This is not the day for speculation. Correspondents from leading British and American newspapers are about to leave the country.
- You should go too, they tell me.
- But I’ve just arrived.
We queue for the same bureaucrats. They to leave, I to stay. People rush past each other, wait side by side, dodge the queue, push and plead. Once again my details are recorded, once again the telephone is registered, again the seal is broken, again I promise to use it only at the Ministry. This time, however, no one asks for a list of places I want to see or people I want to meet. And no one bothers to give me a minder.
The ministry seethes with panic, from the rulers on the eighth floor to us lowly subjects on the first. From the floors above us furniture is pulled, pushed and carried down the stairs and out onto the backs of lorries. Archives, computers, shelves and boxes, everything goes - God only knows where. The Ministry of Information is high on the American list of targets.
- Åsne, you must leave, Peter, The Times’ photographer, mumbles in my ear. - Please, leave!
Panic is starting to overtake me. I am given the opportunity to leave with some colleagues the next morning. But I have to write an article first, just one. I couldn’t have come all this way in vain. It takes hours to complete the registration. In reality that means I can’t leave the next day, the departure procedure would take just as long. I am fooling myself. Then I see him - and he me. Kadim. Who wouldn’t give me a visa.
- How did you get back in? he asks, grabbing my arm and looking at me darkly.
I don’t answer. - Everyone’s leaving, I say instead.
- You bought a visa, he snorts.
- Well, what was I to do?
- I tried to phone your hotel room in Amman all day yesterday and all day today, to tell you that the visa was ready. How much did you pay?
I shrug my shoulders. - A lot.
- You were stupid, mine would have been free. Why didn’t you trust me? I said I’d send you a visa.
- But it dragged on for so long, I excuse myself, as if I’ve been naughty. - Anyhow, I will probably leave tomorrow. I don’t want to be the only one left here.
- Hardly anyone is leaving. It’ll be all right, Kadim says. His voice softens. - Are you frightened? Do the bombs scare you? Think of all the Iraqi children who aren’t afraid. We Iraqis are never afraid. Look, here’s my phone number. If you’re frightened, come and live with me. I have a wife and five children who can look after you, he says, and hands me a slip of paper.
Bomb-filled nights at home with Kadim. I feel a story coming on. - The Bureaucrat of Baghdad. I feel a bit safer. Or would he hand me over to bandits when the time comes?
From round a corner, Janine comes walking towards me.
- So you came, she says. - Welcome.
Janine is awaiting the decision of The Times’ editor-in-chief. Just this morning the MOD in London had summoned representatives from leading British newspapers and TV stations and urged them to withdraw all personnel from Baghdad. They had to expect chemical weapons, hostage-taking, or worse, being chained to military installations as human shields. Besides, the bombing campaign - Shock and Awe - would be harder, faster and more awesome than anything ever before.
The majority of those leaving today have been ordered out by their employers. It is hardly encouraging to see the large TV companies pack up crates and cables and go. Like being abandoned.
First I need a place to stay. My beloved al-Fanar is out of the question. There is a choice of three hotels: al-Rashid, al-Mansour and Palestine. Most journalists have until recently lived in the enormous al-Rashid, but now this has an air of danger about it. At the entrance a sign proclaims ‘More than a hotel’ and rumour has it that it really is more than a hotel. Under the enormous structure there are, allegedly, secret tunnels, passages and surveillance systems. The hotel is an obvious target.
The second best hotel, the concrete colossus al-Mansour, is situated between the Ministry of Information and the Sinak Bridge. The very fact that the Ministry and the bridge are targets prompts the remaining journalists to leave al-Mansour and crowd into Palestine, a high-rise opposite the Presidential palace, and the least unsafe, according to rumours. Everything is based on rumour these days. They begin as small whisperings, a light tinkle in the corridors, then turn into a gentle breeze which flaps around receptive heads, until the flood of words blows up to a hurricane, raging in people’s ears. - Have you heard? Is it true? Will we die?
Hotel Palestine looks impressive and proud from a distance, surrounded by palm trees and gardens. A large swimming pool is placed under the shade of the trees, but the water is muddy, a sort of greenish brown slime. The bottom is covered by earth and sand and the pool walls are marbled with green algae. A rotten stench hits the nostrils of any passer-by. In the garden weeds flourish among the flagstones, the lawns are brown and the beds flowerless. Under a faded canopy there is a large outdoor grill, but a lot of time must have passed since lambs and oxen were barbecued here.
- No room, a receptionist informs me.
- So where should I stay?
- No room.
I know he is lying. There are hardly any guests left. He wants money. I am about to produce a couple of hundred dollars when Jean Paul from Le Nouvel Observateur comes to check in. He makes a big fuss when he hears about the extra money and - hey presto - there are no rooms at all.
Over the stone floor Janine approaches like a whirlwind, photographer, driver, porter and interpreter in tow.
- They have ordered me to leave, she bursts out, clearly exasperated. - We cannot tell you all we know, they whispered down the receiver. The war will be awful, the editor told me. I have never heard him so serious, so determined.
She looks me straight in the eye.
- Think twice.
- Yes, I will . . . I stammer.
- Take care, she says, and hugs me. - I’m actually quite relieved. Now I don’t have to make the decision. You know, I’m getting married in August. Take my room, she offers, and slips me her key. The receptionist seems like he wants to protest; there will be no extra money for him now.
My room has blue walls, a red carpet and a pervading smell: unwashed, smoke-saturated, sewers, decay. The wall to wall carpet seems to have a life of its own. The bathroom tiles are cracked and, like 707 al-Fanar, the loo leaks constantly. Like its predecessor, 734 Palestine has one advantage, a balcony. High enough to command a view, but not too hellish in case of power cuts, when stairs are the only way up and down. The bottom floors are the most popular, it feels safer living close to the ground. But from the seventh floor I can see the whole town, and best of all I have a view over to the Presidential palace on the opposite bank of the Tigris. An area covering several square kilometres, where he allegedly keeps lions and tigers, deer and watchdogs. If the place blows up I’ll be the first to know. If I’m still conscious, of course.
At last I can sit down and write. Within the blue walls I concoct a missive about the mood in Baghdad, the people fleeing, the ministries emptying. I need to go to the Information Ministry to send it and hitch a ride.
The Ministry is almost empty. The large equipment-laden crates have been driven away, the TV companies’ satellites are gone, but no one has bothered to take down the tents. In the darkness of the evening they have been left to face the wind and the bombs. The corridors, once seething with voices and the sound of telephones, are silent and empty. Janine’s office is locked. The vociferous Spaniards next door have gone. The beautiful correspondent from CNN Turk, who got the name Turkish Delight, has bolted her door. ABC has gone, NBC has gone, so have CBS and CBC. Even the tea man, Abu Ali, has taken his hot-plate and made himself scarce. There is a padlock on Newsweek’s door, but Melinda is still around. Michelle, the Sky reporter, is sniffling outside her door. She has decided to go and cries for the colleagues she leaves behind. She barely sees me through her tears.
- Are you back? she breathes.
- Came this aft
ernoon.
- I’m leaving at dawn - can’t bear it any longer.
My steps resound in the corridor and I reach the offices of RTL, where my satellite telephone has been locked up. Antonia had to guarantee that it would remain in her office at all times.
- It won’t be for much longer. Every morning I fear that the equipment is gone and the office sealed. They don’t ask any more. They’ll grab what they can when they see the end coming, Antonia whispers. Walls have ears in the temporary offices of the Information Ministry.
- Are you staying? I ask.
- Of course, she says, and applies a last layer of powder to her cheeks. - I haven’t bribed, begged and fawned for the last two months in order to leave when it all starts.
Her brows are oval arcs and her eyelids get the latest Christian Dior treatment. - Remember to lock up, she chirps, while putting brushes, pencils, powder-puff and mirror back into her bag before rushing up to the roof to deliver her live report to Cologne.
My satellite telephone refuses to work. - It’s impossible, says an Italian, frantically pressing the repeat button. What’s wrong? Have the Americans jammed the sky? Yet another argument to go home. What’s the point of covering the war if I can’t send anything? The clock ticks towards deadline. No doubt the desk is waiting and wondering what has happened to my article. I phoned from Amman the day before and said I would try and send something. At home no one knows that I actually got in. They’ll only know when they see the article in the inbox.
It feels strange to sit by Formica tables outside the Information Ministry again. They are covered with thick layers of dust, the cables are gone. Whereas there used to be a huge competition to bag chairs and tables, and many had to resort to sitting on bricks while writing, now only the Italian and I try to send our messages into the spring evening.
Ah. The whir from the satellite sounds like the most mellifluous bells. There is contact. In a few seconds thousands of words are transmitted to the waiting newsroom.
I sleep like a log after the night drive through the desert. While I rest, America’s president appears on TV screens around the world. Saddam Hussein and his sons must leave Iraq within 48 hours. Their refusal to do so will result in military conflict commenced at a time of our choosing. Behind him are portraits of his wife and daughters. For their own safety, all foreign nationals, including journalists and inspectors, should leave Iraq immediately, he continues.
The speech has an effect, if not on the Iraqi president, then on the stragglers, who leave this Tuesday morning. I give myself one more day. Will just write one more article.
I look for Aliya. No Aliya, they say at the Information Ministry, and give me a new minder, Rawda, who speaks French. Her hair is coloured orange and her eyes are pale. She is distant and cool, and makes me miss Aliya. Rawda uses the correct vous form of address and repeats the jaded phrase that I can do what I want, we just have to apply first.
- This is no time for applications, I say curtly. I have learnt that it sometimes pays to be gruff, and haul her out of the Ministry. On the street I hail a taxi before she has a chance to react and ask the driver to take us to the nearest school. There I ask her to inquire of the headmaster whether we can talk to the pupils. Of course we can’t. We must have permission.
I know the procedure. Nothing is possible. So I try a bit of common sense.
- In a few days the bombing of Baghdad will most likely start, I say to the headmaster. - Bush is portraying the Iraqis as enemies. By turning you into demons he tries to whip up support for the war. Many people, including many Americans, do not want this war. By letting them know about the individuals, like these schoolgirls, their teachers, people with real faces, it can wake people up and get them thinking: How can we kill these people? But you won’t let me. You are missing out in the propaganda war.
I can see that they are thinking hard as my little speech is being translated by Rawda. Her eyes blink nervously, but she goes on. In the end the headmaster says OK.
While I am interviewing the girls the headmaster, three teachers and the school caretaker pay close attention. That’s what it’s like doing interviews in Iraq. I have got used to it and the interviews are just a source of simple information. How much food have they hoarded? Have their houses been fortified? Will they be coming to school tomorrow?
The schoolgirls have learnt how to defend themselves in case of an attack: In the event of bombs or missiles; throw yourself on the ground.
- First of all you must open the windows, one of them explains. - So they don’t shatter.
- But if it is a chemical attack, then we must close the windows, another girl interrupts. Her friends continue: You take a piece of cloth, dip it in water, pour salt on it, lots of salt, and hold it in front of your nose and mouth.
The girls talk animatedly about the safety training they’ve done: How to clean wounds, bandage fractures, put out fires, secure windows. The seriousness of the matter cannot overshadow their enthusiasm to share their knowledge with a stranger.
The conversation turns out to be less trivial than I had feared. I am even allowed to accompany one of the girls home.
- See you tomorrow, they cry happily to each other at the gate.
- I hope the town won’t be completely ruined, Marwa sighs when she has taken her place on the school bus. Through the windows she looks out at heavily laden cars leaving town, empty shops, windows covered in strong plastic sheeting, and not least military positions on the street corners. They look unassuming, the sandbags reaching no further than the soldiers’ hips.
- We will continue our schooling irrespective of the bombs. We’ve been through this before.
Her words exactly match the party propaganda: Iraqis will resist and eventually defeat the enemy.
The fifteen-year-old jumps off in the al-Dourrin district. Here the alleyways are so narrow that cars cannot pass. The roads are not tarmaced and children run barefoot in the gutter. Women in long shawls steal by. Marwa opens the door to a traditional Baghdad house - a covered yard in the centre, surrounded by rooms on one floor and an attic above. The windows are covered in plastic sheeting, string and tape. The attic is packed with sacks of rice, flour and beans. Like other Iraqis the family has been given three months’ worth of rations in advance, in case the war lasts.
Marwa lives here with her mother, father, four siblings, uncle, aunt and three cousins. Her mother has recently given birth, the aunt is seven months pregnant. The atmosphere in the house is resigned.
The father delivers his required speech of support for Saddam Hussein. Then come the worries and the questions. - Why the Spaniards, he suddenly asks. - I wonder what in the world we have done to them? We have always been on excellent terms with Spain. I understand that the Americans and British are against us, but the Spaniards? he wonders, and alludes to Jose Maria Aznar’s backing of the coalition forces.
To supplement her daughter’s first-aid wisdom the mother has a few simple remedies that she used during previous attacks.
- Cotton wool in the children’s ears, says Rana. - When the bombs fall the explosions that accompany them can drive you crazy. I’ll stop the children’s ears with cotton wool so they won’t be frightened. And I’ve bought sleeping pills and calming extracts so they can get lost in dreams, away from the awful events, she says while breast-feeding the youngest child.
- We’re not thinking of fleeing, says the father. - We’ll stay at home and take care of each other. Our relatives’ houses outside Baghdad are already overflowing and we don’t want to be a burden to them. So where could we go? To a refugee camp in the desert? No, we’ll stay here and see it out.
Najih has a little clothes shop. Trade has been slow lately. - People don’t buy dresses any more. I can understand that. Who on earth is thinking of dressing up? People need their money for food, water and heat.
Marwa listens to her father as he talks. She sits quietly on the floor, a black-and-white-patterned shawl tied under her chin. From time to ti
me her eyes wander. Her school-bag is still on the floor beside her.
When we are about to leave she pulls her books out. She starts her physics homework for next day. ‘Movement, vibrations and oscillations’ is the heading of the new chapter. It could be her last homework for some time. But in the months to come there might be an abundance of movement, vibrations and oscillations.
In the parking lot I meet Amir. He freezes when he sees me. - Miss Hosna! What are you doing here? Why have you come back?
The huge driver’s eyes are panicky.
- It’ll be all right. Relax, it’ll be over soon, I say.
When I return to the hotel the majority of those who had considered leaving Iraq have left. Only the fearless remain. Those in contempt of death. Or the idiots? A handful of American journalists have boycotted their editors’ demand to leave and have stayed on, with the excuse that they had not paid their bills and would consequently be arrested at the border. To be cooped up in jail when the bombing starts would be the worst scenario, so it is better to stay on.