Escape from Saddam (11 page)

Abu Mustapha fingered his
sibbha
—a string of beads—and continued smiling knowingly at us. Every few minutes he shouted, “
Allah bilkhair
—Welcome! God is good!”

“
Allah bilkhair.
” We intoned the traditional reply.

Gradually my uncle engaged the tribesman in small talk. He explained that he was acquainted with his relatives in Baghdad, that he had had business dealings with them before now.

“You are interested in guns?” the tribesman asked out of the blue.

My uncle shrugged. “A little,” he replied.

The tribesman stood up suddenly, left the room, and returned with a
berrnaw,
a rifle with an extra-long barrel. It was the traditional weapon of the Bedouin of that area and could shoot over hugely long distances—even up to two miles. The tribesman had a look of pride as he handled it, mixed with a glint in his eye that spoke volumes: he was, he was demonstrating, a man who could take care of himself.

We admired his gun for a short while, and then food was brought in. His wife presented a steaming dish of
baagillah.
It was a favorite of mine, an Iraqi dish of lamb, bread, and beans traditionally served on Fridays after prayers. Saad and I fell upon this feast as hungrily as politeness would allow.

When we finished eating, more tea was brought. This was the sign for us to get down to business. I had expected my uncle to explain the situation in more roundabout terms than he did; after all, we did not know yet that we could fully trust this man sitting opposite us. He was full of smiles, but who knew what those smiles could be hiding?

“My nephew here, Sarmed, has deserted from the army.” I gave Saad a sharp look, but he held his hand up to me and continued. “He needs to leave the country, and he wants to go to Jordan. Your relatives told us this might be something you can help with.”

For a while the tribesman said nothing. He just sat there expressionless. The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the sound of the tribesman fingering his
sibbha
and the constant whir of the fan above us. We had come all this way, and I had never imagined that this man would say no to our request—but he certainly did not seem to be jumping at the chance. I had an uncomfortable feeling that we were about to have to drive back to Baghdad that night. He looked carefully at me, and then at my uncle. It was impossible to read his eyes. Finally he spoke. “I do not recommend that you go to Jordan.”

In that moment I knew we had a chance of persuading him. He had not turned us down outright, so it was clearly something he was prepared to do. But why not Jordan? And if not Jordan, where? As if in response to my unspoken question, the tribesman intoned “Syria.”

Saad shook his head. “Syria will be too dangerous for him.” He was right. The relationship between Iraq and Syria at that time was bad. For starters, Iraqis were not allowed to work in Syria; in Jordan, there was at least a chance. More worryingly, if I was apprehended in Syria, the likelihood was great that I would be taken for a Ba’ath party spy and imprisoned for I don’t know how long.

Abu Mustapha shook his head. “The stretch of land between here and the border to Jordan is much smaller than the land between here and Syria,” he explained. “There are many border patrols. The government spends a great deal of money on surveillance in that stretch of desert. The Syrian border police are poorly paid, and there are fewer of them. There are land mines in that area too. We think we know where most of them are, but…”

Saad was adamant. “It is a risk we are prepared to take.”

The tribesman looked uncomfortable. Maybe he was more familiar with the crossing into Syria, I don’t know. He let out a heavy sigh. “If you choose that route, we will have to make the journey at night. And I cannot guarantee you safe passage. There are wild animals in the desert.” He looked straight at me. “They do not much care what they eat.”

I shuddered, but Saad stood his ground. “If he is captured in Syria, the treatment he will receive will be just as bad as any he can expect in Iraq. Jordan is more civilized, and from there he has a much greater chance of finding his way to the West.”

Again there was a silence. Finally Abu Mustapha closed his eyes and slowly nodded his reluctant acquiescence.

He shouted for one of his children to come. Almost immediately one of his sons entered the room. “Go and find your uncle,” his father told him almost dismissively. The boy said nothing and left the room swiftly. The three of us remained seated; barely a word was spoken between us.

From the corner of my eye I looked at Saad. He seemed as calm as ever, his expressionless face indicating none of the rising panic the tribesman’s reluctance to take the route to Jordan had instilled in me. The Bedouin knew this stretch of land better than anyone—certainly better than Saad or I. They had crossed these borders all their lives, and their ancestors before them had done so for hundreds of years. They knew where the dangers lay. If they were worried about our plan, should we not also be? I tried to push such worries from my mind. I had trusted my uncle this far; he had not let me down. And as I looked at the imposing figure of the tribesman before me, I could tell that he was a person who would be able to look after himself—and me. That, at least, was some small comfort.

After about half an hour, the door opened again and another burly tribesman walked in.

“This is my brother,” our host introduced him. We shook hands in greeting as more tea was brought. “My young guest,” he gestured toward me, “is of a mind to travel to Jordan.”

Immediately his brother shook his head. “No,” he said emphatically. “Too dangerous. We can’t take you all the way into Jordanian territory, but we can take you into Syria.”

It felt like we were back at square one. His look was stern, and he did not appear to be open to negotiation. I think my uncle must have seen that in him; without delay he played his trump card.

“My nephew is not going to Syria. It is Jordan or nothing. If you are unwilling to take that route, we must leave now. It is a long way back to Baghdad.” He sat back without taking his eyes off the Bedouin, and sipped his tea.

The two men looked at each other, aware that their lucrative business arrangement might be disappearing before their eyes. Eventually the brother nodded in agreement. “We have details to discuss,” he told Saad.

My uncle nodded. “Wait here, Sarmed,” he told me as the three of them stood up and went outside. I heard the murmur of hushed negotiations through the door, and I knew that they were discussing what Saad would pay them to undertake this illicit venture, along with payment terms and guarantees. My uncle would then have to persuade them that I would not be a liability to them in the desert—that I knew how to take care of myself. When they returned, there were smiles all around: a deal had been struck.

“The arrangements have been made,” Saad told me simply, his voice altered now from one of concern to one of confidence. “You will stay here tonight, and you will make the journey after sundown tomorrow.”

“What about you?”

“I must leave,” he told me quietly.

“Now?” I asked him. The moment seemed to have come upon us very quickly.

“There is no reason for me to stay, and I have business to attend to in Baghdad.” He smiled at me. “Don’t worry, Sarmed. You are in good hands. Everything will be fine.” He turned to the tribesman and his brother. “You have my thanks, and the thanks of my family.
Inshallah,
as soon as we hear that he has made it across the border, I will give the remainder of the money to your relations in Baghdad.” With that he left the room.

I followed my uncle to the car in silence. To say good-bye to this man who had risked so much for me was almost more than I could bear. Neither of us had spoken of the one thing that was foremost in our minds throughout this eventful journey: we might never see each other again. And now, standing by the car in a strange village somewhere in the Iraqi desert, the time had come to say our farewells. As I removed my things from the trunk of the car, Saad fished a piece of paper out of his pocket, on which he had scribbled a name and an address.

“When you arrive in Amman, find this person. His name is Wissam, and he is a friend of mine from many years ago. He will help you in any way he can.” My uncle put his hands on my shoulders. “Be strong,” he continued, “and trust no one. You have to have your guard up all the time.”

He went to the car and came back with something wrapped in material. “I want you to have this. Handle it with care.”

I gingerly unwrapped the package. Inside I felt cold steel. It was a black Beretta handgun—not the special-issue Beretta that he had positioned on the dashboard but another weapon from his collection. “You might need it to protect yourself after the Bedouin leave you,” he explained. “You know how to use it, of course.”

I said nothing while Saad hugged me tightly, holding me close to him and breathing deeply, smelling me as if trying to absorb something to remember me by. “Good-bye,
habibi
Sarmed,” he whispered, “and may Allah be with you. You are my son, and you always will be. I will miss you very much.” For the first time ever, I heard his voice wavering and I saw his eyes filling up. I did not trust myself to say anything; nor could I think of anything to say.

How long we stood locked in that embrace, unwilling to leave each other, I couldn’t say; but eventually, and reluctantly, Saad climbed into the car and started the engine. He wound down the window and looked me straight in the eye. “Be careful,” he told me solemnly. “And remember, the genuine man never forgets his family. We are sending you to freedom so that one day you may rescue them from this place.” Then he slowly pulled away.

I stood on that weathered track in the near-darkness, my eyes full of tears and a small bag by my feet containing everything that I now possessed in the whole world, and I watched my uncle’s car as it became a cloud of dust settling in the distance. Then I turned back to look at the Bedouin house where I was a stranger.

I had never felt so alone.

I made my
way back to the guest room. Abu Mustapha and his brother were still there, and I tried, half-heartedly, to make conversation. But it was clear to them how upset I was at having said good-bye to my uncle, and that now was not the time for polite chitchat, so they made their excuses and left me alone. I was grateful to them for that: I needed time to compose myself.

I knelt in front of a picture of Mecca that adorned the wall, and prayed. I prayed that my uncle would make it back to Baghdad safely; I prayed for my family; and I prayed that the next thirty-six hours would not be filled with the dangers that haunted me. I opened my bag and looked through my things. The trinkets I had brought with me seemed out of place in such a remote location so far from home, but it was a comfort to have them with me as a reminder of the place I had left behind. I took a pen and a piece of paper and started trying to write a letter to Saad, but somehow I could not find the words to express what I wanted to say, and the letter was abandoned almost before it was begun.

Behind me I heard the door open, and Abu Mustapha entered with his wife. She lay a mattress on the floor for me to rest. “It would be best if you tried to sleep,” the tribesman told me. “We wake early, and there is much to do tomorrow in preparation.”

I nodded and thanked his wife for her kindness. Alone again, I redressed my wound with some clean bandages I had taken from home, wincing as I removed the doctor’s professionally inserted swab and replaced it with the limited skill my military training had afforded me. It still hurt beyond belief, but I had other worries to occupy my mind now: as I lay on the mattress and closed my eyes, I knew that when sleep came—if it came—it would be fitful and disturbed.

Sure enough, I awoke early the next morning. The tribesman entrusted me to the care of his nephew—the son of his brother who had been with us the previous evening. It was explained to me that the three of them would be accompanying me that night, and I was to spend the day learning as much about them as I could. If we were stopped by border patrols, it was essential that I was believed to be one of them.

The Bedouin are nomads of the desert. Divided into tribes, each tribe historically led by a sheikh, traditionally they herded and traded livestock—sheep and goats—moving across the desert according to the seasons. The restraints of international boundaries meant nothing to them. They had—and still have—a disregard bordering on contempt for anything or anyone that attempts to influence their centuries-old traditions, and especially governments that try to impose nationalities that mean nothing to the Bedouin. Their concern is not with the outside world. They are traders, wandering across the desert from village to village to buy and sell their livestock, crossing borders at will, often traveling at night to avoid the scorching heat of the desert sun. They are, as they have been for hundreds of years, an accepted feature of the Middle East landscape, and nobody—not even Saddam—would contemplate removing from these desert wanderers the right to travel where and when they please. The Al-Shamarry tribe especially had a number of villages dotted around the desert between Iraq and Syria, although there were fewer across the Jordanian border.