VILLAIN-ORIGIN
“… guaranteed I will spark the brain that will change the world …”
Jafati Valley, Iraqi Kurdistan
14 April 1988, sunrise morning
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The house baby was the youngest of a loving, underprivileged family of 6.
The five year old was frequently teased, challenged, and played with by his siblings.
They pushed him on the swings, they combed his hair, and they kissed his hands when he found and tagged them while playing Çawşarekî.
They all pooled together to give him the best hand-me down clothes they could for his first day in a makeshift village preschool.
One older brother traded his hand-made chess board for used shoes that would fit him better.
Dad, with his trusty beat up AK-47 slung over his shoulder and comfortably by his side, was warmly encouraging baby boy to hurry up and finish getting ready.
Mom burned her fingers finishing up her village praised baklava tray of treats; hot and ready to share with the village classmates.
Mom insists to Dad in Sorani, “No shirking around talking about the war out there lover, I need your hands back here to fix the goat fence”.
The neighbors had complained yesterday that their daughter caught a headbutt and we have to be responsible in doing our part, “And they aren’t wrong, so Pela bika!”
On their way out the door, the little boy held onto his dad’s worn out pant fatigues, the dad repurposed his shemagh to avoid burning his fingers while balancing the large tray.
Mama runs over, almost forgetting, “Oh baby! I’m so proud of you!”, and gives the boy his glasses and case, “You have fun; use nice hands and good manners!”
She kisses his face, forehead and cheeks, one, two, then many many times.
A street dog ran from down the way and linked up with them, wagging his tail, panting, and happily providing protection around them.
They walk 5 minutes together and arrive at the new Koreme school and day care.
The little boy is happy to meet some of his neighborhood friends and they hastily welcome him inside.
They saved a seat for him near the busted T.V. and VCR at the front of the class.
Dad presents the tray to the elderly man setting up the entertainment system, who asks him to put it on the table right there and help him out with this fancy contraption.
Dad breaks off a big piece of warm baklava, and tosses it to the dog, enjoying the small bite left for himself.
Wiping the sticky honey syrup off on his dusty pants, he gets to helping the old man plug the red, white and yellow cables to their respective outlets.
While doing so, the teacher warns hushedly to Dad, “We’re surrounded by enemies jangawari ganj. Everywhere, even within our own. As if that wasn’t enough, rumor has it that the Americans are taking pictures of us,” Old man points upwards, “from up there, the sky, we can’t see them. Everyone uses us as practice, they grind our will to fight. We should be giving these kids weapons, better to resist to the end than be slaved by the Mêrdezme.”
Dad respectfully engages, “I agree, no friends but the mountains Gawrapyâw… …but, we have no other choice but to be ready to defend.”, Patting his rifle.
The old man looks at him, “they have bigger weapon, we need bigger defenses heval”
Dad notes some loose wires in the back and gets a quick shock as the T.V. lights up and an upbeat chorus fills the room,
“…I know he’s out there
Grumbly tumbly
Climb in a honey tree
Fun never ends for us
We’re so adventurous
Least every now and again
But when you’re alone
And there’s nobody home
It’s nice to be able
To count on a friend like…”
The class erupts in cheer and the kids rush to fill in their desks.
The intro flashes in a language no one can read nor understand, “Winnie the Pooh and the great honey pot robbery”.
The kid’s are dead quiet, attentive and mesmerized by a cartoon bear in a red shirt, looking around and linking up with other anthropomorphic friends; evidently going on mystery solving adventures.
The dad quietly watches, observing the show from the pirated film and bitterly confesses to the old man, “we could also make funny art, but they see us as mice, not men, and make our lands our prison”.
The kids loudly shush the dad and shoo him to go outside, the boy distractedly waves at the dad as he walks out, his eyes glued to the screen.
Outside, the old man feeds two crows that were quietly waiting outside with a baklava.
He then offers dad a bidi to smoke.
They quietly look out and take in the village people going about their day to day morning routines.
Building. Maintaining. Working together peacefully, despite the threats that are always out there.
The kids cry out from inside, the t.v. had turned to static and shortly after cut out.
The old man complains, “not again. And goes to check the power cable of the t.v.”
The dad sees in the far away horizon jet planes and cries out, “oh no….”
He rushes inside and shouts to everyone to run east to the mountains, NOW!”
Then came the booms, fire, and clouds of sand.
Dad runs towards the chaos and smoke, but is knocked down by the shock of a second wave.
On his knees, he sees from a way off his village being leveled.
He sees surviving men, women and children stumble and fall, and not get back up. Vomiting. Flailing.
The desperately tried to breathe air, but found only blistering mustard poison.
With tears in his eyes, he smells the tinge of sweet garlic, and understands he can’t go there.
There was no enemy he could shoot at, no way to help, no time to mourn.
The nerve gas is starting to blister Dad’s skin as he runs back to the school.
The old man and other villagers from the area were already running and helping each other escape east into the mountains.
Dad yells out behind them, “BRŌN, BRŌN, BRŌN!!!!”
shouting to everyone. Crying, to not look back.
Putting all his faith in that his son is in the crowd, and what’s left of the village will protect him.
He looks back and sees an advancing army in the distance.
He’s having a hard time breathing and keeping his eyes clear,
and notes the advancing army in the distance, vehicles and armed men in gas suits.
He finds a nearby hill and lays low.
Preserving his energy, trying to see through the chaos.
Driven by the insatiable spirit of rape and loot, the anfal enemy was quickly capitalizing on the shock and awe.
They were performing a sweep and clear of the barely alive survivors in the area.
Quietly suffering from the effects of the nerve agents, he prepares a makeshift ambush by the mountain entrance.
Within an hour, the enemy starts approaching, slaughtering along the way.
He shoots down two advancing soldiers before being executed on the spot by the follow up party.
Slowing them down slightly, purchasing;
just a little more time for his son and neighbors to escape further.