An Excerpt from: A Plan to Save the World
In this Ibrahim Fawzy translation of Hassan Akram's nonfiction novel, we follow a young and quixotic Hassan as he explores and learns about his world, which is filled by war.
This translation is from Volume 15.2
Translator’s Note: Following the 2003 American invasion, the landscape of the Iraqi novel underwent a profound transformation. Previously, the Iraq-Iran war and the invasion of Kuwait dominated the discourse. The political figures controlled literary production and pressured writers to create provocative novels to motivate Iraqis to exhibit bravery and endure the hardships of war. After 2003, a significant literary output surged from established and emerging writers. Though they spoke about the same wars, they now offered diverse perspectives that conveyed the anguish, fear, and helplessness of years of meaningless conflict.
If you want to save the world, you should first take of your money.
~ My grandmother
I was born in the midst of an endless war. I grew up and reached the height of a tall sunflower, and the war was still going on. Or if it had ended, another one must have taken over because I never noticed. That’s why I devised a plan to save the world. For a start, gunmen from every corner of the world would be gathered. They’d then get crammed into huge barrels and pushed down a cliff. This plan would hopefully bring my people back to life. If it worked, I’d wear my rain jacket and stroll the streets. The sky wouldn’t be enveloped in dark clouds, nor would we come across colonizers’ eyes peeking out of high-speed jeeps as they shout, “Get outta here!”
I don’t particularly mean this ongoing war. I mean all the wars I witnessed or heard about and the wars yet to come. “If the man couldn’t find anyone to argue with,” my uncle once said, “he would start arguing with himself.” I dare not claim to hold the keys of wisdom, for my years are still tender. Honestly, I never admire this serenity always striking me. It is as if our bodies and minds have ripened, under the heat of war, before the time is right. So here we are, old children, and we have the right to plan to save the world.
The saga of the long war haunts me. It goes with me everywhere. It shares my food. It nests in my head. I find it difficult to sneak away from it. This saga clings to me like a faithful shadow, woven into the fabric of my very being. My mother narrated my very first days in this world meticulously. I was born in the attic at dawn. I was adorable and healthy except for a big nose inherited from my father and a slight outward curvature in my feet.
Families usually name their newborns right away. The first child may have his name even before the parents are married. During their clandestine rendezvous, six months before marriage, my auntie and her husband had agreed on the name of their first baby. In my case, I was born nameless and remained so for two whole days. My parents didn’t even take a minute to think about my name. Wars divert people’s attention away from everything but to reflect on how to elude the clutches of death. I can’t remember my first encounter with this world. The lightness of my heart had filled my soul until my name, heavy as a stone, came crashing down upon my chest.
My elder uncle named me when he came over to congratulate my parents. Once arrived, he asked my name. Surprised that I hadn’t yet been named, he gazed at my countenance for a little while. “Hassan,” my uncle turned to my father standing by the door and said, “This name absolutely fits him but for his big nose.”
This was how I got my name and grew up, catching to my big nose till this very moment I’m writing down these words.
§
My mother had joined the university to study English literature, but unfortunately, she didn’t complete her studies. Her father recommended her husband, and she just said yes, having no other option. She gave birth to me and my sibling here in Basra, Iraq.
Our house was big. My mother was responsible for all the housework: cleaning the house, feeding us, caring for my brother and me, and on top of all that, tolerating our whimpering. Whenever I felt hungry, I’d get into the kitchen and neatly write “hungry” on the wall with chalk. Sometimes, though, I would just write the letter H. I was in awe of her patience. She’d tell me that the food would be ready in a minute and would wipe the “hungry” off the wall. When she returned home late one day, I knew she had visited our neighbor’s house to wash dishes and clean the floor. She told me that she did so for her brother Sa’doon.
Our neighbor was an officer in the Iraqi armed forces. That day he had the military unit head over for lunch. My mother begged him to ask the head to drop the charge of dereliction of duty from her brother, who had fled the war. Our neighbor agreed, but only if she would wash the dishes and clean the floor after the party.
“Why do you do it?” I asked.
“I don’t know! It seems that a woman’s job entails enduring humiliation for their children and siblings,” she said in a sorrowful voice.
I usually helped my mother do housework. I adored her lovely smile whenever I collected bread from atop the wicker mat. We had two ovens: one was metal in the small yard behind our home, and the other was made of mud bricks built on the roof, where we’d grill fish.
Stuck with nothing to do, I’d pick up the phone to call my grandmother. I’d try for twenty, thirty, forty, and even a hundred times until I’d finally hear my grandmother’s voice on the other side. Hearing her voice, I’d call my mother to come in so they could talk. I’d hide behind the door, eavesdropping. My mother would bewail her wretched state. She didn’t only wash dishes and clean the house, but she also fixed the holes in the walls, reconnected broken electric wires, raised chicken, and even washed my uncle’s clothes as we lived in the family house. “Why should I do all these tiring tasks?” My mother would ask. My grandmother, unmoved, would narrate her story, which seemed to be a story of all women. In her youth, she was fraught with struggles and dark moments like her daughter’s. She’d wrap up her talk to remind my mother of me and my brother. My mother would let out a warm gust of air from her lungs, uttering: “Nothing compels me to endure throughout this period, except for these ladybugs.” Most likely, we were those ladybugs.
One night, my father came home with red eyes, singing in a broken voice. When my mother confronted him, he punched her in the face, leaving her crumpled on the ground. My mother cried and cried until she got tired and fell asleep. Hidden under the blanket, my brother and I fell into a deep slumber.
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