A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal (24 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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- This is my mother, this is my father, a low voice whispers. Lying on a blue sheet, under a blanket, with an orange towel for a pillow, two brown eyes, a little nose and a long pigtail peep out at me. The pigtail, tied up with a pink elastic band, meanders off the pillow and drops down towards the floor. The weak voice starts to talk.
- My name is Russul.
By her side a woman stands crying - her mother. A man watches the mother helplessly - her father. He pulls the blanket away. Russul’s slender chest and one of her arms are heavily bandaged; in several places the blood has seeped through the dressing.
- We had been visiting some relatives, the father says. - I had just unlocked the gate. My wife and two of my children were on their way into the house. Russul was lingering behind. I opened the door for her, she was in a good mood and made a few dance steps, when suddenly, a bang, the father continues. Russul’s big brother adds: - It was like a red ball flying through the air. It landed on the ground and then it exploded. I felt something fall behind me. When I turned round I saw it was Russul.
Russul herself remembers nothing of what happened after they walked through the gate, but her mother does. - She was lying in a pool of blood. I thought she was dead. I threw myself on top of her and noticed that her heart was still beating. We tried to find a car, but it took ages. No one in our street has a car and at that time no one else was about, everyone feared the bombs. We shouldn’t have been out either, but we had only visited our relatives on the other side of the street and we thought it was safe. In the end we found a car which took Russul to the hospital. I still remember how the blood dripped on the ground as they carried her to the car.
Russul lies still, listening; it hurts when she moves. The shrapnel has gouged deep cuts in her body. Now and again low groans escape from her.
- Goodbye, nice to meet you, the ten-year-old says when we leave.
In the street where Russul and her family live is a hole. Some boys show us excitedly where the missile landed. Several of the doors along the street have marks caused by shrapnel, but only Russul was hit. The depression in the ground has a small, round mound in the middle, which might indicate that it was caused by an Iraqi anti-aircraft missile, not an American bomb. During the night’s bombing the Iraqi air defence tried, unsuccessfully, to shoot down American planes. What goes up must come down, and sometimes the Iraqi missiles land in residential areas and explode there. But even if the American bombs are more accurate and are primarily aimed at targets connected to Saddam Hussein’s regime, shrapnel could hit where people live. It travels several hundred metres.
Russul is one of the victims after the second night of bombing. At Yarmuk hospital, where she is a patient, they received 101 wounded following the previous night’s attack. These are civilian victims; the number of military casualties might be a lot higher. If soldiers are killed or wounded it is not disclosed.
- People are suffering from the same injuries as they did in the last Gulf War, Doctor Abid Hassan says resignedly. - Leg wounds, arms torn off, shrapnel wounds, crushed limbs, burns.
Yarmuk hospital was itself hit. The hospital director shows us several smashed windows. - But we won’t give up. We’ll hold out until Bush gives in. Or until he goes into exile - I mean Bush of course, the director says, followed by a short, rather forced laugh.
On a bed just beyond Russul a woman sits holding a boy in her arms. The boy has white bandages around his head and hands, and is wearing tattered pyjamas, the ones he was wearing when the attack started. The holes in the material are caused by shrapnel.
- He was playing with his sister, Duha says. - They were both hit, but his sister has already been discharged, she got a small cut behind the ear.
Ahmed has been unconscious since it happened. He is stiff in his aunt’s arms.
- We were all gathered in the sitting room, for supper. Just when we called the children in it began. They both fell down and we got them to hospital. That was fifteen hours ago.
Ahmed has not yet gained consciousness. At the back of his head shrapnel is pushing inwards.
While we are standing there the boy suddenly starts to move. Faint sounds emerge from his lips. He wriggles slightly. Duha bends down and whispers something into his ear. Then she puts her head close to his mouth. Is he saying something? The tears well up. - I want to go home. I want to go home, he says softly and opens his eyes.
- Where is my egg? he mumbles. Duha’s tears flow freely.
- He had just been given an egg when the wall opened up and he fell down. A boiled egg.
Turning towards Ahmed she promises him as many eggs as he could possibly wish for.
Loud screams and low moans issue forth from the room next door. Twelve-year-old Warda is the source of the noise. It has taken hours to rid her legs of shrapnel. Now the wounds must be cleaned; it stings and the little girl howls. She squirms and wriggles but the doctors hold her down. Tears of pain flow from her eyes.
Next to Warda is Hanan, her aunt. Her baby is due in one month. Her leg is shattered but she is denied painkillers as they might harm the foetus. She writhes in pain. Her eyes roll around, sweat and tears moisten her face, the flower-patterned nightdress is dripping wet. - So much pain, so much pain, she cries.
Her cries are drowned by a noisy crowd outside the room. A group of nurses and ancillary workers enter, fists clenched, screaming slogans for Saddam Hussein.
‘Saddam Hussein - your name is honour. Saddam Hussein, a finger of your hand is worth more than all the USA’, is the catch-phrase. The women start dancing around, stamping their feet and clapping their hands. The healthiest of the patients shake their fists and join in the chorus. Iraqi state radio is visiting. Someone thrusts out a microphone to catch the battle cry. He interviews people about the war, Saddam Hussein and the USA. The answers are identical, everyone knows what to say. Some patients look the other way when the broadcaster turns away from them.
They stare emptily at each other - the first victims of the war.
One day Amir bangs on my door. - I’ve got a scoop for you, he says excitedly. - An American pilot has been shot down. Right by my house.
- Blast. I never caught that on the news.
- It’s just happened, they don’t know about it yet. Do you want to come and talk to the guys who shot it down?
We might at least check it out, I think, and invite Remy and Pascal to join our expedition.
- Then you’ll get to meet my mother, Amir says, his spirits soaring further.
During his briefings the Minister of Information is constantly reporting downed American helicopters, rarely confirmed by the Americans. The farmer who shot down a helicopter with the aid of a rifle was elevated to national hero. The pictures of him and his neighbours performing a victory dance on the wreck were broadcast continuously. The old peasant was even decorated by Saddam Hussein. So why not something like that in Amir’s neighbourhood?
In the car we discuss the latest news from Hotel Palestine: CNN is leaving. CNN, always there whenever anything happens, has been thrown out because it failed to comply with press centre rules. In contrast with the rest of us they moved all equipment, all cameras, all telephones, all satellites, all personnel from the press centre to the hotel. This meant they could no longer transmit al-Sahhaf’s press conferences direct, and it made the minister angry. As a result he expelled the entire CNN team and has given them a few hours to pack and clear off.
Knowing that there was at least one American TV station in the hotel had provided us with a feeling of safety, albeit a small one. Now, bar Peter Arnett who works on contract for NBC, and a freelancer from ABC, no American TV networks remain.
- They knew they’d be thrown out if they evaded the minister’s orders. This gave them the opportunity to leave with their heads high - without being considered cowards, Pascal suggests.
Amir pulls up in front of his house. His mother is just as I had imagined, large and sunny. Amir shows us proudly round the house, which looks as though it has been cobbled together and patched up over generations. His mother serves coffee, strong as dynamite. His brother Sadik, who was present when the helicopter was brought down, looks like a younger version of Amir.
- It happened this morning, Sadik tells us. - We were by the school, discussing where the night’s bombing had struck. Suddenly we heard a shot and saw a helicopter descend. The pilot ejected and landed on the school roof. I was right there, doing the rounds as security guard. From the roof he opened fire in all directions until he realised he was surrounded. Then he threw his weapon down, put his hands on the back of his neck and went down on his knees. The police handcuffed him and took him away.
The youngster looks remarkably calm despite having witnessed such drama - as though catching American pilots was a daily occurrence.
- Could you see the pilot?
- Oh yes, I was standing right there.
- What did he look like?
- His skin was white, no moustache or beard. He was wearing a helmet, and in a pocket on his thigh was a map. He was wearing pilots’ fatigues with a long zip in front. On one shoulder was the American flag. He looked petrified. He trembled from side to side, like this, Sadik demonstrates.
A good description of an American soldier, but maybe no more than could be expected from having seen
Top Gun
.
Top Gun
.
- Can we go and have a look? I ask.
Sadik hesitates. - I don’t think so. It’s sure to be cordoned off.
- But surely we can get a bit closer. There must be masses of bullet holes there if he was shooting wildly. Is the wreck still there?
- Oh no, they took that away immediately. Anyway, it crashed many kilometres away.
Sadik is a member of the Baath Party. One of their tasks is to raise morale by making people believe that Iraq will win. As there are few triumphs to celebrate, a downed helicopter or a captured soldier is presented as an awesome heroic deed. The TV channels show old clips from military parades and footage of soldiers in training jumping over blazing tanks, practising karate or sprinting up steep mountain sides, as if taking part in a training camp for James Bond stunt men.
- Iraq will win, says the eighteen-year-old. - We will cut off the enemy’s hand.
Sadik then reiterates how important it is that we write about the grounded pilot in our papers.
- We cannot write anything unless we see the place for ourselves, we object.
- Not possible, says the young Baathist.
As we leave the house, Amir whispers that he will take us to the school. If we are stopped, however, we must not say why we are there, just that we are on our way home. OK?
Having arrived at al-Kindi school there is no sign of the morning’s drama. We ask Amir to stop. He refuses. His big body starts to shake. That’s when we see the militia guarding the building. They are carrying weapons and watching us.
- Let’s stop and ask, I say, but Amir drives on, staring fixedly ahead. Away from the school, away from the neighbourhood. It was as if he had caught sight of the devil. Amir flaps at the smallest thing. Now he is convinced he will be arrested as a spy if we stop and ask about the American pilot. News about the incident has not yet been released. His brother might be accused of informing the enemy, and he for playing into enemy hands. We sit in silence. No story from the school.
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