A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal (39 page)
Read A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal Online
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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In the first frothy hours after the collapse, they still had a lot in common. None of them had liked the ruler.
-
A bad president, one whispered.
A bad president, one whispered.
-
A bloody tyrant, the other shouted.
A bloody tyrant, the other shouted.
His presence no longer cast a shadow over the population. The only ones in hiding now were the dictator himself and his henchmen.
The two friends strove to find common ground, they tried to patch together the bitter feelings. But the understanding was short-lived. They each remained opposite sides of the city’s face, a face which appeared increasingly distorted.
- Look at these looters, these dogs, Amir snorted with a stiff jaw.
Abbas held his tongue.
- I’m not saying it because I’m a Sunni, but these Shias are the symbol of dirt, anarchy, chaos.
- The Shias are not alone in looting, Abbas answered.
- Soon there will be a civil war, Amir maintained. - Because we cannot just stand and watch the Shias ruin our country.
- Amir is not talking like that because he’s a Sunni, and I’m not happy about the country having been liberated because I’m a Shia, of course not, Abbas interrupted sarcastically.
- We used to have order, fixed points in our existence. Of course our dictator was strict, but our people need a firm hand. A strong man. If not, we’ll capsize and descend into madness.
Amir looked around, indignant. - Now we do not know who is in charge, what the future holds. We know nothing anymore.
The other didn’t see uncertainty, but adventure, the possibilities. Abbas, who had known prison, hopelessness and fear, had started to dream.
- The future, freedom, democracy, that’s just lies, Amir grunted.
- The future, freedom, democracy, we can build that, Abbas argued.
The two friends had a girlfriend. If they were the two sides of Baghdad’s face, she was the city’s heart. When the ruler was downed, she too fell, into a coma. It wasn’t that she collapsed or fainted; she remained upright, but a curtain descended over her thoughts and feelings.
She never cried. People in a coma do not cry, they just exist. It was like that with Aliya too. When the two friends started quarrelling she disappeared into her room, lay down on her bed with her clothes on and fell asleep. No one said goodnight to her. In fact, no one noticed that she had gone. They were too consumed with shouting words and constructing new sentences. She knew that the fair-haired girl would be talking to camera after camera into the small hours. No one needed her this evening.
Late the next morning, a few rooms away, the fair-haired girl slept. Exhausted, she was lulled to sleep by the drone of tanks. No one heard the shots at night, or the planes shrieking overhead, en route to new battlefields.
Sisters, they had called themselves, when they had promised to protect each other. Shakra and Samra. Light and dark.
- Hide behind my back now, the dark one had said. - Then I’ll hide behind yours when
. . .
. . .
Baghdad’s heart had locked itself behind closed doors. She was hurt, humiliated. When the sun rose there was a knock on her door. The knocking made her flinch. Before opening she tried to protect herself by appearing hard, cold, sharp.
- Good morning, how are you?
- Fine.
- You don’t look fine.
- Oh.
The fair-haired girl picked at her heart.
- What do you think about Saddam’s fall?
- I have no opinion.
She twisted the knife.
- But how do you feel?
- I have no feelings.
The intruder was merciless.
- But are you angry, unhappy, happy?
- Please do not ask any more questions.
Sisters, they had called themselves, when they had promised to protect each other. They stood looking at each other. The intruder removed the knife and gave the heart of Baghdad a kiss. The embrace was short. The wounded sister withdrew.
- I must take some time off to visit my family today, Aliya says.
- Of course, any time. Amir is outside. Would you like to go now?
- No, I can wait.
- You can go now if you like.
- No. Let’s work.
Amir is waiting in the parking lot, but not in his usual place. Now the car is outside the American barrier. The tanks have taken his place. Amir is silent, Aliya is silent. Big boys in bulletproof vests occupy the reception, the stair-well, the corridors, the exit, their city.
Sadoun Street, which runs parallel to the Tigris, one block away from the bank, is seething with men pushing carts, cars and crates. A lorry is parked on the pavement. Fastened to it is a chain, which is attached to the bars of the door of Rafidain - The Two Rivers - savings bank. The car groans and pulls, the bars give way. The door inside is smashed in with an axe. The mob rush into the bank. A few moments later they stream out again.
- A bomb, a bomb, they cry, and run over to the other side of the road.
There they stand, waiting.
- The guy who shouted ‘bomb’ wanted the money for himself!
The rabble run into the bank again - and return empty-handed.
- They took it all when they fled. The scoundrels! The vaults are empty!
The journey through the streets of Baghdad uncovers more of the same. Shops, restaurants, hotels, ministries and public buildings are emptied of anything of value. Even the city’s hospitals are the victims of plunder.
Outside the Ministry of Immigration horses pulling huge carts are waiting. Computers, TV sets, electric fans, desks, office chairs, packets of writing paper, a mirror, cups and plates are snatched up.
- We have lived for thirty years under a regime which took everything from us, freedom, purchasing power, choice. Now people feel they have the right to steal some of it back. As if that can make up for what they have lost. But they are stealing from their own people, not from the regime - that has fled. And what is a dusty ventilation fan against ten years of lost life?
The man talking regards me with sad eyes. He is dressed in threadbare clothes that once were smart. - Anyhow, it won’t work, there’s no electricity.
Aliya translates automatically, without spirit, without feeling. Amir leans against the bonnet of the car and shakes his head. It is more important than ever to keep an eye on it.
- They said they were opening the doors to freedom and they have opened those to chaos instead, he exclaims bitterly.
A strange spectacle passes us. A horse pulls a cart, which is pulling a car, which is hauling a wagon to which yet another horse is tied. A gang of men, women and children stumble excitedly after the procession, an entire family on the make.
Amid the chaos some American soldiers arrive. They walk determinedly towards a building, guns pointing in all directions.
- Weapons were stored here, explains the sergeant, Nicholas. - In the centre of town. When we arrived people were helping themselves. Now we have the place under control.
Inside the building crates containing guns, bullets, cartridges and pistols are stacked up. Some are marked in Latin, others in Cyrillic, yet others in Arabic.
Nicholas volunteers to show us other weapons’ caches. The patrol stops by a sports club. The swimming pool is empty of water, but full of sandbags. Grenades are stored in the weight-lifting room. Carefully placed between trampolines and shelves full of starting blocks are a dozen two-metre long missiles.
- Air-to-air, the sergeant says. - They have tried to tinker with them. Iraq has no air force so they have tried to convert them into ground-to-air missiles.
Nicholas is sweating. The sun shines relentlessly on his red neck. The Americans have been ordered never to take off their heavy safety equipment.
- We heard them moving things at night and were petrified they were weapons which would make us targets for bombers, says a boy hanging around outside. He is a basketball player and made diligent use of the sports arena. Before the war.
Now the sports complex is empty. Anything of value has been looted, pictures of Saddam Hussein smashed. A few dirty shirts have been chucked into a corner, handwritten results lists trampled underfoot.
Aliya sorts through the rubbish, translates lists, diplomas and half-burnt letters of homage to Saddam. I no longer ask how she feels. It’s an untimely question. Use your loaf, I chide myself.
Weapons have been hoarded in the buildings next door too. In one of the rooms over one thousand rifles are stacked side by side. During the early morning people broke into the storeroom.
- They dropped whatever they were carrying when we arrived, Nicholas says. - We could do nothing but let them go.
One room is full of mobile anti-aircraft missiles, another holds crates of ammunition. - These are awesome, says Nicholas, and holds up some small, black bullets. - They dig into the body, whirl around and produce horrible internal bleeding.
He puts them down. - These are for 14.5mm machine-guns, he says, and points to some others. The entire wall is covered in shelves holding dirty boxes marked ‘Teargas - Product of Jordan’.
The weapons were meant to be handed out to people to fight the Americans. But in the end neither army, militia, special forces or the neighbourhoods were ready to defend the city.
- We discovered a large cache of grenades yesterday. We dug a hole in the ground and buried them. Now they are ten metres down. So that’s pretty safe, says the sergeant.
A couple of soldiers keep strict guard over the storeroom, but they do nothing to prevent the looting of the neighbouring building, one of the Baath Party’s local offices. While the Americans stand watching with loaded guns, the masses remove everything of value. They smile and laugh at the soldiers, who stare fixedly ahead behind dark sunglasses.
- We are an invasion force, not an occupying army. People ask for protection but we are not the police. We are here to put an end to Saddam Hussein’s regime, we are here to rid the country of weapons of mass destruction, but there are not enough of us to give them the security they desire. We don’t even have enough troops to guard the weapons’ depots. Several we have had to bolt up and leave.
Some women approach us and watch Nicholas attentively as he is talking.
- I fear the night, Khadija, a mother of five, says, watching the looting. - All day people have robbed shops and public buildings. Tonight maybe the time has come for private houses. It is your responsibility, she says to the sergeant. - You have driven the police and security forces out of town. Now you’ll have to protect us.
- This is anarchy, an elderly man nearby takes up the thread. - Society has collapsed and Bush is to blame. You cannot leave us in the lurch now, hand us over to the bandits.
A deranged woman runs up and throws herself into the arms of the soldier.
- We are frightened, she cries.
- We’ll do our best, Nicholas answers gruffly and pushes her away. The woman stiffens. She assesses the sergeant through narrow eyes, then she turns on her heel and leaves. Nicholas lost a supporter there. Many more will join her.
Three young men, their hands bound behind their backs, are hauled through the gates to the hospital in the district once called Saddam City. When the dictator fell the district was renamed al-Sadr. A seething mass surrounds the hospital, some carrying weapons, others without. It is from here that the million inhabitants of the district are ruled, the only public building in use.
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