Pedestrian

May 24th marks the liberation of Khoramshahr [in the province of Khuzestan] in the Iran-Iraq war, the end of Iraqi occupation of Iran … and what should have been the end of this brutal, eight year war.

As a native of Khuzestan, I spent many hot, grueling summers during the war in the province. Here is a story of those bittersweet days, and the memory of a faithful friend.

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A red and white border collie. A big, humongous fellow with a heart to match.

He had been the family’s herding dog before that prized, lucrative herd had been sold amidst the chaos of the war; a reminder of grandeur that once was … and was now dissolved into age old memory of a distant, forgotten glamour.

Fidel – pronounced Feadel in Persian. I’m not sure where that name came from or who chose it. An admirer of Castro perhaps?

He would spend most of the day in the huge field between two homes: my great grandmother’s on one side and my grandfather’s on the other. This piece of land had once supposedly belonged to a huge, beautiful garden. But it was now a dump for the family’s old farming machinery.

Years later, when I think about it, it was somehow ironic that everything in that place smelt of faded glory: the homes, the garden (or rather, junkyard), the people … and the dog.

Perhaps it was great-grandfather’s legacy that was lingering there; a big, powerful man who had been at once avant-garde and extremely archaic. In a time when people barely went out to visit nearby towns, he had traveled the world, he had written diaries, he had drank the most exquisite wines and had hosted some of the most exquisite gatherings. But he had been an authoritarian figure whose philosophy in life towards his children had been: throw man a fish … don’t teach him how to fish.

The result was that once the fisherman was dead, nobody knew how to catch anything anymore.

His wife, an old, wrinkled woman who changed from adorably cute to hideous depending on her mood lived in the home opposite my grandfather’s. This was the same notorious lady who would ride horses, hunt, and shoot birds and deer better than many of her male compatriots. And she did all of this at the same time when most females her age were unwilling or unable to make it outside their own homes. I remember her kisses. I kept a napkin in my pocket at all times to wipe off her spit.

But I also remember the cookies she made us. She would take proper care to make mine shaped into people. And I distinctly remember that one of life’s greatest pleasures was getting up early in the morning and running to her home for fresh baked cookies – including my man. It was a pleasure each and every time to bite off his head.

Wild flowers had grown amidst the machines in the field and many days I would spend my time climbing, sitting on and playing around them. This happened even during summers when the heat would turn the metal into boiling rods. This was Khuzestan after all; temperatures soared beyond 40 degrees Celsius (104 Fahrenheit) during the summertime. The result was that my arms and legs were always half burnt and bruised from the burning rods. I would then walk home with the flowers I had picked amidst those large, unattractive pieces of metal.

Fidel would always be there, watching me, sitting beside me, or playing catch. As this was a more traditional family, he was not allowed indoors. But we could play all we wanted outside and not have to worry about anyone complaining.

He was a quiet, reserved fellow. As for his love life, his mistresses, children he may have fathered … to this day, it remains all but a mystery.

My father’s uncle would stop by once and a while and give him a checkup. He would give him shots sometimes, medicine or a good cleanse in some sort of antibacterial liquid. It was especially torture to watch him get the shots because he hated them. And he knew full well when they would be coming.

I remember our first encounters. I had never met a dog and only knew them from the pictures in the books mom read. I was terrified of his mouth and of the saliva that was always hanging there like a pouring waterfall, and of his teeth. But once we got more acquainted and I decided he was never going to be using them around me, our relationship began to flourish.

People would continuously come and go through that house. It was a place for family and friends to relocate if there was a need. This was a time of war, the early days of the Iran-Iraq war, and daily, there was news of cousins or aunts having their homes demolished by bombs and air raids. Those who relocated to this place were the lucky ones. There were too many people who never got the chance to relocate – their homes had been bombed whilst they were inside.

I must have met dozens of people while we stayed there. In my mind, I just loved the company. I figured they were there on vacation – like we were.

That is the story my parents always told: never did I imagine that we were really homeless nomads fleeing the war. They always told me we were there on vacation to see the family, and I absolutely loved our “vacations” and the chance to spend time with family.

Fidel would never tread near the houses. As if he somehow knew the kindness would only continue if he kept his distance.

He had a wonderful appetite. In fact, he ate pretty much anything that was thrown at him. My uncle would say: Feadel mesl-e een saghayeh loos-e khareji nist. (Fidel is not like those snobbish, foreign dogs). The kinds we saw in American movies on the Arab satellite channels. The movies where people had beautiful dogs and flowing, shiny long hair and ran in happy field bursting with joy and wonder: that was the khareji [foreign] lifestyle of which we knew.

But his appetite was especially helpful to me when we had fish, sabzi polo [rice with herbs] or things of the variety I didn’t like. I would always ask to go outside and sit with Fidel to eat. Once there, he would take good care of my dinner. Of course, that eventually made me feel guilty and sometimes I’d give him some of the good dinners too: kabab or fried chicken.

One year, when we went back, Fidel wasn’t around anymore. I asked my uncle where he had gone, and he was quick to mention that he was sold to a herd. “He was getting bored lying around here all day”.

I was sad not to have my old friend around. The place, the field, seemed empty without him. Wasn’t he too old to be running after a herd? That didn’t cross my mind. But his absence did not occupy me for long. I soon forgot about it – and him.

The truth was that Fidel had also served as the homes’ guard dog. During the war, daily robberies were much more common. Once, when the whole household was out for a few days, thieves had climbed over the wall and into the field. Uncle had found Fidel lying dead when they returned.

I lost a great, wonderful friend in the war. But many others lost siblings and parents and children. I guess life had been more than fair.

But I think of him still; and I think of those big, gigantic pieces of metal where we would play. And in my mind’s eye, I create a most beauteous image. Fidel was probably much older and run down than what I remember. The flowers in that field were probably much less beauteous than what I remember; the metal junk much more hideous.

Since, I have returned many times. It has been years since anybody lived there. Great grandmother has passed. The houses stand deserted and half ruined. The field is flooded with wild, uncomely weeds. And the rotted machines sit there still more burnt and chipped than they have ever been.

What I particularly remember from that place was the big, red iron door and the gold and marble doorknob. The door is chipped and broken. The gold has rusted into an ugly brown. But the oak tree is there still … the only life that has remained. I sit there in its shade and look inside through the window. And perhaps, if I look a little harder, I will see a little girl walking out the back door with a dish full of sabzi polo and fried fish. I’d ask to have her share it, and listen hard to all that she had to say while we – or rather, I – ate.

We’d then walk out the back door to an old, tired, sleepy dog. We would watch him eat the fish with delight and then pick some flowers and weeds amidst the burning metal left deserted in the junkyard. I would look hard and try to store memories the way they really happened. I would make sure to remember the unattractiveness of the garden; the tired eyes of a worn out, exhausted dog.

But you know what? I don’t really want to do that. Memories are only as good as we let them be, and I have no regrets.