A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal (35 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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On the other side of the river, American tanks are positioned outside the palace. - They will all find their grave in Baghdad. We have strangled the American army and taught them a lesson, an historic lesson. I cannot understand why they send their soldiers over here in order to commit suicide, he says. - When they say they have taken our palaces, they are lying. They cheat.
 
- But look at the other side of the river! Those are the Americans’ tanks! a reporter from the BBC says.
 
- There are no Americans in Baghdad, al-Sahhaf emphasises.
 
The very moment al-Sahhaf tells us that there are no Americans in Baghdad, the shooting subsides. He smiles, brushes an imaginary fly away with his hand and slides off down the steep stairs like an eel.
 
That is the last we see of him until several weeks later he pops up on Abu Dhabi TV and describes his life as the Iraqi Information Minister. He is also the last high-ranking official to have any contact with us - the Foreign Minister has long been conspicuous by his absence, as have the Defence Minister and Deputy Prime Minister, Tariq Aziz.
 
‘An Iraqi Donald Rumsfeld’, the
New York Times
correspondent calls him. ‘Mixing fact and fiction.’
 
When al-Sahhaf has gone, the shooting picks up again. A yellowish-grey carpet of sand and smoke from the oil fires lies heavily over the town. Bombing is audible in the distance, but the Presidential palace is hardly discernible. Visibility is down to a couple of hundred metres. The flashes from the missiles split the sky and we hear planes flying low over the city.
 
Bloody battles are raging on the other side of the river. Charred bodies in burnt-out cars are abandoned on bridges and by the roadside. Some of the car doors are open; the fleeing passengers got no further before being caught in the fatal crossfire. Now they lie dead beside their cars. To the west of the Tigris bullets whistle round houses and heavy artillery booms. Metal shards hit palm trees like hail. Shattered tree trunks reach towards the sky. Thick, black, oily smoke rises from destroyed tanks. Slashed Iraqi uniforms lie in the streets; the soldiers tore them off in a last-ditch effort to survive, deserting in the heat of battle. Dead soldiers lie among the bloody pieces of clothing.
 
A soldier from an American unit tells me later how he drove past Iraqi soldiers writhing in their death throes. Behind the tanks’ armour-plating they had passed by the dying, the dead. He had seen soldiers on the slopes above the river, lifeless, half in, half out of the water. He had met men waving white rags and T-shirts, indicating their surrender. Still they were shot. Earlier in the campaign the Americans had experienced Iraqi soldiers waving white flags, en route to surrender, then suddenly opening fire.
 
 
While the battles continue on the west bank of the Tigris, people are sipping hot tea at the pavement cafés on the east bank. Every table is taken at Mazin, an oft-frequented corner establishment. Some men make room for Aliya and me. As usual Amir will not leave the car. This very morning a friend has told him that there are thieves and robbers everywhere and that a driver has been shot and killed because he would not give up his car.
 
Here on the east bank Iraqi police still patrol the streets. Behind the increasingly flat sandbags men with guns are positioned. They are slender and young. Around them on the ground lies the sand that has trickled out of the bags.
 
Two men in green Baath Party uniforms sit at the neighbouring table. Their glasses have just been filled with hot golden tea. Their growth of beard is days old, in addition to the usual moustache. One of the men is heavily built, the other slight.
 
- Can we talk to them? I whisper to Aliya.
 
- No, are you mad, she hisses, and looks the other way.
 
- Why not?
 
- Because. One does not speak to men in uniform. Especially not Baath Party members.
 
- But all Iraqis are collective members of the Party. Including you. You’ve said that yourself, I object.
 
- Don’t talk like that or I’ll leave.
 
- OK, I say.
 
Addressing the men, I smile apologetically and say
al Salamu aleikum.
Now she has to translate.
 
As they answer my greeting they are served large pieces of grilled lamb.
 
- Would you like a taste? the broad-shouldered one asks.
 
Aliya is about to decline, but I poke her and say loudly:
Shukran
- thank you. They extend their arms and we are suddenly sharing lunch with the Baathists. The well-built one, whose moustache is also the blackest, heaps warm pieces of meat on a pitta bread, adds chopped onions and serves. Then they strike up a conversation between themselves, and ignore us, eating their food. I let them talk and wonder when I might interrupt. I feel like an intruder; I am an intruder.
 
When the meal is nearing its end I ask them what they think of the war.
 
- This is a state of emergency. I patrol the town night and day, haven’t slept for three days, haven’t seen my family, the sturdy one says, whose name is Abu Saif. The thin one nodds affirmatively. - Look, I eat lunch in a lousy café, spend the night on a mattress in a school, drink water when I can. I must defend my city, maintain law and order, the Baathist continues. Not angry, not aggressive, just resigned.
 
- The Americans have already taken parts of Baghdad. Do you think they’ll take the whole town?
 
- We believe in our leader and therefore we are invincible. We will fight with heart and soul, says Abu Saif with the same combination of acquiescence and resolve that characterises people who have learnt set phrases by heart. He stares ahead while devouring the last bit of pitta bread. I dare not interrupt him and sit in silence.
 
- Can I ask you something? he says suddenly. I nod.
 
- If we turned the picture around, how would you react if Iraqi forces attacked your country? If we tried to kill your president to install our leaders and our system? How would you react if we cut off your electricity, water, and killed your neighbours?
 
Abu Saif looks sternly at me while Aliya translates his questions. When he has finished asking, he snorts, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gets up, bows and leaves.
 
The entire café has witnessed the episode. Now they turn away and continue their conversations. Aliya says we need to go.
 
We get as far as the shop next door, a bakery. There are two long queues, one for men, the other for women. It is not seemly that men and women stand in the same queue, Aliya explains.
 
The faces of the majority of people are drawn.
 
Only one face laughs, one open and curious gaze alone follows me. She appears to be the only one who has had a good night’s sleep, the only one who is enjoying the stormy spring day to the full, the only one unaffected by the bombs.
 
- I hope this will all be over before she is old enough to understand, the mother of seven-month-old Zina sighs, while Zina herself continues to smile.
 
- I think she might have lost her husband, Aliya whispers. - Or her son, maybe. She’s calling for someone called Hamid. It might also be her brother.
 
A woman is sitting on the ground, wrapped in a long, black shawl. She is calling the same name again and again. She holds a child in her arms. The child clambers unaffected over her, too young to understand what has happened. The little girl is dressed in a dirty-white ragged dress. The mother pays no heed to her but continues to moan. In the courtyard outside al-Kindi hospital, doctors, nurses, patients and relatives pass her by. The victims today are victims of crossfire rather than bombing.
 
We leave the woman in peace, and never find out who Hamid is or what has happened to him. The woman’s face has frozen into a terrible expression, as if it has looked into hell.
 
A car door opens. Three boys lie side by side on the cold, rough metal floor. Two men carry them out. They wear thin shorts and shirts, spattered with blood. All three are dead. The mother and grandmother stand by, howling. - My sons, my sons, the mother cries.
 
This is the second time I have witnessed the death of three brothers. The boys are not even taken into the hospital, but straight to the little house where the death certificates are dispensed. All comes to a standstill when the boys are carried away; all is quiet except for Alexandra and Jerome taking photographs. Suddenly a group of men attack them. They set to and beat Jerome and frail Alexandra who are eventually saved by some doctors.
 
- Keep away, the doctors say to the two photographers. - These people are in shock. They have lost their family. Show some respect.
 
The photographers withdraw to the entrance where we stand, waiting to get in. The attackers remain, glowering at us. White, western, the enemy.
 
The photographers leave. Throughout the day a steady stream of dead and wounded arrive, in ambulances, taxis, cars and on foot. A man drives up with his dying wife in the back seat. Her skirt is saturated with blood. Not a sound escapes her mouth as they carry her in. Her eyes are already in the hereafter.
 
We are denied access to the hospital. While we wait we watch several men being carried in. It appears they have been wounded in battle. Are the military hospitals already overcrowded?
 
We sneak in and thus see what we should not have seen: wounded soldiers.
 
The floor is splashed with blood. I see bodies with bullet holes in stomachs, legs, neck, arms. Some have started to hallucinate. Others howl. Painkilling medicine has run out.
 
- How many soldiers have you admitted today? I ask a doctor.
 
- There are no soldiers here, the doctor says.
 
- But they are wearing uniforms?
 
- I see no uniforms, he says, and pushes me out. - You must go now, do you hear?
 
In the courtyard friends of the wounded stand, resting on their Kalashnikovs. Not all are in uniform; some are volunteers. They look worried; some are smoking, nobody pays attention to us.
 
- This is our worst day so far, says one of the doctors. - Missiles, rockets, bullets and cannons. Never have we taken in so many wounded in one day. And the Americans call this introducing democracy!
 
The young doctor, who is fluent in English, is interrupted by a shout: Water is back, the water is back!
 
The doctor hurries over to the tap to wash his hands. Baghdad’s largest hospital has been without water since morning. They might lose it again at any moment. There has been no electricity either, and when the generator went so did the light and all the equipment that is dependent on power.
 
The patients lie in beds without sheets, in their bloody clothes. The place swarms with flies, on the patients, in the beds, on the dead. The air is stale in death’s ante-room; the temperature in Baghdad is thirty-five degrees.
 
 
At 1am I take my place in front of the camera to deliver the night’s last report. I am on the hotel roof, in Reuters’ spot. Next to me is Ulrich from ZDF, Giovanna from RAI, Michel from French TF1, Abu Dhabi TV is a little further away, the BBC in the corner. Each talks to his or her camera. The questions materialise in our ears. I am reporting to Dutch TV, and in spite of not knowing the owner of the voice, I feel a connection with these Dutch people; it is as if they pull me towards home. They see me, and their voices are caring. That is a help.
 
When I am done I walk into Paul’s tent. He is Reuters’ supervisor, and the coordinator of pictures from Iraq to TV stations all over the world. In addition he is responsible for the live cameras. Like Josh, Yves and Timothy, he is ex-army. He served with the Green Jackets in Northern Ireland for many years and is one of those I keep bumping into in the world’s hot spots.

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