Uncomfortable luggage

Zaher Mahmud is an ordinary school boy, living in the provincial capital town Sulaimania in Iraqi Kurdistan until, at the age of eleven, his leg is hit by a bullet. His life derails. In-between odd jobs he is frequently on the run. At a very early age, he joins the Kurdish guerrilla. When he is eighteen, he is hit by a phosphor bomb. Only because he is admitted into a London hospital Zaher survives his severe burns. In 1976 he ends up in the Netherlands as a refugee. Will Zaher Mahmud be able to pick up his life again or will the ideas and spectres from his youth continue to hunt him?

"I was born in Kurdish Iraq (1956 Sulaimania). I have been living as a refugee in Amsterdam, the Netherlands since 1976. My life as a an eleven year old outcast, a Kurdish guerrilla, and a war casualty scarred by a phosphor bomb has often been noted down by others mostly for political purposes. With this book I myself take control. I describe my life stripped of any political frills. Hard and shocking, sometimes interrupted by moments of hope, ideals and humanity."

The following day: it’s 24 October 1974, six o’clock at night. We are hiding in a small trench. With our binoculars we can see the movement of troops straight ahead. Above us fighter jets fly over but we don’t have heavy artillery. Using my Kalashnikov I fire at the low flying aircrafts. My friends warn me not to move about so much as I may attract the enemy’s attention. I’m not worried too much; it’s just one great adventure. There’s no stopping me and I keep on pushing forward. Behind me there are some thirty Peshmerga’s. I’m right at the front and can clearly hear the voices of the enemy soldiers. A bomb drops. It must be a flare in order to reveal our positions. The trees, the grass and the mountains are all lit up. It leaves some luminous foam behind very close to our position. Nothing special! I go and take a look. I’m kicking some foam around. Within seconds my shoe is totally burned. I walk back with just one shoe left. This surely can’t be just a light to determine our position. I run towards my two friends. "Where’s your shoe", Nebez asks. We agree that’s it’s definitely not been a talkanatura, a signal flare. The worst part is that of my brand new shoes only one is left. I can still hear Nebez saying that we should watch out for those strange bombs. Still I continue forward shooting bullets as I go along. A quarter of an hour later the next bomb comes down. It grazes me on my left side. Jasin flees away. Nebez is sitting next to me. He’s screaming. Peshmerga come running towards us. Nobody notices me lying in the trench. "It’s all over now", I say to myself. With my hand I feel my face and my ear. The pain is starting to burn all over my body. I’m unable to call out. What’s keeping my fellow fighters?