The Last Pomegranate Tree

Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 Translator’s Note Landmarks Cover Cover Title Page Table of Contents Start Copyright Print Page List i ii iii iv v vi 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 314 315 
 
 
 
 
 
 Copyright © Bachtyar Ali, 2002
 First published in Sorani Kurdish as Dwahamin Hanari Dunya by Ranj Press in Sulaimaniyah, Iraqi Kurdistan English translation copyright © Kareem Abdulrahman, 2022 First Archipelago Books Edition, 2023
 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher.
 Archipelago Books
 232 3rd Street #A111
 Brooklyn, NY 11215
 www.archipelagobooks.org
 Library of Congress cataloging data available upon request
 ISBN 9781953861405
 Ebook ISBN 9781953861412
 Cover art: Rostam Aghala
 Book design: Zoe Guttenplan
 This book was made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of the Office of the Governor and the New York State Legislature. Funding for this book was provided by a grant from the Carl Lesnor Family Foundation. Archipelago Books also gratefully acknowledges the generous support of the City of Literature, Jan Michalski Foundation, the Nimick Forbesway Foundation, Lannan Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs.
 
 
 
 
 
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 1
 From early that first morning, I knew he was keeping me locked in. He told me that a fatal disease, a plague of some sort, had spread outside. Whenever he told lies, the birds would fly away. It had been that way since he was a child. Whenever he told a lie, something strange would happen. Either a sudden downpour would begin, trees would fall down, or a flock of birds would soar above our heads.
 I was being held prisoner inside a large green mansion within a sequestered forest. He brought me a stack of books and told me to read them.
 “Let me out” was all I said in response.
 “There is disease and corruption everywhere, Muzafar-i Subhdam,” he said. “Stay here in this beautiful world. This is the mansion I built for myself. For myself and my angels. For myself and my devils. Stay here and be patient. What’s mine is yours. There’s a disease out there, and you need to stay away from it. You understand?”
 True, I was far away from the plague there.
 It was how we’d been since we were kids, he leaving his duties to me, I leaving mine to him, to Yaqub-i Snawbar, the man whose glance towards the sky could make things happen: a cloud might suddenly appear, a star might shoot across the sky, a light might suddenly enter our hearts, or night fall before its due. The world felt different by his side. I often went on walks with him and felt as if I were under a spell. He could drag you along the roads for many days and nights and you wouldn’t even feel hungry.
 I was his only childhood friend. Our fellow Peshmergas were all younger. Later on, one half would become his enemies and the other his servants. I don’t know when my story with Yaqub started. Twenty-one years of imprisonment had left me with nothing but a poor memory, had made me a willing slave. In those years, he was the only one who sent me letters. He would write on a small piece of paper, “When you come out, it will be a new era. You will live in the loveliest mansion in the world.” He sent that message year in, year out. He never signed his name. He’d either write “a friend who misses you” or draw a bird at the bottom, like in the old days. From one year to the next, I could tell from his handwriting that something was happening. In those twenty-one years, I received nothing from outside through which to interpret the world except for his messages; his short notes were