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of bed. He understood as soon as he saw us. He said only, “Couldn’t you wait until morning?” My father cut him off with a dry, categorical “No.” “Here’s your TV, give me my money back.” Seeing my father so furious, the man didn’t argue, and we left.
    There was still my uncle’s television, but he was growing weary of the constant visits from the neighbors’ children. At first, he had welcomed us with tea and fruits. We would settle down like little pashas in front of the Egyptian soap opera. Now, we had to ring the bell at least ten times before he’d open the door. I would sometimes ask my mother to come with me, so when he asked, “Who is it?” I could answer, “My mother and I.” And I’d often ask my mother to answer instead of me. As soon as I was in front of the television, I’d make myself as inconspicuous as possible, huddling
in a corner. I waited for the adults to go to bed before making myself comfortable.
    After Anter and Abla , they ran a documentary about the fish in the sea narrated by a tall, thin, very serious man in a red hat who spoke for at least half an hour in a strange language that frightened me. I was well aware that we spoke Kurdish, that Iraqis spoke Arabic, and that the rest of the world spoke English. What mysterious language could the man possibly be speaking? My uncle’s television also broadcast Indian films. But I was disappointed, for there was nothing in my language. I was very intrigued. Perhaps our voices couldn’t be transmitted on a screen? Or perhaps the television language was chosen in the country where the sets were manufactured? I longed to watch Kurdish television. I knew that the most important thing for my father was that I become a judge or a lawyer, but my wish was to create a television that would speak our language. I saw myself simultaneously as an inventor, as a maker of shows like Anter and Abla , as a musician and singer. And I vowed that one day I would make that machine speak Kurdish.
    In those days of peace, my town, Aqra, was bursting with life. Singers came from everywhere to give concerts, theater troupes performed epics and plays, including Mem and Zim, our Romeo and Juliet . I went to the shows in the school hall, surrounded by women and children, and we danced to Kurdish folk tunes.
    This was the first time I saw young girls sing and dance on a public stage. Between each number, a master of ceremonies chanted proverbs about the glory of women, exhorting them to take part in the political and social struggle. “Women are half of our society,” he said. “A lion is always a lion, whether male or female. You can’t applaud with just one hand … A bird can’t fly with just one wing …”
    And we were all supposed to applaud.
    Salma was one of the young girls appearing onstage. She
wore a yellow jacket, the color of General Barzani’s party, dotted with red flowers. She was self-confident, and my brother was in love. He never missed any of her performances. I had no idea whether she was in love with him, but what counted was that my brother was in love with her.
    My brother confided in my sisters. They spoke to my mother, who broached the subject with my father. Not a moment was wasted; my parents, along with several notables, went to request Salma’s hand. Her family accepted. Wasn’t Rostam the son of Shero, the general’s personal operator? Rostam’s wedding was celebrated with a concert of honking horns, hails of bullets from his Plimout, and shots fired from my father’s old Brno. Who said weapons were meant only for warfare? From that day on, I never again saw my young sister-in-law onstage. Though a bird can’t fly with just one wing, let others provide the wing—not my sister-in-law.
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    One day, my father came home agitated. He filled his tobacco pouch, pulled out his Brno from under the mattress, and