Nasrat Mardan

Another writer from Kirkuk whose work can be seen as homage to the city is Nasrat Mardan. Indeed, one of his most recent works is a booklet on Kirkuk published in Arabic in 2005. A fiction writer, poet, and translator, Mardan was born in Kirkuk in 1948, but left Iraq during the harsh years of the 1990s and has been residing in Geneva since 1996. He writes in Arabic and in his mother tongue, Turkmen, and his translation of Yashar Kamal’s novel To Crush the Serpent into Arabic has been widely praised. Some of his poems and stories have been translated into Arabic and Kurdish.

Both “Bar of Sweet Dreams” and “Sufi Blessings” are set in Kirkuk, and they fairly represent Mardan’s work even though they are among his most recent works. “Bar” offers a more open critique of an authoritarian regime, but it does so in an imaginative manner that identifies victims of political oppression with writers. In “Sufi Blessings,” the writer pits the naïveté of the public against the cunning representatives of state power. The Sufi character, the sayyid, is sympathetically drawn, but he and his followers are also shown as out of touch with reality. Their opposition to the bulldozing of a cemetery to build a new road suggests attachment to a tradition that is not particularly critical and might explain their failure to understand the regime.

“Bar of Sweet Dreams” and “Sufi Blessings” are translations of “Hanat al-ahlam al-saʿida” and “Tilka al-raʾiha al-qadima,” both from the collection Hanat al-ahlam al-saʿida (Bar of Sweet Dreams; Traun, Austria: Dhifaf, 2003).

Bar of Sweet Dreams

The red flower in the pot wondered if I was actually going out at an hour like that. A reasonable question from a flower that only made my room more beautiful. It must be late, I guessed without bothering to look at my watch.

Kirkuk was dead asleep, and a stroll at such a time might not end well. My city goes to bed early, and the last to go to sleep were the drunkards after the pubs closed. But I had to go out, and I knew the dangers such as running into a police patrol—there were a lot of them. You wouldn’t know where their questions might lead, for they usually took people to the nearest police station for the flimsiest of suspicions. The impulse to go out was as powerful as if an invisible hand or power were pushing me. I hurried to change my clothes and cast a quick look at my face in the mirror. I made sure to extinguish my cigarette before I left.

The woman asked where was I going so late at night.

“I have an appointment with my story’s main character,” I said.

“What story?” she asked.

“The one I want to write.”

The woman pursed her lips. I couldn’t care less because she was just a female presence in my room. I couldn’t tell how long she had been there, and her opinions didn’t really matter to me. I left.

Outside, the night sky was dazzling with sparkling stars, and the breeze seemed to be coming from the gardens beneath which rivers flow.¹ The streets were dead, and the windows overlooking them were shut as if in deep slumber. I was alone and fearless, and I really enjoyed my city. The sidewalks were differential and even seemed to suggest I was intoxicated tonight, but not with wine as usual. I couldn’t really care for what the sidewalks thought. It pleased me, though, that I was the subject of the sidewalks’ nocturnal rumination.

Rows of houses appeared like apparitions as I walked with firm steps toward the house my feet were leading me to. I didn’t know where exactly I was going or to what house. A pack of stray dogs clustered around a waste barrel watched me quietly as I passed by indifferently. One dog seemed hostile, but the rest kept him under control. The biggest among them told his colleague, “Leave him alone. I see him around here every night. He doesn’t want to harm us.” That was true, for I intended no harm for a dog or any other creature. I was just walking, minding my own business, on the sidewalks of my city on a lovely night under a sky bustling with sparkling stars.

Suddenly I stopped at a door. Light from a window in the house spread on a large portion of the sidewalk. I reached for the door bell, but before I pressed it, the door opened, and I saw the delicate face of a woman.

“Welcome. You’re a little late but come in,” she said warmly. “My husband is waiting for you.”

I entered without the least hesitation even though I hadn’t seen that woman or house before. A man approached me with a warm smile.

“Welcome, sir. Please, let’s sit down.”

I sat down and looked at the room. A sofa with a flowery fabric, drapes of green velvet, and a copy of Picasso’s Guernica.

“The children are asleep,” the wife said, amicably. “My husband has been waiting for you for a few days. Would you like a cup of Turkish coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

The man’s face was smiling, too. Their warm welcome made me feel at home, and although I had not met this family before, I thought I might have been introduced to them somewhere. The man was nice, and I decided to be blunt.

“I’m sorry,” I said as the wife brought the coffee, “but have we met before?”

The man gave such a laugh in that quiet night that I thought the children might wake up. His wife smiled in a way that somehow indicated the naïveté of my question.

“Have you forgotten, sir, that I’m the main character of your new story,” he said after he stopped laughing, “the story you’re writing now?”

I must have looked like someone who had just awoken from a deep sleep. I stared at him for a while. “So it’s you I’ve been looking for all these days.”

“I apologize if this surprises you,” he said and laughed again. “I’m the hero of your new story, and I intuitively felt you’d visit me someday, and here you are.”

His wife left the room, perhaps to go to bed since it was late and she needed to get up early to prepare the kids for school.

“Make yourself at home,” he said.

I was feeling drained, in fact. True, I had been eager to get here, but I also realized that it was only to visit the main character of my story. All that was very nice, of course, like a deity meeting his creatures, but I didn’t know exactly what to do after the initial introduction, not to mention the unfamiliar house at such a late hour.

The hero of my story must have guessed my bewilderment.

“You look confused still, sir,” he said with a cunning smile. “What is it? Just tell me.” His words somehow saved me.

I wanted to tell him, indeed, as much as I could.

“Believe me, I’m happy to meet you since you’re the main character of my new story. The problem is: What are we supposed to do?”

He roared with laughter once more. I’m usually gloomy, so I was bemused by the high-spirited hero of my story. He even seemed optimistic.

“We’ll go together to the Bar of Sweet Dreams,” he said.

I was surprised by that suggestion, a bar in Kirkuk that would be open at that hour of the night.

“It looks like you haven’t heard of it,” he said as he read my bewilderment again.

I thought I knew my city better than him, and I decided not to let him have fun at my expense.

“You must be joking. Where will we find a bar open at such an hour? And, frankly, I haven’t heard of such a bar.”

“Trust me, sir,” he said with confidence, and his smile now seemed sarcastic. “There is a bar called the Bar of Sweet Dreams, and it stays open till dawn.”

This hero of my story seemed foolish and pretentious, but I decided to go along with him to expose his ignorance.

“Where’s this bar?” I said.

“It’s in Shaterlow, near the watermill,” he said with confidence.

I knew immediately he was lying, for I was very familiar with that area. There was no bar with that name near the mill. No bar at all was there, only a Catholic church in a nearby alley.

He stood up and gave me his hand.

“Let’s go my friend,” he said. “You don’t believe me. You’ll see with your own eyes. Have you forgotten that the events of your story take place there?”

I got up and we left. I had no idea why my character claimed that bar was the locale of my story. I had not yet actually thought of a setting. All I knew of the plot was that a person was waiting for me, the narrator, in a house, in some alley in my city, and that it was not nice to keep him waiting for too long. I had to go and get to know him. But I had not decided his specific role. I just had the urge to write a story, but its events had not yet taken shape.

The two of us walked silently under the star-studded sky of Kirkuk. The strange quiet of the night magnified the sound of our steps as my character led me to a world I had not heard of. I had to go with him. The dogs were still digging in the waste barrel.

I started to hear the water flowing into the mill, and I saw the Catholic church. The icons all must be asleep now, I thought, and Baby Jesus must also be asleep in his mother’s lap. Only the bells seemed on edge, waiting to call the faithful to prayers.

Then I suddenly saw a place bright with lights.

“You see now, sir,” my character said. “This is the Bar of Sweet Dreams.”

There was some movement in front of the bar’s door. Am I dreaming? I thought. Since when had this bar been here? And why hadn’t I seen it all this time? I passed by this place on my way to school every day.

My character patted my shoulder as we approached the place, and I noticed for the first time a woman of stunning beauty standing at the door. She kept looking at us. I did not need to say a word, for my character read my thoughts one more time.

The magic condition I enjoyed with my character did not last, and I was rudely and abruptly awakened by the noise of a military vehicle that stopped in front of us. Bewildered, I turned to my character and noticed that his face seemed utterly unfamiliar, inhuman. The door opened, and two armed men in uniform got out, followed by a ranking officer. The officer hugged my character. I had no idea what was going on. The bright lights disappeared, and my city regained its gloomy, tired face.

“Abu Qaed, you’re sure this is the man,” the officer said.

“Well, he’s here,” my character said with a wicked smile. “You can make sure yourself.”

“Your ID card!” the officer yelled at me. “Finally, we have you in our hands,” he added and scrutinized me with the kind of suspicion that had become part of his profession. “You’ll soon learn in your hole the benefit of writing all these communiqués and statements.”

“I’m here just to meet my character. For writing a new story,” I shouted as high as I could as if hoping my city would hear me.

My character laughed. He looked the most vicious and evil thing in the world.

“Didn’t you tell me, sir, in my house that you had no idea how things would go after our introduction? Don’t you think your story has been completed? Now you’ll really go to the Bar of Sweet Dreams.”

“Blast you, Abu Qaed,” the officer said. “That’s a beautiful name.”

The car took me away as my character, eyeless, continued to look at me. I no longer heard the tired flow of water at the mill, and the bright lights around the bar dissolved. Near-complete darkness descended, like in a movie theater after a show.

The icons were still asleep at the dark Catholic church, and so was Baby Jesus in his mother’s lap. The church bells couldn’t wait for the morning.

Sufi Blessings

The bright sun was scorching Kirkuk, but the man continued to run. He was gasping for air as he bumped into passersby and vendors’ carts. Although he was crossing streets and alleyways, he seemed blind, totally, for he had just one eye, and it did not seem to be functioning. He managed to cross the bridge toward the Biryadi neighborhood, but his breast now heaved like a bellows. He must have realized his throat was dry, and he slowed down and then rushed as he saw the takya from afar.

Jamal, whose bad eye had become part of his name, entered the takya. Still panting, his eye didn’t seem to see the disciples, beggars, and dervishes crowding the courtyard. He just saw the sayyid, and as soon as he approached, the sayyid raised his eyes to him. Jamal fell on his hand and kissed it in total submission to the sayyid.

“What is it?” the sayyid said.

“Master, a disaster. A catastrophe. A major one.”

“Settle down, Son,” the sayyid said quietly, his hand gently stroking his beard. “What has happened?”

Jamal, still panting, was soaked with sweat. “Oh, Sayyid, a disaster I just heard of and decided to let you know.” He tried to collect himself. “I dropped everything and ran to tell you.”

“Settle down, Son,” the sayyid said and patted his shoulder. “Now, tell me what happened.” He asked for water to be brought for Jamal.

Jamal gulped the water and turned to the sayyid, who was still patting his shoulder.

“This is a God-forsaken city, Sayyid,” he said quietly with pleading looks. “It does not deserve your guardianship. A God-forsaken city.”

His eyes filled with tears. The sayyid was still patiently waiting to hear what the man had to say.

“It’s not reasonable to denounce a whole city,” the sayyid said. “There are those who fear Allah, and others who do not. Allah alone judges, and all we humans can do is pray for everyone to find the path of righteousness.”

“Oh, Sayyid. The municipality wants to demolish the cemetery of Our Sayyid Allawi.” He said the last sentence quickly. His breathing became more regular, and his face regained its natural color. His sole eye regained its white spot as well, but his hands were still shaking.

The sayyid’s face became pale for a moment. He lowered his head and whispered to himself.

“Is it as you say?” the sayyid said after a long silence.

“I swear by Allah, Sayyid. I work at the municipality, and I heard that workers will be heading to the cemetery tomorrow morning to level it. Our city is about to commit a grave sin.”

“Do not worry, Son.” The sayyid was shaken, but he tried not to show it. “Allah willing, everything will be alright.”

Jamal then became aware of the disciples and beggars and dervishes who were in the courtyard forming a ring around him. They had heard everything, and now they gave each other blank looks. Then all eyes resolutely turned to the sayyid.

In the early morning hours the disciples and beggars and dervishes took off with the birds and the sun toward the cemetery of Our Sayyid Allawi. Their green and black banners were everywhere.

The grass smelled of spring, and as far as the eye could see greenery blended with the season’s other colors. The windows of scattered houses on the scene were open, and women with head scarves looked at the wildflowers in the cemetery. They mourned their dead there prior to the Eid and made a ritual of mourning them again the first day of the Eid. In this city cemeteries have a language of their own, unique and indigenous in its blend of mourning and jubilance.

Hasan the drunkard stood in front of the crowd heading toward the cemetery.

“People, friends,” he shouted vehemently, “where are you going?” “Damn you!” Mirza the grocer said. “It’s not yet morning and you have already gulped in this poisonous liquor.”

Hasan the drunkard moved toward Mirza and stared at him. “You’re heading to protect the cemetery?” he said. “When are you going to wake up? Let them build the new road.” His words were punctuated with uncontrollable hiccups. “The souls of the dead are with Allah, and only their bones are here. Let them build the new street so that we can see downtown. Cemeteries are a burden. Who among you passes by the cemetery at night without fear? You’re making a mistake. The cemetery is full of scorpions and snakes. Give us a chance to see the city.”

“Get out of here, you drunkard,” Mirza said and pushed him aside. Then he shouted to the crowd, “You’re not going to listen to this drunkard, are you? Let’s go!”

They all moved except Hasan. “Shame on you,” he shouted in the vacant marketplace. “Let’s see the heart of the city.”

The car stopped, and the governor stepped out. He looked at the crowd at the cemetery. The sayyid was at its center, surrounded by dervishes and beggars.

“Brothers,” the governor said, “what you’re doing is against the law.”

“Don’t the authorities also overstep the lines?” Jamal shouted, forgetting he worked for the municipality.

“The authorities know better what’s good for you. And we go by the law.”

“Do you follow the laws or the dictates of the party?” somebody shouted from the back. Several voices showed enthusiastic approval.

The governor’s face lost all its color.

“Brothers, what’s this nonsense?” he ventured. “Our purpose is to open up a paved street to the downtown area. It’s for your own convenience. Please think and be reasonable. This will modernize our city. We all revere Our Sayyid Allawi. We’ll remove only a few graves.”

“No way,” several voices shouted together. “Those who lie in this cemetery are the children of this city. They might be our sons or uncles or relatives. That’s not going to happen.”

A bulldozer was making its way to the cemetery at that point. A commotion erupted with shouts of “Infidels! Infidels!” Some tried to seize the bulldozer, but the sayyid raised his hand and said, “We want a reasonable solution to this problem,” and when some protested, he was firm. “Quiet. We don’t want violence. We’ll stay here till what’s right overcomes what’s not. No power will prevent us from protecting Sayyid Allawi.”

“You said it, Sayyid!” Jamal said as he kissed the sayyid’s hand. “We’re not leaving the cemetery.”

The governor’s face became pale again. “What you’re doing is dangerous,” he said. “All we are doing is for the benefit of the city and ourselves. I’m only doing my duty.”

“Tell your superiors what you have seen,” the sayyid said. “We’ll stay here till the truth overcomes.”

The governor got into his car, and a few hands waved sarcastic good-byes.

The city was divided. Some supported those who took refuge in the cemetery, others saw the futility of opposing the city’s decision. Loads of food and supplies came to the cemetery. Zakiyya the baker approved of the protesters’ action and reminded others of the miracles of Our Sayyid Allawi. “Our businesses will stagnate,” she told some, “and women will become barren. I haven’t sold a single bread loaf all morning. The protest should go on so that the blasphemers know what they have done.” The imam of the big mosque also approved. “I invoke Allah’s forgiveness,” he said. “Right will vanquish wrong because faith is still alive and well in this city.” But Abdul Qadir Jamil said, “Will people ever wake up? Everything is progressing while cobwebs continue to grow in their heads. They raise hell against a new street?” And Husniyya, a fallen woman in the community’s view, bewailed her bad luck and foresaw days of hunger because people’s minds were elsewhere. Hasan the drunkard kept singing the praises of having a view of downtown unimpeded by graves.

The crowd stayed for two days in the cemetery, and the city had nothing to talk about but the protesters and the cemetery. People filled the spaces between graves with all colors and the sky with black and green banners. Women had more things to look at now.

The sayyid remained a central figure in all this. He told of his meeting with the governor the previous day and the promises he had heard.

“The governor wants us to leave and promised to respect our will. The cemetery will remain under the protection of Our Sayyid Allawi. The minister himself has asked the governor to stop the whole thing. You can all go back to your homes.”

“Should we trust them?” Jamal asked.

“We are the tribe of faith, Son. Promises mean a lot to us.”

When the sayyid got up, the rest followed. Riq tunes accompanied dervishes’ recitations of the ninety-nine names of Allah, and the banners preceded the march back to the city. It was noon.

In the dead hours of the night a car and a bulldozer made their way toward the shrine of Sayyid Allawi. The governor and the head of the city municipality got out of the car, and only the crescent in the night sky marked their secret presence. The head of the municipality motioned to the bulldozer, and it made its way between the graves like a monster. The governor was amused by the sayyid’s naïveté. He looked at the leveled graves and started to compose in his mind the report he would submit to the leadership of the party.

1. This is a common description of the Muslim paradise and occurs in a few variants in the Qurʾan and in Prophet Muhammad’s sayings.