Free My Father's Rifle by Hiner Saleem Page A

years behind. I had to take my classes over again in Arabic. I passed my final exam and could finally enter high school. I was given new books with a photo of the president on the first page, and on the back cover the inevitable inscription: oumma Arabia … “The Arab nation is one …” My school had changed its name. It was no longer the Peace School; it had become the Baath School. Next to the headmaster’s office, there was a room occasionally occupied by a man with a thick, drooping mustache, the distinctive feature of Baath Party members; he met with Baathist students there. The whole school was getting ready to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the party’s rise to power. I was summoned to the office of the man with the thick mustache. A “Do Not Enter” sign was posted on his door. I found myself with several classmates; he made us sing one by one, in order to select the best voices. When my turn came, he noticed that I didn’t know a single Arabic song and ordered me to leave. I went—delighted. But he called me back almost immediately and, pointing at me, ordered me to get my hair cut. “Young Iraqis must be clean and disciplined.” As soon as school was out, I ran to the barber, Abdulla the Communist. The painting of the young Kurdish girl was no longer hanging opposite the mirror; it had been replaced by a large photograph of the president. In the entire town, I couldn’t find a single work by the painter Sami. As for Sami himself, I would sometimes come across him at a specific
spot in the center of town: he would be standing on one leg, leaning back against the wall, a cigarette between his lips, contemplating the town for hours. When the cigarette was no more than a butt, he’d take it out of his mouth with a slow gesture and stub it on the ground. Passersby would greet him quickly, as though reluctant to disturb his thoughts, and he would calmly reply, “roj bash ,” hello. Whenever I saw him, I’d stand a bit removed, off to one side, inconspicuously, and follow his gaze. He always stared at the same things: clothes drying on clotheslines, the shiny sheet-metal water containers on the rooftops, featureless people sadly going into and out of their houses. What could he have been thinking about for all those hours, looking at such sights?
    He would walk off with short steps and melt into the crowd.
    I started painting again. I wanted to become a great painter, like Sami. The school was organizing an exhibition, so I brought over some of my best canvases. I was very excited to take part in this exhibition. On the day before the opening, I was summoned by the official in charge. One of my paintings was propped up against the wall: it represented a chained man raising his eyes to the sky.
    I recalled that when I had initially painted this picture, the figure had the same skin color as I, but dissatisfied with the color, I had repainted the skin black. The official in charge of the exhibition wanted to know why I had painted such a skinny man. “You make it look as if Iraqis are dying of hunger. And why those chains? What’s the significance of that?” To cover myself, I replied, “He isn’t Iraqi, he’s African.” He ordered me to paint other subjects: the accomplishments of the Baath Party, the nationalization of oil, the Palestinian struggle against Zionism and imperialism. “I’m still a young painter,” I replied. “I haven’t had time to paint
all those subjects, but I’ll surely get around to it.” My paintings were returned to me. I was rejected for the exhibition.
    Â 
    Â 
    It was a warm day in late spring 1979. I saw my father hurrying home. His eyes were sparkling, and as was his habit, before even reaching the entrance to the house he was unrolling his belt while walking. I hadn’t seen him so worked up since we had become aïdouns . I could tell that something was