A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal (2 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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- Can you imagine. I don’t have a Bible, she mutters, apologetic, surprised. - I don’t have a Bible.
But Jorunn can relate that Abraham lived here, in Mesopotamia.
Now the Lord had said unto Abraham, Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father’s house, unto a land that I will show thee: And I will make of thee a great nation, and I will bless thee, and make thy name great; and thou shalt be a blessing.
Bård was the one who got me into Iraq.
- Ali will fix it, he said when I phoned him around Christmas. The country was more or less closed to the press; colleagues of mine had waited for months to gain entry. The piles of applications from news-starved journalists grew at Iraqi embassies around the world. The majority were thrown in the waste paper basket; only a few were stamped with the seal which would open the gates to Saddam Hussein’s kingdom. Through Bård’s excellent contacts in the Red Crescent and with the help of the local Norwegian Church Aid secretary Ali, my entry visa was granted in no time at all. On one of the coldest days after New Year we flew to Jordan.
At the Iraqi Embassy in Amman I promised to register with the Ministry of Information immediately upon arrival in Baghdad. But today is Friday.
- Everything is closed, Ali assures me. You can go tomorrow.
It will be my last day of freedom. Jorunn and I want to sightsee. Bård goes to renew his membership of Baghdad Tennis Club. He is of the opinion that some of the frustration caused by Iraq’s stifling bureaucracy wears off on the court.
Jorunn, Ali and I set off for the book market, the Friday market. We leave the banks of the Tigris and join the traffic jam. Cars cough and splutter, stop and start. Like the others, our car is also patched, glued and revamped. United Nations sanctions have resulted in a lack of spare parts, leading to numerous cars breaking down in the traffic lanes and being towed or pushed to one side. Now and again we catch a glimpse of black, highly polished Japanese or German bodywork, the vehicles of the elite. Among the wrecks they look like sleek monsters. Never have I seen such a selection of American cars in worse condition; worn out Cadillacs, dented Buicks and lustreless Chevrolets. Many of them arrived as booty from Kuwait. Allegedly, few cars were left standing in the smarter areas of Kuwait after the Iraqi army withdrew and went home in February 1991.
The city where so many of the stories from the
Thousand and One Nights
are set is like any other large Middle Eastern city - noisy, pounding and fume-filled. When the stories of ‘Sinbad the Sailor’ and ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves’ were written, Baghdad was surrounded by a high wall. The historical figure mentioned several times in the collection is the Caliph of all Islam, Harun al-Rashid, often portrayed in disguise, wandering around town to discover for himself what is going on:
He felt restless, he could not sleep, his chest was tight
.
Thousand and One Nights
are set is like any other large Middle Eastern city - noisy, pounding and fume-filled. When the stories of ‘Sinbad the Sailor’ and ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves’ were written, Baghdad was surrounded by a high wall. The historical figure mentioned several times in the collection is the Caliph of all Islam, Harun al-Rashid, often portrayed in disguise, wandering around town to discover for himself what is going on:
He felt restless, he could not sleep, his chest was tight
.
Harun is said to have turned the city into a centre of culture around AD 800 and was celebrated for giving fabulous presents to poets, painters, sculptors and scientists who created something he liked. He, and later his successors, put one day aside each week for religious and intellectual discussions, and many great literary works were translated into Arabic. Baghdad was the capital of an empire which stretched from North Africa nearly all the way to India.
Internal strife drained the Empire. The headquarters of the Muslim world moved to Cairo. Turkish warlords invaded Baghdad, followed by Mongols. Hundreds and thousands of inhabitants were slaughtered. The gardens were not watered, the palaces were plundered, works of art were smashed and books burnt.
The last occupiers were the British. They conquered the town from the Ottoman Empire in 1917. The colony’s rulers staked out the borders, gave the country the name Iraq and installed a pro-British king, who declared the country independent in 1932.
Little of old Baghdad remains. The rulers who took over after the British were preoccupied with modernisation. The result was that many of the alleyways and old parts of the town disappeared for good. Modern Iraqi governments might appear and disappear in an endless stream of revolutions and coups, but the renewal of the city has marched on indefatigably. Nearly all the buildings date from the twentieth century. Fabulous, mysterious palaces in narrow back alleys have become multi-storey brown, yellow or grey brick houses. Blocks of flats remind one of Soviet-style asphalt jungles, only smaller. The alleyways have been straightened and are now wide avenues. Trees have been planted around palaces and administration buildings; otherwise the roads are flanked by bumpy and, on the whole, crowded pavements.
In spite of the crowds there is no rush. No one is hurrying this Friday morning, some walk around leisurely, others pull heavy carts or drag huge sacks, swaying under the weight of their load. Shops and cafés open on to the pavements and appear relaxed and inviting. On the surface one does not notice the dark cloud of dread that is about to descend.
If the old spirit of Baghdad is still alive, it must be in the bazaars. But even they are sad reminders of the town’s lost influence and intellectual strength.
The book market is little more than an accidental collection of books, displayed around a network of narrow passages in one of the town’s old quarters. What was once a decadent and busy quarter is now a cluster of dilapidated houses. Past glories can only be guessed at. The books are lined up in rows, on the ground or on small carpets and tables. No one hawks their wares, rather the vendors look uneasy, surveying a collection they would prefer had remained on the shelves at home, but which decades of war have forced them to sell. Old Arab classics, the collected works of Sartre, Saddam’s speeches in French, German and English. I am offered a glass of sweet tea and buy
Arabian Nights
and
By Desert Ways to Baghdad.
On the ground, in the dust, I find Gertrude Bell’s
Arabian Diary.
I have promised Ali not to talk to anyone, at least to say nothing ‘that can be misinterpreted’. He is my guardian today - until I am embraced by the lawful clutches of the Ministry of Information.
Arabian Nights
and
By Desert Ways to Baghdad.
On the ground, in the dust, I find Gertrude Bell’s
Arabian Diary.
I have promised Ali not to talk to anyone, at least to say nothing ‘that can be misinterpreted’. He is my guardian today - until I am embraced by the lawful clutches of the Ministry of Information.
- You have not registered yet, you are virtually illegal, so better not get into any trouble, he explains. So I only ask about the books lying in the dust. And no one can stop me from looking at people.
The market empties of customers. It is lunch time. Ali takes us to a restaurant which lies in a garden of flowers and palm trees. Fish swim around in a pond. We pick the fattest one. The fish sparkles in the afternoon sun, a last round of the pond, a net, a blow and the cook is ready to clean, fillet, season and grill. While we follow the knife’s rapid movements, salad, hummus, grilled aubergine, white cheese and chunks of bread, straight from the oven, are brought to the table. We eat with our fingers, dipping the bread in the dishes.
The conversation is stilted. It is difficult to talk with Ali. Or maybe he finds it difficult to talk with us.
There is plenty of room in the restaurant. A nearby family wolfs down starters and fish at a furious rate. In a corner two men loll about, replete. A group of big guys in leather jackets, each carrying a walkie-talkie, throw themselves like hungry bears over their meal. Mobile phones don’t exist, satellite telephones are forbidden, but collaborators, the important ones, are evidently furnished with walkie-talkies.
I go out to watch the cook. He pours oil and marinade over the fish, chops some chillies and grills some more. Ali follows me, to make sure I’m behaving.
The feeling of anticipation stays with me all day. It is like being poised at the start of a maze; the answer is hidden and there is a mess of routes to choose from.
No one can reach me, the mobile phone won’t work, no one knows me. Chores not done before departure will remain undone, post will remain unopened, messages will remain unanswered. The restlessness from home lets go its grip.
Back in room 707, according to the receptionist the best he has, I unpack my hoard of books and lay them out on the ochre bedspread. Like a serene island between the bathroom, where the cockroaches scurry over the broken tiles, and the evening rush-hour outside, my bed occupies the major part of the room. The noise is even shriller than in the morning. But I don’t close the door to the balcony. I want the curtains to flap in the desert wind.
My eyes alight upon
Arabian Diary
and I am sent whirling into Gertrude Bell’s fantastic world. Early in the last century she travelled alone with smugglers and bandits in the desert right outside my window. She was called the mightiest woman in the British Empire and was the adviser to kings and prime ministers. Gertrude Bell was the only woman Winston Churchill invited to the Cairo Conference in 1921 - the conference that was to decide the future of Mesopotamia. She was also one of the few among Middle Eastern travellers who described the life of women.
Arabian Diary
and I am sent whirling into Gertrude Bell’s fantastic world. Early in the last century she travelled alone with smugglers and bandits in the desert right outside my window. She was called the mightiest woman in the British Empire and was the adviser to kings and prime ministers. Gertrude Bell was the only woman Winston Churchill invited to the Cairo Conference in 1921 - the conference that was to decide the future of Mesopotamia. She was also one of the few among Middle Eastern travellers who described the life of women.
There they were, those women - wrapped in Indian brocades, hung with jewels, served by slaves, and there was not one single thing about them which betrayed the base of existence of Europe or Europeans - except me! I was the blot. Some of the women of the shaikhly house were very beautiful. They pass from hand to hand - the victor takes them, with her power and the glory, and think of it, his hands are red with blood of their husbands and children
, she writes from the Hayyil Harem on 6 March 1914. The eunuch Said has just informed her that she is a prisoner and cannot leave. She is allocated a tiny house in the harem where she waits before being released.
I sat in a garden house on carpets - like all the drawings in Persian picture books. Slaves and eunuchs served us with tea and coffee and fruits. Then we walked about the garden, the boys carefully telling me the names of all the trees. And then we sat again and drank more tea and coffee. It gets on your nerves when you sit day after day between high mud walls and thank heaven that my nerves are not very responsive. They have kept me awake only one night out of seven.
, she writes from the Hayyil Harem on 6 March 1914. The eunuch Said has just informed her that she is a prisoner and cannot leave. She is allocated a tiny house in the harem where she waits before being released.
I sat in a garden house on carpets - like all the drawings in Persian picture books. Slaves and eunuchs served us with tea and coffee and fruits. Then we walked about the garden, the boys carefully telling me the names of all the trees. And then we sat again and drank more tea and coffee. It gets on your nerves when you sit day after day between high mud walls and thank heaven that my nerves are not very responsive. They have kept me awake only one night out of seven.
After a long wait she is at last set free, by order of the emir.
My camels came in, and after dark Said with a bag of gold and full permission to go where I liked and when I liked. Why they have now given way, or why they did not give way before, I cannot guess. But anyhow, I am free and my heart is at rest - it is widened.
My camels came in, and after dark Said with a bag of gold and full permission to go where I liked and when I liked. Why they have now given way, or why they did not give way before, I cannot guess. But anyhow, I am free and my heart is at rest - it is widened.
Someone knocks on the door. Said, the eunuch with tea and exotic fruits?
A man stands outside with a yellow towel in his hand. He says something in Arabic and passes me the towel. Then he walks past me into the room. I follow. He shows me where the soap is, what the toothbrush mug is for, how the drawers are pulled out, the curtains closed and the door to the terrace shut. I smile and thank him. The man remains on the spot. I find some newly changed notes. He thanks me and leaves. A few minutes later there is another knock on the door. This time he is carrying a loo roll. I give him a few more notes. He smiles and nods and disappears down the corridor. Thus evolves our way of socialising. As soon as I return to my room I know what will happen. ‘Said’ will turn up with something or other - a towel, a piece of soap, an extra blanket. Nothing is replenished while I’m out, but on my return there is a knock on the door.
What did I tell you as to the quality most needed for travel among the Arabs?
Gertrude Bell writes
. Patience, if you remember, that is what one needs.
Gertrude Bell writes
. Patience, if you remember, that is what one needs.
Darkness descends on Baghdad. The sun disappears behind the Presidential palace on the opposite side of the river, Saddam Hussein’s most splendid palace, built to celebrate what the Iraqi’s call ‘The Victory in the Gulf’. The floodlit building gleams and shines among palms and gardens. It will stand peacefully for another few months.
- Why did you not come yesterday? What did you do yesterday? The man behind the desk thunders. - Who do you think you are?
I try to explain that it was Friday and all public offices were closed.
- We are never closed, our business hours are from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. every day, and even outside those hours we still track you. If you want to stay you’ll have to toe the line. There’s a plane departing every day.
The man introduces himself as Mohsen. Later I am told that he is number three at the press centre.
Mohsen is so short that his legs dangle in the air behind the desk. Like many other middle-aged men in Baghdad his hair and eyebrows are tinted jet-black. In spite of his words, his face is friendly and he has beautiful brown eyes. He appears to be laughing behind the serious facade, as though he were giggling his way through the compulsory interrogation.
I tell him how I spent the previous day and fill in endless forms, so painstakingly thorough that the stout bureaucrat softens somewhat and seems to forgive my stolen day of freedom. He summons Engineer Walid, a stick of a man, who opens my satellite telephone. It had been sealed at the border. - Anyone seen taking a phone out of this building will be arrested for espionage, Mohsen grumbles.
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