Kusay Hussein is from Baghdad, Iraq. As a fully qualified civil engineer he worked for the American and British authorities building hospitals and schools for the Iraqi people until he was kidnapped by an unknown military group for several months and had to seek asylum in Britain on his release. He has published many short stories in Iraqi magazines such as AFAK ARABIA and ALFA – BET.
Sue Reid Sexton, who collaborated with Kusay on this story, is from Glasgow and a member of University Writers' PEN. She worked as a counsellor for over a decade and spent another decade working with homelessness. She writes novels about war, ordinary people and freedom of expression. She has been published in 'From Glasgow To Saturn' and the anthology '(In) Fidelity'.
The Consequences of Freedom
Under the huge bent old mulberry tree, I gathered with some neighbours on the riverbank. We remained silent, listening to the magic roar of the Tigris waters running away towards Al Aeimma Bridge where there was another river, a human wave, all in black, heading to the holy shrine of Al Khadthim on the anniversary of his death.
Me: There is a big difference between freedom and the pretence of freedom, isn't there?
No one answered. It seemed that they were under some kind of spell.
Then Uthman turned to me, smiling: What do you see, a free people or even a people pretending to be free? I don't think so. They are compelled by their clergy's whips of reward and punishment. They are poor, just like us.
Suddenly we heard yelling in the black river on the bridge. The congested procession was stampeding as if escaping from something. They were squashed, squeezed among the many concrete barriers that had been placed on the bridge like sharks teeth. We stood on our tiptoes, helpless, wondering; we couldn't hear or see any kind of threat, like a bomb.
Uthman ran towards the bridge. When some of them began to climb the guardrail and jump into the river, he shouted to us: Follow me, it's our time.
We took off our clothes piece by piece as we ran, then jumped into the river and worked together in pairs, except Uthman, he was the best, like a fish, rescuing the furthest people drowning who we couldn't reach.
When fatigue took hold, we lay on the bank, breathing hard while our legs were still in the water. On hearing another woman call for help we couldn't stand up again, then Uthman half-stood, scarcely walked, as he immersed himself to his chest and swam towards the source of the sound. He didn't come back again.
Under the twisted tree, Uthman's wet body lay amongst his crying, mourning family, his eyes closed like a sleeping baby. I knelt beside him, whispered: Yes, you're right, we're all poor, looking or pretending that we're different, but in fact, we embrace each other unto death.
Note
This tragedy occurred in Baghdad on the 31st of August 2006. The Shi-ite procession had to pass through a Sunni neighbourhood called Al Adamiya to reach their holy shrine on other side of the Tigris. They were expecting danger during their day of mourning, but the rumour that a suicide bomber intended to explode himself had an effect worse than any bomb. More than 1200 were killed and many thousands injured. This was one of the riper fruits of the time of freedom.
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