Day after day thousands of tourists come and see where that lucky devil the sultan ate, where he slept and where he kept his harem full of beautiful women. But none of that concerns Mahmud, an Iraqi with a greying beard and nicotine-stained fingers. He smokes a cigarette every five minutes, regular as clockwork, right down to the filter, until it starts to burn his fingers.
“You feel numbers?” The neurologist looked into my face. “When they report them…” “But its only numbers. Numbers were invented so that we don’t have to feel.” “But when they report that . . .” “They report, they report!! They report about the 1999 or the six million so that they don’t have to think or see it. Numbers are a wall behind which others cry and shed blood!”