‘The Tale of a Child Who Has Not Yet Burned’

This excerpt comes from the first chapter of the extraordinary literary memoir The Fire: The Tale of a Child Who Has Not Yet Burned, by Mohammad Abdo Najari, published in Damascus by Dar al-Hassad in 1996. As Bordewich writes, “The traumatic episode recounted in The Fire looms large in the collective memory of Amuda, a Kurdish border town in northeastern Syria, the autonomous zone of Rojava. In 1960, more than 200 children were killed in a fire at the town cinema during a special screening billed as solidarity with the Algerian revolution. Najari was one of the survivors.”

The image above is from the Martyrs’ Garden, built on the site of the fire, with a memorial to Mohammad Aghda al-Daqquri.

THE FIRE

By Mohammad Abdo Najari

Translated by Chloe Bordewich

“Who’s Djamila Bouhired?”

“Some Algerian girl with a gun who joined the men struggling to kick colonialism out of their country.”

“What’s colonialism?”

“I don’t know. But I heard we’ve got it here, too. In Amuda, the men fought against it with guns, and the kids threw stones!”

“Okay, okay, but what is colonialism?”

“I told you—I don’t know!”

Laughing, we continued walking toward the cinema.

We were five friends between the ages of nine and twelve, and in our pockets we had the tickets the school had made us buy. We were practically running, overjoyed, to see the film we’d been told was about Djamila Bouhired. We heard the proceeds would go to the Algerian revolution.

The scene outside the cinema nearly killed our joy. The police were there with batons and straps, which they were using to push back children jostling each other to get in. One of my cousins who’d come along suggested we go to his house, which was nearby, and wait for the crowd to thin out. So we did. We stayed awhile and ate his mother’s sweets, then went back to the cinema. By that time, it was less crowded, and we went inside, only to be startled by masses of children moving like ants in every direction. There were nearly six hundred eight- to-twelve-year-olds clambering over the seats. It was suffocating.

There was chaos both in the balcony and down below. If one boy stood on his chair to get a better view, another would pull him down and take his place. Some fell and were trampled by others. Then the lights went down, and the actors’ voices and the din of the music joined the pandemonium.

Even though we were standing, we could hardly catch a glimpse of the screen. We waited awhile, but the five of us failed to find seats, much less see. So, we decided to leave, heading toward the north exit. The theater was a semi-basement, and when we got close to the door, we realized it would be virtually impossible to elbow past the crowd of children packed in from the first tier all the way down to the very bottom. As we tried to slip past them to the exit, one asked us why we were leaving. He tried to talk us out of going, tempting us with Ringo and Tarzan, who had suddenly appeared on the screen.

It was then that I sensed something hot close to my right cheek. I lifted my hand to brush it away, but the burning sensation only grew. It felt as if I’d pressed a hot iron to my face. I looked around, trying to find the source of the heat. That’s when I saw, to my horror, a terrible fire raging only two meters from the straw and timber ceiling. It was advancing with incredible speed toward the generator room. Screams for help erupted from hundreds of children’s throats, shaking the foundations of the peaceful city. Some threw themselves haphazardly from the balcony into the terrified throng running in panic down below.

If getting out of the theater was hard before the fire broke out, imagine it now.

Soon the room went dark. Thick smoke began to spread, making the children cough even harder. I was almost immediately dizzy. Searching for a gasp of fresh air, I noticed a small window near the south exit and pushed for it. I fell. I trampled others; they trampled me. Finally, I got to the opening. I put my mouth on it and took in two or three breaths of air from the street. Suddenly, light was everywhere. “Thank God,” I thought. “It must be over, and I can look for my friends.” Instead, when I opened my eyes, I saw the sweep of the catastrophe: the terrible fire had spread everywhere, even to the screen and all across the green jute carpeting. It covered the walls from top to bottom and engulfed the seats, which were made of bamboo and braided straw. Then it reached our bodies.

The shrieks and cries grew louder. Children were now clinging to each other for survival, each gripping the boy in front of him with one hand and trying to hold back the fire with the other. I was close to the south door, which opened directly onto the courtyard. The door was blocked by children’s piled-up bodies, leaving less than a meter open at the top. Those who were closest were scaling the pile, struggling to get out. That opening above them was my only chance at survival. The fire was devouring everything around me; in front of me was the mostly blocked gap. I hurried to climb the bodies, managing to gain some height, and I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I might be rescued. But then a boy gripped my foot from below, hoping to follow me out, and I fell. I immediately tried again, making it to the top of the pile. I glimpsed the sky and felt the coolness of the street. My hopes of getting out surged, but then the same boy, or maybe some other one, was threatening to pull me back to the ground, where the fire was metastasizing. The sounds I was hearing behind me were no longer shrieks and cries but choked pleas for help, and the moans of children who had lost the ability to scream. One phrase echoed over and over: Ah ya dê! . . .  Mama, mama!

I attempted to climb back up and managed to get a bit higher before falling back once again. I kept trying until my clothes, then my hair, caught fire. I struggled in vain to put it out.

Another hellish element now entered the picture. It was as if some demon had gripped me and was hurling me downward with great force, right into the hot coals. I later learned this was an electric current. I watched the fire blaze through the seats, which collapsed a moment later into smoldering red embers.

I lost hope of being rescued, having relinquished my quest to scale the pile of other children’s bodies so I could put out the fire on mine. Now, I was frightened to death. It occurred to me that I was doomed. It was all over. Then, suddenly, I remembered my mother. This was death, then! What would my mother do if I died? Would she cry? Was that it? Would she ever find the stove pump?

When my mother had placed the dish of spiced bulgur patties in front of me at lunchtime on the day of the fire, it had put me in a bad mood.

“What’s this?”

“Belo’î.”

“It looks like cow slop. I want fried figs with eggs.”

“We don’t have any figs right now. Anyway, your brothers and sisters all ate what you’re calling ‘slop,’ and they didn’t complain.”

“I won’t eat it.”

“Stay hungry, then.”

I’d stormed out of the room, picking up the pump valve from our kerosene stove and hiding it in a corner on my way out. While I was waiting for my friends to go to the cinema, a song I loved had come on the radio. My mood lightened, and I had left cheerful.

I’d told my mother goodbye. “Your brother’s crazy!” I’d overheard her saying to my siblings.

* * *

The image of my tormented mother grew clearer and clearer as fear overtook me, torturing me while I burned. I was attempting to put out the fire that had reached my clothes and begun to burn my body. The longer I burned, the more I lost hope of being rescued. I stopped trying to get out. I would lift my head from time to time and open my eyes, catching sight of the children in the balcony. Their movements had slowed now; they had been transformed into pillars of flame. Their scalps had come loose and were shining with a horrifying brightness, their eyes wide open until the end, staring into the fire. A child would lean softly to the right, then to the left, before dropping just as softly to the ground, melting into the flames. Down below, I could see that their movements were weaker now. Each child tried fruitlessly to put out the fire that had consumed his body, but their motions were slow and feeble. The children were walking around aimlessly, reaching out their hands in hopes of being saved. They went on like that until they collapsed.

Drawing closer to death, I considered whether they would bury me in the village or in town. I thought of my four friends. Had they gotten out, I wondered, or were they dying now like I was? I could no longer smother the fire with my hands, which were partly paralyzed. I watched it spread through my clothes and hair as all around me the youngest children fell, one after the other, and charred. I was going to die, too, any minute.

Oh, God! I thought. Mama! Anyone!

*

One hot summer day, I almost had to run to keep up with my mother, who held my sick baby sister in her arms as she hurried toward the main dirt road, roughly two kilometers from our village. We were on our way to board the bus to Amuda, to see the town’s only doctor. I could hardly take my eyes off my mother’s tearful face or my sick sister, though I wasn’t sure exactly what I was afraid of.

When we reached the outskirts of the city, my mother asked the driver to stop. We got out of the truck and sat down against a wall. Then my mother went to a nearby house to ask for water and used it to moisten my sister’s lips. She placed a wet tissue against her forehead and tried in vain to make her drink.

I saw my sister open her mouth two or three times, shudder, then go still.

My mother let out a cry. “Your sister is dead!”

We stayed there by the wall until the same bus returned, this time headed toward Hasakah.

 *

All of a sudden, I still don’t know how—if I renewed my attempts to climb the pile of children’s bodies or if the hand of an angel lifted me up over the human barrage—I saw that half my body was now out of hell. I tried to hurl myself into the courtyard but could not. Then I lost my balance, and my body gradually slipped back toward the fire. I caught sight of a classmate standing by the door, pulling children out and tossing them outside as fast as he could, and I yelled with all that remained of my voice, “Mohammad, please! Get me out!” Mohammad grasped me by the hand and dragged me out, then threw me to the side to keep rescuing others.

(While Mohammad Haj Hamid Abu Hasan was busy rescuing children from the outside, another brave man, Mohammad Said Agha Al-Daqquri, was rescuing them from within. He had ignored warnings from the police and thrown himself into the fire, and now he was tossing children out onto the street through the gaping maw of hell. Later, he was found fallen among the little martyrs, cradling a child under each arm as if still trying to save them.)

I stood up, all ablaze, and tried to extinguish the fire from my body, but my hands would not comply. Several men and women approached me. Each gave me a quick once-over, then, having confirmed I was not their son, left me to continue their mad search.

I lingered a few moments longer, the fire still in my clothes, and begged in a half-stifled voice for someone to save me. It was useless—people were hysterical. I noticed some muddy water puddled around the nearby well and flung myself in that direction. I tumbled and turned, hearing the fire hiss as it was extinguished. For a moment, I felt a little relief. Once I was sure I had completely put out the flames, I stood up, thinking it was over and everything would be okay.

Seven children threw themselves into the well. Some survived.

I tried to get out of the courtyard, walking east without realizing it was the west end that opened directly onto the street. Having spotted a door, I opened it and climbed down a set of basement stairs. I stumbled and fell in the darkness, got up, and kept walking. I noticed a small door up another set of stairs on the far side and made my way toward it. This door led out onto the street. Later, it turned out that I had been in the basement of the unit that ran the generator, which mere moments later was destroyed.

On the street, I could see a large crowd. Flames leapt through the door of the cinema, climbing with the smoke into the sky. The policemen who had pushed back the children before were now using their batons on the mothers and fathers who were throwing themselves into the fire that had swallowed them.

On my way home, I ran into our neighbor’s son. He was standing in a stupor, contemplating the fire. I went up to him. “Please take me home,” I said.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m your neighbor’s son. Our house is right across the street from yours.”

He looked me over, then glanced back at the fire. “Let’s go.”

We headed toward the house, the neighbor’s son looking back from time to time. My pace gradually slowed until I was almost too weak to walk. I paused, nauseated by the smell of the fire and rising smoke. I wanted to vomit.

My companion urged me to hurry.

“Come on! Quick, or you’ll die right here!” he warned.

I rushed along with him despite the pain.

“Please, I’m begging you, don’t say anything to my parents,” I said. “Just bring me to the front door. I’ll go in alone. I don’t want to worry them—they might be scared. Please don’t say anything!”

“Sure, fine. Just hurry up.”

I hurried until we got to the house. As soon as we reached it, the neighbor’s son knocked violently on the door, even though I’d begged him not to. After a few moments, my mother came out, looking anxious. The neighbor’s son told her:

“Here’s your son. He was burned.”

Then he shot like a bolt of lightning back to the scene of the fire.

*

In the spring when we were young, we would join the procession of men and women going to milk the sheep that, since dawn, had been grazing on the fallow plains where herbs and various other plants and wildflowers grew.

      The women and girls would strut over in their brightly colored clothes while the men walked, heads held high, as if off to battle. They would vie—one with his strength, another with his cigarette, another with his jokes—for the women’s attention, especially if the girls they loved were in the crowd. They would sometimes exchange glances, smiles, or light touches, and of course they’d make plans to meet.

When the crowd of milkers approached, the shepherd would gather his flock, pick up his breakfast, and step aside to eat it, leaving the men and women to tend the flock. The women would sit in a straight line in front of the circle of sheep, surrounded by the men. We children would stand in front of our sister, mother, or some other relative to grip the head of our ewe as she was milked. Without fail, the ewe would go straight to her owner, who would first rinse her udder with the water in the white metal pot she’d brought for that purpose, then place the pot under the ewe’s hind legs and press gently on a milk-filled teat. A white stream would gush forth, pouring into the basin’s depths with a sound I was always eager to hear: the tinkling of the first milk splashing against the bottom of the pot.

The ewes followed one after the other, the milk level rising in each pot and forming a layer of foam.

The ewes, who enjoyed relieving their udders, would sometimes let their droppings fall into the milk. When this happened, the milker would gather them up carefully with one hand and throw them aside, always taking care to tell the child standing in front of her, “Don’t worry, it’s clean.” This was because when the milking was finished, we children would take leaves and shape them into scoops to slurp down the warm foam that had formed atop the milk in the pots.

*

My mother stood frozen for a few moments in a state of panic and horror, then began to shriek and cry. She shepherded me into the house and sat me down on a low chair. “Who burned you like this, my heart?” she asked at last.

“Don’t be scared,” I replied. “I’m okay.”

While we were at the cinema, my mother had stirred from her nap and turned to my brother’s wife: “Tell me, Ghazala, are the kids who went to the movies in danger? I just had a bad dream.”

“No,” the other woman had said. “Of course not. Go back to sleep.”

Everyone in the house now woke up, including my sister, who had been sick that day. She sat down in front of me and cried.

My mother left my side and ran into the street, shouting for a ride to the city’s only clinic. But she soon returned, stunned and pale.

“Where do you think you’ll find a car, Hajja?” someone in the street had asked her. “The movie theater burned down and almost everyone died, and you want someone to give you a ride!”

“Where are your brothers?” she cried, slapping her face in anguish.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “But they weren’t with me.”

“How come? They said they were going to the movies.”

“No, they definitely weren’t there.”

“They must’ve been.”

“They weren’t, I swear. Trust me.”

When she saw I was in pain, fluid oozing from my hand onto the concrete floor, she began to despair and decided to take me to the clinic on foot. My brother’s wife lifted me onto her back and together they rushed off.

In front of the clinic, there was a truck filled with the corpses of the burned children piled one on top of the other, their little bodies charred. At the sight of those children, at whose sides I’d been fighting death just a little earlier, I closed my eyes.

My mother screamed the names of my two missing brothers.

The clinic was crammed with children disfigured by the fire, splayed out in every direction. Women, moaning and slapping their faces; men who had lost their balance; a single doctor; a nurse; and some Syrian and Egyptian teachers, who were administering first aid. When they saw I could at least walk, they sat me down at a table and began to cut the skin off my hand. While this was happening, my brothers came in, and my mother and sister-in-law rushed toward them.

This is a scene I will never forget.

Once the dead skin had been cut off, they applied a red antiseptic ointment to my hand and asked my mother to take me home. On the way, I overheard my older brother explaining to his wife and our mother what had happened. “When we left our secret meeting on the outskirts of town, we noticed that the electricity had been cut and crowds of people were running to the center of town. We asked around and were told the cinema had caught fire and almost everyone there had died, and that survivors had been taken to the clinic. We decided to go there first. We were sure Mohammad was at the movies, because I’d given him my ticket.”

At home, they changed my clothes and checked all the parts of my body that were burned. It was severe in some places, mild in others. They cleaned the wounds with whatever we had around the house. I was in pain and tried to lie down on my back, but couldn’t. I tried my stomach, then my side, but it was no use. I fell in and out of consciousness, fluid oozing continuously from my wounds. They changed one sheet after another.

I woke to my brother’s wife whispering in my ear: “Aren’t you going to tell us where you hid the stove pump?”

Mohammad Abdo Najari is a writer from Amuda, in northeastern Syria, based in Montreal. After receiving his PhD in comparative literature from Moscow State University in 1980, he worked for the Syrian Ministry of Information and as a professor of Russian literature at the University of Tripoli in Libya. In addition to The Fire (1996), he is the author of Sorry, My Comrades are Waiting (1996), Immigrant Papers (2005), and I Lived to Recall (2020). He has translated more than thirty Russian novels, as well as Kurdish folktales, children’s stories, and history, to Arabic. He has also translated more than fifty-five works of Francophone Québécois literature, primarily novels. This is the first translation of his writing to English.

Chloe Bordewich is a historian and translator in Montreal. Her most recent work, Paradise Expressway, is a bilingual (Arabic/English) stage play about surveillance, friendship, and demolition in Cairo’s City of the Dead.