- We don’t think they’ll bomb residential areas, so now we’re living on carpets and mattresses all over the floor. Anyhow, we like to keep together when something threatens, Aliya reports on the phone. She tries to keep her spirits up and hopes no civilians lost their lives in the attack, which was directed at a suburb to the south of the town.
- However smart these bombs are they can go wrong. We’re just waiting, as if tasting life and death one after the other.
Aliya is in no way gripped by panic.
- I fell asleep after the attack. This was nothing. The explosions were never so loud that we could not hear the neighbourhood dogs bay like crazy at the sky, she says and laughs a touch.
- When do you need me?
- Come as quick as you can.
While I wait I write a hasty report for Aftenposten’s afternoon edition.
In reception the guards are sitting down, chain smoking, as if nothing has happened. The breakfast room is seething. The waiters pour out mugs of steaming hot tea. The hard-boiled eggs share tin plates with greasy scrambled eggs. The bread is dry, as usual, the tomatoes watery, the olives too salty. In other words, it’s business as usual.
When the danger-over siren sounds over Baghdad, the streets fill up quickly. A few cars pass by, followed by ambulances. But there is no information about what has happened. Iraqi TV and radio plays military music and songs of homage to Saddam Hussein. Late in the morning the president appears on TV and thus the world knows that the Americans missed.
The morning’s bombing raid was aimed directly at him. American intelligence had been tipped off that the president and his closest cronies were in a building in the southern outskirts of Baghdad. Missiles reduced the place to smithereens. Triumphant, Saddam opens his speech in the same indignant manner as Aliya: The Americans initiated the attack during the hours of prayer. In addition he encourages everyone to fight against ‘Little Bush’, as he calls George Bush Junior. He concludes the speech by reciting classical Arab poetry; fighting horsemen, sword in hand.
Aliya is hardly fighting fit when she turns up. - It is not the bombs that I fear the most, but what might evolve afterwards. Civil war. If chaos follows and there is a power vacuum someone might take advantage of the situation and avenge themselves on the regime. Shias might attack Sunnis, and the bandits will do as they like.
This is the first time Aliya has expressed any doubts about Iraq’s ability to defend itself and control its population. The mere mention of the possibility of civil war is forbidden. Happiness and harmony is the distinguishing feature of the relationship between the various ethnic groups. When I ask more she stays quiet. She coughs and looks away. As if to emphasise that the conversation is over she starts to tell me what has been broadcast on the news.
- The Minister of the Interior has called on people to open their shops. To demonstrate that we are unbeatable, that we can withstand even extreme challenges, Aliya trots out. - Are you afraid? she suddenly asks. - You mustn’t be afraid. Whatever happens, I am here with you. I’ll look after you.
Aliya grabs my hand. - You are my sister. If anyone attacks you I will protect you with my body. We can hide in my house if it gets dangerous. And anyhow, our destiny is in God’s hands. Everything will happen according to His will. You are my fair sister and I am your dark one. Shakra and Samra. The fair and the dark. OK? We’ll look after each other. Won’t we?
- Like sisters, I say.
- Like sisters, Aliya repeats.
Having drunk several glasses of tea and forged the chains of sisterhood, we seek permission to inspect the damage from the night’s bombing. That is denied us so instead we go for a stroll round the centre of town.
In spite of the minister’s appeal, nine out of ten shops are closed. It seems that people fear that the next attack might come at any moment, particularly as the Americans did not even respect the hour of prayer. Only a few people scuttle along the pavements by the river. In Abu Nuwas Street a handful of cigarette vendors’ stalls are open. The greater part of Baghdad has gone underground. The city’s many mosques are the only places that people flock to. The moment the muezzin calls people to prayer, they come to a halt, go down on their knees, on the pavements and in parks. An unusual sight in Baghdad.
- Goal!
Eleven players cheer. They are leading 3-2.
- We usually come here every afternoon. Why shouldn’t we be here today? seventeen-year-old Hamdi says. He is watching from the touchline. - But we go home when it gets dark. Tomorrow we’ll meet again, whether they bomb or not.
Nevertheless, the football team has dwindled over the last few days.
- Some have left town with their families. The country-side is safer for the moment, but most of us have stayed behind. Someone has to defend the city.
The football ground is not the safest place, surrounded as it is by strategic targets: the television and communications centre, where a huge portrait of Saddam Hussein on the phone adorns the wall, two further government buildings and the Sinak bridge which leads to the Information Ministry on the opposite bank of the river, the state-run TV channel and the Congress Palace.
The match’s only onlookers are a bunch of soldiers in green uniforms. They lounge about, each with a Kalashnikov over the shoulder, under orders to defend the buildings surrounding the pitch.
- We are defending our president and our country, say the young lads in threadbare uniforms and worn-out shoes.
I cannot resist asking the obvious.
- How can you defend Baghdad with Kalashnikovs?
- We’ll take the Americans, we’ll show them that Iraqis are strong, is the only answer, like a broken record. They point to some stairs in the brick building. - We live down there; we have all we need.
I need to change money, and after a long search I find an exchange in Sadoun Street, behind the Hotel Palestine. The premises are empty bar three cashiers staring at us from behind the counter.
On the wall is a dollar bill. The face of George Washington has been superimposed with that of Osama bin Laden.
- This is our way of demonstrating against the bombs, the money changer says. - If Bush continues this criminal assault we’ll send him Osama bin Laden in return. The world cannot accept this injustice. America thinks it can go ahead and behave just as it likes, even breaking international law, like now.
The man talks and counts simultaneously. Gradually stacks of dinars pile up on the counter. He gives me a plastic bag full of money. The exchange rate has nose-dived and even for small purchases you need a bunch of notes. - I don’t have anything against the Americans in general, the money changer says. - We just don’t want them to occupy our country. If they come and visit we are only too pleased to exchange their money and do business with them. We’ll do business with anyone. But Bush should keep away from Baghdad.
On a central reserve in Abu Nuwas Street I suddenly spy Teijo. Together with two others he has chained himself to a tree. ‘No to War’ is the message on the placard he is holding up. I ask Amir to stop the car and walk over to the young Finn. So he has stayed, despite most of the human shields having left long ago. I ask him how he got through the night.
- I was woken by someone screaming: ‘The war has started.’ Most of us went down to the bomb shelter but I went down to the river. I wanted to see the bombs drop. I felt very upset and disappointed; this meant that our protest had not worked. But still, it is my moral obligation to stay, Teijo says. - In between my heart twinged when I thought the bombs might have hit my power plant.
South Baghdad power station is a so-called legitimate target, adjacent to a military establishment and the bridge to Basra.
- I hope I’ll survive. But if I don’t, that’s my fate, Teijo continues.
- Have you been in contact with your parents recently?
- They’re still asking me to come home. But when I tell them that this is very important to me, that it’s something I really want to do, they understand. I know I’m not a coward, but
I would feel like one if I went home. If I go home it will be like letting my dreams die.
His eyes shine. Teijo is adamant. Standing beside him, a civil servant follows the interview closely. When night starts to fall Teijo untangles himself from the chains and goes back to South Baghdad power station - to yet another night on the camp bed, accompanied by yet another bombing symphony.
It is soon nine o’clock in Baghdad. Norway’s News Night theme tune plays on the other end of the phone line. While I wait to join the live broadcast I hear and see it. An enormous explosion, one more, then several, not as last time like crashing thunderclaps on the horizon, but close by. The sky is lit up - from its colour it looks as if Baghdad must be burning. The darkness erupts in a sea of orange flames. One missile after another strikes on the other side of the Tigris. Iraqi anti-aircraft guns crackle. In spite of the noise from the laser-guided missiles, I hear the whine of the fighter planes. I lie down on the floor, as far away from the window as possible, but close enough to see out. Another explosion follows. I crawl over to the balcony to get a better view. The spectacle is overwhelming, and there is no doubt of the night’s target: the Presidential palace on the opposite bank, a few hundred yards away. The palace is in flames, and continual explosions, probably from the stores of ammunition held there, can be heard and seen through the bars of the balcony.
I report what I see. The bangs are audible in the studio via the telephone receiver. Some of them cause the enormous concrete hotel to shake and the windows to vibrate. A crash, I speak, another crash, I continue to speak, and then we say goodbye to Åsne Seierstad in Baghdad. The studio hangs up. The attack intensifies. Metal hitting concrete, metal striking marble, metal colliding with iron. I remain on the floor. So this is what being bombed feels like. My fists are clenched, arms tense, eyes staring into space but seeing nothing. Now it’s for real.
There is a knock on the door. Remy and Pascal wonder how I’m getting on.
- Shall we go down to the air-raid shelter? I ask.
No response.
- Isn’t it safer down there? I ask again.
- You are just as safe here, Remy says.
- Or rather, unsafe, Pascal laughs sarcastically and walks past me into the room. He puts a bottle of wine on the table.
Very few journalists spend time in the air-raid shelter during the bombing. The few of us who are left are too curious to allow the drama to unfold without watching it. Isolated in the cellar, you can’t hear the planes or see the flames. The air-raid shelter is anyhow full of Iraqi women and children. The Information Ministry bureaucrats and hotel employees have brought their families here, reasoning that the Americans will not bomb a hotel full of western journalists, as if that would constitute an invisible safety net. At night they sleep in the shelter, during the day they return home. Children run around, getting in the way of anyone still brave enough to use the lift; they play in it, up and down, up and down.
My two French friends’ visit is not purely altruistic; my balcony has the best view of town and faces the Presidential palace. We watch the final act of the bombing drama. My fear-filled time on the floor has toughened me up. It makes no odds where you are, on the balcony or on the floor under the bed. If you are hit, you are hit.
After an hour the violent attack is over; now the ambulance and fire-engine sirens cut through the air. Below, on Abu Nuwas Street, cars rush by, possibly carrying the wounded to hospital. During the attack our guards remained on the square below, trying to gauge where the missiles hit. Now, once again, they turn their eyes to us. I sneak the telephone inside, hide it behind the cupboard, empty my glass and fall asleep.
According to the Information Minister Muhammed Said al-Sahhaf, thirty-seven people were wounded during the night.
The following morning people are woken by the sound of the mullahs’ call to prayer, as opposed to the bombs of the previous morning. It acts as a cue. People swarm out of their hiding places. Shortly after sunrise Baghdad’s usual morning symphony is once again audible - drivers sound their horns, buses snail along, people ride creaky bicycles and wear clip-clopping shoes. Although the traffic jams aren’t quite as bad as usual, nevertheless it is a near normal spring morning in Baghdad, sunny and buzzing.
However, something indicates that this is only a temporary respite from the war: the selection of goods for sale. Vendors stand behind little tables, by cars or on stools. One man has three items for sale: batteries, torches and candles. Another sells oil lamps, rechargeable lamps and primus lamps. A third man has just one item for sale: thick, brown window tape. Business is brisk. The price of batteries has tripled in the last few days, as have lamp and torch prices.
One man is flogging Bazooka lamps. ‘Your weapon in the dark’, the Chinese lamp advertises. - Usually I sell a couple every month, now I’ve sold one hundred and twenty in three days, Sami says, selling from a table in front of his closed electricity shop. He has taken the necessary precautions. - I have removed most of the stock to prevent it being destroyed by bombs, but also in case the shop is looted. Of course I’m delighted to be making money now, but I don’t like the bombs, the street seller assures us while demonstrating the lamp to a customer.
I buy a Bazooka. Tim makes do with candles, which is just as well because I never get the lamp to work.
- Bush says he’s going to liberate us, says an indignant man. He says he wants to occupy the country for humanitarian reasons. So why does he send bombs which kill and maim and make our days so difficult. Without power, without water?
- He won’t bomb today, another man assures him. - It is impossible to bomb on a Friday, he establishes. - That would mean Bush doesn’t respect Muslims, and that means he doesn’t respect Christians either. After all, we have the same God, and He has asked us to keep the day of rest holy, so there’ll be no bombs on Friday or Sunday, he says confidently.
- Bush couldn’t care less, a third interrupts. - He’s an atheist. Otherwise he couldn’t have planned all the ghastly things he’s doing to us.
We leave the discussion about Bush’s faith and cross the road to gauge the mood in the bird market. Doves, falcons, parrots and rare birds twitter and chirp at the sun. But it has been a bad night. One vendor is mourning two birds killed. - Because I had to close my shop I was forced to put several birds in one cage. The strongest won, these were pecked to bits, Taha says, and pulls the dead birds out of a box. - They’re worth one hundred dollars each. Alive. Now they’re worth nothing.
- My doves were nervous during yesterday’s bombing, another bird vendor tells us. - But I gave them some extra food and then they settled down.
However, both men are pleased with sales. - There’s nothing else to do but wait, so there’s plenty of time to buy doves and parrots, Taha says. He sells birds in the daytime and guards the streets at night. - I wear a uniform, get out my rifle and go where I’m told. I’m a Baath Party volunteer. I’m at it again tonight.
In the middle of the square the bird cages give way to shiny water containers - the fish market. Like the windows, the containers are secured with tape.
- This is a risky business. Hardan is worried. - In the event of a major attack, the containers will crack and all my fish will die.
On the way back to the car we pass the local fire station. A firefighter tells us he helped put out a fire at the Ministry of Planning. - I have never seen such enormous flames, he says. The burly chap fits exactly the American idea of a heroic firefighter.
Before we have time to ask more we are hassled out of the area. A gruff man waves us away and we make ourselves scarce. This is not the time to irritate Iraqi officials. Close to the fire station is the headquarters of one of Baghdad’s electricity works. Large mounds of sand are piled up outside the building. Two men are shovelling it into bags and positioning them by the entrance. The final preparations before the next onslaught.
Restaurant al-Maida is situated at a crossroad. Chicken and kebabs are being served at white Perspex tables. The queue by
the grill is long.
- I have bought in several hundred kilos of chicken, says the owner, Latif, a grey-haired, weather-beaten type. - I intend to stay open come what may. Last night I was open until midnight. I was standing outside and watching the bombs fall. I refuse to give up. But then, I’m raking it in, because most people are closed. I’m too old to take part, so my challenge is to keep this joint open whatever happens. I despise the Americans; they’re cretins, just like their films. There’s no truth in them, it’s all crap.
He sits down heavily at our table. - I think tonight’s the night for the big one. I feel it. When night falls the bombs will return. And I’ll be here grilling my chicken, he grins.