Read Online Escape from Saddam by Lewis Alsamari - Free Book Online
Authors: Lewis Alsamari
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at the base was always the worst. I felt lonely and far from home, somehow divorced in every way from the bustle of activity around me. Sometimes I walked to one of the farthest corners of the camp, where nothing but a thick wall of barbed wire separated us from the expanse of the desert, and I watched the sun set; other times I lay on my bed and played one of my cassettes of Western music, closing my eyes and thinking of happier times. It was on one of these occasions that an
arif
walked through the dormitory. I can’t remember what music I was listening to, but instead of reprimanding me he took a sudden interest to it.
“Do you understand what they are singing about?” he asked curiously.
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“You speak English?”
“I spent some time living there when I was younger.” He nodded attentively, then left me alone to spend the rest of the evening as I saw fit.
The next day I was summoned to see the commanding officer of the camp: to his face we called him “sir,” of course, but behind his back we always referred to him by his real name, Taha. I walked into his office and saluted; he continued to scribble on a piece of paper before looking up. “At ease,” he told me.
I let my arm fall to my side, but my body remained rigid. Summons to this office normally led to a punishment of some kind. I didn’t know what I had done wrong, but I needed to make sure I was on my best behavior. “How’s your English?” the officer asked out of the blue.
I was caught momentarily off guard—it wasn’t the question I had expected. “Good, sir,” I replied hesitantly.
He turned to a radio on his desk and switched it on. An English news program crackled into life. “What are they saying?”
I listened briefly, then translated what I heard into Arabic. The officer nodded slowly to himself. “Good,” he muttered. “Good. Where in England have you lived?”
“Manchester,” I told him.
“Ah,” he said with a nod of the head, “Manchester United! You like it in England?” His face was expressionless as he asked me, and I hesitated, unsure as to whether this was a trick question or not. “It’s okay,” he encouraged me. “You can answer me honestly.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied quietly. “I like it in England.”
“I would like to visit there myself. If I were to do that, could you arrange people for me to stay with?”
It was such an unusual request. Although Taha maintained his superior demeanor, this was a conversation that I might have had with a casual acquaintance on the streets of Baghdad. “Of course,” I replied. “I have family there. I would have to ask them first, but…” My voice trailed off.
“Naturally,” he replied. Then, suddenly: “You are dismissed.”
I saluted and left.
Over the next few weeks I received more of these curious summonses. Each time, Taha would ask me more about England, sometimes sounding as if he was merely wanting to satisfy his own curiosity, at other times firing questions at me in quick succession as if trying to test the truth of what I was saying. “Who did you live with in England?” he asked.
“My parents and my brother and sister, to start with,” I replied. “Then just with my father, when my mother went home.”
“Why did she not stay?”
I stared ahead, impassively. “Their marriage ran into problems, sir.”
“What sort of problems?”
I had no desire to tell this man the full truth. As I stood there considering his question, I could not help but remember the sorry image of my mother weeping in the corner of a room, distraught by whatever furious words had been exchanged between her and my father. It happened so many times that even I did not know the full truth of what had gone on behind closed doors, but these images had remained locked in my head for too long for me to start discussing them now, especially here. “Just the usual problems couples have.” I shrugged it off. “It often happens in the
arif
walked through the dormitory. I can’t remember what music I was listening to, but instead of reprimanding me he took a sudden interest to it.
“Do you understand what they are singing about?” he asked curiously.
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“You speak English?”
“I spent some time living there when I was younger.” He nodded attentively, then left me alone to spend the rest of the evening as I saw fit.
The next day I was summoned to see the commanding officer of the camp: to his face we called him “sir,” of course, but behind his back we always referred to him by his real name, Taha. I walked into his office and saluted; he continued to scribble on a piece of paper before looking up. “At ease,” he told me.
I let my arm fall to my side, but my body remained rigid. Summons to this office normally led to a punishment of some kind. I didn’t know what I had done wrong, but I needed to make sure I was on my best behavior. “How’s your English?” the officer asked out of the blue.
I was caught momentarily off guard—it wasn’t the question I had expected. “Good, sir,” I replied hesitantly.
He turned to a radio on his desk and switched it on. An English news program crackled into life. “What are they saying?”
I listened briefly, then translated what I heard into Arabic. The officer nodded slowly to himself. “Good,” he muttered. “Good. Where in England have you lived?”
“Manchester,” I told him.
“Ah,” he said with a nod of the head, “Manchester United! You like it in England?” His face was expressionless as he asked me, and I hesitated, unsure as to whether this was a trick question or not. “It’s okay,” he encouraged me. “You can answer me honestly.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied quietly. “I like it in England.”
“I would like to visit there myself. If I were to do that, could you arrange people for me to stay with?”
It was such an unusual request. Although Taha maintained his superior demeanor, this was a conversation that I might have had with a casual acquaintance on the streets of Baghdad. “Of course,” I replied. “I have family there. I would have to ask them first, but…” My voice trailed off.
“Naturally,” he replied. Then, suddenly: “You are dismissed.”
I saluted and left.
Over the next few weeks I received more of these curious summonses. Each time, Taha would ask me more about England, sometimes sounding as if he was merely wanting to satisfy his own curiosity, at other times firing questions at me in quick succession as if trying to test the truth of what I was saying. “Who did you live with in England?” he asked.
“My parents and my brother and sister, to start with,” I replied. “Then just with my father, when my mother went home.”
“Why did she not stay?”
I stared ahead, impassively. “Their marriage ran into problems, sir.”
“What sort of problems?”
I had no desire to tell this man the full truth. As I stood there considering his question, I could not help but remember the sorry image of my mother weeping in the corner of a room, distraught by whatever furious words had been exchanged between her and my father. It happened so many times that even I did not know the full truth of what had gone on behind closed doors, but these images had remained locked in my head for too long for me to start discussing them now, especially here. “Just the usual problems couples have.” I shrugged it off. “It often happens in the
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