Escape from Saddam (3 page)

I looked apologetically into the eyes of my victim and punched him more forcefully. His eyes bulged as he struggled to breathe. “Harder!” the
arif
shouted again. He grabbed a thick cane and hit me hard across the back of my legs.

I found myself shaking as I prepared to deliver another blow; my deep breath trembled in my lungs. Suddenly I heard scuffling behind me. I turned around in time to see one of my colleagues hurl himself at the chair, knocking the victim sideways to the ground. His head cracked as it hit the floor and he cried out; almost simultaneously my associate started to kick him violently in the stomach and the genitals, screaming as though he himself were being attacked. Each time the victim tried to say anything, he received another sharp blow that knocked the power of speech from him. After a minute and a half of severe beatings, the attacker stopped for breath. The victim took advantage of the pause to whimper, “North. My regiment is headed north.”

Suddenly the two
arifs
were on their feet. Still carrying their clipboards, they placed themselves in front of the chair. “You,” one of them pointed at the attacker who stood shaking with suppressed rage, “good.” He looked down at the victim. He was still lying on his side, his hands were still bound, his tears of pain and humiliation fell directly to the floor, and the chair clattered against the ground as his body occasionally convulsed. “The rest of you
niswan
[women]—unimpressive. I hope you will act in a manner more befitting your uniform at our next session.” He looked directly at me. “Untie him.”

I bent down and fumbled at the knot, managing finally to loosen it and free the battered body of my fellow soldier. Slowly he stood up. As he did so, he gave me a look of absolute venom, and without waiting to be dismissed by the
arif,
he stumbled from the room.

I was totally shocked by what had just happened: not so much by the fact that we were expected to do this to our fellow soldiers—when random brutality becomes the norm, you start to accept it almost without thinking—but rather by the effect the situation had had on my colleague who had gone on the attack with fire in his eyes. When I saw him around the base over the next few days, he walked with his head held high, and his arrogant bearing seemed to suggest that his actions had bolstered his own opinion of himself. I saw our victim too, although I tried to avoid him. He refused to speak to me, but every time we met, his eyes seemed to say “Just wait.”

My time was to come quicker than I thought. A couple of weeks later, the four of us were called to the interrogation room once more. On this second occasion, the
arif
directed me to the chair. The rough rope dug into my skin as he tied my hands tightly; if I tried to move my wrists, they burned even more.

“This prisoner has recently been caught. He was wearing a white T-shirt under his coat with a picture of Saddam Hussein. He claims to be a civilian, but we know that he is a member of military intelligence. You need to make him admit this.”

Sometimes the threat of violence is more terrifying than the violence itself. The air was tense with what was to come; even the
arif
sensed it. “When you undergo interrogation or torture at the hands of the enemy,” he told me quietly, “you must think of your family and your country. Remember, the pain will be transitory, but Iraq and her glorious armies will live forever. They will soon come and rescue you in repayment for your loyalty and your silence.”

There was eagerness in the eyes of the soldier who had performed the terrible beating during our last session—he had clearly developed a taste for this part of our education—and in the eyes of the victim whose attack I had been forced to precipitate. As the latter man stood before me, waiting for the
arif’
s permission to start the questioning, he smirked vaguely. My body went weak with dread. Involuntarily I shook my head as I looked up at my two inquisitors, and those few moments seemed to last an age.

There were no shouts this time, neither from me nor from my attackers: they went about their business in ruthless silence. Having already witnessed one of these beatings, I was vaguely prepared for what was in store, so when my chair was pushed over onto its side, I had the foresight to tilt my head so that it did not slap against the ground. Nevertheless, my right arm was crushed between the back of the metal chair and the concrete floor. I tried to shuffle the weight away from my bruised arm, but before I could even move I felt the first kick to my ribs. The force of the strike seemed to thud through my whole body, and I barely had time to let out an involuntary grunt before I felt a blow to my genitals that sent a shriek of pain down my legs. Who did what in the melee that followed, I have no idea. I vaguely remembered trying to shout out the information that they wanted, but the blows were incessant and utterly debilitating. After a while I stopped feeling the pain—my body became numb as the kicks and punches merged into one brutal cocktail.

The last thing I remember seeing was the face of the
arif,
looking on approvingly. Then I blacked out.

CHAPTER
2

THE SHADOW OF A TYRANT

I
n December of 1982—ten years before I was drafted into the Iraqi army—I had been taken as a child to England. My father had a government scholarship to study in England for a Ph.D., and my parents, my brother and sister, and I were to go with him. He attended the University of Manchester, so we lived around the Manchester area—Fallowfield and Moss Side—where my father became deeply involved in the Middle Eastern community centered around the local mosque. My mother, however, pined for Baghdad and the family that she had left behind. Her reluctance to throw herself into the increasingly religion-oriented world my father was making for himself led to terrible tensions between them, and our little family unit, so far from home, became volatile. Eventually my parents’ relationship failed, and my mother, along with my brother and sister, returned to Iraq. My relationship with my father, even as a young boy, was not good; but I loved England, where I spent five of my formative years, so I was pleased to remain.

By 1987, the Iran-Iraq war was coming to an end. It had been devastating for both countries. It cost more than $250 billion in total damages and, thanks to the fact that both armies had launched massive air strikes against each other’s oil infrastructures, the economies of these two once-wealthy nations were damaged almost beyond recognition. But the human cost of the war was more shocking than any economic effects. More than 1.5 million people lost their lives, decimated by forms of warfare that horrified the civilized world. Chemical and biological weapons killed and mutilated soldiers and civilians on both sides. Almost every family had someone involved; practically no one remained untouched by the horrors of that conflict.

Saddam was faced with an unforeseen social and economic quandary: so many men had lost their lives in the war that Iraq suddenly found itself with a surfeit of widowed women. Their lives destroyed, and most having no means of supporting themselves after the deaths of their husbands, they became an intolerable burden on the already damaged economy. The government had to decide what to do with these burdensome widows who had no means of support other than welfare incentives.

Saddam’s answer was novel: he decided to sell them off. Iraqi men were offered 10,000 Iraqi dinars—at the time about $33,000—to marry a war widow and thus shoulder the economic burden that the women presented to the government.

Word of this tempting offer reached my father’s ears in England via his brother. Unbeknownst to me, a widow was found for my father, and he traveled back to Iraq to meet her, with me in tow. Ostensibly the trip was for a holiday; I had no idea at the time that I was returning to Baghdad for good. But my father’s plans with his new wife back in England did not include me, and without warning I was left with my mother and her family in the middle of Baghdad. I was twelve years old, and the culture shock was massive.

My young friends in the West were cajoled into good behavior by threats of an imaginary bogeyman. In Iraq, there was no need for invented horrors.

I was not yet a teenager and had been back in Iraq only a couple of months when, one day in 1988, I saw a cavalcade of black Mercedes with blacked-out windows sweep up the length of Al-Mansour Street. They had no license plates. Iraqis from all walks of life turned to stare, but not too hard: none of the spectators wanted to draw attention to themselves, especially not knowing whom these official cars were carrying. My friend Hakim and I, perhaps emboldened by our youth, stared more intently than the other pedestrians as the sleek, expensive vehicles pulled up, not outside one of the fashionable shops lining this desirable road in Baghdad, but in front of a fast-food restaurant. The restaurant’s sign—a familiar golden M—gave an impression of the West, even if it was not McDonald’s.

After school that day, Hakim and I had met at the beginning of 14th Ramadan Street, by Souk Al-Ghazi. Shopkeepers stood guard as passersby examined their goods: watermelons, baklava, fabric for
dishdash
—the same wares that could be found at any number of similar places across the Middle East, and items that were of no interest to my thirteen-year-old mind. The few coins in the pocket of my prized black jeans would be spent on something far more precious: Coca-Cola.

Chatting happily, we turned onto 14th Ramadan Street and entered a run-down kebab shop. Its rusting, corrugated-iron roof protected the owner from the fierce rays of the afternoon sun, but the large shop windows—plastered in garish Arabic letters—along with the grills that burned all day long and the chatter of people constantly congregated there meant that it was at least as hot inside as out. I caught the eye of the shopkeeper and he smiled. “Sarmed, my young friend,” he called. “Falafel?”

“And a bottle of Coca-Cola,” I nodded. “Put it on my tab,” I added nonchalantly.

The owner raised his hand dramatically as we continued our little play, which we performed several times every week. “Are you trying to put me out of business?” he shouted in mock indignation. “The falafel I’ll put on your tab. But you pay me next week—otherwise I shall be having words with my friends at Abu Ghraib.” He winked at me. “The Coca-Cola, you pay for now.”

I handed him a coin and watched him fill a piece of flat bread with a generous helping of falafel and the fiery sauce of which I was fond. Then he turned to the fridge behind the counter and removed an icy bottle with the famous logo written in red Arabic letters along its length. He turned to Hakim. “And for you, sir?”

Carrying our treats, we started to walk the length of 14th Ramadan Street, holding our bottles like status symbols, smiling at any girls who passed, and talking animatedly. As we walked, the shops became gradually more sophisticated, catering to the expensive tastes of the rich families who lived in the vicinity of nearby Princess Street. Computer shops, clothes shops, antiques shops: it would be another couple of years until the sanctions against Iraq made these small but expensive luxuries a thing of the past and the Coca-Cola that was one of the few remaining links I had with the West disappeared for good, to be replaced by a poor fizzy approximation made from dates.

When that happened, though, the lack of Coca-Cola became the least of our worries. During the first Gulf War, the water tanks were bombed, and water itself became scarce. Families had to make do with what they needed merely to survive. Hair-washing, for example, became a thing of the past. After a few months, however, children began to develop head lice. Gasoline was considerably cheaper than water—you could fill up your car for the equivalent of less than a few American cents—so gasoline was used to kill the head lice. Scrupulous mothers then used rough washing powder to remove the gas from their children’s hair. You could always tell who had received this type of shampoo—the strange cocktail flecked people’s hair with a ruddy orange color when they went out into the sun.

For now, though, I could pretend: pretend that I lived a life that at least bore some small resemblance to the life I had enjoyed in England; pretend that hanging around the stalls where unscrupulous merchants made a living pirating cassettes of Western music to order was a good alternative to being able to turn on the radio at will and listen to Michael Jackson; pretend that I was not living in a country where, at every turn, I was told by a domineering regime what to do, what to say, and what to think.

Hakim and I did not expect that afternoon to be different from any other. Perhaps we would wander down Al-Mansour Street and I would visit the animals in the pet shops I loved so much, only to be chased out by the shopkeepers when they saw me: they knew that I seldom had any money to buy anything. Perhaps we would loiter around one of the pirate cassette shops hoping to hear some Western music. Occasionally I had enough money to buy a cassette, but not today.

If Hakim and I found ourselves in a residential area, we might watch men at the front of their houses cajoling their roosters to fight. Perhaps we would see a young woman being followed by a potential suitor. For a young man to approach a woman in the street would have been most unseemly—such was not the Arab way—but if his intentions were to be encouraged, the girl would nonchalantly drop to the ground a scrap of paper with her phone number scrawled on it. If the relationship thrived across the telephone wires, perhaps they might be permitted to meet in person. And if the sun was setting, we might see young Iraqi women sprinkling water on the front driveways—to cool down the house, certainly, but also to make sure that they were on show, ready to attract the attention of any young men who were passing.

On this particular day we happened to be outside
Al Multakaa
—The Meeting, Baghdad’s answer to McDonald’s—when three black Mercedes stopped. The traffic slowed as the cars blocked an entire lane. The rear doors opened, and four men wearing the distinctive uniform of the Special Republican Guard and carrying AK-47s swiftly alighted and surrounded the front car. A fifth guard entered the fast-food restaurant and quickly came back carrying a milkshake. As the front passenger door of the first car opened, Hakim tugged on my sleeve. “L…Sarmed,” he said conspiratorially with his characteristic stutter. “It’s U…U…Uday.”

I looked closely. The man in the front seat, perhaps in his late twenties, was tall and wore a close-cropped beard. His short hair shone and appeared expensively groomed. He wore a black suit with an open collar and sat with one foot inside the car and the other on the pavement. In his right hand he held a large cigar, in his left the milkshake that he had just been given. He surveyed the street with an arrogant look, clearly aware that people shuffling by were avoiding his gaze. Hakim was right: it was Uday Hussein, Saddam’s son.

Uday’s reputation was fearsome. He was known throughout Baghdad for his almost psychopathic contempt for ordinary Iraqis, and stories about his terrible deeds abounded. As a fifteen-year-old he had taken part in a massacre of cabinet ministers who opposed his father. It was rumored that he sometimes killed the girls who were brought to the presidential palace to entertain him. On one occasion he shot a civilian in the street, with no provocation and in full view of many witnesses. Nobody intervened or complained—doing so would have given Saddam’s henchmen carte blanche to execute them on the spot—but word of the shootings soon spread and Saddam was forced to take action. It was announced that a punishment would be imposed upon Uday: he was to be exiled from his beloved Iraq for a period of two months. Nobody was fooled, however: this was in the days when the Hussein family could travel freely in the West, and Uday’s “punishment” was little more than a vacation in the casinos of Geneva.

Back in Iraq, Uday took charge of the Iraqi soccer team, and under his supervision players were routinely beaten and tortured if they played poorly. His diversions became increasingly extreme. He kept lions as pets. Zoological experts later said that it seemed probable these lions were fed human meat and sometimes killed and ate human beings. Saddam’s son was breeding man-eaters for his own amusement.

Several meters away, Hakim and I stood staring for some moments, caught between apprehension and the excitement of seeing a famous—if notorious—face. Suddenly Uday’s eyes met mine and, unsmilingly, he held my gaze. Whether through fear or not I can’t say, but as I stood only a few meters away from one of the most dangerous men in Baghdad, my Coca-Cola bottle slipped from my fingers and smashed on the ground. I looked down to see the black liquid foaming over my shoes; when I looked up again, Uday had raised his hand and was gesturing at me and Hakim to approach him.

Slowly we walked up to the Mercedes. The pungent smell of the cigar was not strong enough to mask the sickly sweet aroma of the strawberry milkshake. A solid-silver Colt handgun with a glass handle rested on Uday’s lap. He had a satisfied air, but who knows what twisted desires he had recently satiated.

“Why did you throw that bottle?” Uday asked, the quiet of his voice barely concealing its menace. He had a lisp, but Hakim and I were in no mood to mock.

“I didn’t,” I replied honestly. “I dropped it.”

Uday dragged on his cigar, shrouding himself in smoke. The hubbub of the busy street seemed to disappear into the background as he eyed me, cobra-like. “Where do you live?”

“At the bottom of Princess Street,” I lied.

“Really?” He looked unconvinced, and with good reason. I did not have the bearing of a well-to-do Iraqi, but even in this situation I was ashamed to admit that we lived in a poor house. Why I felt I could lie to this man, I cannot say—it was probably the recklessness, or stupidity, of youth. “What is your name?” he continued.

“Sarmed.”

“Sarmed what?” he intoned wearily.

“Sarmed Alsamari.”

“Alsamari?” His interest had been caught. The Alsamari tribe had a long-standing feud with the Hussein tribe, which dated back years before Saddam’s coming to power. The dispute was over something fairly insignificant—the ownership of a stretch of the Tigris River, which divided their two villages; but old enmities run deep, and Uday was the sort of person who would use any pretext to spark his particular brand of unpleasantness. “From Samarra?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“But you live in Baghdad?” He continued his interrogation.

“With my grandparents. They are from Baghdad.”

He stretched out in the front seat of the car, making himself more comfortable. He was clearly enjoying himself. “And what is your father’s name?”

“Saadoon Alsamari.”

“Where is he?”

“In London.”

“What is he doing there?”

“Studying for a Ph.D.”

Uday nodded his head slowly. “And is he there thanks to the government?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

“Good.” Suddenly Uday looked over my shoulder. I turned and saw that he was staring at a passerby who had dared to take an interest in our conversation. Knowing what was good for him, the passerby hurried on under the threatening heat of Uday’s glare. Then he turned his attention back to me. “How old are you?” he asked.