Yaad, the Girl With No History

Sarwar Joanroy

Description

It's 1987. Namo, the politically active bookseller, is preparing to save his marriage after his wife left to stay at her mum's after an argument. Nazdar is at home, preparing for her wedding which will be taking place in her home village the next day. Friba, the pregnant Peshmerga, is on her way to the city's hospital, together with her husband. They don't know one another, but destiny will bring them together.Sarwar Joanroy follows the fates of these people from the moment their daily lives are interrupted and they end up in the desert.The novel is a journey through the black pages of the history of the Kurds in Iraq, before the invasion of the United States. Yaad, the girl with no history makes you face the facts about what Saddam Hussein's regime did to the country and its citizens. It makes you understand why this country is still in turmoil, even today. Sarwar Joanroy based the events in his book on true events, some of which he experienced himself.Yaad, the girl with no history is a story that is as moving as it is fascinating and educational.

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 06 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781398401839
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Y aad, t he G irl W ith N o H istory
S arwar J oanroy
A ustin M acauley P ublishers
2023-01-06
Yaad, the Girl With No History About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Part 1 The Anfal Campaign Prologue --> Chapter 1: Namo (Beginning of 1987) --> Chapter 2: Nazdar --> Chapter 3: Friba --> Chapter 4: Namo --> Chapter 5: Qale and Nazdar --> Chapter 6: Rebien, the Hospital --> Chapter 7: Kamaran and Friba --> Chapter 8: Friba --> Chapter 9: Nazdar --> Chapter 10: Rebien --> Chapter 11: Namo --> Chapter 12: Friba --> Chapter 13: Smko, Namo’s Brother --> Chapter 14: Rebien --> Chapter 15: Towards One Another -Namo- -Jamal, Namo’s Brother-in-Law- -The Hospital- -Namo- -Jamal- --> Chapter 16: Abu Ghraib --> Chapter 17: Traveling South, Towards the Desert --> Chapter 18: Nugrat Salman --> Chapter 19: Yaad --> Chapter 20: Towards Death --> Chapter 21: The Escape --> Chapter 22: Hajji Kadhm --> Chapter 23: Slemani in Sight --> Part 2 The Flight Chapter 24: Namo in Slemani (September 1987) --> Chapter 25: Time is Running Out (December 1987) --> Chapter 26: The Procession (End of December 1987) --> Chapter 27: The Decision (February 1988) --> Chapter 28: Halabja (March 1988) --> Chapter 29: Iran (March 1988) --> Chapter 30: Rebellion (April 1988) --> Chapter 31: Registering (May 1988) --> Chapter 32: The Refugee Camp (May 1988) --> Chapter 33: Waiting and Hoping (August 1988) --> Chapter 34: Curse (September 1988) --> Chapter 35: Teheran (End of 1988) --> Chapter 36: Looking for Work --> Chapter 37: The Bus (Start of 1989) --> Chapter 38: Please Forget about Me (Spring 1989) --> Part 3 On Our Way Chapter 39: Schiphol, Amsterdam (Summer of 1989) --> Chapter 40: The Refugee Centre, Slagharen --> Chapter 41: Muntendam (End of 1989-91) --> Chapter 42: Moving to Groningen (1991) --> Chapter 43: Temporality (1993) --> Chapter 44: Wim and Stiena --> Chapter 45: Going Back (1996) --> Chapter 46: Curiosity --> Chapter 47: Nazdar --> Chapter 48: The Proposal --> Chapter 49: Going Abroad --> Chapter 50: Struggle (2004) --> Chapter 51: Nightmare (2005) --> Chapter 52: Wedding (2006) --> Chapter 53: Quiet and Empty --> Chapter 54: Divorce (2008) --> Part 4 Where To? Chapter 55: I Love You Too (August 2010) --> Chapter 56: It’s a Long Story – Groningen --> Chapter 57: The Guests --> Chapter 58: Goodbye --> Chapter 59: Following Friba’s Footsteps --> Chapter 60: New Year’s 2010-11 --> Acknowledgments
About the Author
Sarwar Joanroy was born in Slemani, Kurdistan (Northern-Iraq) in 1962. He’s been living in the Netherlands since 1989. He lives in Groningen, where he works as a psychiatrist. Yaad, the girl with no history is his debut.
Dedication
For the women in my life: Shamse, Sirwa, Tara.
For my boys: Gino and Mirco.
Copyright Information ©
Sarwar Joanroy 2023
The right of Sarwar Joanroy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781398401815 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781398401822 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781398401839 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published 2023
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd ®
1 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5AA
Revision: Jasmijn Bloemert
Cover illustration: Camille Museau
Cover design: Sven Schriever
Translation: Anna Brand (from Dutch to English)
C:\Users\Sarwar\Pictures\map iraq iran\man iraq iran.jpg
Part 1 The Anfal 1 Campaign


1 A mass murder operation (in some countries perceived to be a genocide) by the Iraqi regime against the Kurds which lasted from 1986 to 1989. The literal meaning of Anfal is ‘the loot’. The actions were aimed at the Kurdish civilian population in the north of Iraq. Approximately, 180.000 people died during the attacks and 4.000 villages were destroyed. This mass murder is remembered on 14 April. The most noted event from this time is the poison gas attack on Halabja. ↩︎
Prologue

Groningen 2010
He had to tell her today. Namo tried to avoid the crowds as he moved towards his favourite vegetable stall at the market. Whenever he did his Saturday shopping he felt like a real Stadjer , a resident of Groningen, and that still surprised him.
He had ended up here over twenty years ago, together with Nesrin and their son and daughter, and with Yaad, the baby he had taken with him when he fled. Namo had never dared to tell Yaad about her origins, but he could no longer avoid it.
Standing at the vegetable stall, he started to wonder whether he should prepare traditional Dutch mashed potato and kale or the traditional Kurdish dolmas. It was supposed to be a special meal for Rebien and Kamaran, who should have landed at Schiphol by now. He decided on the dolmas.
As soon as he arrived at the front door, Namo heard Nesrin’s shrill voice. Where had her soft voice gone? Namo cleared his throat loudly to announce his arrival and walked into the kitchen carrying the shopping. Nesrin was chopping onions at the counter and Yaad was sitting on a chair.
‘Wake up, Mum. We live in the Netherlands,’ Yaad said.
‘Think about our honour. Look at your brother and sister.’
‘My brother? He doesn’t live by himself far away from us without a reason, only you don’t seem to want to see that.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Men are allowed to do whatever they want and everyone thinks that’s OK.’
‘Shut your big mouth. You don’t talk to me like that!’ Namo, who was putting the chard away in the fridge, turned around.
‘Arguing when our friends are coming to visit us. Stop it, now!’
‘As if keeping quiet will help. I’ve warned you about this from the beginning.’
‘I promised you I’d tell her today.’
Yaad jumped up.
‘Surely you’re going to preach at me again. Apparently, I only cause trouble. Goodbye!’. She ran out of the kitchen and slammed the front door shut behind her.
‘Wait, it’s not what you think,’ Namo called out, but Yaad couldn’t hear him anymore.
‘That’s what happens Nesrin. Her father will be here soon and we still haven’t told her.’
Namo knew of three places Yaad could be. Her best friend worked behind the bar at the Three Sisters pub; she often went to the movies and had a part-time job at Forum Images and she would often go to the park ( Noorderplantsoen ) to run or to sit on a bench.
As time passed, his worries increased. All the text messages he had sent remained unanswered, and Nesrin wasn’t answering her phone either. Now he had to rush to pick Rebien and Kamaran up from the station too. He kicked at the leaves in front of him and muttered, ‘Life is like a conscription; you count down from the very first day.’
Chapter 1

Namo (Beginning of 1987)
Namo carefully used a cloth to wipe the dust from the pencils, notebooks and staplers he had had to start selling in his shop a few years before due to lack of available books. The office supplies were displayed on the broad counter, the books were banned to a few old cabinets. The small erasers and pencil sharpeners attracted a lot of dust and were hard to clean.
It was his habit to dust everything off on a weekly basis, but recently he’d been too restless to do so. Instead of his trusted friends, a few strangers had come by to pick up pamphlets and medicine from the back room of the bookstore.
He had not experienced anything like this during all of his years in the resistance. All of a sudden he had lost his sense of control and his intuition had never let him down. That one time he had been arrested by the secret service they hadn’t been able to prove anything against him, but it remained uncertain whether that would be the case next time.
He’d been so irritable lately he’d even got into an argument with his wife, which had gotten out of hand. Out of frustration Nesrin had thrown a cup at the picture of Namo’s parents which had been standing on the cupboard for twenty years.
When Namo saw the broken glass, he angrily shouted, ‘I’m leaving and I’m not coming back. On my talaq 2 !’ as he walked away.
“On his talaq”, he didn’t even believe in those things! When he had arrived back at the house a couple of hours later, Nesrin had left with the kids, Mina, 7, and Lalo, 5. She had taken it seriously.
Namo walked outside to shake out the dusting cloth, causing the dust to blow away with the wind. As Namo followed the dust with his eyes as it disappeared into the quiet street he saw Resoul, who he’d opened up to after having pronounced that ridiculous talaq, emerge in the distance.
‘Resoul, come in, take a chair,’ Namo, who was standing in the doorway, said.
‘I’m hungry, shall I order something next door for you too?’
‘No thank you, Namo. Maybe later.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘Well, nothing but misery,’ Resoul answered. ‘Have you heard about Hamid Marouf yet?’
‘What should I have heard? He was here only last week.’
‘Yesterday, a group of special unit soldiers stormed his house, they were looking for Kamaran.’
‘His son, the tall one?’ Namo asked.
‘Yes, he’s been a member of the Peshmergas 3 for a while now. He’s probably been betrayed by a student. The soldiers turned the entire house upside down but didn’t find anything. In the end, they decided to leave, but just before they were through the gates one of them saw a bag standing behind one of the