The unlucky raven in me destroyed the lives of many people. It was I who devastated many countries on earth. Yes, I. Too many disasters and corpses lined my way for me to think otherwise. I tried again and again not to believe this, but fate would have it no other way. The same game was repeated over and over. Barely had I set foot in the Jordanian capital of Amman when the Bread Revolution broke out. In no time at all, I had wreaked havoc in Jordan with my black bird. The Jordanian government had increased the price of bread and so the poor people in the south had taken to the streets to vent their displeasure. So far, not so bad. What was bad was the subsequent counterinsurgency, using weapons and violence. People talked of many victims.
A month later, I wished to visit the small town of al-Karak where the Bread Revolution had begun. The police, though, wouldn’t let the bus pass. They said only soldiers could go in and out of the town. Through the bus window, I could see nothing but ruins. I didn’t just destroy al-Karak, I destroyed employment throughout the country. After the Bread Revolution, you heard — far and wide — only of unemployed people.
Many of my countrymen who’d also fled to Jordan noticed that, ever since I arrived, the glut of Iraqi refugees was no longer being given visas for the neighbouring countries. Except for Libya and Yemen. For me, Jordan had become unbearable and depressing. I was ready to flee not just to Africa but even to a different planet. The main thing was to get as far away from Jordan as possible. Here, I’d destroyed almost everything.
I left Jordan and its ruins and fled to Africa. To be precise, to Libya. Barely had I set foot in the country when — afraid I would devastate everything again — I put my hand on my heart. At first, everything seemed to be in order. One month, two, three, the country was okay — until it was hit by an almighty hammer. America and other Western governments were demanding more, and stronger, measures against Libya. An embargo. All at once, the Libyan dinar fell to a third of its value against the dollar. From one day to the next, everything became expensive. I told myself that wasn’t so bad. But then, news of AIDS suddenly spread round the country. There was talk of doctors and nurses from Bulgaria who had worked in Benghazi and allegedly infected a great number of people, including children, with HIV. This was a scandal among the population. Though no one had exact information about the what, how, who and why of the whole matter.
The next scandal was already on its way. I was still in Benghazi when strange things began to happen in the not-very-distant town of al-Bayda. The Libyan ruler, it was reported on TV, had broken a leg attempting some sporting activity or other. Suddenly only soldiers and policemen could be seen in the streets. Every day, planes flew over Benghazi in the direction of al-Bayda. For days, a deathly hush and fear, both in the town and the eyes of its people. Later, it was rumoured that some people from al-Bayda had tried to kill the Libyan ruler but had only managed to injure him. The town was declared a prohibited area. Rumours spread everywhere that there were nothing but corpses and ruins now in al-Bayda.
If I’d remained there any longer, perhaps the whole country would’ve been declared a prohibited area.
I left death and Libya and travelled by ship to Turkey. Seven days at sea, hoping for a new beginning, as far away as possible from the Orient. At three in the morning, the captain spoke into his radio: ‘We are now entering Turkish waters.’
Five minutes later, he spoke again: ‘May I please have your attention!’
A few moments of silence.
‘The most powerful earthquake in Turkish history has rocked the country. Towns destroyed, thousands of people killed. More earthquakes are expected.’
Bewildered, I put my head in my hands. ‘What have I done?’
The next day, we reached Izmir. Everything looked completely normal — the houses, the people. No sign of an earthquake. I tried to get hold of an Arabic or English newspaper but couldn’t find one. That same day, I continued by bus to Istanbul, past many a house that was no longer a house but just a ruin. The journey took quite a long time. Frantic, I tried to sleep in order not to have to look at all the destruction round me.
On the surface, Istanbul was still in good condition, but — upon closer inspection — I spotted, here and there, quite a few destroyed houses. And families camping outdoors, in parks and green spaces. A few were dotted with little cookers and I could sense the chaotic atmosphere in the town. At Otogar, the main bus terminal, I found an Arabic newspaper with the following news: ‘At about 3 a.m., in the Marmara region in northwest Turkey, the towns of Adapazari, Gölcük, Izmir and Yalova were rocked by an earthquake, measured at 7.4 on the Richter scale. It is estimated that over forty thousand people were killed and about three hundred thousand rendered homeless.’
I felt an unspeakable grief and feared that my unlucky raven could visit worse things upon the country. The tremors had not yet ceased. Several aftershocks followed that same day but, fortunately, didn’t have such grave consequences.
On my first day, I stayed at a hotel on Taksim Square. At midnight, the glass on the bedside table began to tremble. The light bulb hanging from the ceiling, even the bed, were shaking. Invisible hands were beating both the hotel and the earth. I heard shouting. I packed my bag and raced down to the street. The whole wall had a crack down the middle. I decided to sleep with a few others in the park. Admittedly, this disaster had advantages for me. Though I didn’t want that, it was in fact the case. I was given free food by various relief organizations and didn’t have to pay a single lira for nights in a hotel — for me, a dream, as I had hardly any money. And so, things were relatively good for all refugees at this time in Turkey. No police inquiries. No arbitrary measures to annoy you. No trickery. The police had enough other problems.
For a short time, the earthquake lost sight of Turkey. Then, about three months later, a new tremor took another six and a half thousand lives in the district of Düzce. I could no longer stand being in this country. Whenever I saw a house in ruins or sad, desperate people, I thought it was all my fault.
It was months before the Turks were free of me and my curse. I reached Athens. Looking about, though, I thought I was in the wrong place. Philosophers, my arse! Nothing but homeless people and refugees. Many of the buildings were destroyed — as if one of the Iraqi wars had passed through. But there was no war. The reason again was an earthquake, the very one that had gone on to devastate Turkey. So Athens was already destroyed when I arrived — a special welcome, probably, personally tailored for me. And to top it all, the hotels were completely full. You had to fight for a space even under one of the many bridges.
Some enterprising people were already making a profit from this situation by selling places to sleep, in parks or under bridges, to people in need. For me, once again, there were only advantages — free food from church-related social groups and, in the end, even a house to sleep in. It’s true that, initially, like many others, I slept in many different places, beneath bridges, in the park, in the ruins. But then I decided with a few other refugees to occupy a house. After the earthquake, many Greek families had left their apartments and fled to relatives in the countryside. Others had been evacuated from their homes for safety reasons. Those homes were then locked up by municipal wardens and given a red police seal. We hammered a hole in the wall of such a house in Megalos Alexandros Street and set up home. True, it was pretty much destroyed and without electricity, but at least it had a toilet and a kitchen. We were caught several times by the police and thrown out. We went back each time.