From Souk to Souk (17 page)

A small group of policemen in flak jackets, automatic weapons at the ready, hung about guarding us while we looked at the sad remnants of what had been a thriving and wealthy area. Omar led us to one of the crumbling two-storey houses.
‘Ministry of Culture
' and
‘Basrah Museum
' (sic), said the board outside. The arched windows, reaching almost to the ground, had bars on them, but the front door, battered and dirty, stood ajar. We stepped over the stone doorsill, concave from wear, and down into the dim entrance hall, my eyes taking a moment or two to adjust. A musty smell seeped out from the shadows on either side while ahead, from between decrepit walls, sunlight pierced a gap beyond which a thin column of green was just visible. At first, I thought the building was abandoned, but, as we walked around, I gradually realised that there were desks and chairs in the dusty and decaying interior. The rooms were more like empty offices than a museum. Scattered on tiled floors were dust-covered sheets of cardboard and empty plastic water bottles. As I entered one of the rooms, a skinny black and white cat scampered away; it paused to turn and watch me for a moment and then dashed through a doorway at the far end.

I headed towards the sunlight and picked my way into what had previously been the garden. A couple of large trees were poised valiantly in a last stand; around them, three or four scraggy date palms and creepers and other plants, deprived of care, had already reverted to their wild state in an effort to survive. A lanky oleander bush that had managed to produce a few pink flowers swayed gently, and delicate notes of birdsong drifted on the warm breeze. Suddenly, the
adhan
began and the almost bucolic atmosphere of the overgrown garden melted away in an instant. The voice of the muezzin floated across the air from a loudspeaker, sounding unusually melodic as if being sung rather than simply called out. I turned and saw Omar, arms folded, watching me through the open windows of the wooden façade that ran the length of the first floor. I smiled and waved a hand in acknowledgement. Looking at the delicate patterns of geometric shapes cut into the panels around the window frames, I wondered how the artisans who had toiled to produce such beauty would feel if they could see the state of their labours now.

Back inside, Hassan and Ahmed were wandering around the decaying building with an air of mild curiosity and Ali was busy taking photographs. Cautiously, we made our way up the creaking stairs; I half expected them to collapse at any moment and send us crashing below in a cloud of dust. We paused on the first floor, where Omar was hovering at the end of the corridor. The light from the open windows shone past his half-silhouetted figure onto the black and white tiled floor and crumbling plaster of the wall opposite. Specks of dust floated lazily in the heat of the afternoon and for a moment an incongruous serenity seemed to descend like some invisible gossamer. A floorboard squeaked and the feeling was gone. We moved on. There were more empty offices, unswept floorboards, peeling paintwork and, above all this, mahogany-coloured ceilings bordered by gold-painted inlay and carvings. Looking at the craftsmanship, I wondered if peace and stability would ever arrive in time to save these wonderful Ottoman houses. Sadly, I felt I knew the answer. I walked over to one of the
mashrabiyas
and peered through the wooden slats. Down on the street, two of the policemen were enjoying a cigarette and talking. I reflected on how many of their direct colleagues might have been killed or maimed at the hands of those who have no interest in seeing a stable society here. Were these men brave, dedicated, or simply desperate for a job? As I watched them, a little girl with an ebony plait and a long raspberry-pink and blue dress scuttled past clutching a bag of crisps, undaunted by the heavy weaponry within arm's reach.

We continued up the stairs and emerged on to the flat roof. Covered with terracotta floor tiles and bordered by a low wall, it must once have been a pleasant place to sit on a summer's evening and watch the stars. Today, the view across the low-rise city was a patchwork of sandy-coloured bricks, breeze blocks, corrugated iron and concrete, linked by cables and wires. Bouquets of green protruded here and there, and lines of washing added an occasional touch of colour. An Iraqi flag wafted from a pole at the front, while the sun, no longer a veiled white disc, beat down, the polluted haze above the city no match for its full fury.

Back on the street, we crossed a small bridge that spanned the fetid canal and walked over to another dilapidated house. The double front doors, their ageing wood holding out despite obvious neglect, swung open. A tall man in his sixties appeared on the threshold and, apparently expecting us, straight away bade us enter. As we filed in, he ushered us along a short hallway to a square atrium where three elderly men were lingering. All rather short and stout, there was a distinct similarity between them. Small, rodent eyes peered out from above large noses as they watched us like children who had been told to be on their best behaviour. They nodded greetings and gave nicotine smiles before deferentially stepping back, fading away. A row of four low, black vinyl sofas, presumably reserved for dignitaries, faced a large desk at the front of the atrium. Behind them, stood half a dozen rows of chairs, their covers tattered and torn. With a sweep of a hand, a smile and a few words of Arabic, our host invited us to look around. I was not quite sure what I was supposed to be looking at, but stepped forward. The whole atrium was bathed in a bluish-green luminosity. It seemed to be coming from the sunlight reflecting off sea-green pillars that supported a mezzanine and the lapis lazuli blue of the wooden ceiling bordering the glass roof high above. Behind the desk, a white-haired man looked out from a large poster on the wall above which a banner read
‘the union of basrah writers
' (sic). In the eighth and ninth centuries, the city had been a great cultural centre where poets, men of letters and religious scholars had once thrived; one of its governors had even built a library of 15,000 books. Now, it seemed, Basra's literary heritage was involved in the same existential struggle as its architectural.

Suddenly, Mozart's
Eine kleine Nachtmusik
filled the air, pouring at full volume from a pair of speakers near a desk where our host stood beaming. His posture and perfectly pressed grey shirt and trousers lent him a military aspect, diminished only by his artistically long silver hair. While the music blared out, I perused the posters that adorned the walls: huge photographs of writers I had never heard of sporting 1970s moustaches and faded advertisements for artistic events long past. Pointing to the upstairs, I asked one of the ageing trio hovering about if I could go up, hoping my sign language would be understood, even if English were not. He looked at me for a moment, nodded and, with a shake of a hand, indicated a doorway.

I began exploring the various rooms that led off the square mezzanine like prison cells, peering through the arched doors to find piles of books and papers on the floor, cardboard boxes and broken chairs, all covered in a thick layer of dust: the efforts to maintain a degree of normality on the ground floor had not extended to the upper storey. Returning to the balcony, I looked over the balustrade at the space below where the policemen in their light beige trousers and dark blue polo shirts were milling around, weapons hanging limply at their sides. Ali was wandering about, adjusting the strap on his camera in between taking pictures of the atrium. Just twenty-four, he was keen to practise his limited English, often sitting next to me as our little group drove around. He took every opportunity to ask me questions and check vocabulary, mostly through improvised sign language. He saw me and grinned, before raising his dark eyebrows, shrugging his shoulders and pointing upstairs. The music changed abruptly to Beethoven's
Für Elise
and a small bird, apparently trapped inside the building, flew up towards the glass roof, its chirping scarcely audible above the noise. I watched Ali as he quickly tried to photograph it and wondered what relevance the picture could have to his assignment.

Back downstairs, Omar was talking to the man who had let us in and who was looking pensive and nodding. He saw me and beckoned me across.

‘
Il parle français
,' he said.

‘
Oui, oui!
' smiled our host, ever nameless.

In the brief conversation that followed, I learnt, if the surroundings did not already make the point clear, that being an intellectual and writer in current day Iraq was not easy. Unsure what I was expected to say, I nodded sympathetically before concluding the exchange with a smile and drifting away. In the strange blue-green light one of the policemen, an improbably rakish scarf tied under his shirt collar, was reading a poster, two others were casually talking and the three old men were loitering impatiently. The piano music, the blurred strains of which had been echoing round the atrium, stopped only to be immediately replaced by blasts of the
March of the Toreadors
from Carmen. As if on cue, everyone headed towards the exit, the policemen once again bringing their guns into position.

Moments later, we were back out in the hot Mesopotamian sun, the old wooden door clicking shut behind us. The writers' union had felt like an outpost struggling to maintain the last vestiges of secular culture, especially any with a hint of the West, in a city coming increasingly under the shadow of its neighbour. One could ask whether it matters if, in the city of Sinbad, there is cultural space for the music of eighteenth-century Austrian composers, or writers who speak French, yet, as I was to find out, it is not just Hesperian culture that is being driven out of Basra, but anyone and anything that does not conform to the worldview of the extremists.

***

We were sitting in a long, air-conditioned room a good half-hour drive from the Jewish quarter. Hassan and Ahmed were opposite me, ensconced in two of the heavy wooden chairs that lined the marble walls, busy looking at the Captain's camera and the pictures he had taken earlier on. Only now did I notice that the Sergeant had not shaved today, a dense designer stubble having formed round his chubby features. Sunglasses tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt, he pointed a thick finger at the display on the camera with a comment that made his boss laugh. Hassan saw me watching and smiled with a cheeky glint in his eye. Above, a flotilla of glass chandeliers, each shaped like a three-sailed boat on a round, twinkling sea, hung from the peach-coloured ceiling. My eyes wandered to an alcove at the far end of the room where a cross made of logs was draped with a tasselled shroud. The entire symbol was a
bas-relief
. In parts the white plaster cerement merged seamlessly with the wall on which six olive branches had been painted protruding from the cross. On either side of the icon stood a vase of artificial roses, an arrangement of silk lilies on a low table in front completing the lifeless ternion.

At the creaking of the door, I looked round to see a young policeman, gaunt and extremely thin, enter with a tray of tiny cans of soda and straws, standard fare for guests in Iraq, it seemed. As he smiled nervously from beneath a thin moustache, I noticed there was something wrong with his left eye, perhaps the result of an injury. I watched his delicate hands while he set the tray down on the polished wooden coffee table; the body beneath his dark blue uniform appeared so fragile I doubted he had the strength to do any real police work. We quickly finished the drinks and continued waiting, the shiny white air-conditioning units humming soporifically. Hassan and Ahmed wrapped up scrutinising the morning's photographs and began looking round the room before finally simply staring into space.

Eventually, the door opened again and our host arrived. Wearing a long cream
thobe
and a spotless white headscarf, or
ghutrah
, that extended below a generous waist, he walked towards us, dark eyes seeing everything. We stood up, clambering inelegantly out of our low seats. Speaking in Arabic, Omar introduced us to the man, who listened carefully and looked at us with polite interest. The thick brown beard, full cheeks and well-set figure belied his young years: he was not even thirty. The sign was given that we may sit down and, after he had carefully positioned himself in one of the chairs, Mazin Naif Rahim, local spiritual leader of the Mandaeans, began to speak. He addressed himself in Arabic to Omar while Hassan and Ahmed listened intently as, still toying with his mobile phone, the man talked about the people under his charge.

Some consider the Mandaeans to be the true descendents of the ancient Babylonians. Archaeological evidence points to their language – a form of Aramaic known as Mandaic – being the same as the dialect spoken in the cities of the Babylonian Empire, not only Babylon itself, but also Borsippa, Nippur and Uruk, all long since abandoned. The Mandaeans' system of astrology also resembles that practised in these once flourishing centres. It was Portuguese missionaries in the sixteenth century who first named them ‘the Christians of St John' because followers of the Mandaean religion consider John the Baptist their saviour. Like all Gnostics, they shun the material world in favour of the spiritual. Not surprisingly, their main religious rite is immersion in water, which they consider a symbol of life. Rahim spoke for some time before stopping and waiting for the guide to translate. For a moment, Omar seemed to be collecting his thoughts, then he leant forward and began.

Rahim was spiritual head of the Mandaeans in Iraq, the leader of all followers of the religion, Sheikh Sattar Jabbar al-Hulu, having moved to Australia. The Mandaeans had lived in Mesopotamia for over two thousand years, he said, mostly in the area around the Shatt al-Arab and the lower parts of the Tigris and Euphrates. Glancing at Hassan and Ahmed, he explained that, since 2003, the population of Mandaeans had dropped by over 90 percent. Many had been killed, others had fled overseas or to Kurdistan because of violent attacks, forced conversions and harassment at the hands of radical Islamists. Now, there were just some five thousand left. The Mandaeans' traditional work as goldsmiths and silversmiths meant they were targeted by criminal gangs and militias for ransoms, especially because, as pacifists, their beliefs forbade them from carrying weapons.