promised, as Allah was his witness, that he would find a solution, and if he failed he would let Allah decide his fate. But Abdul’s father took little satisfaction from the declaration and did not look at his son who had always been much more of a talker than a doer. Abdul was aware of that, having been accused of it many times. This time he vowed to be different.
Abdul immediately set about making use of the many friends he had made at university and seeking out those he had heard rumours about in the past, men who had managed to somehow avoid the draft. Within a few days he learned of an army officer who held an influential position in the administrative office that dealt with army deserters and who - for a fee, of course - could have a name removed from the dreaded list. Abdul made contact with the officer through a man who had apparently benefited from his services. At a rendezvous in a coffee shop by the river near the Ishtar Sheraton Hotel the officer confirmed, after the customary ritual exchanges, that he could indeed help Abdul, at a cost of fifteen hundred dollars. Abdul did not want to go to his father for the money, part of his deal with himself and with Allah, and went directly to his mentor and only ally, Tasneen. Together they emptied their own bank accounts and raised the balance from various sources, mostly in the form of loans from other family members. But on the day they were to meet the officer and hand over the cash he called to explain that he was very sorry but Abdul’s paperwork had been forwarded to ‘other’ authorities. Abdul was horrified and immediately asked if it was possible to bribe the new recipient of the paperwork. The officer explained how that would be impossible since the new recipients included the police, the army, the National Guard, the border guards and, of course, the secret police. Abdul’s details would remain on file indefinitely or until he turned himself in or was captured.
Abdul had to sit down before his knees gave way. He had failed his father, dishonoured the family, but - far worse - he would be on the run for the rest of his life. The officer had suggested that Abdul’s best course of action was to return to the army camp. He could expect imprisonment for a year or so, which would be unpleasant to say the least. There was, of course, a chance that Abdul could be hanged as an example to others, something that Saddam encouraged. But if Abdul’s father made a personal plea it could help his case. If Abdul was captured while on the run his chances of being executed were difficult to judge.
When Abdul’s father learned of the news he slipped into a depression as he recounted a recent story of an old friend whose son was wanted for something by the secret police. After failing to find the boy they took the father instead. The son eventually turned up and the police hanged him in front of his father.
Abdul was faced with a serious quandary. If he ran his father might pay the price but it would still mean that Abdul would remain a fugitive. If he gave himself up he could be hanged or at least spend a horrifying time in an Iraqi jail, a period that he did not think he would survive. Abdul told his sister that had he known it would turn out as badly as this he would have done his time as a conscript. But it was too late now.
Abdul’s fears were to be short-lived. So too, unfortunately, were his father and mother. A month later the coalition force invaded Iraq and a week after that his parents were killed when their car was crushed by the reckless panic-stricken driver of an Iraqi Army armoured vehicle heading out of the city as the Americans closed in on it.
‘Abdul,’ a voice growled behind him. He turned to see Hassan, his team sergeant, looking at him, a snarl on his face, an expression that as far as Abdul was concerned seemed to be a permanent fixture. Hassan was a strong, stocky man with a barrel gut that was the result not just of a large appetite but
Abdul immediately set about making use of the many friends he had made at university and seeking out those he had heard rumours about in the past, men who had managed to somehow avoid the draft. Within a few days he learned of an army officer who held an influential position in the administrative office that dealt with army deserters and who - for a fee, of course - could have a name removed from the dreaded list. Abdul made contact with the officer through a man who had apparently benefited from his services. At a rendezvous in a coffee shop by the river near the Ishtar Sheraton Hotel the officer confirmed, after the customary ritual exchanges, that he could indeed help Abdul, at a cost of fifteen hundred dollars. Abdul did not want to go to his father for the money, part of his deal with himself and with Allah, and went directly to his mentor and only ally, Tasneen. Together they emptied their own bank accounts and raised the balance from various sources, mostly in the form of loans from other family members. But on the day they were to meet the officer and hand over the cash he called to explain that he was very sorry but Abdul’s paperwork had been forwarded to ‘other’ authorities. Abdul was horrified and immediately asked if it was possible to bribe the new recipient of the paperwork. The officer explained how that would be impossible since the new recipients included the police, the army, the National Guard, the border guards and, of course, the secret police. Abdul’s details would remain on file indefinitely or until he turned himself in or was captured.
Abdul had to sit down before his knees gave way. He had failed his father, dishonoured the family, but - far worse - he would be on the run for the rest of his life. The officer had suggested that Abdul’s best course of action was to return to the army camp. He could expect imprisonment for a year or so, which would be unpleasant to say the least. There was, of course, a chance that Abdul could be hanged as an example to others, something that Saddam encouraged. But if Abdul’s father made a personal plea it could help his case. If Abdul was captured while on the run his chances of being executed were difficult to judge.
When Abdul’s father learned of the news he slipped into a depression as he recounted a recent story of an old friend whose son was wanted for something by the secret police. After failing to find the boy they took the father instead. The son eventually turned up and the police hanged him in front of his father.
Abdul was faced with a serious quandary. If he ran his father might pay the price but it would still mean that Abdul would remain a fugitive. If he gave himself up he could be hanged or at least spend a horrifying time in an Iraqi jail, a period that he did not think he would survive. Abdul told his sister that had he known it would turn out as badly as this he would have done his time as a conscript. But it was too late now.
Abdul’s fears were to be short-lived. So too, unfortunately, were his father and mother. A month later the coalition force invaded Iraq and a week after that his parents were killed when their car was crushed by the reckless panic-stricken driver of an Iraqi Army armoured vehicle heading out of the city as the Americans closed in on it.
‘Abdul,’ a voice growled behind him. He turned to see Hassan, his team sergeant, looking at him, a snarl on his face, an expression that as far as Abdul was concerned seemed to be a permanent fixture. Hassan was a strong, stocky man with a barrel gut that was the result not just of a large appetite but
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