عاببلالييذذ غفقيي
On a sunny day in the summer of 2022, in the ancient capital Baghdad, there was an old man who had reached the stage of physical collapse. He was resting in one of the beds at Al-Kindi Hospital, where his body appeared frighteningly thin due to aging, as his body cells suffered from senescence. This elderly man, named "Ismail Tawfiq," was considered one of the ten oldest living people in Iraq.
Ismail had surpassed a hundred years of age, and the wrinkles dominated his face, with each fold telling a different story and exuding the wisdom of life. He slowly opened his eyes while medical devices tried to keep him alive. He had suffered a heart attack three days earlier and knew that he did not have much time left in this exhausting life. He said in a hoarse voice, "I have lost my strength."
He then added, "Who would believe that I would die from a heart attack, I who have witnessed two world wars and seventeen lesser wars?" He looked around and found no one; he had become accustomed to loneliness, despite having had a large family in the past.
He had eight children, seven of whom were boys and one girl whom he considered his most precious treasure. But those days were long gone. All his sons had joined the military to defend their country in various wars, and he himself had suffered various injuries in the October War in Egypt. As for what happened to the children, they had perished in the line of duty defending the homeland, and all that remained of them were the medals that testified to their sacrifices.
His daughter was not lucky either; she had died due to a terrorist who detonated himself in the medical camp where she worked. None of his children had offspring, as most of them never married, which increased his isolation. He envied the other centenarians who had dozens or even hundreds of grandchildren.
He felt distressed every day due to his loneliness and longed for death, as nothing urged him to continue living. Originally, Ismail was a mechanical engineer, but due to his solitude and the strength of his memory, he still vividly remembered many events he had witnessed eighty years ago, always serving as the living encyclopedia to which many college students of history and others turned.
Despite his specialization in mechanical engineering, he held a doctorate in medicine, economics, civil engineering, and other fields. He had several certificates in various domains, but now he had become weak and could not even drink water on his own.
There were two birds flirting outside his window. A smile appeared on his face, and his brown eyes exuded 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 that there was no point in clinging to life any longer. A look of relief was on his face.
"I have truly lived long, and my life was beautiful in its joy and sadness, but if I had some companionship in my final moments, I wouldn't have wanted to face death alone." After that, he closed his eyes, and moments later, he heard a whistling sound echoing throughout his room, announcing the cessation of the heartbeat in Ismail's body.
---
In a room made of polished stone, there was a small boy, perhaps seven years old, looking into a mirror that reflected 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 and then said in a choked voice, as if trying to swallow a great shock: "I can't believe it, reincarnation? Not a rebirth, but reincarnation. Wait, I'm not Buddhist; 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 shouted anxiously, "Damn it..." He raised his head as if looking at the sky and said in a complaining voice, "Why the 18th century? Of all the eras, why the 18th?" He had a scornful expression on his face.
After a moment, he felt as if millions of needles were piercing his head, and he fell to the ground, holding his head and trying to suppress the pain. These were millions of memories belonging to the current owner of his body. After a few minutes, the pain eased, and he struggled to stand, saying, "At least I know who I am now." A sarcastic smile appeared on his face.
The current owner of this body was Ismail bin Ali Al-Niburi, and his father was one of the most famous merchants in the city of Babylon, as well as a landowner owning the village of Bilbur. Ismail's current age was seven. This was clear from the engraved image hanging with his current family, which was inscribed with "1780," while the current year was "1781."
Ismail rubbed his forehead with his small fingers, trying to think of something, and said, "Bilbur? Ali Al-Niburi? Why haven't I heard of these names before? Hmm... Wait, isn't..." Ismail paused for a moment and then said in shock: "Al-Niburi means from the city of Nippur. Wait, isn't this a Sumerian city? Indeed, the world didn't know about the Sumerians until the early 20th century?"
Then he held his head with his hands and shouted in annoyance: "There is no point in thinking about these things!" He then looked around the room; it was simple, without the luxuries of 21st-century life.
His eyes sparkled, and he said with a wide smile: "Isn't this the time of stagnation and rise? The era of stagnation began in the Ottoman Empire and the ancient empires; isn't this an opportunity to build my country?" Ismail always looked disdainfully at the emperors of the stagnation era in the Ottoman Empire, as they had not invested a single penny in his country after collecting taxes, on the contrary, they demanded more.
Thinking that one of the Ottoman sultans died while chasing his concubine while one of the cities in Iraq was experiencing famine made him feel even more disgusted. Ismail was immersed in his thoughts until he heard a knock on the wooden door of his room. 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 yellow and honey-colored eyes that had a sharp quality like a falcon's eyes. The boy said, "Sir 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 remembered that this boy was one of his father's slaves, an assistant to the current owner of his body. The boy's name was "Dha'bal," but the name of his family, God knows. But he knew that Dha'bal had been captured as a slave in the war of 1775 when he was only four years old, and he ended up as a slave bought by his father after feeling pity for him.
Ismail said while arranging his clothes: "Alright, lead the way."
After a moment, Ismail was following Dha'bal down a corridor that was not royal in nature but simple. Ismail examined the place with a thoughtful gaze but concluded that his family was considered wealthy, for even despite the design and decor of the house, in the year 1781, this was considered a moderately luxurious home.
Ismail said, recalling something: "Dha'bal, is my father still angry?" There was an expectant look on Ismail's face.
Dha'bal stopped and turned to Ismail, nodding slightly, and said bitterly: "Sir, what can I say? He is like a volcano of pain. I can tell you that your father's falcon is not a toy, but what can I say? You treated it like a chicken, and in the end, it became worthless due to losing one of its eyes." Dha'bal continued speaking, and there seemed to be no end to his words; despite his coldness, when expressing dissatisfaction, he became less cold, especially with Ismail, as he complained and grumbled like a wife scolding her husband for forgetting to buy bread.
Ismail completely lost his ability to speak, and his ears were ringing with pain. Dha'bal's words were endless, piercing his ears like arrows piercing the chest.
After a moment, Dha'bal finally reached a conclusion, saying: "But his mood is a bit better now. How can I describe it? He is currently like a fire that is about to go out, but if another unreasonable act occurs, the fire will ignite anew." He placed his hand on his hip and looked at Ismail.
Ismail understood what Dha'bal meant, so he sighed and said: "Let's continue."
After a moment, Ismail and Dha'bal stood before a wooden gate adorned with simple decorations. Dha'bal opened the gate and said with a slight bow: "Sir, your servant has come at your request," using the plural for honorific purposes