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advising him to take care that it not get lost or stolen. In fact, his father, who boasted of his son’s cleverness and of his ability to recite the Qur’an and to chant it, had taken him to Baba Gurgur more than once. Burhan had been overwhelmed by the sight of the huge, white pipes, the giant storage tanks, the circular dials with needles resembling the hands of a clock, the flames that shot into the red sky, and the sand. He could not get that unforgettable stink—a mixture of oil and soil odors—out of his nostrils.
    Burhan Abdallah went with his father this time as well to the remote location where money was distributed in sealed envelopes, each with the recipient’s name on it. He walked beside his father, who always carried an aluminum lunch pail with two trays. In the top one was the rice and in the lower one the stew. A spoon was inserted into a handle on the side of the pail after it was closed. His father sent him on his way with a smile, and Burhan Abdallah headed home. He was supposed to walk all the way, but covered some of the distance clinging to the rear gate of a cart pulled by two horses. He did not let go of the cart until the driver noticed him and flicked his whip carelessly toward the back, striking him painfully on the shoulder. He walked across the stone bridge that stretched over the Khasa Su River and saw, opposite the citadel, on the dry side of the river, many men, women, and children squatting on the pebbles with their possessions beside them. A number of policemen had them surrounded. They were clearly all Kurds. Many other people had gathered to stare at them from a distance and to laugh. From time to time the prisoners raised their voices to shout in Kurdish the equivalent of, “The Truth! The Truth!” The crowd then would respond to a beat that fit the words—in Kurdish too—“Put your hand on the hammer.”
    The boy was led to believe, from what he overheard from the people standing around him, that these were the followers of a Kurdish prophet who had recently appeared with a revelation that a man could marry his sister and mother and plunder the goods of the upper classes. Apparently this prophet thought everything to be the ultimate truth: life, death, woman, sex, and even the stars in the sky and the rocks on the ground.
    The boy Burhan Abdallah—instead of joining in the laughing throng’s cry of “Put your hand on the hammer”—felt compassion and affection for these strangers, who perhaps were actually right, for who could prove they were not? At the same time, however, the boy was bitter because he himself wanted to be a prophet, and here was someone who had beaten him to it. He told himself, “Never mind, I’ve still got a lot of time till I grow up.” He felt hungry and descended toward the right on the bank of the Khasa Su River, heading toward the great souk, for he saw food vendors placing their kettles on the quay. He put his hand in his pocket to extract ten fils his father had given him and ordered a plate of cabbage from a Turkmen vendor, who said he had spent ten years as a prisoner of war in Russia, where he had worked as a baker. He squatted down to eat beside three porters, who were sitting on the cushions they placed on their backs when they worked. He could have made his way to the great souk, which led to al-Qaysariya and then on to the Chuqor community but instead headed to the nearby livestock market, which was located opposite the river at the entrance to the Chay community. He liked looking at the donkeys, horses, sheep, goats, and cattle bought and sold there. He saw a small donkey standing at the corner of the square, in the midst of all the commotion and the yelling that came from all sides. He approached it and put his hand on its head, combing its mane. Then he told it affectionately, “Here I am, donkey. How are you?” The boy Burhan Abdallah was flabbergasted to see the donkey