A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal (15 page)
Read A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal Online
Authors: Asne Seierstad,Ingrid Christophersen
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #General, #Editors; Journalists; Publishers, #History, #Military, #Iraq War (2003-2011), #Language Arts & Disciplines, #Journalism, #Social Science, #Customs & Traditions, #Sociology
BOOK: A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal
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Down some steps, in a tiny cubicle, is Rafik. He specialises in western literature. On his shelves are everything from T. S. Eliot’s
The Wasteland
to Hamsun’s
Mysteries
. On the counter are Dante’s
Divine Comedy
and Rafik’s reading glasses. - Wonderful book, he says. I’ve got to ‘Purgatory’.
The Wasteland
to Hamsun’s
Mysteries
. On the counter are Dante’s
Divine Comedy
and Rafik’s reading glasses. - Wonderful book, he says. I’ve got to ‘Purgatory’.
Rafik set himself up as a bookseller during the Iran-Iraq war. The owner was called up and asked him to mind the shop. After university lectures Rafik sat in the shop and read all day. The shop owner never returned from the war and Rafik took over. Now he’s kept shop for fifteen years. - It is my soul. Here I live, here I suffer. As you know, life here is suffering. The books save me.
In another dusty basement, an elderly man sits behind a desk. He has brushed back his few remaining strands of hair. He has long, brown teeth and bags under his eyes.
- Have you got Iraqi literature in English?
The bookseller gets up slowly. He bends down, rummages amongst the bottom rows and pulls out two books. One is Edwyn Bevan’s classic
The Land Between the Two Rivers
from 1917. - Here you can read what we once were, he says.
The Land Between the Two Rivers
from 1917. - Here you can read what we once were, he says.
The other book is called
The Long Days
. - You must read it. It’s about him, he says.
The Long Days
. - You must read it. It’s about him, he says.
- About who?
- About
him
. The early years, the struggles, his development as a person.
him
. The early years, the struggles, his development as a person.
- Is it good?
The bookseller fixes his eyes on me. - It is required reading.
- Have you read it?
- No, but I’ve seen the film. I know what it’s about, if you see what I mean.
The Long Days
was published in the 1970s and millions of copies have since been printed. It was given to all members of the Baath Party, and at party meetings it is the starting point for analysing a person’s qualities.
was published in the 1970s and millions of copies have since been printed. It was given to all members of the Baath Party, and at party meetings it is the starting point for analysing a person’s qualities.
The story starts one afternoon on Rashid Street in Baghdad. A group of friends are waiting for a convoy of cars. ‘The most reserved and sincere is Muhammed. He always listens attentively to whoever is speaking and stores the words in his head. There he has collected many secrets since childhood.’ The character Muhammed is based on Saddam Hussein. The young men on the street corner are planning an attempt on the prime minister’s life, a prime minister who ‘oppresses and exploits the people’. The assassination of Prime Minister Abdul Karim Qasim was the start to Muhammed’s, alias Saddam Hussein’s, political career.
- We who are left are dying slowly, says the bookseller. - We live in an unspeakable nightmare. We need an earthquake. Everything must be uprooted. But it will cost dearly. I am an Arab and I am an Iraqi nationalist, and I hate the US and its world dominion, but I see no other way for Iraq. Let the American devils come and let’s get it over with. But it could turn into the most awful civil war; Arabs against Kurds, Muslims against Christians, Sunni against Shia. It will never, never be the same again.
The two customers nod. They are students, one of literature, the other of philosophy.
- In the 1970s this was a beautiful country. We had the best education system, the best healthcare in the Arab world. Oil gave us riches. In 1990 I had a Mercedes, says the bookseller. - Now I have these two legs.
- Anyhow, people no longer read, they don’t study either. Look at these two, he says, and points to the boys. - They have come to look for textbooks, but won’t find them. I have copied a few sheets, but look at the bad print. Anyway, they don’t have time to read, they have to work.
Mansour has postponed his exams several times. - I must help my family and have started an outlet for spare parts, the literature student says. The philosophy student also has a small shop.
- What do you sell?
- What is it called? he says, and tries to find the right word.
- Scrap, the literature student cuts him off.
- The tragedy is that people no longer read. They have three jobs and no time for books. Anyhow, you need peace and quiet to read, don’t you? That’s not possible when life’s all upside down. I used to read one book a day, now I can hardly manage one a month. People don’t have the money either, and the libraries aren’t operating. They have been emptied, says the bookseller. - By the employees. Some of the books you’ll find here in the market.
The bookseller is starting to get nervous. We have been talking for a long time. - I’ve never spoken to anyone like this before. Here you are, take the books, go home and read.
When I get home I unpack the forbidden book the Kurd gave me.
From Revolution to Dictatorship. Iraq since 1958
. Like tens of thousands of intellectuals, the author was murdered by the regime.
From Revolution to Dictatorship. Iraq since 1958
. Like tens of thousands of intellectuals, the author was murdered by the regime.
The other book gives a description of Baghdad in the prosperous 7th century. ‘Baghdad was the richest city in the world. The river banks were black with boats. They brought porcelain from China, spices from India, slaves from Turkey, gold-dust from East Africa, weapons from Arabia.’
The golden times are over. Neither pearls nor ivory make it to Baghdad now. Weapons, however, always find their way.
Said’s visits become more infrequent, the room is already stuffed with knick-knacks, and besides, he doesn’t have the time. The hotel gradually fills up. Word gets round that al-Fanar provides cheap lodgings and is nicknamed ‘the peaceniks’ hotel’. Here the foreign pacifists hang out, plan their campaigns, paint their posters, write their press releases and party at night. A profusion of organisations have made their way to Baghdad during the winter and spring of 2003. They organise conferences and projects, produce websites and paint banners.
Don’t kill Iraqi children for oil.
Few editors are interested in articles about the activities of the peace movement in Iraq - mine is not, anyhow. The activists buzz round the Information Ministry like bees round a honey-pot, but their press releases are usually consigned to the wastepaper basket.
Don’t kill Iraqi children for oil.
Few editors are interested in articles about the activities of the peace movement in Iraq - mine is not, anyhow. The activists buzz round the Information Ministry like bees round a honey-pot, but their press releases are usually consigned to the wastepaper basket.
None of the peace activists are successful in attracting attention - until the human shields arrive in town. Now the journalists are doing the buzzing. From a newsworthy point of view they succeed where the others have failed. Owing to the high stakes, maybe? During February they arrive in Baghdad in buses, in cars and by air. The first bus that reaches Baghdad is given front page coverage in the Iraqi papers. Saddam Hussein welcomes them, via a comment to INA.
The new anti-war recruits throw wild parties and talk heatedly. Every morning they go out to inspect the installations they will protect with their own bodies. From time to time they mingle with the regime-organised demonstrations, shouting pro-Saddam and anti-Bush slogans in an inharmonious dance. The Western individuals have landed themselves in a difficult situation - travel and subsistence are paid by the Iraqi regime. I follow them for several days to try and understand what makes them tick.
We roll through the streets of Baghdad in two double-decker London buses. We are preceded by an outrider and two Iraqi policemen on motorbikes. People glance up and see a colourful collection of war opponents hanging out of the bus windows. Some of the passers-by wave back, others looked hurriedly down, as though the bus does not concern them.
- We are here to stop the bombs, stop Bush, says Teijo, a student from a technical high school in southern Finland. - I think we are playing an important role.
The twenty-two-year-old has a large rucksack and a sleeping bag in his lap. He is thin and pale, awkward like an overgrown teenager. Today he has left a soft bed in one of Baghdad’s hotels to move in to South Baghdad Electricity Works.
- If the power is cut the purification plants won’t work and several hundred thousand people will have to drink contaminated water. The fact that we are here makes it more difficult for the USA to bomb. To them the life of westerners is worth more than that of Iraqis.
The buses continue southwards, towards the outskirts of Baghdad. We pass military barracks hidden behind newly constructed sandbag walls, a bridge, and several buried positions, probably for anti-aircraft missiles.
At the electricity works Teijo and the other activists are confronted by a huge portrait of Saddam Hussein. The local workers greet the pacifists with resounding Saddam slogans. He is ‘in their heart and soul’. A few of the pacifists unfurl a long banner:
No to war
. But when the workers with the posters of the president line up beside them, they quickly roll the banner up. - We are here for the Iraqi people, not for Saddam Hussein, is the watchword.
No to war
. But when the workers with the posters of the president line up beside them, they quickly roll the banner up. - We are here for the Iraqi people, not for Saddam Hussein, is the watchword.
Fifteen human shields are expected to move in at South Baghdad Electricity Works today. Several have started to withdraw from the mission. A French boy, Asdine, was taken by surprise when he visited an Iraqi family. - Stop that nonsense, they told him. - We want war, we want bombs, so we can at last rid ourselves of our dictator.
Unlike Teijo, several of the human shields have informed the Iraqis that they do not want to protect the country’s infrastructure, but rather lodge in orphanages and hospitals, which are not direct targets. This the Iraqi authorities try to prevent as the human shields are valueless to the regime if they install themselves in hospitals.
- We have started to feel the pressure. The men from the ministry were angry when they realised that so many had withdrawn, and they reminded us why we were here, one activist says, standing by and watching the fifteen who have found a bed each. - I’m starting to regret the whole thing. Maybe the Iraqis will chain us to the strategic targets, civilian and military, the day before the bombs start dropping. I don’t think I want to be here any longer.
A sleeping bag under his head, Teijo has made himself comfortable on one of the camp beds that has been put out for the fifteen shields. He watches the others getting ready. This is where he will spend his days and nights, even when the bombs start to drop. - I am willing to accept what destiny might bring. If I doubt, I think about the Iraqis who have no choice. We Europeans can leave whenever we want, it is just a drive to the Jordanian border. They have to stay. It is bloody unfair. I hope thousands more shields arrive. Then it might be possible to stop Bush, Teijo says seriously. He is sitting up in bed. On the wall above him is a picture of the Iraqi president. I ask him what he thinks of sleeping under his watchful gaze.
- He’s only a symbol of the Iraqi people. Beyond that I have no opinion about his politics. In Finland too we have portraits of the president on the wall.
I am silent. Is it my place to inform him about Saddam Hussein’s harassment of the Iraqi people? About the dictatorship? That he cannot compare the Finnish president to the Iraqi. I feel like crying. Suddenly everything is so sad. The gangling, rather strange boy who has taken on this huge task touches me.
- What do your parents say? I manage to ask.
- They have asked me to return.
- Go home, I beg him earnestly. - Go while there is still time. You haven’t a clue what will happen.
I have far overstepped the role of a reporter. Observe, report, write. Don’t get involved, don’t get caught up. Like an elder sister I feel responsible for this frail boy. As the only Nordic among the journalists I must look after this Finn.
- I hope I’ll get home one day, is all Teijo says.
- The question is whether they have more use for us dead than alive when the bombs start falling. We have no guarantee that the Iraqis won’t kill us and show us off.
- Look what your bombs have done, says the activist on the bed beside him.
- This is starting to taste bad, he says. - Look around. On one side is a military warehouse, on the other side a bridge. The troops might be moved here. We might become Saddam Hussein’s hostages. With all the media attention we have been given in Iraq, people might associate us with the regime, and what if that is toppled and there is civil war? On which side do people think we are?
- So why stay?
- I’m staying against my better judgement. Reason tells me to go, but my body says stay. It is pure Kierkegaardesque, he philosophises. On the stool by his bed the
Thousand and One Nights
lies opened.
Thousand and One Nights
lies opened.
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