The two customers nod. They are students, one of literature, the other of philosophy.
- In the 1970s this was a beautiful country. We had the best education system, the best healthcare in the Arab world. Oil gave us riches. In 1990 I had a Mercedes, says the bookseller. - Now I have these two legs.
- Anyhow, people no longer read, they don’t study either. Look at these two, he says, and points to the boys. - They have come to look for textbooks, but won’t find them. I have copied a few sheets, but look at the bad print. Anyway, they don’t have time to read, they have to work.
Mansour has postponed his exams several times. - I must help my family and have started an outlet for spare parts, the literature student says. The philosophy student also has a small shop.
- What do you sell?
- What is it called? he says, and tries to find the right word.
- Scrap, the literature student cuts him off.
- The tragedy is that people no longer read. They have three jobs and no time for books. Anyhow, you need peace and quiet to read, don’t you? That’s not possible when life’s all upside down. I used to read one book a day, now I can hardly manage one a month. People don’t have the money either, and the libraries aren’t operating. They have been emptied, says the bookseller. - By the employees. Some of the books you’ll find here in the market.
The bookseller is starting to get nervous. We have been talking for a long time. - I’ve never spoken to anyone like this before. Here you are, take the books, go home and read.
When I get home I unpack the forbidden book the Kurd gave me. From Revolution to Dictatorship. Iraq since 1958. Like tens of thousands of intellectuals, the author was murdered by the regime.
The other book gives a description of Baghdad in the prosperous 7th century. ‘Baghdad was the richest city in the world. The river banks were black with boats. They brought porcelain from China, spices from India, slaves from Turkey, gold-dust from East Africa, weapons from Arabia.’
The golden times are over. Neither pearls nor ivory make it to Baghdad now. Weapons, however, always find their way.
Said’s visits become more infrequent, the room is already stuffed with knick-knacks, and besides, he doesn’t have the time. The hotel gradually fills up. Word gets round that al-Fanar provides cheap lodgings and is nicknamed ‘the peaceniks’ hotel’. Here the foreign pacifists hang out, plan their campaigns, paint their posters, write their press releases and party at night. A profusion of organisations have made their way to Baghdad during the winter and spring of 2003. They organise conferences and projects, produce websites and paint banners. Don’t kill Iraqi children for oil. Few editors are interested in articles about the activities of the peace movement in Iraq - mine is not, anyhow. The activists buzz round the Information Ministry like bees round a honey-pot, but their press releases are usually consigned to the wastepaper basket.
None of the peace activists are successful in attracting attention - until the human shields arrive in town. Now the journalists are doing the buzzing. From a newsworthy point of view they succeed where the others have failed. Owing to the high stakes, maybe? During February they arrive in Baghdad in buses, in cars and by air. The first bus that reaches Baghdad is given front page coverage in the Iraqi papers. Saddam Hussein welcomes them, via a comment to INA.
The new anti-war recruits throw wild parties and talk heatedly. Every morning they go out to inspect the installations they will protect with their own bodies. From time to time they mingle with the regime-organised demonstrations, shouting pro-Saddam and anti-Bush slogans in an inharmonious dance. The Western individuals have landed themselves in a difficult situation - travel and subsistence are paid by the Iraqi regime. I follow them for several days to try and understand what makes them tick.
We roll through the streets of Baghdad in two double-decker London buses. We are preceded by an outrider and two Iraqi policemen on motorbikes. People glance up and see a colourful collection of war opponents hanging out of the bus windows. Some of the passers-by wave back, others looked hurriedly down, as though the bus does not concern them.
- We are here to stop the bombs, stop Bush, says Teijo, a student from a technical high school in southern Finland. - I think we are playing an important role.
The twenty-two-year-old has a large rucksack and a sleeping bag in his lap. He is thin and pale, awkward like an overgrown teenager. Today he has left a soft bed in one of Baghdad’s hotels to move in to South Baghdad Electricity Works.
- If the power is cut the purification plants won’t work and several hundred thousand people will have to drink contaminated water. The fact that we are here makes it more difficult for the USA to bomb. To them the life of westerners is worth more than that of Iraqis.
The buses continue southwards, towards the outskirts of Baghdad. We pass military barracks hidden behind newly constructed sandbag walls, a bridge, and several buried positions, probably for anti-aircraft missiles.
At the electricity works Teijo and the other activists are confronted by a huge portrait of Saddam Hussein. The local workers greet the pacifists with resounding Saddam slogans. He is ‘in their heart and soul’. A few of the pacifists unfurl a long banner: No to war. But when the workers with the posters of the president line up beside them, they quickly roll the banner up. - We are here for the Iraqi people, not for Saddam Hussein, is the watchword.
Fifteen human shields are expected to move in at South Baghdad Electricity Works today. Several have started to withdraw from the mission. A French boy, Asdine, was taken by surprise when he visited an Iraqi family. - Stop that nonsense, they told him. - We want war, we want bombs, so we can at last rid ourselves of our dictator.
Unlike Teijo, several of the human shields have informed the Iraqis that they do not want to protect the country’s infrastructure, but rather lodge in orphanages and hospitals, which are not direct targets. This the Iraqi authorities try to prevent as the human shields are valueless to the regime if they install themselves in hospitals.
- We have started to feel the pressure. The men from the ministry were angry when they realised that so many had withdrawn, and they reminded us why we were here, one activist says, standing by and watching the fifteen who have found a bed each. - I’m starting to regret the whole thing. Maybe the Iraqis will chain us to the strategic targets, civilian and military, the day before the bombs start dropping. I don’t think I want to be here any longer.
A sleeping bag under his head, Teijo has made himself comfortable on one of the camp beds that has been put out for the fifteen shields. He watches the others getting ready. This is where he will spend his days and nights, even when the bombs start to drop. - I am willing to accept what destiny might bring. If I doubt, I think about the Iraqis who have no choice. We Europeans can leave whenever we want, it is just a drive to the Jordanian border. They have to stay. It is bloody unfair. I hope thousands more shields arrive. Then it might be possible to stop Bush, Teijo says seriously. He is sitting up in bed. On the wall above him is a picture of the Iraqi president. I ask him what he thinks of sleeping under his watchful gaze.
- He’s only a symbol of the Iraqi people. Beyond that I have no opinion about his politics. In Finland too we have portraits of the president on the wall.
I am silent. Is it my place to inform him about Saddam Hussein’s harassment of the Iraqi people? About the dictatorship? That he cannot compare the Finnish president to the Iraqi. I feel like crying. Suddenly everything is so sad. The gangling, rather strange boy who has taken on this huge task touches me.
- What do your parents say? I manage to ask.
- They have asked me to return.
- Go home, I beg him earnestly. - Go while there is still time. You haven’t a clue what will happen.
I have far overstepped the role of a reporter. Observe, report, write. Don’t get involved, don’t get caught up. Like an elder sister I feel responsible for this frail boy. As the only Nordic among the journalists I must look after
this Finn.
- I hope I’ll get home one day, is all Teijo says.
- The question is whether they have more use for us dead than alive when the bombs start falling. We have no guarantee that the Iraqis won’t kill us and show us off.
- Look what your bombs have done, says the activist on the bed beside him.
- This is starting to taste bad, he says. - Look around. On one side is a military warehouse, on the other side a bridge. The troops might be moved here. We might become Saddam Hussein’s hostages. With all the media attention we have been given in Iraq, people might associate us with the regime, and what if that is toppled and there is civil war? On which side do people think we are?
- So why stay?
- I’m staying against my better judgement. Reason tells me to go, but my body says stay. It is pure Kierkegaardesque, he philosophises. On the stool by his bed the Thousand and One Nights lies opened.
I know the risk I am taking, but I am not frightened. If I die my death will be wonderful and if I succeed I will have rendered this country a great service, Scheherazade persuades her father, before she crawls in to the bloodthirsty king and starts the story telling, for a thousand and one nights.
Only time will tell whether the activists are as brave as she was.
As February draws to an end the foreign embassies are busy evacuating non-essential staff. Externally the barricades increase, internally they are emptied. The most absurd part of the evacuations are the sumptuous farewell parties.
The French ambassador has not yet recovered from the loss of the plentiful and laboriously collected wine cellar which disappeared during the first Gulf War. Hence l’ambassadeur gives a scrumptious reception overflowing with champagne and vintage wine. He is not going to fall into the same trap and, in anticipation of the war, has long since stopped reordering wine. As he says late that night, smiling: Now I can’t give même une toute petite reception!
Janine and I have taught Aliya to toughen up and we now go around town without permission. A sunny winter’s day, our goal is Baghdad’s posh neighbourhood. Here we will try and discover whether they too are leaving the country.
We are admitted to Fatima’s house. It is late morning but she is still pottering about in a pink velvet dressing gown embroidered with gold roses. Fatima and the children have packed necessities and are waiting for the husband to decide when the time has come to send them off to safety. Necessities represent an infinitesimal part of their belongings. The family live in a palace covering a thousand square metres. There are five bathrooms, in Italian marble, and the family have five children of school age. The enormous sitting room is empty; they very rarely entertain. The shelves in the library are bare.
- We haven’t had time to buy any books yet, Fatima excuses herself.
The villa’s sitting room windows are ten metres high, covered in thick brocade. Fatima is one of the few who, despite sanctions, has never wanted for anything.
- If you have money you can get hold of everything. Even scarce medicine; that comes in from Jordan, she explains while the maid serves coffee in tiny oriental cups. But not even the richest can buy freedom from the threat of American bombs. Furniture is being covered up, gates locked, cars driven away.
- To Jordan. We have relatives there. There is still time, but the war is getting close, Bush has made up his mind, she says resignedly, looking around the sitting room.
- This is not a safe place. The house is sound but there are many windows, and anyhow there are several military installations around here, Fatima sighs. A heavy lethargy weighs down the rich man’s wife. She rarely leaves the house and her maid sees to most things. Not even the evacuation is decided by her. - Allah decides when our time on earth is up, but my husband will best know when we must leave.
Fatima’s husband is a timber merchant and one of those who has earned enormous sums owing to sanctions, enabling him to build a palace in the al-Wasiriya district of town. Several of Saddam’s confidantes have their mini castles here.
- That is another reason we don’t feel safe here. Many of his men live here, Fatima confides in us, mimicking falling bombs with her hands. - Their houses will be attacked first.
At the fashionable restaurant al-Finjan, in Arasat Street, the owner Alaw sits with his wife Ani. We meet them a few hours after our rendezvous with Fatima.
Ani’s hair is bleached and styled, her fingers full of rings, she wears an elegant reddish brown tweed coat and skirt. Her days consist of mornings in the beauty parlour, evenings at one of Baghdad’s private clubs, and long hours at home.
- Life here is dreary, she wails. - It’s so boring, nothing happens.
The upper-class wife is well aware that the boring days might soon be over, replaced by an excitement most people could do without. Now Ani’s husband is trying to buy her and their son out of both boredom and the unwelcome excitement.
Last year he visited Germany and returned with the latest Mercedes. This year he brought nothing back. He had gone to apply for a residence permit for his wife and son. He knows that their sumptuous home, complete with DVD player, granite floors and European furniture will give little protection against bombs.
- In order to get a German visa I have to deposit 100,000 dollars in a bank as guarantee, Alaw explains. - And even having done that there is no guarantee that they will get the visa. If they don’t get the visa there are two alternatives, a farm outside Baghdad, or Jordan. But I would prefer to get them out of the area altogether, to Europe, where it’s safe.
In Shahbendar the three friends are saying their farewells. They smoke hookah and sip the house speciality: spiced citron pressé with sugar and boiling water.
Samir is off to Damascus the following day. Once in Syria he will try and obtain a visa for Europe. Samir is one of Iraq’s promising young sculptors; the French centre of culture in Baghdad once exhibited his works. Most of all he wants to get to Paris, and his luggage includes twenty sculptures depicting the same theme: a fragile winged woman tries to take off, but her heavy, solid legs hold her rooted to the ground. The woman is fighting a dragon.
- My family are left behind, my mother, my sisters. It doesn’t feel good, he says gloomily. - But I want to achieve so much and when I have a chance to escape the bombs then I’ll grab it. What can an artist do in a war? All the galleries are closed, people try to sell their art, no one buys.
The friends too would like to leave, but can’t. - I’ll have to stay and paint war pictures, Haidar laughs. - When the war is over I will arrange a large exhibition, he dreams aloud, and refuses to let the seriousness of the situation take over. - True life is to make your wife happy, work a bit, dress elegantly, smell good, swan around town, discuss with friends. This is the philosophy of an Iraqi artist. You must not contemplate death, because life is not infinite.
- There is no point ruminating about war before it has even arrived, says the quiet Rafik. - War is in any case routine.
- In Iraq we are ready for war, like you are ready for winter, Haidar smiles.
The café buzzes with hushed conversations. Outside the door a boy is selling caramels. People give him money but leave the caramels. The beggar’s brat cannot flee the bombs. He can only hope that someone will take him down into a cellar and hold their hands over his ears so he will not hear them.
The farewell party continues throughout the evening. The three artists have arranged to meet in one of Baghdad’s better auction houses, not for the purpose of selling but to meet friends. Grasping a glass of tea and with the auctioneer’s voice droning in the background, Samir whispers. - I am frightened for my father, who is an army officer, I am frightened of the bombs, I am afraid of the Shias and the Kurds, and the secret police, I’m frightened of everything. Sometimes even my own shadow scares me.
But in spite of worrying about the family remaining in Baghdad, he wants war. - Of course I would have preferred a velvet revolution. But assuming the war does not deteriorate into a bloodbath we will all be singing w
hen the Americans arrive. - Allons boire une verre . . . Let’s have another glass.
Samir guffaws. - What a happy day that would be!
His face darkens. - Unless all the glasses are broken.
In the hectic last days of February people try to get rid of non-essentials. If they are forced to flee, cash is better than crystal vases. Anyhow people need money to stock up on essentials: food, oil, petrol and water. At Baghdad’s numerous auction markets supply far exceeds demand.
In a large, dusty square, men stand on crates calling out one item after another. A large collection of furniture and household goods lies all around, much of it well-used. Around the piles people gather; they either need something or want to get rid of something.