There was an explosion … Suddenly there was an explosion!
Dirt and sun and soldiers, the trench and the dirt and the sun and an explosion — the confused chatter of various automatic weapons, the sound of continuous firing from anti-aircraft guns, bodies blown into the air and ripped and torn apart, human frames, annihilation, instant craters. The film seems to be running so fast that it’s impossible to estimate the time. Perhaps the entire duration of the explosion was just a few moments, maybe less than thirty seconds. And then a discourse begins on the heroism of a man, a young man whose wife thought he looked like an innocent child as he stood in the middle of the room holding bread and kebabs wrapped in newspaper. And the screen of imagination shows the face of a man who had a soft and sparse beard and tawny skin, a little too pale, and his gaze is so bland that he seems oblivious to the presence of the camera; he’s about twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old. This is the same picture as the one that’s propped up in a niche in the room, resting against the wall between two old tulip-shaped lamps. The colour slowly drains from the man’s face and is replaced by the profile of the young woman, who fell silent at some point and who now resumes:
‘I was startled by the sound of the explosion, but he remained silent. Then he murmured: “People’s houses; have they no shame?” And saying this he stepped back from the tablecloth. It was the first or second year after the bombing of Tehran had begun. I didn’t ask why he’d stepped back from the tablecloth. I assumed he’d just got used to eating very little at the front. While he prayed, I washed his clothes. During his ritual ablution before prayers he had asked me to empty his pockets. As I washed the uniform, filthy black water slopped over the side of the tub and spread over the bathroom floor. I washed them again, twice, three times. I heard him asking me to spread them out to dry, he didn’t have much time. I realized then that he was leaving again early the next morning. I didn’t ask “Why so early?” It occurred to me that he might have come here on a mission. Because in the darkness of the early morning, a car sounded its horn outside and he put on his still-damp uniform. I placed his boots next to his feet and watched him leaving from behind the window and saw the car. I saw him climb in and give me a wave.’
From the mid-point of the film on, the camera returns to focus on the tawny-white face of the man, panning all around him and giving the impression that he is smiling. At the same time, the young woman is asked a very forthright question: ‘Was that the last time you saw your husband?’ — ‘Yes!’ And then the interviewer says: ‘If you don’t want to answer this question, you’re free not to. But if you’re willing … then here it is: between two circumstances, two stances, two moments and, so to speak, two points in time, within a short space of each other, for example, between the moment he arrived and the moment he said goodbye and left, which was more pleasant? His coming or his going?’
The young woman hesitates, but the screen of illusions does not give her time for pause or reflection, for thinking or for choosing the best moment, making it clear that the film has been edited at this point. All we can hear is the woman’s voice saying: ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you! What was your question again?’
So he asks her again: ‘And this meeting … was it your final farewell?’
The photo on the shelf seems to be smiling more broadly than ever and then we hear a voiceover of the woman’s reply, played over a still image of the photograph of the man: ‘Yes … that was the last time.’
Wailing, the sound of mourning and images of green and red flags, and ranks of young men marching out into the desert. And the headbands, red and green, that are tied round the teenagers’ foreheads, like individual banners waving against the background of the earth and the monotonous desert, like a crescent moon torn into thousands of pieces, coloured in vivid green and red, moving patterns on the film’s background.
And the sound of mourning and the rhythm of hands beating on chests …
‘You never mentioned your husband’s name?’
‘No.’
‘Would you like to tell us his name?’
‘No.’
‘May I ask why not?’
‘He didn’t have a name. He didn’t want to have a name.’
‘Can I ask why not?’
‘You’d have to ask him yourself. He specified in his will that he wanted to remain anonymous.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Yes … thanks.’
* The figures named in this and the following paragraph were all early rebels against the encroachment of the Abbasid Caliphate into Persia. As such, their conflicts with the Baghdad-based authority prefigure the modern tension along the Iran — Iraq border.
† Khwaja Nizam al-Mulk Tusi.
‡ Circa AD 754.
§ A nonsensical word.
‖ Arabic, meaning ‘You? Can’t you hear?’
a Arabic, meaning ‘Thirst … thirst, O sir!’
b Itikaf is an Islamic practice consisting of dedicating oneself to a period of retreat in a mosque for the fulfillment of one’s request from God.
5
‘WELL, SABAH AL-KHEIR YA KATIB!* What have you done about the report? I’ve been asked for a response by my superiors. They heard about this incident, and I’ve been given to understand that we can feature it in our international homeland propaganda programme. The more luridly we present it, the better. It has attracted a good deal of attention, and it’s important that material generated by us should catch the president’s eye. It’s a big deal; it could mean medals and honours for both you and us — drive a bit slower, will you, soldier! This gentleman isn’t used to riding in an army jeep. Slow down, I want to give us more time to talk — I’m eager to hear, Abu Alaa, most anxious to hear what you have to say. I’ve vetoed any TV or radio coverage of the incident. Not just because of the presence of Red Cross and all that … how can I put it? It’s because of the speed with which television’s immediate images instantly evaporate from people’s memories. I need a pen. The homeland is in need of your pen to record this incident. Even a short broadcast trailer to whet people’s appetites would benefit from the magic of your pen. The homeland, the president and the people are proud of the enchanting power of your pen. You and I both know — you probably better than I — that we need an appropriate subject to whip up tribal and national sentiment. In the past, you have successfully touched on many different topics with your pen. Whatever subject you’ve discussed has been a success. Of course, those triumphs are testament to your genius. And I personally have no doubt that this incident will furnish you with another opportunity to display your prowess at writing. Let’s just say the raw material has been supplied and is only waiting for a skilful chef to mix the ingredients and cook the meal. Yes … an adept master-chef is what’s required now!’
‘Why, thank you. I’ve been compared to lots of things, but never to a chef.’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you, sir, really I didn’t. I’m just a soldier. Let me try another comparison. This one’s more appropriate, honestly. Imagine soldiers, officers, orderlies, clerical units and artillery, combat regiments, infantry and other units all ready and waiting for their commander to issue the order to join together, form ranks, and march in unison. In particular, it’s vital that the artillery receives clear orders so that it moves at the right time and to the right place. Now, in this instance, you are the commander and everyone’s waiting on your command. You issue the order with a sweep of your hand or by uttering the word ‘Fight!’ So, commander, tell me what strategy you have devised for unleashing a story that I’m sure will explode with all the force of a cannon shell when it’s first broadcast? This explosive round under your command, our historic document, will be just one of the tens, even hundreds of similar pieces of information that we plan to deploy to discredit the enemy: a foe who fancies he has a monopoly on virtue and integrity in this conflict. We’ll target this supposed virtue and integrity of the enemy with your cannon, your pen! You’ll be glad to hear — I may have mentioned it earlier — that I’ve extracted confessions from those inexperienced teenagers. I can play you their confession on videotape, or you can speak to them yourself if you prefer. But in any event, suffice to say that we’ve made history today.’