My Father's Rifle Read Online Free PDF Page B

arm. It was Malaye Djeziri’s poems. What a marvelous book! Each poem was illustrated by a painting. From then on, late at night, after he had listened to the news on all the stations, Radio Baghdad, Radio Israel, Radio Moscow, and Voice of America, my father would open the thick book and read us poems, written in very beautiful Kurdish. He would comment on them for us, giving free rein to his imagination. But what fascinated me were the magnificent illustrations facing the poems. This was the first time I had seen drawings and I was overwhelmed to discover this magical art. I thought that since these drawings were so beautiful, the poetry must be very beautiful, too.
    They showed magnificent women, voluptuous like the houris of paradise, springing up from the earth like flowers. The sky was as limpid as the sky in our mountains. These beautiful women were dressed as Kurds. I longed to touch them, to speak to them. I would have liked to hang them on the wall next to the general’s portrait. For me, being Kurdish meant these poems and the songs I had learned, these women in long green or pomegranate-colored jackets embroidered with small violet flowers.
    At first, I thought the poems were little songs without music. Thanks to the drawings, I realized that if the poetry gave rise to such beauty, it undoubtedly surpassed simple
song lyrics. And with this book, published openly, I thought we Kurds were beginning to gain respect.
    Some time later, walking by Abdulla’s barbershop—Abdulla, whom people called a Communist—I saw a large painting and stopped. It was a painting from my father’s poetry book titled The Young Kurdish Girl and signed “Sami.” While my friend Ramo, suddenly sick to his stomach, rushed to the toilet in the mosque to empty himself of all the pomegranates and figs he had gorged on, I lingered in front of the barbershop, transfixed, eyes riveted on the painting.
    From then on, I went by the shop whenever I could. One day, I saw my brother Dilovan inside, and he called out to me immediately. The shop was the meeting place of all the town intellectuals. My brother was talking with a very tastefully dressed young man. His name was Sami, and they were discussing the painting. My brother pushed me toward one of the chairs and asked the barber to cut my hair while they continued talking.
    There was no question, I was close to Sami, creator of the painting. I wanted to touch him or kiss his hand or talk to him, yet at the same time I wanted to run away. I was greatly intimidated. Abdulla wrapped a large, well-worn towel around me and tilted the chair back.
    I would gladly have stayed in that chair for hours because I could see Sami in the mirror. Alas, Abdulla cut my hair in the blink of an eye and that was it; my brother said goodbye to Sami and we left.
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    I fell ill. I had persistent bouts of high fever. In spite of this, my mother took my hand and walked with me to a desolate hill facing our house. Near the top, at the opening of a cave, we stopped. It was a sacred cave.
    Inside was a spring flowing with cool, clear water and
surrounded by twigs on which pieces of green and pink fabric had been fastened. My mother undressed me and, with a saucer, poured sacred water all over me. This cave was called Kinishte , the synagogue. It had been a Jewish place of worship for a very long time. Until the 1950s, there had been a Jewish quarter in our town and two synagogues, besides the three churches and the mosque. Then the Jews had left for Israel and the mosques had multiplied. Legend had it that a holy Jewish man was buried in the cave. This mattered little to my mother; a holy man was a holy man, whether Jewish, Christian, or Muslim.
    Coming out of the cave, we passed some Iraqi soldiers. They were building blockhouses. I saw the alarm on my mother’s face, but I didn’t attach too much importance to it. I was still a kid.
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    A year went by and I passed my