A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal (21 page)
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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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Janine’s advice keeps ringing in my ears.
You must be prepared.
She herself had enough bottled water and food to last a small eternity in the three different hotel rooms in town. But her driver collected it all when she left. The time has come to take some precautions, and I meet up with Rawda to go looking for what I need, or think I need. On the way out I bump into Tim, who joins us as he has nothing better to do. If Woody Allen ever were to play the role of a war correspondent he would look like Tim; absent-minded, intellectual, funny, sometimes unintentionally funny. In addition to that Tim is fearless. He seems to experience all that happens from a distance, not sensing the incident first hand, but filtering it all quick as lightning in his mind so that he actually experiences it as it will later appear in the
New York Review of Books
.
You must be prepared.
She herself had enough bottled water and food to last a small eternity in the three different hotel rooms in town. But her driver collected it all when she left. The time has come to take some precautions, and I meet up with Rawda to go looking for what I need, or think I need. On the way out I bump into Tim, who joins us as he has nothing better to do. If Woody Allen ever were to play the role of a war correspondent he would look like Tim; absent-minded, intellectual, funny, sometimes unintentionally funny. In addition to that Tim is fearless. He seems to experience all that happens from a distance, not sensing the incident first hand, but filtering it all quick as lightning in his mind so that he actually experiences it as it will later appear in the
New York Review of Books
.
With Tim tagging along I buy tinned food in every variety - maize, sardines, baked beans and olives. I even get hold of some cheese in a box. I pick up large bags of nuts, tea and coffee. There is still electricity and I pin my faith on my water-boiler working a bit longer. I hoard matches, batteries, soap, loo paper and napkins. In one booth I find wonderful candles - fat logs in various colours and patterns. Some are coated in gold, others moulded in the shape of roses, vines or fairytale figures. Tim wonders on which cloud I live when I agonise over patterns for tea-spoons, cups and saucers.
- How long are you intending to stay, he laughs.
Knives, spoons, forks, scissors, nutcracker, nail file, dishes, plates, light bulbs, bottle opener, cut glass in various shapes - they all disappear into the shopping bag. When I arrive at the saucepans Tim calls a halt. - And where are you going to cook? In the hotel kitchen?
I realise he is right and put the saucepans back, but grab a cushion instead. Might come in useful in the bomb shelter.
- Some survival strategy, Tim laughs in the car. - Now at least you have a dowry should the need arise.
- I’ll never invite you for tea, I threaten. - It’s important to be prepared.
- With twelve assorted types of teaspoon, and porcelain cups in oriental patterns. In eight varieties. All the while American forces aim missiles at Baghdad!
Tim crunches on nuts. A kilo of almonds, nuts and raisins is all he carries away from the market.
Loaded like a donkey I break my self-imposed ban against using the lift. To be stranded in the lift during bombing raids and a subsequent power cut is a nightmarish thought. It could happen any time. But I am weighed down and decide to live dangerously.
Amir phones from reception and says he has bought me some water. He arrives with a whole trolley and it is the good stuff; not all Iraqi mineral water tastes fresh. In addition he has carrier bags full of food - his mother’s homemade cakes, dates stuffed with walnuts, bananas, tomatoes, bread and a large drum of popcorn. I thank him, hoping he cannot see my own hoarded supply. There is really no risk of that. Whenever Amir brings me something he phones from reception to make sure I am prepared and dressed. Having knocked on the door he takes two steps back and one to the side so that he cannot see into the room when I open up. There he remains, several paces away, to guarantee my privacy.
This morning I have booked him a room in the hotel. He lives on the outskirts of town and I envisage the distance between us eventually proving insurmountable. I am lucky to have him as a driver and want him close by. Now he asks me whether I need him. Do I want to go out and eat? When I say I will remain in my room he requests permission to go home to his mother and sleep there.
That’s OK by me, although what is the point of renting a room when he wants to sleep at home? But I cannot say no. Amir is the kindest person in the world; he always anticipates what I want, even without me knowing it myself, like the drum of popcorn - and that’s in spite of him not wanting me to be here.
The next morning Melinda gives me a ride to the Information Ministry. Her teeth are clenched and she looks cross. Melinda has been ordered to return home but is one of those who have delayed payment to the Iraqi bureaucracy and consequently cannot leave without incurring reprisals. It is Wednesday 19 March, the last opportunity to leave the country before George Bush’s ultimatum expires. The previous day several journalists and aid workers were arrested at the border. My Norwegian colleagues Line and Tor from
Dagbladet
were dispossessed of 14,000 dollars. Others lost even more. Some had to stay overnight at the police station in Ramadi, a few hours’ drive south of the border, and Tor Valla, from the Norwegian Church Aid, was despatched to Baghdad to get bank guarantees authorising him to take the large sums of money out of the country.
Dagbladet
were dispossessed of 14,000 dollars. Others lost even more. Some had to stay overnight at the police station in Ramadi, a few hours’ drive south of the border, and Tor Valla, from the Norwegian Church Aid, was despatched to Baghdad to get bank guarantees authorising him to take the large sums of money out of the country.
Melinda has had the order from her boss to settle her bill and get out that same morning, but the nail-less Jamal doesn’t give a toss for the decisions of
Newsweek
and has vanished into thin air when we arrive at the press centre. Melinda gives herself a midday deadline; if the book-keeper has not turned up by noon she will have to stay. By then it will be too late to get out before dark.
Newsweek
and has vanished into thin air when we arrive at the press centre. Melinda gives herself a midday deadline; if the book-keeper has not turned up by noon she will have to stay. By then it will be too late to get out before dark.
This morning, mail has arrived from my editors, my mother, father, brother and sister. They all implore me to leave.
Reason tells me to leave the country. No one can foresee what will happen, or if we will ever get out. But reason doesn’t get its message across; I push it to the side, I don’t want to think about it, I’m not able to think about it.
In the end I say to myself that if Melinda goes I will think about going too. Melinda is engaged in one desperate phone call to New York after another. At the age of fifty, she is one of the most experienced
Newsweek
contributors. Like all media establishments
Newsweek
had encountered big problems obtaining visas for their staff. All correspondents had been encouraged to seek entry permits. The Iraqi Embassy in Beijing was the most flexible and the fastest, and Melinda was transferred from her position as bureau chief at
Newsweek
’s Beijing office to cover the war preparations in Iraq. Like all of us she had struggled to keep her visa, fought with the minders, tried to circumvent the censorship. Her whole being now rebelled against leaving.
Newsweek
contributors. Like all media establishments
Newsweek
had encountered big problems obtaining visas for their staff. All correspondents had been encouraged to seek entry permits. The Iraqi Embassy in Beijing was the most flexible and the fastest, and Melinda was transferred from her position as bureau chief at
Newsweek
’s Beijing office to cover the war preparations in Iraq. Like all of us she had struggled to keep her visa, fought with the minders, tried to circumvent the censorship. Her whole being now rebelled against leaving.
Noon comes and goes.
- OK, I am staying, she says when the hands of the clock are vertical.
OK, so I’m staying too, I think. As usual I have allowed circumstances to decide for me. I leave Melinda’s office and walk out of the building.
There, right outside, I meet Aliya. Good old Aliya.
- I knew you would come back, she cries when she sees me. We hug each other and laugh.
- Let’s work, she exclaims. I dismiss Rawda, and Aliya and I set out into town to see how people are coping.
We go to Khadimiya, one of the poorest and most densely populated areas. Rubbish and filth litter the streets; they are solidified mud. A jittery atmosphere caused by hoarding crowds is evident around the market booths. Several shops are already closed, others are in the process of closing.
We stop by a tailor’s outlet. On the floor is a distorted female body. Two arms have been flung to one side. Part of the torso totters on a stand. The naked display dummies are being unscrewed and stowed away. Round about are large stacks of
abayas -
the black, loose-fitting coat that women in Baghdad wear.
abayas -
the black, loose-fitting coat that women in Baghdad wear.
- I have been wanting to close for many days, but only today did I realise there was no other solution, the owner says. - The ultimatum expires today. I can’t risk losing my stock so I’m packing it all up and taking it home.
Karim specialises in
abayas
. To an outsider they all look exactly the same, but the nuances of lace trimmings, borders and ruffles are important to the women who buy them. Karim is known as a good tailor and he normally does a roaring trade. The majority of Khadimiya’s inhabitants are Shia Muslims; amongst them the use of the
abaya
is more widespread.
abayas
. To an outsider they all look exactly the same, but the nuances of lace trimmings, borders and ruffles are important to the women who buy them. Karim is known as a good tailor and he normally does a roaring trade. The majority of Khadimiya’s inhabitants are Shia Muslims; amongst them the use of the
abaya
is more widespread.
- I’ll lose a lot of money through this war. What will my family live on if it lasts? I’m angry with this Bush, he’s a criminal. He should stop his plans, at least for the children’s sake.
The tailor points to his son, third-grader Abdul, who has returned from his last day at school - for some time. - We’ll keep him at home now that the attacks might start, the father says, folding together the displayed
abayas
and stuffing them into large black sacks.
abayas
and stuffing them into large black sacks.
A friend arrives from afternoon prayer. The mosque was overcrowded. - Now we’ll have to leave our fate in the hands of God, he says. All day he has been trying to avert the war, in his own way, by complying with the will of God.
- I have fasted, given alms, kept the hours of prayer. If anyone owes me money I have cancelled the debt; I want to go into this war with a clean conscience. When you look death in the eye it is important not to have anything outstanding, he explains.
Both Karim and Niyaz say that if Allah cannot stop the war they are determined to fight. Karim is a member of the Baath Party and has been issued with a weapon. He is attached to a volunteer unit in the neighbourhood and has been told where to meet and what to do when the war starts. Niyaz too has a gun at home and promises to shoot every American who gets in his way. - I will be a martyr, he assures me.
The mood is changing in these last hours before the deadline. While the Iraqis have hitherto met the threat of war with resignation, frustration is now turning to anger.
- Let Bush come and he’ll get this shoe in his face, a woman cries outside the tailor’s booth. She kicks off her shoe and brandishes it in the air, her tears flowing. - Bush has no conscience, he’s a tyrant! I lost my son because of the Americans. He was an electrician, and was repairing a power plant that had been wrecked during the last war. It short-circuited and he was killed. Bush and the Americans must take responsibility for his death. They are the ones who destroyed the power plant.
The woman hops away on one foot before putting her shoe back on and continuing in a low voice.
- Now I’m responsible for his two children, she says. - I’m buying a large bag of sweets, so at least they have something before they go to sleep this evening. Who knows what the night might bring, she sighs.
Dusk has fallen and the tailor’s tiny shop is soon empty. Only the mirrors are left hanging. - I’m leaving them behind, they’ll break wherever they are, Karim says resignedly.
People hurry home, carrying bags full of food, candles and blankets. Today’s purchases might be the last for a long time. Before closing the premises, Karim takes one last look at himself in the two mirrors.
- God willing, they’ll be hanging there when I open again - once it’s all over, he says. -
Insh’ Allah
.
Insh’ Allah
.
In the evening I go to the press centre to send my article and attend the news broadcast. NRK, the Norwegian public service TV channel, phoned the previous day to ask if I would report for them; actually they had already agreed time with Reuters, as had the associated channels SVT in Sweden and DR in Denmark. So it was just to show up.
The press centre is empty. I imagine people have spirited their satellite telephones over to their hotel rooms. I erect mine and am about to connect when Josh from Sky News comes rushing.
- Get the hell out of here, they’ll start bombing any minute.
- But I’m not connected yet, I say, frantically pressing the keyboard.
- We’re carrying our things down from the roof now, the car goes in three minutes.
- But I’m live on Norwegian, Swedish and Danish TV in half an hour.
- Fuck the lives, there’s no one left here. Everyone’s gone, no one’s doing lives from here this evening.
Wonders of wonders, I get through on the third try, the article is sent, then I pack the equipment up in great haste and squeeze myself in between the Sky News packing cases. The driver puts his foot down and we tear off over the bridge, as if the bombs are hard on our heels. No one speaks. We stumble from the car outside Hotel Palestine. I’ll have to phone my editors and explain why there won’t be any live transmission this evening.
I send a telephone report from my room instead. Immediately before the news starts Josh phones from the sixteenth floor.
- There’ll be an attack very soon. This evening, tonight, at any minute. The MOD has warned us, he says, and tells me to don my flak jacket.
- Inside? I ask.
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