Here's the end of Rafed's tale. Is this allegory, history, or a glimpse into the unfolding present? This well-wrought story is a crystal through which we can see a world through Iraqi eyes. Thank you, Rafed, for sharing this with us.
We hope that the near future will find you and your family fulfilling your wish finally get here to continue both your own studies as well as your wish to bring the truth out.
Bruce
Rafed's short story, The Sky will not Rain Again, continues below <<click 'Continue reading' to view part 5, the end.>>.
Part 5, the last, from The Sky will not Rain Again by RAFED A. KHASHAN,
AUGUST 28, 2006
At
about 11 pm, Karim was about to knock the door when he was paralyzed by a
whopping voice “I am coming, Karim, thanks God for your safety, sonny!” She
trudged hurriedly towards the door and stumbled by a bucket yet she managed to keep
her poise. How did she know it was her son at the door? She must have sensed
that in the air as was the hunch of all Iraqi mothers. She sensed his odor.
The
arrival of Karim sparked a raging fire of emotion in his mother who went about
weeping of happiness. She covered his body with warm kisses, from top to toe.
She could sleep and eat after weeks of fasting and insomnia. Inside the house
was dark except for a flickering sooty lantern that was hung in the corner of
the living room. All seemed to have slept early as usual. Darkness and the
fumes of the lantern made all the families seek refuge on the roofs of their
houses for cool breezes to sleep. Yet, they could never escape the prickly
needles of droning mosquitoes.
Karim
fumbled his way in the darkness to his room while his mother raised the lantern
above his head to get a better view of the face she missed for a long time. She
gave him a glass of water which he drained in one gulp. The bathroom was
already prepared for him.
Ashuraa, the tenth day of Muharam, was
approaching. Karim came to commemorate the holy occasion in Basrah.
Preparations had been made. Black, white, green and red banners were hoisted
above the houses. Black obituaries with the Prophet’s sayings, poetic verses
and historical testimonies paying tribute to Imam Hussein were nailed to the
private and public walls. The air carried with it the dust of the battle of
Kerbala and the crackling of the fire which was set to the tents of the
Hashemites. The large bronze cauldrons and basins were dusted off and the processions
equipments suddenly invaded the markets from Iran. All the flagellation tools
that used to be forbidden under Saddam’s regime floated up out of the blue. In Muharam,
all the poor would eat to satisfaction. Mutton, venison, camel meat and chicken
are served generously by the Shiite and Sunni well-offs alike. However much one
ate, they were still tempted to eat more and more. The remaining food was not
easily disposed of; it was blessed food, with a healing effect that a childless
women could conceive a baby once she stirred into the cooking of Ashuraa with
the big ladle.
The processions began early in the morning
after days of industrious preparations. Karim joined one of these mawakebs
heading to Abed Ali’s house that used to be a meeting place for the processions
coming from the popular neighborhoods in Basrah. He wore in black with his hair
low cut. A big bunch of 30 cm metal chains fastened to the end of a stick
filled his hand. The procession moved in parallel queues that formed a huge black
mass guided by a drum beater that unified the procession’s march. The cadence
was so rhythmic and the bodies swayed left and right in a semicircular movement
with the hands rising high in the air before they plunged to slash the backs
with the iron chains. They moved in an otherworldly, trance-like, dance towards
Kerbala. Heads stemmed from the walls of the house roofs looking at the young
men in their first public commemoration of the tragedy of the Hashemites after
the fall of Saddam. Small children walked each passing procession to the end of
their alley. Old women stood at the doors of their houses and the tears washing
their faces; they must have stirred old memories in the women’s hearts. There
were strong emotions of fury against the wrong doers.
“Are they
staging a revolution?” One of the bystanders exclaimed rhetorically.
“Had
Saddam allowed them to do that, the Americans would not have been here. Freedom
feeds power and breeds love between people and their leaders.” Another
bystander commented.
The processions
convened at Abed Ali’s house, where a large platform was raised and decorated
with colorful banners and rugs for the poets praising Imam Hussein, his
household, brothers and followers. Megaphones and generators were also
provided; they wanted the sounds to fill the corners of the universe. Food was
served at the noon to give a break to the exhausted bodies. The afternoon was
rather lighter and many sorts of cakes and beverages were served.
“Drink and curse Yazid. Drink and curse Ibn
Ziyad. Drink the water and curse Shimr. Curse those who checked Hussein from
drinking from the Euphrates when he was dead thirsty.” An old man, who had been
called servant of alHussein, crooned while he was distributing the drinks.
Night closed in on the city. It was dark, as
if mourning with the people for Hussein. The small children filled the streets
as they shimmered in the moonlight and the heat emanating from the asphalt.
Karim went directly to bed and slept soundly before the day of departure. He
wanted to wake up in the morning yet he felt much and much in need for a
slumber. He would absolutely have it.
It was the day of departure. The same fears
and obsessions assaulted Karim’s mother. She remained silent for she knew her
son was stubborn. The old dreams haunted her this time but she did not tell
them only to herself in the toilet. She believed that to speak out a dream in
the toilet, it would not come true and would not fall from the bird’s foot. The
farewell was so passionate and short. He went to his destination. During the
first week, Karim received his salary. The view of notes enthused some life into his veins. What
should he buy for his family? Should he save the money for his wedding? No, he
would be so mean then not to buy gifts to his mother and brothers from the
first salary. He would buy a sheep to slaughter as a votive offering for his
safety and distribute the meat to the poor in his neighborhood.
There was an air of unease that Karim began to
sense with the approach of is leave. He began to have some misgivings and see
bad dreams as if his father was inviting him to dinner or to spend a night with
him. At first he was hesitant to take a leave, but he wanted to delight his
mother’s heart and to comfort her with his salary. That must have diffused some
of her fears at least.
The way from Fallujah to Baghdad was rather safe except for some spasmodic shootings and US copters hovering over the highway, but this gave a sense of comfort to Karim who was traveling undercover. The central bus station in Nahda teemed with people; travelers, sellers, drivers, peddlers, children, aged, young men, women, cats, stray dogs, dust, oil, dirt. Karim had been hungry all the way to Baghdad.
He decided to have some sandwiches
before he got into the bus going Basrah. The sky was clouded but it did not
seem to rain. It would not rain as it was June. The falafel sandwiches were
yummy to his empty belly. Hunger makes good cooking.
There
were about ten seats available in the bus Karim got in. He sat next to the
window and began to ponder over the crowds of people. What would stop a takfiri
from mincing those toiling bodies? Nothing but God’s mercy. The sky darkened
and the faces gloomed in the streets. A sudden movement attracted Karim’s
attention. He could not identify it well. It was a ghost. Karim was nailed in
his seat in terror. It was an amoebic figure, shapeless, seeping unnoticeably
among the people. It must have been in search of a big hunt. It was approaching
the bus from the left. It was sinister, petrifying, gorgonic…. Karim broke his
adrenaline manacles and headed toward the door only to face the figure which
sneaked into the bus. It was something like an ape, a mongol scarved in red
shemagh like the one worn by the Bedouins of the Arab peninsula. He stared Karim
in the face with the eyes of Medusa. Karim was ossified. He could only cry
“terrori…” before he heard “tick, boooommmmm.” All the past and coming images squeezed
at the threshold of his memory racing to get a venue into his vision. Childhood
images, his mother, father, brothers, hopes, expectations, dreams, fears, the
unknown, the grave, the hereafter, the wedding, his friends, his mother, the
processions, the Hashemites, the hangmen, the salary, the Americans, the Army,
the terrorists, the dogs, the lantern, his mother…. A long film track of fast
moving images that crowded at his mind.
The
motif, yet, was his mother. She was washing the dishes when the biggest china
bowl slipped her hands and crashed on the floor. She felt a prick in her heart
sensing a calamity happened to one of her sons. But it was none other than
Karim. Splinters of glass, slivers of metal, blades, nails, screws, sharp
objects pierced his heart and human essence. She hurried madly upstairs,
sloughed her veil, knelt on her knees and held her breasts between her hands
towards heaven. She beseeched God by the milk and sanctity of motherhood to
bring Karim back.
“I
pray You to return my son to me just like You returned Joseph to Jacob.”
He
felt the death throes with each shrapnel traveling through his limbs. The
shrieks and cries stabbed on his ears, transcended space and mixed with his
mother’s.
The
sky thundered but it will not rain again. All the rain of heavens will not wash
out the blood shed wrongfully.
THE END
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