The Sky will not Rain Again


AUGUST 28, 2006

It was a cold and inundating winter when the people crowded out of their
houses in search of oil to light the lanterns and heaters. Empty barrels and
pale faces scattered in all directions. Smoke emanated from the yards. It
was the smoke of burning drenched woods. In the direction of the post
office, which was recently air struck, people gathered to look at the
immense destruction which the vacuum bomb left and to collect some
items from the rubble that might assist them in their subsistence. A
howling voice rose among the people “What you are doing is haram”….
“You should not do that, you Muslims; these are public property that you
all have to protect not to plunder”.
“Why don’t you go home, old man?” Karim, a young man in his twenties
yelled in a derisive tone. “We are hungry, exhausted and worn-out, we
don’t have our daily living, the Americans are bombing and the whole
government is crumbling down.” “Before you tell us it is haram, you should
have preached the officials who starved us and made us bare of our rights.
Shame on you, you are an old man. Why should we care for public
properties while our lives are stolen?”
The rest of the people did not seem to care about the verbal skirmish
between Karim, the aspiring and indignant young man, and the old man whose views were out of context.
Karim went home with a bundle of firewood that he managed to collect
from the rubbles of the post office. Today they will get some warmth and
prepare some food and drink fresh hot tea to thaw their debilitated bodies.
Karim’s father was killed more than a decade ago during the first Gulf War.
He left his wife, Karim and other four sons to face the hardships of life.
Karim was the youngest of his brothers and so was the spoiled one. But he
always showed a considerable composure and self-reliance. He left the
school at the age of 15 and opted to work as mechanic with his cousins,
only to be deprived of the benefits of education that he finally realized
when he saw his peers plowing their ways into good social positions.
Pondering over his cup of tea in the dark corner of the humid room, he
heard the sound of jet fighters lacerating the sky. “Damn them. Can they
bring us hope and remove Saddam? I want to work and marry the girl I
love. I want my children fill the house before my mother passes away. I
want her to see them playing around.”
In the morning, Karim went collecting wood for cooking. He reached the
ramshackled post office to find a greater gathering of people. Among them
was his dearest friend, Jalal.
“Hay, Karim! Come over here!”
Karim glanced Jalal waving his hand with a big smile on his face.
“Have you heard the news?”
“Which news?”
“Saddam is finished and the government flew away, bye-bye papa
Saddam.” Jalal frisked towards Karim enthusiastically.
“There would no longer be rotten Baathists breaking into our houses
in the midnight in search for fugitives or to take us to the party
section to spend the night with the dogs.”
“You must be kidding?”
“Look at those people and how joyous they are. The good guys
entered Baghdad with no opposition, the Americans themselves are
surprised.”
The gathering was in a state of ecstatic elation, they were laughing and
cursing Saddam loudly. However, some of them were still afraid of cursing
Saddam in public.
Karim was astounded, all the beautiful dreams and future plans seemed
within reach. They would soon be like the rest of the world, modern
technology, mobile phones, fashionable cars, air-conditioned work places,
a long list of fantasies and false expectations.
The weary crowd of people seemed to have forgotten their misery with the
news of toppling Saddam. They laughed and cracked jokes at the ‘fallen’
regime. They were pathetic; not knowing what would be awaiting them.
Thrilled and raptured, Karim returned home carrying his daily bundle of
wood and went to his mother to tell her the news. She was not so much
surprised and did not show a great interest. The news did not seem to
appeal to her as she was convinced that nothing new would soon happen to
remove their misery for ever. She took the wood and began to kindle the
fireplace. The wood was wet and did not burn easily. She spilled some oil
from the lantern on the sticks, which began to smolder with wisps of damp
smoke.
“What will you cook us today?” Karim asked.
“Nothing’s soup.” His mother had a rather black sense of humor that
made him smirk.
“I long for some meat; I can’t eat this watery, vegetarian soup any
longer.”
“Only human’s meat is cheap today.” Karim’s mother spluttered
while she was stirring the lumpy lintel soup.
Outside, people were preoccupied with petty talk about the recent
developments and the new order. The central Baathist government melted
like ice in a whirlpool, and Saddam himself disappeared in an
occult hideout. The political affair did not concern Karim so much and he
opted not to get in discussions of this kind. Maybe, he was also afraid of
Saddam’s ghost that was still haunting the minds and hearts of most Iraqis.
Summer was approaching rapidly and the weather was getting warmer and
warmer. There was no spring in Basrah, where Karim lived, only for a short
time. Flowers and butterflies could only be seen on the TV that Karim was
about to forget because of the scheduled power cut-offs. The only
interesting thing that appealed to him was the scattered cottony clouds that
were moving in different shapes in the sky driven by the soft breezes. One
was like the face of a girl, the other was just like a chair that had soon
morphed into something like a car or a table or may be nothing. The whole
thing was an illusion. They were no more than creations of Karim’s fantasy
as when he used to tell his friends that he saw the face of a beautiful girl in
the moon.
At about 12 pm, Karim spread his rugged prayer mat and put the
turbah, the sacred soil of Kerbala that mingled with the blood of
martyrdom. He began to pray though he couldn’t hear the muezzin as the
there was no electricity to operate the megaphones. He was happy with
this, as the mosque used to be close to his house and the muezzin had an
extraordinarily coarse voice that sent him jumping from his bed. His
prayer was short. He began with the noon prayer and moved to the
afternoon prayer in a hurry that he missed a rukaah. He must have been
yawning in his reveries. Like many Iraqis, Karim usually finds himself
talking with himself in the middle of the street, and when he realizes that
someone is looking at him he swiftly slides his hand into his pocket and
takes out his rosary to give the impression that he is counting his
exaltations of God. However, people would laugh at him but no sooner
than they find themselves in a similar situation, only to be laughed at by
others.
After months of the invasion and the big promises from the Iraqi and US
officials, nothing changed. The only thing that Karim came to have is a
mobile phone to which he sometimes can’t find enough money to buy a
scratch card, and the car he promised himself of was reduced to a bicycle
without mudguards and brakes. However, there was a strikingly new
development. A sinister one. Terrorism. Rarely had Karim heard of a
roadside bomb, an explosive belt, a car bomb or a body bomb. The country
was infested with Arab fighters, trained in Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Syria
or Iran. They might have been here in Iraq since before the invasion.
Rumors were rife that they were brought in by Saddam. The events were
accelerating and terrorism had become a hook on which the
Americans and Iraqis were fastening their faults. Anyhow, the rebuilding
plans were exploded with the bodies of the poor that filled the
fridges and the streets.
The Sunni Triangle was just like that of Bermuda and the Americans are at
loss about what to do. To launch a sweeping offensive and destroy their
democratic image or leave the terrorists steal the lives of the innocents.
Here glittered in Karim’s mind the idea of joining the new Iraqi Army. It
was said they paid well and the soldiers were treated just like officers. Good
food, nice clothing and a noble cause: fighting the terrorists and protecting
the innocents. Why not, he would be able then to afford his marriage
expenses and save a good sum of money and then retire. It was up to him
now; no one could force him to stay in a job he detested. He used to be a
deserter in Saddam’s army. Democracy, long live democracy!
The idea of being a soldier anew did not appeal much to Karim’s mother
nor to any of his brothers. Nevertheless, they could not prevent him from
doing what he thinks reasonable for himself. Karim’s mother was really
upset; she has seen some bad dreams recently which kept recurring for
three consecutive nights. She saw Karim carried home with his bride in a
big procession of friends and relatives. Henna dyed his left hand and his
bride was dreadfully ugly. She never told the dream to anybody. She was
told that dreams were tied to a bird’s foot; if the person spoke them out,
they would fall and come true. Wedding meant the opposite to her. Maybe
a funeral or some disaster.
“Sonny, Karim, quit this idea. I am not strong enough to hear of
anything bad happens to you.”
“What’s up, mom?”
“Karoumi, remember you hardly survived Saddam’s army and you
come today to volunteer? It is death waiting in every corner of the
streets to take the youth. We don’t want your money, and your
brothers will care for your needs and will marry you off to whomever
you like.” She implored him with pleading eyes.
“Mom, you want me to live like a parasite scavenging on my
brothers. I want to rely on myself and to make my way in life.” Karim
began to lose his temper and his mother could sense that in his
trembling voice. There seemed no point in arguing. But plentifully
and quietly Karim’s mother’s pale, glaucoma-ridden eyes watered.
She dried them with her black velvet veil and went inside the kitchen
to make some tea.
The recruitment centers were full of young men applying for jobs as
soldiers. Long queues of merging figures waited in the scorching sun and
humid air for their interviews. White men, English men in military uniform
with Iraqi interpreters stood watching in delight the crowds of young men
who came voluntarily to join the fledgling army. Some others came
distributing bottles of water to the recruited. Karim found himself gulping
the whole bottle to compensate the water he lost in the heat. He passed the
formal interview and now he had to wait for his assignment.
After two weeks, Karim headed to the recruiting centre to find his name on
a long roaster of soldiers assigned to a unit in Fallujah. He heard some men
around saying “we are no fools to go there. It’s monstrous death.” A swarm
of ideas and obsessions swept him, but he had already made his mind to go
despite the consequences. He received the instructions from the centre
and now he should leave within a week to his military unit.
The news of his assignment to Fallujah grotesquely alarmed his mother,
who threw herself kissing his feet. He bent down and wept while hugging
her. It sounded much like a final good-bye. Yet he was determined to go
and nothing seemed to hurdle his march. He was instructed not to take any
baggage with him including food and military uniform. Everything would
be cared for there as these things would definitely put the soldier to extra
danger while making his way through the different corners of the acute
Sunni Triangle. It would be a long trip full of expectations and hazards and
nobody knows what would happen to him.
At 5 am, Karim bid farewell to his mother and brothers and set to the bus
station. His mother spurted some water behind him to make his trip safe
and come back one piece to her. She was looking at him in despair as if he
was marching towards death. She could only force herself to say “take care
of yourself, Allah, Mohammad and Ali be with you.” She kept watching him
with her watering eyes till he took a taxi to the bus station.
A month passed and no news from Karim. Tears did not part his mother’s
eyes and her prayers were dedicated to his safety. At about 11 pm, Karim
was about to knock the door when he was paralyzed by a whopping voice “I
am coming, Karim, thanks God for your safety, sonny!” She trudged
hurriedly towards the door and stumbled by a bucket yet she managed to
keep her poise. How did she know it was her son at the door? She must
have sensed that in the air as was the hunch of all Iraqi mothers. She
sensed his odor.
The arrival of Karim sparked a raging fire of emotion in his mother who
went about weeping of happiness. She covered his body with warm kisses,
from top to toe. She could sleep and eat after weeks of fasting and
insomnia. Inside the house was dark except for a flickering sooty lantern
that was hung in the corner of the living room. All seemed to have slept
early as usual. Darkness and the fumes of the lantern made all the families
seek refuge on the roofs of their houses for cool breezes to sleep. Yet, they
could never escape the prickly needles of droning mosquitoes. Karim
fumbled his way in the darkness to his room while his mother raised the
lantern above his head to get a better view of the face she missed for a long
time. She gave him a glass of water which he drained in one gulp. The
bathroom was already prepared for him.
Ashuraa, the tenth day of Muharam, was approaching. Karim came to
commemorate the holy occasion in Basrah. Preparations had been made.
Black, white, green and red banners were hoisted above the houses. Black
obituaries with the Prophet’s sayings, poetic verses and historical
testimonies paying tribute to Imam Hussein were nailed to the private and
public walls. The air carried with it the dust of the battle of Kerbala and the
crackling of the fire which was set to the tents of the Hashemites. The large
bronze cauldrons and basins were dusted off and the processions equipments
suddenly invaded the markets from Iran. All the flagellation tools that used
to be forbidden under Saddam’s regime floated up out of the blue. In
Muharam, all the poor would eat to satisfaction. Mutton, venison, camel
meat and chicken are served generously by the Shiite and Sunni well-offs
alike. However much one ate, they were still tempted to eat more and
more. The remaining food was not easily disposed of; it was blessed food,
with a healing effect that a childless women could conceive a baby once she
stirred into the cooking of Ashuraa with the big ladle.
The processions began early in the morning after days of industrious
preparations. Karim joined one of these mawakebs heading to Abed Ali’s
house that used to be a meeting place for the processions coming from the
popular neighborhoods in Basrah. He wore in black with his hair low cut. A
big bunch of 30 cm metal chains fastened to the end of a stick filled his
hand. The procession moved in parallel queues that formed a huge
black mass guided by a drum beater that unified the procession’s march.
The cadence was so rhythmic and the bodies swayed left and right in a
semicircular movement with the hands rising high in the air before they
plunged to slash the backs with the iron chains. They moved in an
otherworldly, trance-like, dance towards Kerbala. Heads stemmed from the
walls of the house roofs looking at the young men in their first public
commemoration of the tragedy of the Hashemites after the fall of Saddam.
Small children walked each passing procession to the end of their alley. Old
women stood at the doors of their houses and the tears washing their faces;
they must have stirred old memories in the women’s hearts. There were
strong emotions of fury against the wrong doers.
“Are they staging a revolution?” One of the bystanders exclaimed
rhetorically.
“Had Saddam allowed them to do that, the Americans would not
have been here. Freedom feeds power and breeds love between
people and their leaders.” Another bystander commented.
The processions convened at Abed Ali’s house, where a large platform was
raised and decorated with colorful banners and rugs for the poets praising
Imam Hussein, his household, brothers and followers. Megaphones and
generators were also provided; they wanted the sounds to fill the corners of
the universe. Food was served at the noon to give a break to the exhausted
bodies. The afternoon was rather lighter and many sorts of cakes and
beverages were served.
“Drink and curse Yazid. Drink and curse Ibn Ziyad. Drink the water
and curse Shimr. Curse those who checked Hussein from drinking
from the Euphrates when he was dead thirsty.” An old man, who had
been called servant of alHussein, crooned while he was distributing
the drinks.
Night closed in on the city. It was dark, as if mourning with the people for
Hussein. The small children filled the streets as they shimmered in the
moonlight and the heat emanating from the asphalt. Karim went directly to
bed and slept soundly before the day of departure. He wanted to wake up
in the morning yet he felt much and much in need for a slumber. He would
absolutely have it.
It was the day of departure. The same fears and obsessions assaulted
Karim’s mother. She remained silent for she knew her son was stubborn.
The old dreams haunted her this time but she did not tell them only to
herself in the toilet. She believed that to speak out a dream in the toilet, it
would not come true and would not fall from the bird’s foot. The farewell
was so passionate and short. He went to his destination.
During the first week, Karim received his salary. The view of notes
enthused some life into his veins. What should he buy for his family?
Should he save the money for his wedding? No, he would be so mean then
not to buy gifts to his mother and brothers from the first salary. He would
buy a sheep to slaughter as a votive offering for his safety and distribute the
meat to the poor in his neighborhood.
There was an air of unease that Karim began to sense with the approach of
his leave. He began to have some misgivings and see bad dreams as if his
father was inviting him to dinner or to spend a night with him. At first he
was hesitant to take a leave, but he wanted to delight his mother’s heart
and to comfort her with his salary. That must have diffused some of her
fears at least.
The way from Fallujah to Baghdad was rather safe except for some
spasmodic shootings and US copters hovering over the highway, but this
gave a sense of comfort to Karim who was traveling undercover.
The central bus station in Nahda teemed with people; travelers, sellers,
drivers, peddlers, children, aged, young men, women, cats, stray dogs,
dust, oil, dirt. Karim had been hungry all the way to Baghdad. He decided
to have some sandwiches before he got into the bus going Basrah. The sky
was clouded but it did not seem to rain. It would not rain as it was June.
The falafel sandwiches were yummy to his empty belly. Hunger makes
good cooking.
There were about ten seats available in the bus Karim got in. He sat next to
the window and began to ponder over the crowds of people. What would
stop a takfiri from mincing those toiling bodies? Nothing but God’s mercy.
The sky darkened and the faces gloomed in the streets. A sudden
movement attracted Karim’s attention. He could not identify it well. It was
a ghost. Karim was nailed in his seat in terror. It was an amoebic figure,
shapeless, seeping unnoticeably among the people. It must have been in
search of a big hunt. It was approaching the bus from the left. It was
sinister, petrifying, gorgonic…. Karim broke his adrenaline manacles and
headed toward the door only to face the figure which sneaked into the bus.
It was something like an ape, a mongol scarved in red shemagh like the one
worn by the Bedouins of the Arab peninsula. He stared Karim in the face
with the eyes of Medusa. Karim was ossified. He could only cry “terrori…”
before he heard “tick, boooommmmm.” All the past and coming images
squeezed at the threshold of his memory racing to get a venue into his
vision. Childhood images, his mother, father, brothers, hopes,
expectations, dreams, fears, the unknown, the grave, the hereafter, the
wedding, his friends, his mother, the processions, the Hashemites, the
hangmen, the salary, the Americans, the Army, the terrorists, the dogs, the
lantern, his mother…. A long film track of fast moving images that crowded
at his mind. The motif, yet, was his mother. She was washing the dishes
when the biggest china bowl slipped her hands and crashed on the floor.
She felt a prick in her heart sensing a calamity happened to one of her sons.
But it was none other than Karim. Splinters of glass, slivers of metal,
blades, nails, screws, sharp objects pierced his heart and human essence.
She hurried madly upstairs, sloughed her veil, knelt on her knees and held
her breasts between her hands towards heaven. She beseeched God by the
milk and sanctity of motherhood to bring Karim back. “I pray You to return
my son to me just like You returned Joseph to Jacob.” He felt the death
throes with each shrapnel traveling through his limbs. The shrieks and
cries stabbed on his ears, transcended space and mixed with his mother’s.
The sky thundered but it will not rain again. All the rain of heavens will not
wash out the blood shed wrongfully.

THE END