We were grateful for the opportunity to relax and settled back to await the arrival of Mr Abbas.
Almost an hour later the door opened and an old, wizened man appeared. He was no more than five feet tall with a huge hump on his back. He shuffled into the room, his black and dusty nomadic clothes adding to his gnome-like appearance. Mohammad, speaking to him in Arabic, carried out the introductions. He responded by bowing slightly to each of us, looking intently into our eyes but not attempting to offer us his hand. “My friend doesn’t speak your language, so I will do my best to convey exactly what he has to say,” said Mohammad as he poured coffee.
Abbas took a sip of his coffee and looked at Josh. “As-salamu a’laikum.” Josh said quietly.
The old man hesitated for a moment, surprised. “Wa a’laikum as-salamu.” He responded.
“Abbas,” Mohammad said with a shrug, “can only tell you what he saw. It is up to you how you interpret it.” Jumping to his feet, arms waving and head shaking, Abbas spoke earnestly to Mohammad for several minutes before sitting down again, exhausted. Mohammad sighed and said nothing, clearly disturbed. He looked down at the table before slowly turning to us. “Abbas sometimes helps his nephew on his farm by doing odd jobs and herding his sheep and goats. About six months ago, he was herding sheep along the main road when a large grey, dilapidated car with four people inside stopped. A passenger in the front seat asked if he could direct them to a café . It was the middle of the day and very cold despite the sun that was trying to break through the clouds. He directed them to the nearest café used by transport drivers. As they tried to drive away, the car stalled. Even after several attempts, it still refused to start. Three men got out of the car and, although Abbas had started to walk away, he plainly heard one of them say that he would need to get to the tools in the trunk. When Abbas looked he could see that they were looking in his direction, so he started to walk back thinking that they needed help. By this time the fourth passenger, who seemed to be in charge, got out of the car, went to the trunk and opened it. Abbas was shocked by the sight that met his eyes. A man, trust up in chains was wedged into the small space with other pieces of junk, his head touching his knees. Confused, and not knowing quite what to do, he told them he had lost most of his family during the conflict and had nothing but hate for foreigners and the enemies of Islam. This seemed to amuse them, particularly the one who had opened the trunk, as he laughed and jokingly offered Abbas his gun and suggested he shoot the prisoner but immediately put it away again. The man then walked round to the front of the vehicle.
“While they were all looking at the engine, Abbas ventured nearer to the car and peered into the man’s tired blue eyes. And heard him say something but couldn’t make out what it was.
“The man who opened the trunk then came over, pushed Abbas out of the way, and pulled out a box of tools, close to the man’s feet. Leaving the trunk open, he returned to the front of the vehicle, peering inside again and fiddling about with something in the engine. Abbas, all this time was standing close to the unkempt prisoner, who was unable to move except for his eyebrows and eyes. It was from looking into those eyes that Abbas felt great remorse and shame for what these men, who were his countrymen, were doing to another human being.
“Again the man muttered something to him and, this time, he was sure it was ‘Cody’ or something similar. But Abbas, fearing for his life, did not want to get involved and walked away. Apart from that, he couldn’t tell us much about the prisoner. He had a beard which covered most of his face and as he was crunched up in the trunk, he was only able to say that he appeared larger than average.”
Throughout this story I watched Josh closely, and although he didn’t appear to be upset at any time, I detected a slight tightening of the muscles in his jaw and creeping into his eyes a look of cold determination.
The old man leaned back in his chair, as much as the hump on his back would allow, sighed, and said, speaking through Mohammad. “Men should never be treated like that, and the ones who sanction, and carry out such deeds, should be punished.”
“What happened after they got the car started?” asked Josh.
“They drove in the direction of the café.”
“Could he tell by their accents if they were from Baghdad?”
“No, he said that he thought that they were from Mosul or Sinjar. Definitely not Baghdad. Mosul and Sinjar are north-west of Baghdad, and Sinjar is about 50 kilometres from Syria.” Mohammad said.
Abbas abruptly stood up and shuffled over to Josh, who got to his feet, “Violence is the language of the unclean.” Mohammad interpreted, “and if it was your father that I saw that day, I hope he is still alive and you find him.” He held out his arms and drew the boy to him in an embrace. After bowing to each of us in turn, he shuffled out of the door.
We were quiet for some time until Mohammad said in an authoritative voice. “That man has risked his life coming here tonight, but he can see the wisdom in democracy, even if a lot of his countrymen cannot.”
“It’s now important,” I said “that everyone thinks we’re dead. This might then fool some of those who are trying to murder us.” Josh looked at me with a smile. He had been quiet all the time that Abbas had been narrating his tale and, no doubt, many anguished thoughts had passed through his mind, especially when Abbas had described the brutal and inhumane treatment that he had witnessed on the man that could well be Josh’s dad, but there was no outward sign that he was at all perturbed. More, I think, from his ability to completely control his emotions, than from his lack of feelings.
“We should split up Jack,” he said quietly, much to the surprise of both Mohammad and me. “We’ll draw more attention to ourselves if we’re together than if we’re separated. In any case, a young boy on his own is less threatening than a man and boy.”
“So what have you got in mind that you imagine, in your wildest dreams, I would agree to Bubba? And what do you think I’ll be doing while you’re out enjoying yourself? Making faces at Saddam on TV?”
“You could follow behind, like I had to follow you Jack,” he said with a smile.
“This is no laughing matter Bubba. Apart from anything else, I promised Jim that I’d look out for you, so how can I do that if I’m not with you and you’re off on some jaunt, getting into all sorts of mischief?” He loved to tease me but I think he was serious and would be off if I let him go. Not that I could stop him if he took it into his head to go on his own. I could only appeal to his common sense. But he was right. A lone youth would attract less attention than a man and boy.
“You have both forgotten one very important thing my friends,” interjected Mohammad. “Although Josh speaks a little Arabic, regrettably it is not good enough to get him any further than the first Iraqi to talk to him in the street. It is very dangerous out there.” He said stabbing his finger on the table to emphasise the point. “As you have already witnessed.”
“If,” Josh piped up with enthusiasm, “Ahmad is willing to help, he could do any talking that is necessary.” We both looked at him with vacant expressions. He had a point. “If he’s willing to help me, I think he’d enjoy the experience. You saw how well he followed me, Jack, and he must have known he was risking his life, especially when he spoke to me and passed me the note.”
Josh was right. If this venture was going to be a success, we would definitely need someone who spoke the language perfectly and preferably was an Iraqi. Was I mad to consider letting two kids loose in this jungle, where the guy standing next to them could well be packing a bomb or some other form of diabolical method that their depraved minds had thought up to destroy them?
“If Ahmad is willing to help, so be it. At least it would not do any harm to ask him,” said Mohammad, after a few moments. “I will ask his father first thing in the morning.” Oh boy, now I’m in trouble, I thought.
That night Josh and I slept on the floor in the little room, although ‘slept’ is perhaps an exaggeration, as far as I was concerned. The next morning after breakfast, brought to us by Mohammad, of hot beans, sweets dripping in syrup, and sweet coffee he said, “I have spoken with Salih, and he has agreed to discuss the matter with his wife and son. I could not tell from our conversation if he was in agreement but, he has promised to come back to me within the hour.” I was hoping that he was going to say that it was out of the question, which would mean one less thing to worry about.