تحرير مقال جديد/مسودة - ويكيبيديا

# تحرير مقال جديد/مسودة

### من ويكيبيديا، الموسوعة الحرة

short story

Saddam and Khamini by MAHMOUD SAEED Translated by Zahra Jishi

His legs almost gave out on him, but the voice of his vice-president, Taha Yassin Ramadan, reached him with encouragement, “Sir, pull yourself together. Be strong. They’re filming us with hundreds of cameras. Remember, showing weakness will only defang the Resistance.” Saddam, hearing this, stood tall and proud. It was around five in the morning. Calls to prayer were resonating strongly in the steel of the night, blaring from minarets dispersed throughout Baghdad. “Come to prayer!” the nearest muezzin rattled in a voice laced with sadness. His eyes teared. “Come to prayer,” he repeated aloud. “Come to prayer! Come to success! There is no God but God!” the three men walking behind him reiterated, becoming suddenly religious. And soon a peculiar strength crept into his feet, allowing him to maintain a steady gait. Once the guard placed a red bag over his head, a long series of flashbacks of those he had killed in cold blood played in his mind – starting with his life’s first crime when he assassinated Hajj Sadoun al-Takriti, the foremost proponent of the leader Abdul Karim Qassim, until sinking into the degrading mire of the American occupation with its spiteful allies. He tried to remember the number of his victims. Hundreds? No, thousands. No, hundreds of thousands. But the eyes of his first victim, Hajj Sadoun, were still wide open, gazing at him with surprise and wonderment; they still racked his soul as he remembered taking dead aim with his gun, ending the life of the revered man who had helped him during times of hardship, poverty, and vagrancy. Hajj Sadoun couldn’t believe that his foster child would backstab him. No doubt Saddam experienced the same feelings that had shrouded his hundreds of thousands of victims, whom had been put to death with the same ease he now faced. His captors were performing the very role he had assumed for four decades. He felt the rough hand of his executioner fasten the bag, disconnecting him from the world. That simple move severed the cord of his life. He considered himself dead – weren’t life and vision one inseparable entity? He was living his last moments. His hands were tied behind his back. He was utterly motionless except for his breathing. He couldn’t even open his eyes because the bag was so tight. Everything was over. He felt more than one hand pulling on his legs and waist with ropes and chains. Weren’t these weights meant to help separate his head from his body? Yes, of course. Then, he felt the thick noose encircle his neck from over the bag, driving out his last remaining warm breath. He maniacally thrashed his head around, gasping frantically for oxygen, but at the same time the wooden trap-door underneath his feet snapped downward, and his body dropped strongly. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. He almost screamed. His voice failed him. His lips failed him. His breath failed him. And then all sensation ceased.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself between two thick glass partitions, where he could see people on both sides. To his right he saw countless swarms of blissful people. They were laughing, singing and dancing. Was he dreaming? All he knew was that he had been hung to death, but why had he found himself here? Who were these people? Why were they here? Where were his assistants? Where were those who had taken him to the gallows? And why had all this happened to him? He turned to his left and saw quite the opposite; millions of people were burning in a mighty blaze that looked like flames from oil rigs. People were scorching, flaming, exploding, and being reborn only to burn again. Where was the end to this severe torment and wretched misery? He then realized that he was dead, that he was between heaven and hell, that the hour of judgment was bound to come, and that he had to prepare honest answers that could save him. Things here were different from a courtroom where humans would arbitrate. This was the Hereafter. Here was a just, fair, and infallible Ruler who knew all thoughts and acts of humanity. He closed his eyes and heaved a deep, worried sigh. He would definitely be thrown into hell. He had committed countless crimes. Since a terrible reckoning awaited him, he looked to the right, to heaven, and enjoyed watching its people for the last time. Suddenly, the ground quaked underneath his feet, just like when he had been hung. He looked back and watched as the glass partition transformed into a giant computer screen. The kind Angel Ridwan, the Paradise doorkeeper, stood right in the middle, facing him, surrounded by a big entourage of angels with eminent, shining faces.

    .  Ridwan said to him calmly, choosing his words,  “Saddam, you are a world-class massacrer, a murderer with no conscience and scruples.  You deserve eternal damnation in hell for the thousands of crimes you have perpetrated.  You are evil. You are your own people’s enemy and the enemy of humanity.  You inflicted misery on millions without a blink of an eye.  You wronged scores of people and stole from the rich and poor.  You have engaged in all sorts of wrong-doing.  Had you had one thousand souls, executing them wouldn’t have been enough punishment.  Your sins are infinite.  But God’s mercy is greater than His justice.  You have done only one deed that had a little of good – you demanded to stop the war following al-Mohammara’s battle.  Should your request have been met with favor, you would have stopped the blood shed of innocents and saved hundreds of thousands of souls; therefore, you deserve God’s pardon.  Go to heaven and enjoy your God’s mercy.”

Saddam couldn’t believe his ears, he kneeled down to kiss Ridwan’s feet, but his forehead bumped into the computer screen. The ground quaked again and the computer screen disappeared along with Ridwan and his companions as suddenly as it had appeared. Saddam was alone once again, standing before the thick glass that opened before him with lightning-speed, from the right side. There was a red carpet like the ones rolled out for him in the airports, so he stepped forward cautiously, not believing his eyes.

Since dawn, all the news networks had been broadcasting the execution of Saddam, and as soon as Khamini heard the news on LBC all sleep fled from his eyes. His weary body suddenly brimmed with youthful energy. He picked up the phone and summoned al-Mulla Baqir Hallufi, the head of his bodyguards, who soon stood before him panic-stricken. “Call immediately for an urgent meeting, right here. Hurry up,” Khamini ordered. This meant al-Mulla had to convene all of the key leadership in the Islamic Republic of Iran. They soon streamed into the palace. Among the first comers were current president Mahmoud Ahmadi Najad, previous president and close friend Agha Rafsanjani along with his previous successor Agha Khatimi, followed by all cabinet members, military leaders and officials. Khamini welcomed his guests with hugs and kisses, amid an air of gaiety and festivity. He sat comfortably in his raised chair, while the rest of the assembly gathered around him on the floor, legs crisscrossed – out of respect to the divine authority he enjoyed, an authority passed down to him from the Prophet, through one imam after another, until it reached him and he became God’s shadow on earth for guarding Islam and Muslims. At the same time, the believing women’s trilling cries of joy and coy laughter were wafting from the palace’s walls up to the vault of heaven. Everyone lost track of time in the midst of a special bliss that lasted for hours. The telegraphs of congratulations and gloating over Saddam’s death poured from within and outside Iran. They were recited by Shamkhani the minute they were received, while Khamini and the crowd quivered, enchanted by his beautiful voice. The first recited telegraph was from Ahmad al-Jalabi, followed by countless ones from al-Eshaiker al-Jaafari, Abdul Aziz al-Hakim, Grand Ayatollah al-Sistani, al-Shahrastani, Mam Jalal and his friend in struggle, al-Barazani, heads of tribes, Iraqi cabinet members, Lebanese parliament members, etc. Khamini normally enjoyed listening to good new while eating, but Shamkhani stopped reading at a motion from Khamini – he was to resume later after lunch. Rafsanjani understood the hand gesture. “I feel as if I am born anew,” he commented, laughing. Khatimi nodded in approval. “Such happy news occurs only once in a lifetime,” he added. At these words, Khamini fixed on Khatimi with a stare of mingled irritation and blame. “Actually twice or maybe more!” he said, nodding wisely. Khatimi shuddered. His face turned sallow and he gazed up at Khamini, perplexed, wondering what the first time was. “Do not forget, Mohammad, that the victory of the Islamic revolution was the most monumental news in our generation’s history,” Khamini repeated in a deliberate tone, redolent with the tact and depth of a grand ayatollah. “Yes, yes, most monumental, greatest, biggest, and…” the assembly concurred. Khatimi felt inept. He wished he hadn’t been born.

    Realizing he had scolded Khatimi hard, Khamini attempted to act wisely and tactfully, so he put on a smile and decided to take the assembly back to the events of the delightful occasion before he had caused a distraction.

“Agha Najad, what do you suggest we do on this happy occasion for the enduring Iranian people?” he asked quietly, a mirthful look dancing in his eye. “Although this moment is not comparable to that of the revolution’s victory, our glee is the same. And maybe we’ll rejoice this way only at the return of Mystery Imam al-Mahdi; may God bring about his early reappearance and ease his coming.” Silence prevailed. Najad was baffled. Pausing for a moment to regain his composure, he blurted, “My Imam, I’m considering issuing a decree to make this day an official holiday throughout our victorious Islamic state.” “Wrong. Wrong. We don’t want to give that wicked Saddam more value than deserved,” Rafsanjani shrieked. Color ebbed from Najad’s cheeks, and if it weren’t for his black beard he would have become a dull, wax statue. He knew that Khamini was playing with him the same game he had played with his predecessors, Khatimi and Rafsanjani, in which he would record their mistakes and bring them up later during a moment of opportunity. He used to put them down during each meeting. But Khamini couldn’t nail him; he was younger, while the other two were old and incompetent. They became muddled whenever Khamini trapped them, and they didn’t know how to handle him. But not Najad. He would overpower Khamini one day, but in order for him to do so he had to keep his presence low key. Najad rose and went up to Khamini; he reached for his hand and kissed it with utter reverence. “You are the guiding Imam and the father,” he said in order to appease Khamini. He then burst into tears. Khamini patted him on the head with a feigned affection, and before he could even utter a word, his secretary, lieutenant Zahidi, announced, “Lunch is served.” All were stunned. It was already 11:30 A.M. More than six hours had elapsed in what seemed like a flash of a second. That was the miracle of festivities! Time flew like the wind. Only then they felt the sharp pangs of hunger, and everyone waited for Khamini to rise from his chair. Once Khamini rose, they followed him to the dining room, accompanied by Rafsanjani and Najad. Shamkhani, the highborn Ahwazi, had introduced delicious fish, chicken, and lamb roasted recipes – in the Arabic style – into Khamini’s kitchen. What a connoisseur! Khamini, though, remembered that his doctor had recommended for him to cut down on red meat and to completely stop using table salt due to his high blood cholesterol. The feast table, which ran more than thirty feet long, was piled high with food – grilled, baked and fried lamb, fish, and wild birds, along with a slew of Arabic, Indian, French, Chinese and American dishes. He then saw his plate, which had been prepared for him under medical supervision. Fat free yogurt, steamed vegetables, small pieces of chicken breast, garlic and cucumbers. He lost his appetite. The worst part was that all his food was salt and spices free. How was he going to eat? It was a torture like no other. Witty Rafsanjani was standing to his right and read his mind. “Sir, my lord, break your diet today. Once a month will do you no harm,” he said. “Do you think so?” “I know so. I have the same health issues. Not only due the principles of Islam unite us at this age, but also diabetes, hypertension, and high blood cholesterol. It’s the doctor’s opinion. Breaking the diet once every two weeks, three weeks, or month doesn’t hurt at all. When you shock the digestive system, it girds itself into action and burns everything at once. Enjoy your meal at my responsibility,” Rafsanjani said, pounding his chest, and rolling up his sleeves before digging into the spiced, roasted lamb, stuffed with almonds and sultanas, a splendid recipe from the gruffy, lizard eating Arabs. “Sound advice that I will take,” Khamini answered, drooling.

    They all ate in excess, the way a fasting person would after iftar, finishing their lunch with delicious tea infused with cardamom and saffron.  Khamini held his small fancy cup, but he felt that his breath had grown heavy followed by thousands of pin-pricks in his chest. Then his right hand shook violently and the tea cup flew high up in the air to land and smash onto Najad’s face, amid gazes of shock and terror.  Then he lost all sensation.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself as naked as he had been on the day of his birth. He recollected the events of the previous moment. His eyes darted around in search of the cup of sweet, flavored tea, for Najad, Rafsanjani, Khatimi, Shamkhani, his assistants, the servants and the guards. He found no one. Where had they gone? Why was he naked? Was he in a bathroom? No, this was a new, unfamiliar place. He was alone. Where were his clothes? His hand unconsciously reached to his midsection. But where was he? He didn’t know. He looked to the right and saw a thick, clear glass partition that separated him from thousands of people. They were happy and having fun. They were dancing, singing, running around and kissing ethereally, beautiful women. He looked to his left and his eyes came across a similar thick and clear glass partition through which he could see everything. Thousands of people were burning, screaming, melting within seconds and then being reborn only to burn again. What a horrible scene! Did this mean that he had died? Did this mean that he was before heaven and hell? Ah, how fast life ended! He pondered long and hard. He realized that he was dead. He was grateful to God that he didn’t suffer in his death – he hadn’t been killed in combat, nor had he tasted the terror of being taken to the gallows like his fiercest enemy Saddam Hussain. Too bad, though, that he had died when he had been at the pinnacle of a fleeting happiness.

       Where were his followers, guards, assistants, the leaders, the presidents and the millions who hailed him? Where had they gone? Here he was, alone, naked, with neither might nor power. He turned once more to his right and saw people dancing, singing, and rejoicing, while wearing the fanciest garments he had ever seen – superb fabric, famous French and Italian brands, stunning vintage and modern fashion, as if he were in Hollywood, Paris, or London.

All of a sudden, the ground quaked underneath his feet, and a great fear seized him. A giant computer appeared before him, whose screen filled the entire glass partition. Ridwan appeared with his huge body and his glorious, radiant face, surrounded by a big entourage of happy, beautiful angels. No doubt, it was the hour of judgment. He stared at Ridwan and his companions, his smile melting into supplication and meekness. Then his eyes met Ridwan’s, and he discerned in them patience and docility, lacking among humans. His eyes flitted to the angels around Ridwan; they were both male and female. Their bodies were naked and seductively exciting. Where were their wings and how did they move around? Ridwan motioned to them with his finger and one angel came out through the screen and covered Khamini privates with a red silken wrap. Khamini let out a sigh of relief. That was a nice gesture. So, he wasn’t going to hell. “Is there anything you want to say?” Ridwan started. “No, Agha. I’m at your disposal.” “We know you better than you know yourself,” Ridwan said, grinning. “Your abode is hell! Do you know why?” Khamini jerked in surprise. He hadn’t expected this attack. It was so similar to the style of rule he used with his followers. “Yes, I am a hypocrite,” he muttered, shivering.

“True. You were an eternal egotistical hypocrite. Thousands of young men were taken to death while you stood still. Not only this, you did nothing for the comfort of the kind Iranian people for a quarter century. During your days, the rich became richer, and the poor poorer. Diseases, hunger, prostitution, corruption and bribery became widespread, and Iran has become the biggest brothel in the world, safeguarded by ayatollahs. Even the way you sit on a raised chair, towering above those who surround you is a despicable, non-Islamic act. Didn’t you know that the prophet Mohammad wouldn’t distinguish himself from others, and those who didn’t know him used to ask, ‘Which one of you is Mohammad?’ You shouldn’t have placed yourself above your people. You should have taken care of them. Khamini, your mistakes are too numerous to cite.” “All you mentioned is right, but I seek God’s forgiveness, eminent is His glory.” “God forgave you. Not because you deserve pardon, but only because you did have one good position when you agreed, along with others, to stop the war, saving the lives of millions. Go into heaven and enjoy.” Suddenly, the ground quaked and the screen disappeared along with Ridwan and his assistants. Khamini was alone again. Soon, the glass between him and heaven opened, and he felt something nudge him forward onto a regal red carpet, similar to the ones on earth. He felt at ease and took a deep breath as he was going to paradise. His steps were slow and hesitant, since he was walking into a new world that he had had always heard about, but had never seen. Ah. What a pleasure! What happiness! He felt elated. His heart danced. Where were those enchanting songs coming from. He glimpsed from afar the most beautiful faces and heard the most beautiful voice; though, this was not a celestial voice. It was an earthly one. The voice of Koukoush. Was this possible? Koukoush was in heaven, like him? What could she have done to deserve heaven? Like always, she was almost naked, her voluptuous body exuding eternal seduction. How she excited him when he was a teenager! He only used to see her on TV. Back then he didn’t even have a penny and seeing her in the nightclub where she performed cost more than he could ever save, but she kept invading his dreams and waking hours, and he kept loving her from a distance. Here she stood before him, with her soft melodious voice. Could he kiss her? Of course not. Thousands of her fans were swaying, mesmerized and drunken. It would be impossible to win her heart amid all these competitors. But never mind, he’d give it a try, just for the sake of it, and if he got turned down, he would try to find himself a beautiful houri who would make him forget his love for Koukoush. As soon as he had inched his way down the corridor, the ground trembled beneath his feet. Thirty feet ahead, Saddam blocked his way, eyes fuming with anger, raised fists ready to fight. Khamini froze in place terrorized, then he looked back and began running and screaming, “Agha, Ridwan Agha… Open the door, I don’t want heaven!”

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