My Father's Rifle Read Online Free PDF Page A

sacrifice had not been in vain; we were free. Faces brightened and the time came for joy. I left my family as soon as I caught sight of Cheto, my cousin with the stunt pigeons. He was standing off to one side, looking at me; he was waiting for me. Happily, I went up to him. We looked at each other and stood side by side to see who was bigger: he was a little taller than I. And then we went off to fly some pigeons.

 
    Â 
    I spent the summer of our return to Aqra joyfully carrying sandbags. My father had received financial compensation to rebuild our house. He called on Housta Musto, the best builder in town. Musto began by inspecting the ruins of the old house, then he drew a blueprint: four bedrooms, a spacious living room, for there was plenty of land. My father carefully studied Musto’s blueprint while smoking a cigarette. He shook his head; he wasn’t pleased. “No, Musto, no, it’s too big, too exposed, there are too many windows!” Musto, surprised, defended his blueprint. After lengthy discussions, he came up with another plan: a beautiful villa with large openings giving out on our orchard. Again, my father wasn’t pleased. In the end, Musto gave up. “Fine,” he said to my father, “do your own plan, and I’ll carry it out,” and he left, disappointed. He couldn’t understand what my father wanted.
    My father had known nothing but war. He was obsessed with problems of safety. He spent the night thinking about his house plan, and in the morning he sent me to fetch Musto. Musto didn’t challenge the plan which my father drew for him on the ground with a stick: two rooms on the ground floor, two on the next floor, all the windows oriented
away from the town, facing the orchard and the hills. Poor Musto listened to my father’s explanations with some misgivings. But my father, imperturbable, continued, “A wall one yard thick, built of stone and cement. That’s much more resistant than the paper-thin sheets you’re proposing.” Then, stabbing the ground with his stick, “There are too many openings in your plan. Some of the windows have to be eliminated. We must be protected from bullets no matter what angle they fire on us from. You didn’t anticipate this in your blueprint. And think of the walls; I want walls that can hold up to missiles.” Musto, losing patience, grabbed the stick from my father. “Do you want to build a fortress or a house?” “A fortress-house, Musto, a fortress-house,” my father replied. So then Musto spoke to him as to a child. “Shero dear, the war is over. We’re free and there’s peace now. Why are you always thinking of war? The time has come to build large, airy, welcoming houses.” Scratching his bald head under his turban, my father had the last word: “That’s true, Musto. But the saying is the bride must please her husband, and you, you must build a house that pleases me.” Musto didn’t want to lose the job.
    By the time the first stone was laid, I had already brought over a big pile of sand.
    When the house was finished, my father hung a large portrait of General Barzani in the main room. Outside, the orchard had been cleared, the dead trees uprooted, and the garden was once again overflowing with flowers.
    Â 
    Â 
    I was in eighth grade. Cheto was three grades ahead of me, and Ramo, another cousin, one grade below. We were all in the same school. Over the door, a banner proclaimed, “Long Live Arab-Kurd Friendship.”
    I was a good student; I loved school. My father was constantly telling me that he wanted me to become a judge or a
lawyer. But on the first day of school I couldn’t understand a word: the teacher spoke Arabic. I was shattered. My enthusiasm vanished. I was on the verge of tears. I felt self-conscious with my classmates; I was nothing but an incompetent, an ass. Cheto and Ramo waited for me after school. I didn’t