Six in the Evening: A Real Story in Literary Fantasy

By Dr. Arsalan Baiz

Sense and theory on paper is something, and the practical daily life is another. The era of persecution, secret endeavor, and revolution is something; and having power is something else. Some of the persecuted and revolutionists of the bygone days change and forget who they were when they assume power and become the rulers.

We have witnessed lots of partisan commanders, revolutionists, and poor men became royalty and dictators after their victory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728384122

Dr. Arsalan Baiz

Dr. Arsalan Bayz Ismaeel was born in 1950 in Erbil governorate into a middle class family, in 1973 he achieved baccalaureate in Kurdish language in University of Baghdad. In 1975 alongside Khala Shahab, Jaafar and some other commanders of Komala got imprisoned by the Baath Regime till 1978. In 1979 after his release, he goes back to mountain to continue his endeavor and becomes Peshmarga until the revolt of Kurdistan people. He was Peshmarga for 12 years. In 1992 he was the first editor-in-chief of Kurdistani New newspaper which is a daily newspaper. He was in charge of Media Bureau of Patriotic Union of Kurdistan for 10 years. In 2003 he achieved doctorate in modern Kurdish literature. For two years from 20/Aug/2009 till 15/Feb/2012 he was the deputy head of Kurdistan Parliament. In the session of 15/Feb/2012 he was chosen for the head of Kurdistan Parliament.

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© 2019 Dr Arsalan Baiz. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/28/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8406-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8405-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8412-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Dedicated to:

- Pakhshan khani Hafid;

- Iranian novelist lady (Parinush Sani’i) because if I haven’t read (Bashi Min- My Share) novel, this book wouldn’t have been available in this form to the readers.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I acknowledge the following people:

My dear nephew (Karwan Muhammed Abdullah Saadoun) who typed this book and reviewed it many times.

My esteemed nephew (Ismaeel Kurda) that re-reviewed this book thoroughly and made some context and paragraph changes.

All the friends and acquaintances that assisted me in writing this book

SIX IN THE EVENING

It was a late afternoon, after Asr prayer (Afternoon prayer) in the beginning of August in 1975 when the sun was packing back all its rays and heat then slowly setting down towards the horizon.

The shopkeepers were sprinkling water outside their shops and few were starting to remove sun-blocking curtains in front of their shops. Young girls with knee-long (maxi) were sweeping and washing the front of their doors.

The city was quiet. After the Defeat, people were panicking the regime soldiers, security forces and its intelligence units. A great deal of sorrow and disappointment were afflicting everyone in the society. You could hardly see a smile touching the faces, not a glimmer of hope for the future.

He was a 25 years old young man with an average height and a boney stature, wearing a sleeveless shirt and trousers. He was back from a defeated army of nearly ten thousands.

Full of doubt of every single motion, he was a member of an illegal (fugitive) organization. Self-assured and confident, he got off from the bus station in front of Jmhuri Center, and walked down the street.

Calmly, he passed by the city administration building. There, in front of its gate, were sitting two policemen on chairs. One of them was putting his weapon on his knees and the other one was leaning his weapon against the wall. An ambulance was stopped on the corner. The policemen were arguing among themselves. Occasionally they were warming up their conversation by their gestures. But he did not know whether they were Kurds or Arabs, nor understanding their speeches at all.

He was looking at everything carefully. Thoughts of the defeat of the revolution, downtrodden life, the adversity people lived in, the atrocity of the enemy, how to improve the organizations, and how to defend themselves from the security forces and Jashes¹and policemen were haunting him. Nobody knew the destiny of the people and the country.

In front of Arbil Station of Tairawa, Two persons were coming hastily towards him.

- Where are you travelling man? Only one passenger is left to go to Shaqlawa.

The other one called hey man, are you going to Mosul? I’ll put you on the front seat and I won’t charge you extra fare.

Other drivers from the other side were yelling Koya, Koya, we’ll leave to Koya, Kirkuk. Only this bus is left to travel to Kirkuk. The road will be blocked after that.

He answered them calmly, I’m not a passenger.

After walking some steps, some other drivers came to him and asked him the same questions, and he answered them as before. They let him go and walked away with a frown.

He went away from them, leaving behind the streets and the alleys of Tairawa Quarter. After walking fifty meters, he turned to the curved alley on the right. Except for the twittering of the birds on the tree boughs, there wasn’t any motion being felt. Not a single person could be seen around the alley even. Almost every door was closed as if this alley has been evacuated from a long time. The tree leaves and branches were withered out of excessive heat and waterlessness (dehydration).

Without hesitation, according to an earlier plan, he reached at a gray-white large door at 6 o’clock in the evening. Sedately, he rang the doorbell of the house. Ringing again and again, without being felt, the door was opened quietly without and noise or sound.

- Run, run before it’s too late. Mamosta Jaafar ran away. He was lucky to escape before being arrested. A pickup full of security forces came to arrest him. Fortunately he had left just seconds earlier. Before your arrival, two of them just left here. Go before they come back to you. I’m sure they’re around. I’m packing my stuff to leave this place. I will abandon this place and find a place to hide with my children. Don’t come back here again.

Her hair was tangled; got pale out of fear, wearing a single shoe on her right foot sloppily and her other foot was bare. She was stammering and stuttering. Words got broken in her mouth. A big sorrow and sobs of deep cry were twisting inside her. Out of confusion, she was coming forth a step and then going back a step. It was not in her hands for she was an illiterate wealthy mature woman who was Turkmen in origin. Grown up in Qalat (The Citadel or The Castle of Hawler), she had never faced hunger and tough life. She had nothing to do with politics or political affiliation.

The event was shocking for her because she had never expected such a frightful moment of that day. In fact, her being a Turkmen in origin is argumentative for the Erbil families because some of them had come from the surrounding villages of Erbil and had settled in the city. Some of the relatives of the Turkmen families are still living in those villages and they have no connection with Turkmen ethnic and they deny it even. However, human being is free how to identify his origin. It’s not a condition for that kind of identifying to have an ancient history. Rather it’s the humans’ choice and belief that decide their origins. There are many examples of this in the world.

He stopped dead in his tracks when seeing and hearing Miss Qaniaa’s confused appearance and speeches. He stood still. A twitch went through him from top to toe. He couldn’t move in his place. In his heart he said, why did Mamosta Jaafar not tell me about it with a phone call?! So I wouldn’t come to this place and I wouldn’t face this danger. What if the security forces appear suddenly and come to arrest me! Then, he answered himself and said, Maybe it was so sudden for him too and that he had no time to warn me."

Then, he quickened his pace and walked about two hundred meters. The streets and alleys were stretching in his eyes. He had become weak, deranged, and perplexed. His mind was like a noisy beehive that couldn’t stop whirring for a moment. He had become so exhausted, walking so heavily as if he had walked for seven days and night without food, without resting just like the caravans in their journeys. He didn’t know what to do. He was about to go to the loudspeakers of the mosques and cry:

Oh God! What have we, Kurds nation, done? In what have we disobeyed you to deserve this life, to have a life full of catastrophes, to have a destiny swaying between calamities? Our portion in this life is prison and execution. We are always displaced and homeless even in our home and land. There have been uprisings or revolutions for a period of time followed by defeat and suppression. Are we so sinful? Are we so shameful in front of presence? Are they the cause of what happens to our life or it is only due to our ignorance and oblivion of our fragmented political parties and leaders who are far from reality and the events of the world? Have their mistakes brought all of these misfortunes to us? They are just busy with having discord with each other and killing their brothers, seeking their personal interests, becoming groups and dividing between other neighbour countries. All other nations small or big declared their independence whose flags are fluttering on the United Nations Building except Kurds.

South Kurdistan, in terms of population and the size of its land is as much as the three Emirates of Kuwait, Qatar, and Bahrain combined. Today they are three independent states but Kurdistan is still enslaved till now and has not become anything. After the destruction of The Ottoman Empire, the Sheikhs of the Arab Gorge who were living in tents have become a state despite their backwardness and illiteracy. Kurdish nation had hundreds of great, literate officers and employees in the Ottoman Empire who had high positions but we became nothing. Oh my Lord! As Kurds say, you are in the seventh heaven or in everywhere. We are your slave on Earth. When will you help the poor and the victims? Don’t you say that I am the all merciful and the most merciful, I’m the supporter of the persecuted and the oppressed. So, for the sake of Your Greatness and Mercy, is there anyone who is more forlorn than us? Is there anyone more leaderless and unsupported than Kurds? Is there anyone whose land is invaded and divided like us?

Now and then, he answered himself and said:

What should God do for us? He has given us two eyes and ears and a brain like any other nation on Earth. What should he do when we can’t seek our right and freedom due to limited and private political interests and due to being a subordinate to the policy of the other states? It has been for hundred years that we repeat the same scenarios of defeat followed by defeat without even learning a lesson from them.

He paused for a while in front of Kurd and Arab garden which was away from the house he was going to go to. He gazed at the label board much. He remembered the history of all the speeches, songs, poems, and books which were about the experience of the brotherhood of Arab and Kurd. And then suddenly as if he was asking someone he said:

Indeed? Which brotherhood? Which shared history? Or this is just deceiving and pulling the wool on people’s eyes. It has been for about a hundred year that Arab deceives us by that lie of brotherhood. Since the Iraqi government has been founded and since Arab have purportedly become our older brother, we have seen no good from them except abusing, oppressing, arresting and killing us. The cradle (birthplace) of our ancestors has become a dark prison for us. I swear it is a big abattoir.

While walking, he was still arguing with himself about his visit to Mamosta² Jaafar’s house:

_____________________________

- To go or not to go? Where should he be now? Is he arrested now? He might have been arrested and Miss Qaniaa may be unaware of him. People have been caught by the regime forces ten times and their relatives have not heard of then after days and months or there were cases that there were no trace of them and they had never been found. What if he is under the hands of the security and being tortured? Is he strong? Would it be possible if he give out our names and then all of us be arrested?

Then he consoled and answered himself:

- No it’s not possible. That man is honourable and decent. That man is literate. That senior experienced Peshmarga is full of hatred towards the enemy. I can’t believe it that he may yield to the enemy easily.

- Can that house be under police surveillance? What if they are in ambush for us and then arrest me?

On the one hand, he was occupied with the thoughts of going to that house. Fear was about to shatter his confidence and endurance.

On the other hand, he was thinking of his parents and brothers. He knew his father would be so angry at him and uncle Mahmoud angrier. They had advised him about his works earlier several times. What would his father and uncle say on hearing the news of his arresting while he nor his brothers had dared to cross their legs in front of them nor laying or raising their voice over them, or disobey them. How anxious they may be if they hear their son is arrested? How much would they reproach him about that? His parents may say, we were expecting from our children to be our resort during elderly. But now they are so indifferent. They don’t ask nor consult us, they don’t even need us. Those recalcitrant young will risk our lives and theirs.

What if the regime issued his indictment decision? What if he tries to run and escape? What if he would be arrested?! How much his poor illiterate mom would cry? What about his aunts?

Earlier, when he was a student, when his mother saw him reading in the hot days of summer holiday without any cooler, he was studying for hours in his small hot room in their house in their village, Karitan, his body was soaked in his sweat, and he wouldn’t come out of his room for he was reading books. Then his mother would murmur and say:

- I don’t know what the use of reading those books is. Why is he so addicted to Marki and Lini³? I don’t even know who they are. Do they know how my son gets busy with them? Do these men earn him anything? I don’t believe if they are even aware of how devoted my son is to them.

He pondered what would happen to his love, Shara? What would she say? Is it possible for her to await him in these hard times when his son escapes or would be arrested?

He was putting his head between his hands. His thoughts took him back to the university days. He remembered the beautiful moments he had spent with his beloved Shara, when they were sitting together talking about getting married, creating a beautiful life and build their future together.

Every time, when these thoughts came into his mind, when he faced such hard and sad situations, he comforted himself and justified things by the fact that Shara was also from a famous family in Kurdistan. Even more, her family was the leader of politicking and revolution. Shara was also an active member of the elite group. Both of them had participated in several meetings and sessions of the student groups and political parties.

One day after attending the lecture, Shara and he went out of the Kurdish department to have lunch together. They walked down the streets, talking and watching clothing and shoes shops, and the stores along the street, towards the Maidan center in Baghdad.

_____________________________

They got on a bus in a station and went up to its second floor and sat in the front seats. They got off in Tahrir square and walked down Abu-Nwas street. They went to a restaurant near the coast of the Tigris River.

Because of its warm weather, some of the restaurants and cafeterias made small bowers on the coast of the Tigris River for the lovers like them. They went down the stairs and sat, in the shadow of one of the bowers, on two large stones. They put off their shoes and placed their feet in the cool water, then looked at the waves fluctuating.

The seagulls one by one, or in group, gathered around them for pieces of bread, sometimes they showed a kind of dancing and happiness with their fluttering as if they were buzzing with their excitement for their date. And few of them were trying to catch fish. Shara and he ordered rice, stew and chicken. They were talking about graduation, army service then creating a life together.

Shara started to debone the chicken with a knife and a fork in her hands, mildly. He tried hard to imitate her and peeped at her hands in order not to be embarrassed but it was useless, his hands were so clumsy at it because he had never eaten with knife and fork. Apparently Shara had felt his being clumsy in using the knife and fork so she brought in a story calmly without showing that she had noticed him and said:

- In our family, my brothers- and everyone in Sulaymani- if they don’t eat Qubly ⁴and turkey with their hands, they won’t enjoy them, and I’ve heard eating turkey and chicken with your hands are so normal. So enjoy your meal and eat it the way you like. I know you would like to eat chicken with your hands.

_____________________________

He remembered that once an Egyptian Islamic modernist scholar, Mohammed Abda always ate with his hands in a Paris restaurant. The waiter found it strange. One day he asked him why does he not uses fork or spoon:

- Why are you eating with your hands? Why don’t you eat with these clean spoons and forks?

He answered:

- How many people use them daily?

- The waiter answered:

- Many people use them but we clean them later.

He said:

- Well, I also wash my hands several times with soap and water and don’t let anyone use my hands to eat with. So aren’t my hands cleaner that your spoons and forks?

The waiter left him alone and didn’t go on.

Shara had an average height, with slight brunette skin, and a thin face. She was so skinny and weak, her hair was short. She was calm and reticent who was from a well-known and patriotic family in Sulaymani. Both of them studied Kurdish language and literature in Baghdad University. They were working together from the first stage as they were likeminded and sympathetic in their political views. In the fourth stage of university, in a spring tour to Darbandikhan Dam, they expressed their long affection to each other and promised to get married. They took a picture together for that occasion.

There were many things which had waged a war in his head. He was struggling whether to leave everything and to marry Shara or to keep on political works for the sake of freedom of his land and people. After too much thinking, after walking in the streets and alleys, he gained his composure and gradually headed towards Birezhian quarter, towards Mamosta Osman’s house.

Any way he went in front of the house according to the address Miss Qaniaa had given him. He went to the other sides of the house and came back. He counted the number of the houses several times. He was thinking, this is the garage, and one, two, three, four. Miss Qaniaa said it is the fourth door.

Now and then he peeped at the guards of the opposite house to make sure whether they watch him or not. In his head he said, No, I’m sure this is it.

He was afraid if he had mistaken the house. Before putting his finger on the switch of the doorbell, he saw all his life go before his eyes with all its ups and downs in matters of seconds, before that, he went to the shopkeepers to ask them about the address, but he came back later and didn’t ask.