Jalil al-Qaisi

Jalil al-Qaisi was a central figure in the “Kirkuk Group,” a literary movement formed by Arab, Turkmen, Kurdish, and Chaldean-Assyrian writers in the 1960s that energized cultural life in the city for the next two decades. The group reflected Kirkuk’s diverse ethnic makeup, which created what Qaisi described in a recent interview (August 2005) as “a symphony of languages.”¹ Several of the group’s members, however, also knew English well, and their writings reflect assimilated Western influences. Born in Kirkuk in 1937, Qaisi still resides in the city in a life-long commitment to his belief that home is a source of nourishment for writers. Although the place is not called Kirkuk in his story “Zulaikha,” this city seems the favorite setting for many of Qaisi’s works, even when it is not named.

“Zulaikha” presents a prominent theme in Iraqi fiction: political suppression and the role played by the enlightened in fighting it. The female character, though not visible, exemplifies a typical feature of the writer’s works: women are usually the source of constructive visions. For the two detainees, Zulaikha is the beauty worth living or dying for. Qaisi’s skill in portraying the horrors of confinement, torture, and possible physical demise in a dreamlike atmosphere testifies to an artistic maturity noticeable in the majority of his work. Sentimental moments, such as when the two detainees bond or the crowd encircles them at the end, are common in Qaisi’s work.

“Zulaikha” was originally published in the collection Zulaikha al-buʿdu yaqtarib (Zulaikha: The Remote Converges; Baghdad: Matbaʿat Al-Adeeb, 1974).

Zulaikha

When confined, what else but memories to soothe us? In the midst of such solitude they make the present more coherent. For a person locked up in a tight cell, the present flows out there, in the streets, markets, houses, valleys, caves, and the endless whistling of bullets. A buzzing sound snapped me out of my recollections, and in the faint yellow cell light I saw a spider trapping a big fly. Flies like that feasted on rotting flesh like mine in this solitary confinement. So why did time matter? The fly was buzzing as the spider wound its sticky gray threads around the wings. I looked closely at the fly. The fine sticky threads were squeezing its body, and its eyes were bulging. It struggled in vain, continuing to buzz. A demise I couldn’t care less about. But was this life?

Once upon a time my friend playfully threw handfuls of wet sand at me as she ran around on the beach we went to every summer. She used to swim and laugh and then lie down next to me and shout, “This is life,” as she tried to catch her breath. Captivated by the sun, she used to tell me unbelievable stories and repeat, “This is life.” But then we were young and innocent. The beach and the wet sand and the sea were now gone, and we had learned the ways of bullets to try and bring about happiness. Happiness seemed no longer an illusion; and it seemed close, as close as the shot from an old rifle. Ah, baby, our futile attempt to evade our collective shame—the shame we saw in the faces of others and in our blaming of fate or some other factor for our misery. Did we reach for those handfuls of sand to relieve ourselves of what weighed us down?

The fly was still buzzing. I looked closely at it as it struggled to free itself from that impossible siege. Why was it hanging on so dearly to life? What was all this buzzing for? The spider carefully dragged it up the wall, and I could see the fly’s green eyes as its head dangled down. What a striking color! I had no idea why I became so upset, but I shrieked out uncontrollably, and, soon enough, heavy boots shook the corridor leading to my cell.

I was taken to an opening that overlooked a wide concrete courtyard, with scattered figures I could hardly make out. As the cool morning sun bathed me, its rays stung my eyes like needles. How long had I been shut away from the daylight? My insides started to boil, and I was gulping air continuously. More light fell on me, and I felt I was expanding into a strange mass of light. I couldn’t tell how long the days had felt more like black ink, with no real nighttime or real daytime. I couldn’t open my eyes, but I felt it was morning because of the cool sun. Perhaps it was spring. I froze there and then, an uncertain silence all around me, until I felt a sharp pain piercing my head. I instinctively shielded my eyes with my hands and longed for something I could lean on. Betrayed by light and sunshine, my body swung like a sunflower. A body devastated by torture and by the humidity and stale air in the cell. Somebody grabbed my arm and squeezed it till it hurt. I leaned against something, and suddenly the fly’s green eyes popped up in front of my eyes. Were they pleading? As the man squeezed, the fly’s face swelled, and I could see its tiny body dripping fluid. The man started to shake me. Dizzy, I uncovered my eyes and tried to see. Chalky saliva dribbled from my mouth. Shame helped me pull myself together for a moment, but my body was collapsing. The yard below showed signs of life, and blurred khaki figures appeared next to a vehicle.

Someone in uniform pulled me toward a stairwell, and we descended slowly. Then I was taken into a large iron cage on a carriage drawn by a white cart horse. What! A cage? I was stunned. Through the cage bars I became aware of grim faces and closed green doors and green walls and bayonets gleaming in the sun. Heavy military boots and a rapid guttural language. When I looked at the carriage, I could see only the head and neck of the horse. Then the cage door was opened, and a tall thin man was pushed in. His face was covered with blood. He kept looking at me and after a long silence said: “Wipe the blood off your face.”

Blood? I wondered. Did they beat me? Possibly. I felt my face with my hand a few times, but couldn’t find any.

“There’s no blood on my face. They didn’t beat me today.”

“But your face is covered with blood,” he said kindly.

“I’m telling you, there’s nothing.”

With my hand I wiped the blood from his face and eyes and asked: “Do you see any blood on my face now?”

“Oh, no. There’s none now,” he said after a quick look.

“Were you in solitary confinement all the time?”

“Well, it was hard . . . and rewarding,” he said in a resigned tone. After a period of silence, his warm voice was back: “Oh Lord, I wonder where they are now?”

“Everywhere,” I said.

He was quiet for a long time, then looked through the bars and said: “Then everything has been arranged.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re taking us to the arena.” And he added: “We won’t give up now that the remote draws near.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Have you ever contemplated an honorable death?”

“Isn’t that what led us to our current situation?”

“Dogs!” he said angrily. “They’re holding back the masses who want to come and honor us. They don’t want them to find the hidden key to all those issues.”

“What issues?”

He was silent again. Then he bent down and gave me a closer look. “We’ll see.”

His silence encouraged me to speak again. “This cage. Where are they parading us?”

“In the streets. The city streets.”

“Why in the streets?”

“So that . . . so that . . . oh, we’ll soon see why.” Then, whispering, he asked: “Where did they arrest you?”

“In the hills overlooking the city.”

“Oh, Lord, a cage!” he sighed. “Lusting after the truth can be your undoing. We’ll see.”

I heard many voices around the carriage and lifted my head. As the horse moved, the cage shook. The sun brought us delicious warmth as we approached a long street lined with patches of khaki and shining bayonets. Scattered, slumbering houses adorned the background.

“It’s so quiet in the city,” I said.

“They’re playing tricks on us. They want to scare us. But to tell you the truth, we are the real scare now. And only now do I feel a sense of relief.”

“But why is it so quiet here?”

“We are breaking down the siege of fear consuming the people, my friend. Perhaps complete satisfaction will come all in one day. The remote draws near.” Then he lowered his head and looked at the distant houses. “We’ll be killed today. Yes, we will be killed.” He stared at me for some time and patted me on the back. “It had better be the demise of this world, if I or anyone else is to believe their cheap tricks.” He cleared his throat and added: “She used to tell me that life is courage.”

“Who used to say that?”

“Zulaikha.” A contrite smile spread over his face. “A beautiful name, ‘Zulaikha,’ isn’t it?”

“Very beautiful.”

“She’s here in the city. And you, do you have a Zulaikha?”

I smiled back at him, and he patted me on the back again.

“It’s OK to talk a little about Zulaikha. We’ve been too hard on ourselves, and I see no harm in thinking about Zulaikha when we’re surrounded by death.”

We’ll be killed today, I kept thinking. What an enticing dream. It’s beautiful and thrilling and frightening to tell oneself, “This is my last day.”

“I don’t think death scares you,” he said in a voice choking with kindness.

I didn’t say anything. My ordeal had cured me of the fear of death. In the midst of the most terrifying experiences death seemed like just another natural happening. Part of the cycle of life. Like sleep. Or food and drink.

“What are you saying?” he prompted me.

“Is there really death when all senses are almost dead already?”

He embraced me. “Man is destined to suffer.” After a considerable silence, he added, “We’re turning into another street. As I told you, they’re barring the people from coming to see us.”

“But why?”

“Our presence here in this iron cobweb would have opened their eyes.”

I had nothing to say to that. Without thinking, I recalled the entrapment of the fly and somehow felt guilty for not helping it out. For some reason, I revisualized the movements of its fragile legs scrabbling in desperate attempts to break away. Perhaps the clear green eyes were appealing to me for help. I could not stop visualizing the fly, and I screamed again. I was brought back to reality when a sharp metal thing pierced my thigh. An uproar of human voices was coming from the distant houses and fell on the desolate streets and the facades of closed shops.

“Stop screaming,” my companion said.

“I ignored all its appeals for help.”

“Try to be quiet,” he said in a firmer tone.

“I was indifferent to all those appeals.”

“Wake up, do you hear me?” His tone was dry and commanding. “They’re coming to bid us farewell. If only they could get closer.”

“They will, certainly.”

“And if only you could see Zulaikha.”

I started shivering as the pain worsened. My companion was startled: “Your clothes are covered with blood!”

When I looked, I could see a wound five centimeters deep on the lower part of my right thigh. “That soldier must have stabbed me when I screamed,” I said.

“I saw him thrust his bayonet through the bars,” he said, and then he leaped like an injured animal and screamed at the soldier and spit on him several times. “You dog . . . dog! Scoundrel!”

The soldier pushed his rifle through the bars until its barrel touched my companion’s neck. I struggled on one leg to push him away from the rifle. He was still spitting at the soldier. The soldier pulled his rifle away after a superior dealt him a few punches. The soldier was furious.

“Leave him alone,” I said to my companion as I struggled to stand. “What’s the use of trying anything with these degenerates?”

“No one should stab a defenseless person!” he kept shouting at the soldier.

“Let’s think about those who are coming,” I said when he became quiet. “Don’t you think our last hour will be more wonderful if they are here?”

He nudged my shoulder. “Those cowards are keeping them away from us,” he bristled. “This hardship will be so much more bearable if they come.”

“They’ll come for certain, and we might even have an opportunity to say a few fiery words.”

The carriage turned into a more desolate street. My thigh was still bleeding profusely and blood covered the wooden floor of the cage. The pain seemed less, perhaps because my future was now determined or because the long months in that damp cell had destroyed all concept of pain. We realize the limits of our stamina only when we put it to the test.

My companion was lost in thought, probably remembering Zulaikha. I wonder if Zulaikha was ever closer to him than she was on that day. It was probably for her sake that he took up arms to overthrow that hollow system. A child, or a pair of eyes, is worth fighting for.

Then we passed by a side street that made me suddenly very emotional. How many times had I walked it on my way to school! And then as a young man as I waited for comrades. Or as we planned together and replanned and argued. Impetuous youth clueless about aim or destination. The street fell far behind, but it brought to the carriage the smell of spring and sweet memories.

“Was it Zulaikha who told you life means courage?” I asked my companion.

“Oh, you took me out of my reminiscing,” he said, annoyed. He apologetically flicked his fingers through his dusty hair.

“Never mind,” he said. “Listen, try and recall some of your memories.”

“That’s all I ever did in the cell.”

“Sometimes you can go on doing that infinitely. Especially in a slow carriage like this and when we still have time. Come on, try!”

“It’s not easy,” I mumbled.

“Don’t you have your Zulaikha? Zulaikhas rise like the phoenix.” Again, he bent down, but this time he looked at the sky. “This spring is sauntering,” he said ruefully.

The voices were getting closer, and the soldiers’ faces were becoming more sullen. They could have shot us right there and then. My eyes moved from the street to the closed shops and to the houses. More voices seemed to be coming, followed by the tramp of heavy shoes. My companion was unsettled, and tears started to trickle down his face.

“You’re crying!” I exclaimed.

“You know, not because of fear. Only the good know how to cry.”

I leaned forward, and my eyes fell on the clots of congealed blood on the floor of the cage. I noticed that my companion’s military uniform was burned away at the knees. And I looked at my shoes. All those valleys and hills I had walked in them. And I thought of my comrades in their homes or in the wilderness waiting for darkness to fall to launch another attack. Bullets whistling by, last good-byes, renewed meetings.

My companion was crying again, and I could no longer hold back my own tears. His solemn words consoled me: “Oh, Zulaikha, the remote grows closer and closer. Distant horizons close in on us.” With his long fingers he lifted up my face. “Only the good cry.”

“Who’s Zulaikha?” I tried to change the conversation.

“If we don’t die, we’ll meet your and my Zulaikha.”

The waves of voices got closer, and things around us started to shake. The carriage reached a roundabout, and the horse stopped. Soldiers were sprawled all over the place like giant lizards. The voices now seemed to be coming from a street only a hundred meters away. Then a massive crowd of angry people surged up to the roundabout and soon broke through the wall of khaki round it. There was hail after hail of shots.

“I’m afraid the children might get hurt. What a terrible price to pay!” my companion said.

“I agree. They should have let us die quietly.”

“But if the barriers are torn down,” he shouted as the crowd got louder, “then no force can stop the masses!” Then he added gleefully: “The barriers have been torn down!”

A bloody fight erupted with hands, teeth, stones, shrieks. A group of men and women approached the carriage and reached with their hands to touch us—our hands, legs, and even shoes—as if we were blessed. Some women touched the blood on my thigh and ululated.

“We don’t deserve all this,” my companion said.

Some women leaped on the cage, then a few men and children followed and quickly formed a human shield round us. The horse was soon unharnessed, and a group of men started pulling the carriage away with dizzying speed. The two of us rolled around on the floor like sacks of cotton. Bullets were still raining down. A man fell from the carriage when a bullet hit him in the back, and I had a glimpse of him writhing on the deserted street. The carriage was pulled from one street to another, and the jolting brought about more bleeding in my thigh. At the start of a dark alley a bullet hit me in the shoulder, and another hit my companion in the arm.

Eyes were still fixed passionately on us, and hands continued to touch our saintly bodies. My companion crept up to support me.

“Did you see Zulaikha?” I asked him.

“All these are Zulaikhas,” he cried jubilantly.

Hands reached in to hold me steady. A woman rubbed my numb face. I tried to look at her before I passed out. I managed a faint smile and kept looking at her green eyes. The carriage stopped rocking, and I saw again the appeals of the fly’s green eyes. Only then did I realize that the eyes of the fly were like the eyes of my woman. She had died when they blasted her house with dynamite.

1. The interview was conducted by Nozad Ahmed Aswad. It is worth noting that Qaisi’s personal life reflects such diversity: his father is Arab, his mother a Kurd, and his wife Armenian. See http://www.sardam.info/Sardam%20Al%20Arabi/6/14.htm.