The Ziggurat
by Sam Christie
Baravin Erdelan looked across at the American, sitting stiffly in the air-conditioned, luxury Hummer. They were speeding through the streets of Erbil in the searing heat of the midday sun. Most of the cars on the streets were white, but this one was matt black. Baravin saw his face reflected in the lenses of the American’s shades. These sunglasses were utilitarian, mean-spirited and looked like they had been crafted from the cockpit windscreen of a U2 spy plane. The American gave little away, dressed as he was in the usual western, quasi-civilian uniform: adventure fatigues, crisp blue shirt, beige jacket and a pair of sand-coloured boots.
“So, what did you think of the architect’s drawings?”
“Big. Very big,” said the American, sounding drained. Baravin felt a face-flushing pang; this man had so little interest in his project – he was a mere investor – a big-hitting money man who cared nothing for the concept or for Kurdistan, in fact. But in Baravin’s mind, building the biggest, most magnificent shopping mall in the Middle East was a project that had taken on a meaning far bigger than profit.
What unites almost everyone? Where did everyone want to go, regardless of their language or beliefs? Well, to the restaurants, the designer outlets, the cinemas, of course; they wanted to smell the perfumed air, the wafts of fresh coffee and listen to the burble of all those languages, indulging their pure desire for pleasure. Kurdistan would lead the way and would invite people from all over the world to share their mutual hedonistic desire for things and events – perhaps even each other.
Since the conversation seemed to have reached its limit, Baravin turned his attention to the city that unfolded behind the smoked glass. It was hot extremely hot, probably about fifty-five degrees, yet people still went about their business surrounded by dust, sweat and haze. Baravin always felt that the temperature, heat that seemed to edge up every summer, was a very unfair burden for Erbil to bear. After all, the place was haunted by nearby war, terrorism, the resulting refugees and the constant presence of some foreign expeditionary interest that seemed only intent on stripping Kurdistan’s assets. Climate change appeared like a cruel joke smeared as icing on the unfortunate cake of recent times.
“Mr Erdelan, can you remind me where we are going and why?” Baravin bristled again at the American’s indifference.
“As I explained, we are going to a ceremony for my workers. They bring something of importance from their community and culture and place these objects in the foundations of the steps into the building. It is a ceremony to thank and honour them, their families and their heritage.”
“You honour them by burying their things? Weird.” The American managed a cynical chuckle, which lasted only a second before his face hardened again.
“Then they feel invested in the building, part of it. They bring drawings, poems or small artefacts. All of it becomes the building itself. It is good to make workers feel involved.”
Baravin made money, lots of it, but he also felt responsible for the people who worked for him. He wanted them to like him, to like being employed by him. His staff came from many different cultures and countries and this ceremony was a chance for them to feel as one and to be united in the purpose of this towering structure. The building would be enormous without doubt and would make a lot of people very rich, but workers should never be forgotten; this was the rule.
Both men were shocked by the structure as it slowly reared into sight. Baravin had only dealt with the drawings up to this point, and this was the first time he had seen progress since visiting the vast mound-like wasteland in the very early stages. Huge concrete columns rose from the dirt with steel reinforcing rods poking out of the tops like bristles. The lower floor had been jointed together in pre-cast sections which stretched as far as the eye could see. Baravin looked again at the plan on his phone in an attempt to match the half-finished shell to the colourful spiral that would reach into the sky. He felt the weight of responsibility fall on his shoulders; this is really happening.
The crowd of workers were gathered around the entrance steps as the Hummer pulled up to a space kept free by two dishevelled security guards. As the men stepped out of the car, Baravin was surprised that there was no cheering, and the atmosphere seemed tense. In the back of the crowd, two men jostled with each other and were shouting. A woman was wailing. When the crowd noticed the men, they fell silent but for the occasional push or shove.
“Hey, is this okay?” The American looked around nervously, picking up on the undercurrents that seemed to rise from the assembled labourers like a wave of malevolence.
Baravin ignored him; he had a speech to give. He walked towards a lone microphone set up near the parking space. As he approached it, it gave a brief screech of feedback. His heart was beating fast, and he felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and not just from the heat. The crowd looked at him; they were a sea of sullen stares.
“My friends, we are united in one purpose. We are as family with one loving goal.” A voice shouted from the crowd, igniting several others. Baravin steadied himself and began to carry on.
“I am delighted that you would come here to be together in…” The fight broke out again at the back, and the crowd started to jeer and shout. A little girl screamed with a volume that cut through the noise of the throng. Like an unfolding explosion, more and more people began to lash out and club each other with fists and then began to pick up stones. The American slowly moved towards the bulletproof Hummer, tapping his left side as he picked his way backwards through the rubble and dust.
Baravin leaned towards one of the security guards whose face had begun to whiten as the violence intensified.
“What is wrong?” Baravin had to shout. The security man looked at him with a mixture of fear and pity.
“They do not agree. These people are not the same. They do not want to place their objects in that hole next to each other. Do you not see the hatred? The hatred is for you, for this, but they have turned on each other. Who else can they turn on? The only thing together about this crowd is the fact that they have to work for you, are paid so badly by you and can never visit this place when it is finished!” The security man threw his hands up at Baravin as the crowd roared in pulses with the sound of thwacking fists and the thud of falling bodies. Baravin was transfixed, staring at the scene and unable to move. The two security men retreated slowly, then turned and ran. The microphone squealed again.
The American stood by the Hummer, his eyes wild with panic behind the military shades. He fiddled inside his coat.
“Mr Erdelan, get control. NOW!” His voice wavered as he raised a pistol and pointed it towards the crowd.
The fighting mass had by now almost encircled Baravin and gradually, like a stiffening dog about to attack, began to turn their attention to the two men. Baravin had only one way to escape – up a steel ladder attached to a nearby column. He leapt up and started climbing, suddenly awake to the horror that had unfolded so quickly, without warning.
He heard the shot while grappling with the hot rungs, inexpertly clamping his hands to the metal and swaying as he got higher up the column. The bang had no reverberating tail; it was a dull crack that seemed to be compressed as if in a box. He looked down and saw a young boy fall, his chest covered in blood. Baravin hung there as the crowd advanced towards the American, who frantically fiddled with his gun, repeatedly raising and lowering it with no luck. Now halfway up the column, Baravin turned his face away as the crowd tore and ripped, pulling the American apart in a concentrated frenzy of unbridled energy. His blood made a paste of the dust, and his glasses were crushed by the feet of the huddled, busy workers.
When Baravin reached the top of the column, high above the ground, he grabbed one of the reinforcing rods to steady himself and looked down. The workers were silent and looked up towards him. He could make out the American’s body strewn across the dirt. Gingerly, he knelt down and looked up to the sky. He gave a prayer which became a muttering plea. The hand that held tightly to the jutting steel shook uncontrollably. Around the city, the competing sound of all the mosques in unison rang out for the call to prayer.
“This is for them. Would you ever unite us? Would you ever end the wars? We can heal our differences, stand in unity, be one. This place is for them, for the people of the world. People can have fellowship here. This is for them!”
There was only the sound of the many Imams singing different verses. The notes of their calls wove in and out of each other across the city, uniting musically and then jarring in a discordant battle. Suddenly the call to prayer ended with a croak, and there was only silence. Baravin saw a shimmer on the horizon as the sun continued to bake the ground hard. He could feel its power like a weight pressing down on his head, and he imagined it singeing his hair. He looked down at the crowd.
Four men were scaling the ladder towards him, carefully picking their way up the column, their bloodied hands sticking to the metal rungs as they hauled themselves slowly skyward. They had determined faces yet gave no definite clue as to their intention. Baravin rose to his feet and threw his free hand in the air.
“You were divided. I wanted to unite us all. To bring us together in this wonderful project.” He paused and looked down. The four men carried on relentlessly upwards.
“You cannot do this to me. I am your employer. The American was your employer! Where is your loyalty!?”
The men continued to climb as the workers and their families watched in silence from the ground. Baravin started to scream.
“You bastards! Leave me alone. You are nothing but traitors! You will pay for this, in Hell and on earth!”
Baravin could now see the whiskers on their chins and the wrinkles on their knuckles as they climbed the last few metres of the ladder in convoy, joined in one singular purpose.
WENSUM 