A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal (23 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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His eyes shine. Teijo is adamant. Standing beside him, a civil servant follows the interview closely. When night starts to fall Teijo untangles himself from the chains and goes back to South Baghdad power station - to yet another night on the camp bed, accompanied by yet another bombing symphony.
It is soon nine o’clock in Baghdad. Norway’s
News Night
theme tune plays on the other end of the phone line. While I wait to join the live broadcast I hear and see it. An enormous explosion, one more, then several, not as last time like crashing thunderclaps on the horizon, but close by. The sky is lit up - from its colour it looks as if Baghdad must be burning. The darkness erupts in a sea of orange flames. One missile after another strikes on the other side of the Tigris. Iraqi anti-aircraft guns crackle. In spite of the noise from the laser-guided missiles, I hear the whine of the fighter planes. I lie down on the floor, as far away from the window as possible, but close enough to see out. Another explosion follows. I crawl over to the balcony to get a better view. The spectacle is overwhelming, and there is no doubt of the night’s target: the Presidential palace on the opposite bank, a few hundred yards away. The palace is in flames, and continual explosions, probably from the stores of ammunition held there, can be heard and seen through the bars of the balcony.
News Night
theme tune plays on the other end of the phone line. While I wait to join the live broadcast I hear and see it. An enormous explosion, one more, then several, not as last time like crashing thunderclaps on the horizon, but close by. The sky is lit up - from its colour it looks as if Baghdad must be burning. The darkness erupts in a sea of orange flames. One missile after another strikes on the other side of the Tigris. Iraqi anti-aircraft guns crackle. In spite of the noise from the laser-guided missiles, I hear the whine of the fighter planes. I lie down on the floor, as far away from the window as possible, but close enough to see out. Another explosion follows. I crawl over to the balcony to get a better view. The spectacle is overwhelming, and there is no doubt of the night’s target: the Presidential palace on the opposite bank, a few hundred yards away. The palace is in flames, and continual explosions, probably from the stores of ammunition held there, can be heard and seen through the bars of the balcony.
I report what I see. The bangs are audible in the studio via the telephone receiver. Some of them cause the enormous concrete hotel to shake and the windows to vibrate. A crash, I speak, another crash, I continue to speak, and then we say goodbye to Åsne Seierstad in Baghdad. The studio hangs up. The attack intensifies. Metal hitting concrete, metal striking marble, metal colliding with iron. I remain on the floor. So this is what being bombed feels like. My fists are clenched, arms tense, eyes staring into space but seeing nothing. Now it’s for real.
There is a knock on the door. Remy and Pascal wonder how I’m getting on.
- Shall we go down to the air-raid shelter? I ask.
No response.
- Isn’t it safer down there? I ask again.
- You are just as safe here, Remy says.
- Or rather, unsafe, Pascal laughs sarcastically and walks past me into the room. He puts a bottle of wine on the table.
Very few journalists spend time in the air-raid shelter during the bombing. The few of us who are left are too curious to allow the drama to unfold without watching it. Isolated in the cellar, you can’t hear the planes or see the flames. The air-raid shelter is anyhow full of Iraqi women and children. The Information Ministry bureaucrats and hotel employees have brought their families here, reasoning that the Americans will not bomb a hotel full of western journalists, as if that would constitute an invisible safety net. At night they sleep in the shelter, during the day they return home. Children run around, getting in the way of anyone still brave enough to use the lift; they play in it, up and down, up and down.
My two French friends’ visit is not purely altruistic; my balcony has the best view of town and faces the Presidential palace. We watch the final act of the bombing drama. My fear-filled time on the floor has toughened me up. It makes no odds where you are, on the balcony or on the floor under the bed. If you are hit, you are hit.
After an hour the violent attack is over; now the ambulance and fire-engine sirens cut through the air. Below, on Abu Nuwas Street, cars rush by, possibly carrying the wounded to hospital. During the attack our guards remained on the square below, trying to gauge where the missiles hit. Now, once again, they turn their eyes to us. I sneak the telephone inside, hide it behind the cupboard, empty my glass and fall asleep.
According to the Information Minister Muhammed Said al-Sahhaf, thirty-seven people were wounded during the night.
The following morning people are woken by the sound of the mullahs’ call to prayer, as opposed to the bombs of the previous morning. It acts as a cue. People swarm out of their hiding places. Shortly after sunrise Baghdad’s usual morning symphony is once again audible - drivers sound their horns, buses snail along, people ride creaky bicycles and wear clip-clopping shoes. Although the traffic jams aren’t quite as bad as usual, nevertheless it is a near normal spring morning in Baghdad, sunny and buzzing.
However, something indicates that this is only a temporary respite from the war: the selection of goods for sale. Vendors stand behind little tables, by cars or on stools. One man has three items for sale: batteries, torches and candles. Another sells oil lamps, rechargeable lamps and primus lamps. A third man has just one item for sale: thick, brown window tape. Business is brisk. The price of batteries has tripled in the last few days, as have lamp and torch prices.
One man is flogging
Bazooka
lamps
.
‘Your weapon in the dark’, the Chinese lamp advertises. - Usually I sell a couple every month, now I’ve sold one hundred and twenty in three days, Sami says, selling from a table in front of his closed electricity shop. He has taken the necessary precautions. - I have removed most of the stock to prevent it being destroyed by bombs, but also in case the shop is looted. Of course I’m delighted to be making money now, but I don’t like the bombs, the street seller assures us while demonstrating the lamp to a customer.
Bazooka
lamps
.
‘Your weapon in the dark’, the Chinese lamp advertises. - Usually I sell a couple every month, now I’ve sold one hundred and twenty in three days, Sami says, selling from a table in front of his closed electricity shop. He has taken the necessary precautions. - I have removed most of the stock to prevent it being destroyed by bombs, but also in case the shop is looted. Of course I’m delighted to be making money now, but I don’t like the bombs, the street seller assures us while demonstrating the lamp to a customer.
I buy a
Bazooka
. Tim makes do with candles, which is just as well because I never get the lamp to work.
Bazooka
. Tim makes do with candles, which is just as well because I never get the lamp to work.
- Bush says he’s going to liberate us, says an indignant man. He says he wants to occupy the country for humanitarian reasons. So why does he send bombs which kill and maim and make our days so difficult. Without power, without water?
- He won’t bomb today, another man assures him. - It is impossible to bomb on a Friday, he establishes. - That would mean Bush doesn’t respect Muslims, and that means he doesn’t respect Christians either. After all, we have the same God, and He has asked us to keep the day of rest holy, so there’ll be no bombs on Friday or Sunday, he says confidently.
- Bush couldn’t care less, a third interrupts. - He’s an atheist. Otherwise he couldn’t have planned all the ghastly things he’s doing to us.
We leave the discussion about Bush’s faith and cross the road to gauge the mood in the bird market. Doves, falcons, parrots and rare birds twitter and chirp at the sun. But it has been a bad night. One vendor is mourning two birds killed. - Because I had to close my shop I was forced to put several birds in one cage. The strongest won, these were pecked to bits, Taha says, and pulls the dead birds out of a box. - They’re worth one hundred dollars each. Alive. Now they’re worth nothing.
- My doves were nervous during yesterday’s bombing, another bird vendor tells us. - But I gave them some extra food and then they settled down.
However, both men are pleased with sales. - There’s nothing else to do but wait, so there’s plenty of time to buy doves and parrots, Taha says. He sells birds in the daytime and guards the streets at night. - I wear a uniform, get out my rifle and go where I’m told. I’m a Baath Party volunteer. I’m at it again tonight.
In the middle of the square the bird cages give way to shiny water containers - the fish market. Like the windows, the containers are secured with tape.
- This is a risky business. Hardan is worried. - In the event of a major attack, the containers will crack and all my fish will die.
On the way back to the car we pass the local fire station. A firefighter tells us he helped put out a fire at the Ministry of Planning. - I have never seen such enormous flames, he says. The burly chap fits exactly the American idea of a heroic firefighter.
Before we have time to ask more we are hassled out of the area. A gruff man waves us away and we make ourselves scarce. This is not the time to irritate Iraqi officials. Close to the fire station is the headquarters of one of Baghdad’s electricity works. Large mounds of sand are piled up outside the building. Two men are shovelling it into bags and positioning them by the entrance. The final preparations before the next onslaught.
Restaurant al-Maida is situated at a crossroad. Chicken and kebabs are being served at white Perspex tables. The queue by the grill is long.
- I have bought in several hundred kilos of chicken, says the owner, Latif, a grey-haired, weather-beaten type. - I intend to stay open come what may. Last night I was open until midnight. I was standing outside and watching the bombs fall. I refuse to give up. But then, I’m raking it in, because most people are closed. I’m too old to take part, so my challenge is to keep this joint open whatever happens. I despise the Americans; they’re cretins, just like their films. There’s no truth in them, it’s all crap.
He sits down heavily at our table. - I think tonight’s the night for the big one. I feel it. When night falls the bombs will return. And I’ll be here grilling my chicken, he grins.
- They call it
Shock and Awe
, Tim jokes, mimicking the politicians’ loud, sometimes pious description of the war. - The problem is:
It doesn’t shock the Iraqis!
Shock and Awe
, Tim jokes, mimicking the politicians’ loud, sometimes pious description of the war. - The problem is:
It doesn’t shock the Iraqis!
Latif was right. The bombing this night is considerably stronger than the night before. This time buildings on our side of the river are blown up. We try to guess where the blasts strike. The Ministries of Planning, Education, Communications, Commando HQ. We have no maps detailing the location of buildings, and either Aliya is not prepared to tell us or she does not know. And anyway it is forbidden to report what has been hit. BBC, CNN and Sky News, the only remaining English language TV channels, are closely monitored. When the journalists are reporting, a minder stands nearby listening to what is being said. It is prohibited to use words such as ‘dictator’, ‘tyrant’ or ‘brutal’ to characterise Saddam Hussein, or to pinpoint targets that have been hit. They can be no more specific than ‘a large building, close by’.
During the attack I imagine Uday standing on the balcony below me, or Mohsen lurking on the side. I wonder what to do with the telephone. The night before thirty telephones were confiscated from the balconies. CNN and the BBC both lost some of theirs; hardest hit was the French news agency AFP who lost seven telephones.
We all devise means of hiding, covering up or sneaking off with our phones. Andrew Gilligan of the BBC, who will later attain notoriety by accusing the British Government of having ‘sexed up’ the dossier detailing Iraq’s weapons’ arsenal, has a secret code. Anyone wanting to enter his room must use a symphony of knocks and pauses, composed by Andrew and shared with very few. It is said he never opens the door to anyone who is ignorant of the code; he stays quiet and waits for them to leave.
I adopt a different strategy. When talking on the phone I turn the shower on full, undress and wind a towel around me. If anyone knocks on the door I call out: Who is it?
If it is the guards I pour some water over myself, open the door a crack and ask them to wait while I get dressed. That gives me time to hide the satellite telephone and the antenna.
There’s no point pretending one is not there. After all, the guards all have keys.
The night is alive with flashes of light and flames. I jump up at every boom, trying to determine where it came from. It is like a massive, everlasting firework display. Planes roar over the skies, dropping their deadly cargo to resounding thunder.
Interspersed with the droning of the planes and the crash of missiles are shouts from the Paradise Square mosque. For every crash, every explosion and every fire in the area, the call to prayer starts up. I try to sleep but give up. I try ear-plugs but it doesn’t help. Only when the attacks die away in the early hours of the morning do I fall asleep, exhausted.
If the night glows with light and flames, the day reveals the real terror. The fires have been put out and the sunlight exposes the targets: craters, ruins, collapsed buildings. Every night hundreds of wounded Iraqis are brought to Baghdad’s hospitals.
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