and I want to go to this event and donate a few things to American refugee children. If you’re looking for a place to relax, there’s a wonderful artsy coffee shop at the end of this street. You could have a bite to eat, or some tea or coffee. It’s all free, for people who don’t have any money on them.’
‘Thanks for telling me. Goodbye, sir, goodbye sir, God bless. Helping take care of our brothers, the Americans and the Europeans, their refugees. They deserve to be taken care of, after their countries’ dictatorships.’
I slapped my forehead. What was going on! Really, was the world still spinning the right way? What has this man said, about Iraq saving the American people from dictatorship, and bringing them back their freedom … and then the whole thing about American refugees in Iraq, could that be right? Iraq offering refugee status, freedom of expression, and other things to Americans who were persecuted in their own country? Did that angel get me drunk before he brought me back to Earth? Honestly, I don’t know whether to go to the coffee shop or find out whether all this is true.
I walked about a hundred yards and stopped in front of the wonderful artsy coffee shop.
There was a television out front, and I drank some orange juice, served to me by a pretty waitress. She brought it out on a platter embossed with silver, and set it in front of me on the table.
‘Ma’am, could I ask you a question?’
‘Of course, go right ahead.’
‘Are you from Kut?’
‘No sir, I’m from Nasiriyah, I just work here.’
‘Nasiriyah? Ah, Nasiriyah. I remember Nasiriyah; I was born in Nasiriyah. Has it developed too, has it become like Kut?’
‘Oh even more so, sir. But I just work here—my husband is from Kut, and I’m from Nasiriyah, the Flower of the South, the most advanced city of all.’
‘God, I can hardly believe it…’
‘Would you like anything else?’
The newscast had begun, and the president of Iraq appeared on the television screen with his dog in front of a big building.
‘Is that the president of Iraq?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, standing in front of the Green House, and that’s his dog. He’s going to give an important speech about the war against religious extremism in America, human rights violations, and of course violations of women’s rights and freedom of expression…’
‘Ah, well then I’ll listen to what he has to say.’
* * *
Believe me, gentlemen, that’s everything that happened! While I was watching the news on television two men walked in and came towards me. They looked like police, I could tell by their clothes and the insignia they wore. They stood right in front of me, and I looked up at them.
‘Sir, may we kindly see your papers?’ The skinnier, younger one said.
‘To be honest, I haven’t got any papers.…’
‘You’re under suspicion—you’re an American, sir, you have the air of someone angry, and religious; there’s a note of terrorism in your booming, explosive voice.’
‘No sir, not at all,’ I begged. ‘That kind of talk is passé, from an earlier era in this country … back then, it was fine to talk like this, it wasn’t terrorism.’
‘Are you Iraqi?’
‘Yes, I swear. I’m Corporal Sobhan, haven’t you studied history? Don’t any of you write about me? I’m the one whose brains were splattered like bird shit by an American sniper. I’m a war hero, a martyr, if you still don’t recognise me, I swear, my case is still under review, I came here to spread religion—’
‘Religion?’
‘Yes, religion.’
‘So you admit you’re a terrorist?’
‘Listen, I swear, it’s not like that at all, let me tell you. Listen to me, wait a minute, just hold on, before I go with you…’
* * *
The rain began to fall that afternoon, lightly at first, and then harder, striking tall glass buildings and showering the trees. The rain lasted for about twenty-five minutes, and then it left patches of blue sky behind. After the clouds receded, cascades of light descended. White steam began to rise up from the tarmac on the long street, and cars gleamed as they drove by. There were boats with white sails in the Tigris, and above Kut were delicate clouds. Reedy music poured down from the balconies.
A lawyer mentioned that the Kut Observer had omitted two facts: first, that her client faced terrorism charges, and second, that the newspaper failed to cover an important piece of news from America, news of rumours sweeping the nation that the Antichrist had appeared in Iraq.