I, Who Did Not Die Read online

  On the third day, the Iraqi was stable, but he needed better care than I could give him. He was sure to get an infection if I didn’t get him away from those dead bodies, and there was another wave of our soldiers on their way, and who knows what they would do if they found him? In desperation, I approached the brother of the commander, who was keeping guard over the growing crowd of captives. He was so tall, like a tree, that I had to crane my neck just to get his attention.

  “Sir?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Um, sir, what should we do if we find any Iraqis who need medical attention?”

  Two of the tree’s massive limbs reached down and grabbed my ears, then lifted me up and slammed me back to the ground.

  “This is not a classroom!” he roared. “This is a place of no mercy. See those cowards?” He pointed to several dozen Iraqis running toward us from a grove of date palms, holding their hands above their heads. “They are the enemy. The enemy of you, of me, of our country, and of Khomeini.”

  Everything around me suddenly moved in slow motion, and I saw him raise his Kalashnikov. I screamed, but by the time the sound left my throat, he was already firing, knocking down every single one of them. I watched in horror as each man fell to the ground.

  Then he turned to face me and asked, “That answer your question?”

  My knees buckled and I almost fainted, but I picked a spot on the ground near his boots and stared until I found my balance again. I felt guilty, as if I had pulled the trigger myself. When I could focus again, I saw that the commander’s brother was peering down at me, waiting for a response. I tried to say “Yes, sir,” but it came out as a cough, not words.

  I was only making him more furious. “Are you mocking me?” he challenged.

  All manner of insults hurled from his mouth. I was a weakling, a disgrace to the Basij, a hairy monkey that should go back to the jungle. I cowered under his wrath, just hoping he wouldn’t slam me to the ground again, when one of my former elementary-school teachers, now a high-ranking officer, approached. “Why are two Iranians fighting?” he asked.

  “I’m teaching this Basiji a lesson—that we don’t kiss the enemy.”

  “Are we supposed to kill all the prisoners?” I protested. “Why bother taking them prisoner in the first place?”

  It was a stalemate. My former teacher sent us in opposite directions and said he’d check with central command for the final word on what was to become of the captured Iraqis.

  The following morning, a siren called all soldiers to the downtown mosque. After prayers, there was an announcement. Khorramshahr was officially liberated, and because the city was Persian again, there was no need to fight over it anymore. All the captured Iraqis would be sent to prison camps, and the injured ones would be healed in Iranian hospitals and then incarcerated as well. My heart did a cartwheel in my chest. My patient wasn’t going to be killed, at least not on my watch. I can’t say what awaited him in captivity, but I’d kept my word and kept him alive.

  I went to the field hospital for a stretcher, where I ran into another medical assistant, Ahad-Amin—the same one who had questioned my frequent visits to one bunker in particular.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I need a shovel,” I said.

  He brought me one, the kind with an axe on the opposite end.

  “What for?” he asked.

  “Don’t talk; just come with me. Hurry,” I said.

  He followed me into the bunker, and when the force of the stink hit him, he started to gag. The bodies by now had putrefied together so they looked more like one big mound than individual people, and a plague of flies rose from them and swarmed us.

  “What the hell?” Ahad-Amin came up behind me and held his shirt in front of his mouth to help him breathe. The Iraqi let out a moan, and Ahad-Amin jumped back. I used the shovel to push the dead ones aside and clear a path to the Iraqi. I hooked my hands under his armpits and motioned for Ahad-Amin to grab his feet.

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Barely. Now, c’mon, let’s go.”

  Ahad-Amin backed up, like he was about to run away.

  “Why bother? Just let him die,” he said.

  I ignored him and hurriedly began taking off the Iraqi’s blood-stained shirt so he would look like the other enemy soldiers who’d taken off their shirts to signal surrender. I would get him on the stretcher myself if I had to. Ahad-Amin was looking at the makeshift IV and the scattering of dirty bandages nearby.

  “You were giving him medicine? What if the commander had found out?”

  “This man needs to be transferred to the hospital. If you aren’t going to help, get out of my way.”

  Ahad-Amin cussed under his breath and helped me lift the Iraqi onto the stretcher. We guided him through a battlefield littered with burned-out husks of tanks, some of them still smoldering. Off in the distance we spotted another group of Iraqi soldiers without their shirts, walking with their hands in the air, and we headed toward them. It was slow going, and we had to stop often to catch our breath. We were taking a short rest to give the Iraqi water when a young Iranian soldier came running up to us. At first I thought he had an important message, but once he got close, he raised his rifle toward the Iraqi.

  “Don’t hit him!” I screamed.

  Too late. The butt of the gun slammed into the Iraqi’s mouth, and he shrieked in pain. My patient’s jaw was hideously askew, and his bottom and top teeth flapped like they were on hinges as he spat out blood. Without even thinking about it, I leaped through the air and landed on the attacker, knocking the wind out of him. I pushed him into a canal, grabbed the stretcher again, and Ahad-Amin and I hustled toward the medical tent. I wasn’t about to lose my patient now, after all I’d risked. The Iraqi was shaking in pain, and every once in a while he looked up at me as if to be assured I was still there, and each time I smiled at him to let him know he was safe with me. Poor guy was so pitiful. He had a streak of blood dribbling from his mouth, down his chin, and all the way to his belly.

  It took about an hour, but we finally made it to the medical tent set up for prisoners. It was no more than a canvas roof stretched over some poles sticking out of the sand. There were about forty wounded men there in various states. The healthiest ones sat in groups, telling one another to stay strong, that their military was mighty and would get them out of their situation soon. Some had glassy eyes and amputated limbs, while still others screamed in agony and a few were unconscious. A trio of Iranian military journalists was stepping through the crowd and holding out microphones to the ones who could talk. I heard one interviewee tell his parents that he was still alive and that he’d been captured as a prisoner of war. I steered the Iraqi through the throng to a spot where he had room to lie down. I made sure he rested on his side, so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood. About seven hours later, trucks came to transport the prisoners to the hospital in Ahvaz. I helped load all the prisoners into the truck beds, taking note of which vehicle held my patient. I made sure to get into the passenger seat of his truck, and as we drove down the streets, people shook their fists and threw rocks at our criminal cargo: “Saddamis! Sinners!”

  Once inside the hospital gates, it was safe to let them out, as armed guards stood watch. I kept my eye on the Iraqi, and as he stepped out, he lost his balance and fell to the ground. I rushed over, pushing aside one of the clumsy medics who should have caught his fall.

  “I’ve got this one,” I said, taking his place.

  I helped the Iraqi walk through a long hallway as he dripped dirt and blood on the white tiles. I guided him to a hospital bed, and he slumped onto it, exhausted. The doctors were running about with the sudden influx of patients, doing very little to hide their distaste for helping the enemy. When one of the doctors stopped at the Iraqi’s bed, he was furious.

  “What is this crap you brought me? Can’t you see we are busy enough with our own?”

  “Please, isn’t there anything you can do for him?”<
br />
  The doctor shrugged dramatically. “If we can get to him. As you can see, there’s a long line of people who didn’t bomb our cities and rape our women.”

  I’m pretty sure the Iraqi understood the doctor was abandoning him, because he let out a long, sorrowful moan, as if he knew this was the end of the line. He was losing too much blood again. I walked to the far corner of the room, sank to my knees, and cried.

  I remembered what Mostafa had said once, that if you really want something, you should not be ashamed to beg for it. He said you must plead to God from the bottom of your heart. I’d never really prayed before, like really meant what I said and really believed anyone could hear me. But now I had nothing to lose. I put my head in my hands, closed my eyes, and asked for help.

  God, you’ve seen how much I’ve tried to save this Iraqi’s life. But if you want him dead, that’s your business, not mine.

  I knew I was praying only because I wanted something, and you’re not supposed to do that. So I struggled a long time trying to figure out how to ask God for help in a way that didn’t sound greedy.

  But if it’s all the same to you, could you please change this doctor’s mind?

  EIGHT

  THE KISS

  His feathers were luminescent, a deep green that caught the light and sent it shimmering down his coat when he turned direction in the warm breeze, making his body darken from emerald to black. He had the dangerous confidence of youth, riding the wind like a roller coaster, tilting the tip of one wing slightly to send him plunging downward in a stomach-dropping free fall until his internal speedometer hit the red zone and he arched both wings to catch the updraft and gently float back up to an easy glide. My son pivoted and twirled like an acrobat in the sky, putting on a show but pretending not to, although I could tell he kept one eye on me to make sure I was noticing. He looked over his shoulder and laughed at my clumsy attempts to keep up, as I flapped my stiff arms and banged into clouds, like a befuddled ostrich that had suddenly discovered itself in the air. Why my son had suddenly sprouted feathers was a mystery, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment with intrusive realities, so I set that puzzle aside for later.

  We settled into a jasmine-scented jet stream, and I blew him a kiss, which he waved off with feigned disgust, flapping his wings harder to force me to chase him. I could hear his feathers fluttering as I pumped my arms harder to stay on his tail, envious of his natural athleticism yet proud at the same time. My boy.

  Where we were going was irrelevant, but below us was the sea, its waves curling in unhurried barrel rolls toward the sand. I had laser vision, which I also didn’t question, and could see into the deep blue to all the life below. I watched a mother whale put a protective fin over the back of her baby and guide it to the surface to breathe, and thought, Yes, I know. I could see manta rays execute slow-motion backflips, and tiny shrimps flex their bodies into miniature bicep curls as they hurried about their errands.

  “Amjad! Look down!”

  A school of dolphins rocketed out of the surf, wriggling and laughing in the air then plunging underwater, and all was silent again. I could see their dark outlines as they raced under the surface, jockeying for first place, then on some magic cue jumped en masse again, a burst of applause for one another.

  “I see it, Dad, I see it!”

  The ocean’s clowns sent Amjad into peals of laughter. They somersaulted and spiraled to please him.

  “Do it again!” he screamed.

  And they did.

  I closed my eyes and wished this moment would never end. But as soon as I did, I realized my terrible mistake. Everyone knows that as soon as you covet a thing, it gets taken away from you.

  When I opened my eyes again, I seemed to have double vision. Two people were standing near my bed, speaking in Farsi. I blinked and then noticed only one of them was wearing a stethoscope around his neck. He leaned toward me and asked me in Arabic to open my mouth. His accent was Saudi.

  “Tsk. They’re all broken. Have to pull ’em.”

  My jaw was bandaged up and so sore it ached when I moved my thick, useless tongue.

  “Whaa?”

  I had to get out of this place. I put my palms on the mattress and tried to stand, but I was groggy, and it required too much effort for my confused limbs. The Saudi doctor sat down next to me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “You are in a hospital in Iran. You lost a lot of blood and went into shock a few days ago. We were able to stabilize you, fix your broken jaw, and stitch your wounds, but you have been under heavy sedation.”

  “Am I a prisoner?” I tried to ask, but it came out like: “Mmmmfffffff.” No, no, this can’t be. I’m supposed to be in Basra, getting married to Alyaa and teaching my son how to say “Baba.” My mouth wouldn’t work, so all I could do was plead with my eyes. Please, please tell me what’s going on.

  “Someone is asking to see you,” the doctor said, waving someone over. “This boy claims that he saved your life.”

  My terror evaporated the second I recognized the angel who came to me in the bunker. The boy nodded, and I smiled at him even though it was agony on my jaw. The boy said something to the doctor in Farsi.

  “He wants you to know that you are in a safe place now, and that you should take care of your health.”

  I reached for the boy’s small hand, and he gave it to me. The boy said something more to the doctor.

  “He says that soon you will be transferred to a military base.”

  Clearly, then, I was still in the hands of the enemy. And those hands were now fists, wrapped around the promise I’d made to Alyaa, squeezing and crushing it to dust. Whether she would think I lied, forgot her, or was careless and died, it was all the same in the end. I wouldn’t be coming back to marry her any time soon. I wondered how long she would wait until she gave up. Worse, how long would her family wait before trying to get her married to someone else? Even worse, what if her secret came out? I couldn’t protect her from knives and stones with my hands in handcuffs.

  This was supposed to be a quick, winnable war. I was supposed to be back in Basra in a few months, starting my new family and opening another falafel restaurant. My brothers and sisters were all going to work there, fiercely guarding the secret recipe, and we’d bring in even more money than Bruce Lee Restaurant, keeping us all comfortable until Amjad was a grandfather himself. Now, the Iranians would decide my future.

  But I wasn’t dead. There was no more smell of gunfire or death, and the incessant crack of bullets had stopped. At last, I felt my heartbeat settle to its normal pace. I wasn’t in a war zone, at least temporarily, and I was alive. I wanted to ask the boy why he chose me. I wanted to have a long conversation and find out everything about him, but even if my mouth worked, it was too dangerous to reveal our friendship with so many Iranians swirling around the hospital. He could be discovered as a traitor, and maybe even killed for not killing me. I brought the boy’s hand to my lips to kiss it, but he pulled back and leaned forward instead to place a light kiss on both of my cheeks.

  “Allah yusallmak,” I whispered—may God protect and assist you. The boy smiled and stepped back.

  “Lean back,” the doctor ordered. He poured a liquid in my mouth.

  “Rinse,” he said.

  I did as I was told, and soon my gums became numb and I couldn’t feel my lips anymore. He reached toward my mouth with what looked like pliers, and I gripped the boy soldier’s hand as the doctor pulled out my hanging teeth. I felt a tug and dull pain as I watched the pile of teeth on the metal table beside me grow from two to four to ten to a dozen, and then I stopped counting. My lovely white teeth were sitting there like forgotten beans. The smile that used to be my calling card, the one I had used to greet my customers, the one that had captured Alyaa’s heart—gone forever. Under different circumstances, I would have mourned such a destruction of my face. But as I endured the pain, my mind was wrestling with bigger worries. Similar tortures might be waiting for me in prison, and th
ere they wouldn’t use a painkiller first.

  When it was all over, I felt my eyelids sliding downward, and I was drifting back to sleep. The last thing I saw was the boy soldier, waving at me with a look of concern etched into his brow.

  I opened my eyes again and saw neon orange. Someone was in my hospital room, waving something orange in front of my face. It was a jumpsuit. By his hand gestures, it was clear he wanted me to change my outfit. I took off my bloodstained hospital gown and put on the orange jumpsuit. I slipped my feet into the black plastic sandals the stranger offered. Then he beckoned me to follow. My sandals squeaked on the hallway floor as I wobbled on legs that had been horizontal for I didn’t know how long. More escorted men in orange joined us, until we were a small, screaming hazard sign gathered at the hospital’s front doors, where a handful of clean buses were parked with engines running. We boarded, and Iranian soldiers carried those who couldn’t walk.

  “Be strong,” one of the seated prisoners whispered as I walked the aisle to an empty seat.

  When the bus was full, an armed soldier got in the driver’s seat, and two more boarded and systematically walked down the aisle, pushing our heads down out of sight of the windows. Then they took up positions in the front and the back. The engine kicked into gear and we pulled away—a caravan of ghost passengers. After what I think was thirty minutes, the guards tapped us on the shoulder, indicating we could sit upright again. We were on a two-lane road that ribboned through scalloped sand dunes. There was nothing to see and therefore no one to see us. Each time some buildings came into view, the soldiers forced our heads down again so we could drive through undetected. This game of up-down, up-down continued for hours, so that eventually we didn’t need to be told anymore; we all automatically ducked as soon as we saw a village in the distance. I didn’t understand it. It was no secret that both countries had captured tens of thousands of prisoners of war, so why did we have to remain hidden? Maybe they were trying to protect us from angry mobs, but that seemed much too benevolent. More likely they wanted to stay out of the public eye so they could do whatever they wanted to us. All countries were supposed to register their prisoners of war with the International Committee of the Red Cross so there was some sort of record of each inmate and a neutral third party could inspect prison conditions. But if nobody saw a prisoner, did he even exist? If his holding cell wasn’t on any official lists, did he stand a chance of ever getting released?