My Father's Rifle by Hiner Saleem

Author:Hiner Saleem
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Published: 2011-05-23T21:00:00+00:00

On the road there were many families, like us, going to give themselves up to the Iraqi authorities. Our small truck came to a stop; we climbed out and, after loading our skimpy bundles on our backs and walking past the Iranian soldiers, we crossed through a no-man’s-land of about a hundred yards between the two armies. In the distance we heard the Iranians bid us farewell, but we didn’t have the courage to turn around; we were already under the watchful eye of the Iraqi army. At the frontier a large banner awaited us: “Welcome to the land of the Mother Country.” Iraqi officers and soldiers awaiting us approached and helped us carry our belongings. Behind us, our people still on the Iranian side of the border watched attentively to see how we were being welcomed, and turning around furtively, I saw several of them follow in our footsteps. Still escorted by the soldiers, we made our way down a small hill, and Iran disappeared from our view. Instantly the behavior of the soldiers changed. They threw our bundles into a military truck and ordered us to get in. Two soldiers flanked us, their weapons cocked at us. And I thought of the image of partridges used as hunting bait to attract their fellow creatures. This is what we had become, and I felt guilty. We had served as bait; the others would follow us and suffer the same fate. After about a half mile, the truck pulled over and we were ordered to get out with our hands on our heads. We had to jump from the high floor of the truck; my mother fell to the ground and a soldier yelled at her to stand up at once. Then, surrounded by military personnel, the men and women were separated. We were taken to a building where we were ordered to undress. We were embarrassed, but under threat of the soldiers, we had no choice. I ended up next to my father, naked, with my hands on my head. I didn’t dare look at him. While the soldiers were searching every fold of our garments, my father, humiliated, was hiding his genitals with his hands, his legs trembling with shame. A soldier forced him to put his hands on his head; then, using his bayonet, he made him spread his legs apart and, jabbing him with his weapon, made him pivot. When the search was over, we were allowed to put our clothes back on. Filled with shame, I thought about my mother, my sisters, my sisters-in-law, and what they were being subjected to, and I began to think it might have been better to die in the Iranian camps than be reduced to this. In the next building, an officer waited for us with our papers, which he seemed to ignore. We had to state our names, and our dates and places of birth. When it came to “profession,” I was curious to see what my father would say.

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