On a sunny day in the summer of 2022, in the ancient capital of Baghdad, there was an old man who had reached a state of physical collapse. He was resting on one of the beds at Al-Kindi Hospital, where his body appeared frighteningly thin due to aging, as the cells in his body suffered from senescence. This old man, named "Ismail Tawfiq," was considered one of the ten centenarians in Iraq.
Ismail had surpassed the age of one hundred, and wrinkles dominated his face, with each crease telling a different story and exuding life wisdom. He slowly opened his eyes while medical devices tried to keep him alive. He had suffered a heart attack three days prior and knew that he didn't have much time left in this weary life. He said in a hoarse voice, "I am so weak."
He added, "Who would believe that I would die of a heart attack, while I have witnessed two world wars and seventeen lesser wars?" He looked around but found no one; he had grown accustomed to loneliness, despite having a large family in the past.
He had eight children, seven of whom were boys and one girl, whom he considered his most treasured possession. But those days were gone. All his sons had joined the army to defend their country in various wars, and he himself had suffered multiple injuries during the October War in Egypt. As for what happened to the children, they met their demise while defending the homeland, leaving behind only the medals that testified to their sacrifices.
His daughter was not fortunate either; she died due to a terrorist who detonated himself in the medical camp where she was working. None of his children had any offspring, as most of them never married, which deepened his isolation. He envied the other centenarians who had dozens or even hundreds of grandchildren.
He felt distressed every day because of his solitude and longed for death, as nothing urged him to continue living. Originally, Ismail was a mechanical engineer, but due to his loneliness and strong memory, he still vividly recalled many events he witnessed eighty years ago, and he was always the living encyclopedia that many students of history and other fields turned to.
Despite his specialization in mechanical engineering, he held doctorates in medicine, economics, civil engineering, and more. He had several degrees in various fields, but now he had become weak and could barely drink water on his own.
Two birds were flirting outside his window. A smile appeared on his face, and his brown eyes shimmered with warmth as he said, "Well, it's the cycle of life and the will of God. After all, one dies, and two are born, and life goes on." Suddenly, he felt a tightness in his chest, as if his lungs had stopped working. His body descended peacefully after several tremors, as if his body was telling him there was no point in continuing to cling to life. A look of relief appeared on his face.
"I have truly lived long, and my life was beautiful in its joys and sorrows, but if I had some company in my last moments, I wouldn't want to face death alone." After that, he closed his eyes, and moments later, he heard a whistling sound buzzing around his room, announcing the cessation of life in Ismail's body.
---
In a room made of polished stone, there was a small boy, perhaps seven years old, looking into a mirror reflecting the image of a boy with slightly tanned skin and freckles on his nose. His dark brown hair reached his shoulders and appeared wavy. He stared at his reflection with wide eyes, then said in a choked voice as if trying to swallow a huge shock: "I can't believe it, reincarnation? This isn't rebirth; it's reincarnation. Wait, I'm not a Buddhist, so why did this happen?"
Then the boy looked around and said nervously, "The most important thing is, who am I?" He rubbed his head, trying to remember something, then cried out anxiously, "Damn..." He lifted his head as if looking at the sky and said in a complaining tone, "Why the eighteenth century? Of all the eras, why the eighteenth?" He had a disgruntled expression on his face.
After a few moments, he felt as if millions of needles were piercing his head, and he fell to the ground, clutching his head in an attempt to suppress the pain. Those were millions of memories belonging to the current owner of the body. After a few minutes, the pain subsided, and he stood up with difficulty, saying, "At least I know who I am right now." A sarcastic smile appeared on his face.
The current owner of the body was Ismail ibn Ali al-Niburi, and his father was one of the most famous merchants in the city of Babylon. He was also a landowner who owned the village of Bilbor. Ismail's current age was seven years. This was clear from the engraved picture hanging that bore the image of his current family, with "1780" written on it, while the current year was "1781."
Ismail rubbed his forehead with his small fingers, trying to think of something, and said, "Bilbor? Ali al-Niburi? Why haven't I heard these names before? Hmm... Wait, isn't..." Ismail paused for a moment, then exclaimed in shock, "Al-Niburi means from the city of Nippur. Wait, isn't that a Sumerian city? Seriously, didn't the world know about the Sumerians until the beginning of the twentieth century?"
Then he clutched his head with his hands and shouted in annoyance, "There's no use in thinking about these things!" He then looked around the room; it was simple, with no signs of luxury typical of the twenty-first century.
His eyes sparkled, and he said with a wide smile, "Isn't this the time of stagnation and rise? The era of stagnation in the Ottoman Empire and ancient empires has begun; isn't this an opportunity to build my country?" Ismail always looked down on the emperors of the stagnation era in the Ottoman Empire, as they didn't invest a single penny in his country after collecting taxes; on the contrary, they demanded more.
Thinking about one of the Ottoman sultans who died chasing his concubine while one of the cities in Iraq was experiencing famine made him feel even more disgusted. Ismail was lost in thought until he heard a knock on his wooden room door. He said unconsciously, "Come in."
The other party responded and opened the door. Upon seeing the figure of the other party, it was a boy about ten years old, with short black hair and wheat-colored skin, with sharp yellow and honey-colored eyes like a hawk's. The boy said, "Master Ismail, your father requests your presence at the dining table." The boy's voice was mechanical, devoid of emotions, as if he were a robot.
Ismail recalled that this boy was one of his father's slaves, an assistant to the current owner of the body. The boy's name was "Da'bal," but as for his family name, God knows. However, he knew that Da'bal was captured as a slave in the war of 1775 when he was only four years old and ended up a slave bought by his father after he felt pity for him.
Ismail said while arranging his clothes, "Alright, lead the way."
After a few moments, Ismail was following Da'bal down a corridor that was not royal in character, but simple. Ismail examined the place with a thoughtful gaze, but he deduced that his family was considered wealthy, as even though the design and decor of the house were modest, in 1781, this was considered a moderately luxurious home.
Ismail remembered something and said, "Da'bal, is my father still angry?" There was an expectant look on Ismail's face.
Da'bal stopped, turned to Ismail, and nodded slightly, saying bitterly, "Sir, what should I say? He is like a volcano of pain. I can tell you that your father's hawk is not a toy, but what can I say? You treated him like a chicken, and in the end, he became worthless due to losing one of his eyes." Da'bal continued speaking, and there seemed to be no end to his words; despite his coldness, when expressing something he disapproved of, he became less cold, especially with Ismail, as he grumbled and complained like a wife reproaching her husband for forgetting to buy bread.
Ismail lost the ability to speak entirely, and his ears were ringing from the pain. Da'bal's words were endless, piercing his ears like arrows that penetrate the chest.
After a few moments, Da'bal finally reached a conclusion, saying, "But his mood is somewhat better now. How can I describe it? He is currently like a fire that is about to extinguish, but if an unreasonable behavior occurs again, the fire will ignite once more." He placed his hand on his hip and looked at Ismail.
Ismail understood what Da'bal meant, so he sighed and said, "Let's continue."
After a few moments, Ismail and Da'bal stood before a wooden gate with some simple decorations. Da'bal opened the gate and said with a slight bow, "Sir, your servant has come at your request," using the plural form for reverence.