From Zuhair Al Hiti’s ‘A Nest of Embers’

A Nest of Embers

عش الجمر

By Zuhair Al Hiti

Translated by Hend Saeed

This is the story of Zafaran, a young man trying to escape the labels slapped on Sabeans, who leaves Baghdad hoping to find freedom in a small village. Yet, as soon as he arrives, he is recognized as the “Sabean,” and his life takes a new turn, such that he not only faces the myths about Sabeans but the village’s inner darkness.

Chapter 5

The shadow of the girl in the damp morning air confused him. It lingered in his mind as he made his way to school on his first day, which passed without any major surprises, which was not how it had begun.

Zafaran did not expect that the nickname “Sabian” would stick to him in Kish from the very first day in school, triggering the rural community’s prejudices—the ones rooted in shared memory about this “mysterious” religion. These prejudices were coupled with cruel images and stories about the Sabian community, including claims that they choked birds before eating them, practiced magic, and supported the regime. There were also the accusations of extreme wealth and a variety of racist beliefs. So, Zafaran’s arrival in the village was no ordinary event. Everyone was curious about the Sabian. Women in particular were interested, since having a romantic relationship with an outsider was considered safer than dating a local in a place where everyone knew everyone.

Kish was like any other village in the middle Euphrates; there was a sharp contrast between its mornings and nights. Its days began with the eternal rhythms of detailed movements that had evolved long ago. The village carried a constant sense of slowness; perhaps that was the only thing that distinguished it from death.

The men of the village wore long robes and dark-colored jackets, or military jackets, since the military uniform had become an integral part of Iraqi life. On their heads, they wore a white yashmagh with black checks, or they draped it around their necks. Sometimes they covered their mouths with it, giving them a slightly suspicious appearance.

As for the women, the only thing they wore was black abayas, which they wrapped around themselves and left to trail along the dirt streets until the edges grew worn and brown.

The aggressive militarism that had engulfed the capital also reached the village, though its rural character raised questions about both its seriousness and its loyalty. Still, Zafaran felt annoyed to see these changes in a village that hardly had two thousand residents.

Here, everything is clear and easy, so a person should adapt to their surroundings, Zafaran thought. The layout of the village appeared haphazard, as if it had been that way since the days of the Babylonians. Who needed planning? Everything in their lives seemed almost random. The children grew up and built their homes near their parents, leading to a crazy quilt of a village, where the structure was a mystery understood only by them. They navigated it with grace.

Maybe I need to get used to this, he thought.

In the village, everyone seemed to know their place amid the chaos. Set off from the main asphalt road that divided the village into two equal sections, the side streets belonged to another world. They were streets without signs, meant to prevent outsiders from going too deep.

No one knew where strangers came from or where they were going; no one seems to care much about their comings and goings, either. The people of Kish were used to that, even if they didn’t always accept it. This was particularly true when foreign scientific missions came for archaeological excavations or when Saleh the Stranger—married to Halima—passed away. Halima, now a widow, had to live without a man, and there was concern she might succumb to sin and the Curse of the Abandoned Place. Despite her youth, everyone knew that no one would agree to marry her, because her late husband had been a stranger. Besides, she was seen as a bad omen, her husband’s killer. Otherwise, why would her husband have died?

What would happen to her overflowing youth? It wouldn’t be long before one night, Thabet, Sheikh Jaber’s son, knocked on her door. And whispers would go on stabbing her in the back, like the blades of Saad the Barber, tarnishing her reputation.

The school where Zafaran worked was at the top left side of the main road. Most streets in Iraq didn’t have names. People walked, lived, multiplied, and died on nameless streets; Kish was no exception.

They did not, and would not, participate in shaping their present or future. As for the past, it was filled with military coups that crept into the school curricula under the name of Revolutions, calling to mind all the sensitive issues like minefields.

That was how names became despised, leading to the genius solution of having a country without street names.

Everyone in Kish simply called the main road, “The Main Road,”  even though its official name was “The President, Our Leader.” Anyhow, everyone knew this name will eventually be replaced, sooner or later.

We are the unknown, living in unknown streets,  Zafaran thought.

Still, it was the only well-paved road in the village. Along its sides stood the vital centers that controlled life here: the school, the governor’s office, the clinic, the party headquarters, the butcher, and the teacher’s club, which had been the only place that allowed alcohol before the president’s’ “campaign for religion.”

This was when the barber Saad found a golden opportunity to start selling alcohol in secret to those who wanted it, and many did. There were also several grocery stores and two cafés. One café catered to the village sheikhs, while the other had a TV and two table-tennis tables for the village youth—a game as boring as life in Kish. The second café was mostly empty of visitors most of the time.

Then there was Al Fordous Mosque, vegetable sellers, and the aforementioned barber, who also served as a nurse. On his shop door, there hung a portrait of President Saddam Hussein, smoking a Cuban cigar no smaller than the one smoked by Winston Churchill or Che Guevara. The portrait looked out of place in the remote village. Flies crawled across its face, and it showed neither the ability to repel them nor the desire to enter a new war, after the invasion and looting of Kuwait, remnants of which were still displayed in few shops. Still, no one seemed eager to pay the bills.

On his way to school, a few passersby greeted him warmly, their curious eyes marking him as a stranger in the village. He felt good about it. Here he was, ready to become part of the history of this ancient village. This newfound sense of belonging was refreshing, especially after having long been associated with a small sect fighting against disappearance and assimilation.

As he approached the school, which was surrounded by a white fence, he was greeted by the familiar scent of stationery, pens, and students. This was a smell that was both universal and unchanged by time or place.

Almost immediately, he noticed the Iraqi flag, with its torn edges and faded colors, hanging at the top of the building. It resembled a dull advertisement for misery and despair, as if that were its intended purpose. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a warm welcome and longing for an unknown time, like a complicated historical maze.

At school, almost all the students wore military uniforms provided by the “people’s” army. They gathered in circles that expanded and contracted depending on the subjects they discussed. They seemed genuinely more interested in exchanging news than in their education.

Indeed, it seemed the school had transformed into a social club where everyone met to share news, with education taking a back seat. Being at school granted them a form of official recognition by the government, freeing them from the obligation to join the military or the people’s army fighting in faraway Kuwait, a place that, to them, felt strange and cursed.

Zafaran also noticed that some of the teachers were milling about in ill-fitting military clothing, as if they had lost their purpose. He recalled having seen a similar scene in Baghdad, particularly among those eager for war to break out—‘now, now and not tomorrow’—as Fairuz sang in a distant, fading memory.

He walked to the manager’s office after the toothless worker showed him the way. Her mouth resembled an eternal black hole, much like the mouths of Sumerian statues that once sang hymns of worship for gods who had abandoned their cities, leaving behind nothing but faded victory.

The school headmaster, Mr. Kamal, was in his mid-forties. His military uniform perfectly fit his big, muscular body. He wore the checked uniform that was special for the elite “national resistance” group. Around his thick neck, he draped a red-and-white checked yashmaq, similar to the one the president was famous for. On his desk, he arranged his Ray Ban sunglasses, a pack of Marlboros, a Ronson lighter, and a cup of bitter Arabic coffee alongside some well-organized papers topped with a Parker pen. He was as engrossed in reading the party newspaper Al Thoura as though he were preparing a PhD in astronomy.

Strangely for an Iraqi school, there was a large mirror in Mr. Kamal’s office.

To the right of his desk, the mirror had a significant influence on guests like him, especially when the headmaster stood up and walked around his massive desk, a Tarek-brand gun hanging from his side. This brand was the best, as far as local products went, and it was gifted to those who were dedicated to serving the doctrine. The headmaster shook Zafaran’s hand in a way that Zafaran did not expect. His handshake was firm but friendly. Almost military and somehow alarming, it seemed like the handshake of an army group on the verge of victory, echoing and applying the president’s most famous saying, “How beautiful victory is, by God’s will.”

After he had ordered the Arabic coffee with cardamom, which Zafaran enjoyed, Mr. Kamal scrutinized him with a reproachful, fatherly look and the same friendly smile that had embarrassed Zafaran, since he was the only one at the school not wearing a military uniform. Those who avoided wearing it during these dark times could face dire consequences.

Mr. Kamal started flipping through the few papers in front of him, having carefully removed the Parker pen from the top. Zafaran knew these were his papers. The headmaster asked him several questions about his teaching experience, the situation at the university in Baghdad (where he himself had graduated), and other unimportant things.

In Iraq, one could not get straight to the point; sideways introductions were necessary first. Anything else would be considered disrespectful. After setting the papers aside and swallowing his friendly smile, he spoke firmly, setting the line between employer and employee:

“When you leave here, please go to the office of the assistant, Mr. Mohammed, and he’ll tell you where everything is in the school, including your office, which you will share with Mr. Ali, the art teacher. He will also let you know about your teaching and party duties.”

With this, the headmaster announced the end of the meeting. Zafaran thought the man was about to take part in some significant battle.

Mr. Mohammed, the assistant for teachers’ affairs, had reached the age of retirement. He was spending his final year working and teaching. He was less welcoming than the headmaster had been, and he did not seem surprised when Zafaran appeared. This man strolled through the school hallways as if he were the true king, now and again harshly reprimanding students, and the students seemed to fear him. He explained everything important to Zafaran until they reached a room that had a small sign on the door that read “art room.”

Turning to Zafaran with a smile, he said, “This is the room you’ll share with Mr. Ali, the art teacher. All other offices are overcrowded or are being used as storage for military supplies.”

He said this last part in a mocking tone that he did not try to hide. The country’s leaders were anticipating a fierce war, after which they would keep Kuwait as the seventeenth province, so they distributed the museum’s collectibles, public records, and even military supplies and other valuables to schools, hospitals, and other locations they thought wouldn’t be targeted by the “international  coalition”– the coalition that had gathered its deadly machines not far from here, in Hafar Al Batin. The secondary school called “Triumphant Victory” had its share of stored public collectables. A primitive basement had been built in an underground storage area, in case the regime used chemical or nuclear weapons and the coalition decided to do the same.

“The school’s name alone gives them a reason to bomb it,” Mr. Mohammed said, laughing as he took off his thick reading glasses and wiped away tears of laughter. Zafaran didn’t dare laugh, but he smiled. It was a smile that could be interpreted in many ways.

The assistant knocked quietly, and a young man yanked open the door. He was the same age as Zafaran, with a beautiful smile that was part of his cheerful demeanor, as Zafaran would later learn.

The three of them sat down in the art room, where students’ and the teachers’ paintings were stacked up chaotically, along with other clutter that took up more than half of the space. Mr. Ali went to bring tea from Um Majeed, the woman with the Sumerian mouth. Seizing his opportunity in the absence of the art teacher, the assistant leaned closer to Zafaran and whispered, seemingly unconcerned about the garlic scent of his breath, “I read your file from the ministry. I know you’re a Sabian.”

He hesitated for a moment before he went on, to Zafaran’s surprise:” It’s best if you don’t tell anyone. Many people in this village are very religious and don’t understand the importance of such differences. To avoid ignorant comments from some students, I’m asking you to please keep your religion a secret.”

Zafaran was taken back by this “advice.” Yes, he knew people from his sect were cautious, but never before had someone asked him to hide his identity in such an unfair way. The assistant went on in a mocking tone, as was apparently his style, saying, “Kish isn’t like Baghdad.” The assistant’s words felt like a wall, thwarting Zafaran’s efforts to integrate into village life. It took him back to his reality, which he’d wanted to forget.

The people of his sect, which his family had been part of for generations, agreed to maintain a distance from other communities, secretly referred to as “the others.” This distance was intended to prevent envy, hatred, aggression, violence, belittlement, and to provide them a space to practice their beliefs and rituals. These practices had been passed down from Yohan Al Ma’amadan, who left the land of Al Min and Al Salwa in search of a savior. He was followed by “the people of the water,” as they were called, for the way they were baptized in the water of the Tigris and Euphrates.

Since then, and throughout history, the fear of collective persecution had led them to cherish this space, which had, over time and experience, became a sacred one.

His grandfather, Saleem Al Zand, often recounted the tragic events surrounding the terrible coincidence that had brought him to witness the Farhud incidents that befell the Jewish people on June 1 1941, during their Shavuot celebration, following the fall of Rashid Ali Al Gaylani’s government.

These events resulted in the deaths of more than 175 individuals on the streets of Baghdad, along with many more wounded, as well as the destruction and looting of Jewish churches and homes. This violence planted deep fears in the heart of his grandfather, which persisted until his death.

He used to tell his grandson, Zafaran, “Even though the Jews were stronger, wealthier, and more influential than our Sabian community, they were still overpowered by the chaos. It’s true that you’re growing up in a different time. But remember that the day may come when we will be uprooted like the Jews.” This memory, along with few whispered words from Mohammed, reignited Zafaran’s old, inherited fears, striking his heart like a thunderbolt.

Mr. Ali entered with a tray and three cups of hot tea prepared by Um Majeed, who run a small kitchen serving hot drinks, eggs, and cheese sandwiches to students and teachers. Mr. Mohammed gulped down his tea and left, pressing the hand of the new teacher kindly, as if to remind him of their earlier agreement. Zafaran didn’t realize then that Mr. Mohammed was going to tell the whole village that the new teacher was Sabian.

Before the man left, he said, “If you need anything, my door is open.” Then he must have realized what he’d said, because he looked toward Mr. Ali and added, “To you both, all the time. You can come back to my office after you finish your tea to get your weekly schedule. You’ll start tomorrow.”

As soon as he left and closed the door behind him, the art teacher leaned closer to Zafaran and whispered in his ear—with breath that didn’t reek of garlic– “Don’t believe a word he says. He writes reports for security that can get you sent out behind the sun, as they say in Egypt.”

Zafaran felt grateful to Mr. Ali, and comfortable in this office, and he secretly thanked God for the opportunity to share a room with this cheerful, happy person, who was also from Baghdad. This was Ali’s third year in Kish, and he’d be able to return to Baghdad next year. According to the regulations that governed teaching, a new teacher must serve three years in a remote village before being allowed to move to the province of their choice.

They quickly became close, perhaps because of Ali’s tendency to tell jokes that mocked both the country’s political leaders and the half-educated and untalented people with which the country was burdened.

Ali told Zafaran all the crucial information he needed to navigate daily life in this isolated village. He was staying in a hotel in Babel City, 20 kilometers away, where all the teachers from other provinces stayed.

“You’re well-off,” Ali said, “or that’s what I heard from Um Majeed, who isn’t just a local tea seller, but also a news correspondent. She said that you’ve rented a small house nearby, which belongs to Sheikh Jaber, the head of this village and the neighboring ones, too. Is that true?”

Zafaran replied shyly, “I prefer living alone. I can’t hack staying with strangers for three years, the way you’ve done. My father helped me find this place. He knows Sheikh Jaber.”

“What does your father do?” Ali asked.

“He’s a goldsmith.”

Ali was quick to shoot back, “Are you Sabian?”

“How did you know?”

“All the Iraqi goldsmiths are Sabians.”

Zafaran nodded, feeling bit ashamed, then added with a smile, “Not all of them, I’m sure.”

“Don’t be shy because you’re rich. I am not a communist,’ Ali reassured him.

“Do communists really hate money?”

“No, they don’t. They only become real communists for the jobs, and to accumulate money. But they pretend otherwise to keep the global proletariat in line.”

“Mr. Mohammed told me to hide my beliefs so I’d avoid snarky comments from students. But it seems that won’t work. You found me out right away.”

“That bastard. No one in this village is more racist than he is, and the students here don’t make any comments unless they hear it from their elders first. Watch out for him. He hates strangers, especially the ones who come from Baghdad, which he thinks is corrupt. But don’t tell anyone else you’re the son of a goldsmith. You don’t know anything about this evil village,” Ali warned.

Zafaran felt unease at the mention of “evil,” but he chose not to comment, adding, “Religious minorities often face bigotry. We have a strong history and can hold our own.”

Ali responded playfully, changing the topic, “No one will do you better than Um Majeed, as long as you’ve got a little money. And you can do that, being the son of the goldsmith.” He burst out laughing, and Zafaran couldn’t help but join him.

“She’ll do everything for you from cleaning, to tidying up, to cooking and doing laundry—everything, basically—and you can trust her to a certain extent, but don’t share any of your secrets in front of her.”

Zafaran kept his lips firmly closed, stopping himself from saying what he wanted to add. He felt more confused now, but didn’t insist on pursuing the topic. This was his first day in the village, and he hoped it wasn’t as evil as his colleague had suggested. He felt he had learned enough for one day.

Then Ali blurted out, as if he couldn’t contain himself, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for any of us to sleep in the village, especially real strangers. Don’t ask me why, but none of us teachers who came from Baghdad, neither men nor women, wants to be part of the village. It wouldn’t end well, that’s for sure.”

Kish wasn’t a large village. It would be on its way to becoming a small city, if the population of humans and animals continued to grow at its current rapid rate. It was surrounded by beautiful palm groves, but it was still abandoned-feeling, filled with a sense of an eternal soul amidst an infinite emptiness.

Zafaran didn’t reply. He excused himself after speaking to Um Majeed, who agreed to find him a housekeeper to take care of his needs.

He returned to his small furnished home, dreaming or hoping to see the girl he had glimpsed at dawn. He was determined to talk to her, if she appeared again.

Zuhair Al Hiti, Iraqi writer and journalist, published three novels: My Distant Day  ( يومي البعيد), 2002; American Dust ( الغبار الأمريكي ), 2009; Days of Dust ( أيام التراب) 2016, longlisted for The International Prize for Arabic Fiction 2017, and Nest of Embers ( عش الجمر ), 2020.

Hend Saeed is an author and translator and the Iraq editor at ArabLit. Find more of her work at arablit.org/iraq/.