A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal (22 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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- Yes, there might be shrapnel from the windows. Have you taped them?
 
- I couldn’t lay my hands on any, I say, whereupon Josh orders me up to the sixteenth floor to fetch some.
 
First I must finish the report, and I view the fragile windows nervously and stay as far away as possible from the glass while I talk about the latest developments. Afterwards I run up nine flights of stairs and Josh hands me the roll and rushes back to the phone. I criss-cross the windows and the door to the balcony with tape until I can hardly see out of them. A colleague who comes visiting later tells me to take half of it off. - It’s too much, now you risk the whole window rushing in on you in one piece and exploding in the room, he says.
 
I laboriously pick off half the tape and the beautiful view of the Tigris returns.
 
- Always keep the balcony door open. That’s the best guarantee that it won’t get blown in by the air pressure, he says before leaving.
 
I remember what Josh said about wearing the flak jacket. I try it on, but quickly take it off and lay it by the bed together with the helmet, the gasmask, the torch and my shoes. The evening and the night remain dark and quiet.
 
 
At four in the morning Bush’s ultimatum expires. At five-thirty the first bang is heard. I am wide awake, my heart thumping. I sneak out onto the balcony, first crouching in case of missiles, then standing up. Powerful impacts, aircraft noise and vigorous shooting from Iraqi anti-aircraft missiles can be heard. From the balconies above I hear a Babelesque confusion of voices - Spanish, Arabic, English, French. We all stand staring out into the half-light and see the dim outline of the Presidential palace on the opposite side of the Tigris. Even the river appears dark and ominous. While the attacks are going on somewhere on the outskirts of Baghdad, we start to work. The telephones ring. Muffled voices report. It is forbidden to use the telephones in the rooms and I set up the satellite antenna as discreetly as possible. No one screams, no one shouts: ‘The war has started!’ Everyone murmurs quietly into their receivers. It feels almost soothing, the constant buzzing of voices between the explosions. It is also reassuring to know that the phones work, that no e-bomb has landed.
 
We have been told that the Americans have developed a bomb which destroys electronic equipment, including Iraqi defence systems, without human life being lost. The weapon works like a pent-up lightning strike. In the twinkling of an eye two billion watts would be let loose. The electric shock would reach deep into bunkers via ventilation ducts, water pipes and aerials. Circuit boards, chips, telephones and hard-disks would be destroyed. I had asked Amir to buy me a large lead case; that would apparently protect against the rays. There I would keep my equipment when it was not in use. Amir returned with an aluminium case, and I persuaded myself that it would serve the same purpose. In any case, the telephone still works and is ringing non-stop.
 
The minders outside the hotel turn their heads upwards. First towards the explosions, then towards us. It is not possible to completely hide the satellite antenna. I fear there will be a knock on my door and they will come and take the telephone away. What to do then? But I have to take the risk, for why am I here if not to report?
 
While I am connected to Marienlyst, NRK’s headquarters, I peer nervously down on the guards who are walking around with Kalashnikovs and pistols, before turning to focus on the horizon and describe what I see.
 
- Have you any information as to whether Saddam Hussein might have been killed, the radio host asks. How the hell would I know? I think. But choose to say: So far we have no information as to whether the Iraqi president has been hit in the attack.
 
 
- How could they start the attack during the hour of prayer.
 
Aliya is incensed. She had just woken up when the first explosions were heard and the anti-aircraft missiles flashed in the sky. She bundled up her rug and went down to the cellar. Her house, in one of Baghdad’s most densely populated areas, was full to bursting point. Relatives, who lived close to obvious targets like ministries, military buildings and communications centres, had moved in with her family.
 
- We don’t think they’ll bomb residential areas, so now we’re living on carpets and mattresses all over the floor. Anyhow, we like to keep together when something threatens, Aliya reports on the phone. She tries to keep her spirits up and hopes no civilians lost their lives in the attack, which was directed at a suburb to the south of the town.
 
- However smart these bombs are they can go wrong. We’re just waiting, as if tasting life and death one after the other.
 
Aliya is in no way gripped by panic.
 
- I fell asleep after the attack. This was nothing. The explosions were never so loud that we could not hear the neighbourhood dogs bay like crazy at the sky, she says and laughs a touch.
 
- When do you need me?
 
- Come as quick as you can.
 
While I wait I write a hasty report for
Aftenposten
’s afternoon edition.
 
In reception the guards are sitting down, chain smoking, as if nothing has happened. The breakfast room is seething. The waiters pour out mugs of steaming hot tea. The hard-boiled eggs share tin plates with greasy scrambled eggs. The bread is dry, as usual, the tomatoes watery, the olives too salty. In other words, it’s business as usual.
 
When the danger-over siren sounds over Baghdad, the streets fill up quickly. A few cars pass by, followed by ambulances. But there is no information about what has happened. Iraqi TV and radio plays military music and songs of homage to Saddam Hussein. Late in the morning the president appears on TV and thus the world knows that the Americans missed.
 
The morning’s bombing raid was aimed directly at him. American intelligence had been tipped off that the president and his closest cronies were in a building in the southern outskirts of Baghdad. Missiles reduced the place to smithereens. Triumphant, Saddam opens his speech in the same indignant manner as Aliya: The Americans initiated the attack during the hours of prayer. In addition he encourages everyone to fight against ‘Little Bush’, as he calls George Bush Junior. He concludes the speech by reciting classical Arab poetry; fighting horsemen, sword in hand.
 
Aliya is hardly fighting fit when she turns up. - It is not the bombs that I fear the most, but what might evolve afterwards. Civil war. If chaos follows and there is a power vacuum someone might take advantage of the situation and avenge themselves on the regime. Shias might attack Sunnis, and the bandits will do as they like.
 
This is the first time Aliya has expressed any doubts about Iraq’s ability to defend itself and control its population. The mere mention of the possibility of civil war is forbidden. Happiness and harmony is the distinguishing feature of the relationship between the various ethnic groups. When I ask more she stays quiet. She coughs and looks away. As if to emphasise that the conversation is over she starts to tell me what has been broadcast on the news.
 
- The Minister of the Interior has called on people to open their shops. To demonstrate that we are unbeatable, that we can withstand even extreme challenges, Aliya trots out. - Are you afraid? she suddenly asks. - You mustn’t be afraid. Whatever happens, I am here with you. I’ll look after you.
 
Aliya grabs my hand. - You are my sister. If anyone attacks you I will protect you with my body. We can hide in my house if it gets dangerous. And anyhow, our destiny is in God’s hands. Everything will happen according to His will. You are my fair sister and I am your dark one. Shakra and Samra. The fair and the dark. OK? We’ll look after each other. Won’t we?
 
- Like sisters, I say.
 
- Like sisters, Aliya repeats.
 
 
Having drunk several glasses of tea and forged the chains of sisterhood, we seek permission to inspect the damage from the night’s bombing. That is denied us so instead we go for a stroll round the centre of town.
 
In spite of the minister’s appeal, nine out of ten shops are closed. It seems that people fear that the next attack might come at any moment, particularly as the Americans did not even respect the hour of prayer. Only a few people scuttle along the pavements by the river. In Abu Nuwas Street a handful of cigarette vendors’ stalls are open. The greater part of Baghdad has gone underground. The city’s many mosques are the only places that people flock to. The moment the muezzin calls people to prayer, they come to a halt, go down on their knees, on the pavements and in parks. An unusual sight in Baghdad.
 
 
- Goal!
 
Eleven players cheer. They are leading 3-2.
 
- We usually come here every afternoon. Why shouldn’t we be here today? seventeen-year-old Hamdi says. He is watching from the touchline. - But we go home when it gets dark. Tomorrow we’ll meet again, whether they bomb or not.
 
Nevertheless, the football team has dwindled over the last few days.
 
- Some have left town with their families. The country-side is safer for the moment, but most of us have stayed behind. Someone has to defend the city.
 
The football ground is not the safest place, surrounded as it is by strategic targets: the television and communications centre, where a huge portrait of Saddam Hussein on the phone adorns the wall, two further government buildings and the Sinak bridge which leads to the Information Ministry on the opposite bank of the river, the state-run TV channel and the Congress Palace.
 
The match’s only onlookers are a bunch of soldiers in green uniforms. They lounge about, each with a Kalashnikov over the shoulder, under orders to defend the buildings surrounding the pitch.
 
- We are defending our president and our country, say the young lads in threadbare uniforms and worn-out shoes.
 
I cannot resist asking the obvious.
 
- How can you defend Baghdad with Kalashnikovs?
 
- We’ll take the Americans, we’ll show them that Iraqis are strong, is the only answer, like a broken record. They point to some stairs in the brick building. - We live down there; we have all we need.
 
 
I need to change money, and after a long search I find an exchange in Sadoun Street, behind the Hotel Palestine. The premises are empty bar three cashiers staring at us from behind the counter.
 
On the wall is a dollar bill. The face of George Washington has been superimposed with that of Osama bin Laden.
 
- This is our way of demonstrating against the bombs, the money changer says. - If Bush continues this criminal assault we’ll send him Osama bin Laden in return. The world cannot accept this injustice. America thinks it can go ahead and behave just as it likes, even breaking international law, like now.
 
The man talks and counts simultaneously. Gradually stacks of dinars pile up on the counter. He gives me a plastic bag full of money. The exchange rate has nose-dived and even for small purchases you need a bunch of notes. - I don’t have anything against the Americans in general, the money changer says. - We just don’t want them to occupy our country. If they come and visit we are only too pleased to exchange their money and do business with them. We’ll do business with anyone. But Bush should keep away from Baghdad.
 
 
On a central reserve in Abu Nuwas Street I suddenly spy Teijo. Together with two others he has chained himself to a tree. ‘No to War’ is the message on the placard he is holding up. I ask Amir to stop the car and walk over to the young Finn. So he has stayed, despite most of the human shields having left long ago. I ask him how he got through the night.
 
- I was woken by someone screaming: ‘The war has started.’ Most of us went down to the bomb shelter but I went down to the river. I wanted to see the bombs drop. I felt very upset and disappointed; this meant that our protest had not worked. But still, it is my moral obligation to stay, Teijo says. - In between my heart twinged when I thought the bombs might have hit my power plant.
 
South Baghdad power station is a so-called
legitimate target
, adjacent to a military establishment and the bridge to Basra.
 
- I hope I’ll survive. But if I don’t, that’s my fate, Teijo continues.
 
- Have you been in contact with your parents recently?
 
- They’re still asking me to come home. But when I tell them that this is very important to me, that it’s something I really want to do, they understand. I know I’m not a coward, but I would
feel
like one if I went home. If I go home it will be like letting my dreams die.

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