It is like watching an opera from the upper circle. An opera nearing il gran finale. We watch spellbound, bewitched by the drama unfolding before our eyes, until we awake from the spell and wish to be part of the scene. We leave our vantage points, abandon the balconies and rush down the stairs, Lorenzo at a gallop, me waltzing on his heels. Down on Paradise Square we stand, gaping. An extraordinary sight, these Americans, like extras in a war film. All the safety equipment makes them look enormous. Stiff and concentrated, they roll over the rotunda, weapons pointing in all directions, ready to shoot, ready to attack. This is unknown territory; no one knows where the enemy might hide.
It is not in Paradise Square. When the first tank has circled the whole roundabout it stops. All the tanks follow suit. In no time they are in control of the entire square.
The faces of the soldiers are unmistakably American. Big, broad, well-fed. Some blond, some dark, some black. The American look.
- It’s over. The war is over, I think.
A knot dissolves and something flows inside me. I call out to one of the passing tanks.
- Thank you for coming!
I want to swallow the words as they escape my mouth.
But I have been so afraid . . .
Aliya has come down. She stares stiffly ahead. Her lips are tightly squeezed, her shoulders hunched. Distrust shines from her eyes. Without looking at me she comes and stands by my side.
After a while some young men gather around the statue in the centre of the square. Someone with a large sledgehammer tries to knock it down. Others pull themselves up and place a rope round its neck. They push and pull. But it stands firm; the granite plinth alone is several metres high.
- Down with Saddam. Thank you Bush!
Actually I have never given the statue much thought. Never looked at it closely. It has always been there, in the background, when I deliver my TV reports, and I have passed it on my way out to town and on my return. Only today, as it is being attacked, do I really see it. It is like a statue of Stalin, unapproachable, cold and paternal all at once, with a hand pointing, leading towards the future.
The statue, raised a year earlier on 28 April 2002 to celebrate Saddam’s sixty-fifth birthday, stands firm. The hammering reminds me of the Lilliputs in Gulliver’s travels. The marines from Charlie company come to the rescue, eager for destruction. A chain is placed around the dictator’s head. One end of the chain is fastened to an American tank which rolls backwards. The statue doesn’t move. The tank pulls harder. The statue stands firm. The soldiers try again. The statue moves forwards slightly, but remains erect.
The tank takes a run, we hear a creak, but Saddam remains standing. A few marines climb up and fasten an American flag to his head. The mob near the statue shout jubilantly. Those outside the crowd freeze slightly. Saddam is blindfolded and gagged.
- We are in Iraq, not America, one man standing beside me says. He stares fixedly at the drama in front of him.
- We are the ones who should have got rid of Saddam. But look, we let them do it, another sighs. - We are cowards; we should have voiced our opinions, face to face, not pull down statues now that he has fallen.
- At last we can say what we want, a third intervenes. - That man has blood on his hands; he is a tyrant, he strangled us.
They disagree. At last a political discussion is being heard in the streets of Baghdad. Some applaud, others resist.
- This is an insult, the first man says. - The American flag must not fly in Baghdad.
As though Charlie company have heard the voices at the far end of the square, an Iraqi flag appears and is placed on the statue’s head, the Stars and Stripes is removed. Many heave a sigh of relief; the men around the statue perform a dance.
- Shias, one of the men snorts. - They are all Shias. Listen how they invoke Imam Hussein.
An elderly man watches the drama developing in the square. A little boy is standing beside him on a concrete wall. The man’s face is pitted with scars and he looks on, as if petrified.
- I never thought the regime would fall this quickly, he says when woken from his reverie. - It has ruined my life. Now it has gone.
The man puts his arms around the boy. He looks like his grandfather, but the boy is his son, the man is only forty.
- The war has aged me, he says, as though reading my thoughts. - It has sucked the vigour out of me. All these wars started by our president. When I was seventeen I was sent to fight Iran, eight years of hell. Three years later the Gulf War started. I was nearly killed when a missile struck a few yards away. That’s how I got these scars. He touches the cuts by his lips, over his eyes, on his cheek. He pulls up his shirt and exposes many more.
- But the deepest wounds are here, he says, and points to his heart. - My two youngest brothers were killed in the Gulf War. One was mown down by bullets from an American tank, another died during one of the big battles in the desert. I escaped and walked on foot from Kuwait to Baghdad. When I got home I had nothing, no money, no shoes, my clothes were hanging in shreds. I was alive but my life had been taken from me. I gave twenty years to the Iraqi army. Years that gave me nothing but pain.
The Abrams revs up, pulls hard. The statue groans; the tank pulls, Saddam roars and creaks and moans, then falls over and lies horizontal next to the plinth. The group around the statue explode in wild jubilation.
When the man she has revered as virtually divine pitches forwards and falls to the ground, Aliya turns away. It is disgraceful the way the statue falls, broken in two by the brutal forces of an American tank.
The war-weary soldier smiles a wan smile. The lustreless eyes shine for a short moment. Then he pulls the little boy closer.
Amir has witnessed the drama from the bonnet of his car. Tears flow down his cheeks. He regards the fallen Saddam indignantly.
- This is my country, he says. - Iraq is my country! It shall not be ruled by Americans.
Abbas stands beside him. He too is crying. Tears of joy. - I am so happy. At last! At last we are free! At last we can start living! I love America.
- What right have they? Aliya whispers. What right have they?
After
Baghdad is shrouded in a fog of words. The words break out, are snapped up and burrow into people’s minds. They churn around and force other words out, which in turn flutter into other ears. These words turn into sentences that have not been spoken for decades. They form hateful declarations and embittered conversations, exclamations of happiness and thanksgiving. They turn into embraces, maybe even kisses.
In this giddy new existence words are spoken that could once have sent you to prison. Words that could have seen you tortured. Words that could have put a bullet in your neck. Words that could have robbed you of everything.
Now they crash into each other like waves. Elated. Surprised. Hesitant. Bitter. They are shouted out loud or sobbed through tears.
One word is liberated, another is freedom. One word is invaded, another is occupied. Hatred. Revenge. Dictatorship. Saddam. Devil. Finally.
- We are free! Thank you Mister Bush! A young boy shouts in Saddam City.
- Allahu Akbar! God is Great! chants a mullah in the mosque.
- We will drive the infidel occupiers out; this from a sinister type with a ragged beard.
What Saddam Hussein thinks few get to hear. But George Bush’s words fly over the Atlantic: Our victory in Iraq is certain.
Once upon a time there were two friends. They lived under the governance of Saddam Hussein. Brothers, they called themselves, and they mumbled when they spoke. Dictatorship reigned in Baghdad, fear ruled.
Then came a war.
The friends stood side by side when the statue fell. They both cried. One’s cheek was wet with sadness, the other’s shone with tears of gladness.
Then followed the words. One insisted the country was invaded, the other that it was liberated.
- We do not deserve this humiliation, Amir said through clenched teeth.
- This is the h
appiest day of my life, Abbas shouted with joy.
The two friends looked at each other through their tears.
They were the two sides of the face of Baghdad. Amir was a Sunni. His brothers had enrolled in the Baath Party and in the militia designed to defend Baghdad against intruders. Abbas was a Shia. Many of his relatives had not yet been released from the dungeons. They might never be found.
In the first frothy hours after the collapse, they still had a lot in common. None of them had liked the ruler.
- A bad president, one whispered.
- A bloody tyrant, the other shouted.
His presence no longer cast a shadow over the population. The only ones in hiding now were the dictator himself and his henchmen.
The two friends strove to find common ground, they tried to patch together the bitter feelings. But the understanding was short-lived. They each remained opposite sides of the city’s face, a face which appeared increasingly distorted.
- Look at these looters, these dogs, Amir snorted with a stiff jaw.
Abbas held his tongue.
- I’m not saying it because I’m a Sunni, but these Shias are the symbol of dirt, anarchy, chaos.
- The Shias are not alone in looting, Abbas answered.
- Soon there will be a civil war, Amir maintained. - Because we cannot just stand and watch the Shias ruin our country.
- Amir is not talking like that because he’s a Sunni, and I’m not happy about the country having been liberated because I’m a Shia, of course not, Abbas interrupted sarcastically.
- We used to have order, fixed points in our existence. Of course our dictator was strict, but our people need a firm hand. A strong man. If not, we’ll capsize and descend into madness.
Amir looked around, indignant. - Now we do not know who is in charge, what the future holds. We know nothing anymore.
The other didn’t see uncertainty, but adventure, the possibilities. Abbas, who had known prison, hopelessness and fear, had started to dream.
- The future, freedom, democracy, that’s just lies, Amir grunted.
- The future, freedom, democracy, we can build that, Abbas argued.
The two friends had a girlfriend. If they were the two sides of Baghdad’s face, she was the city’s heart. When the ruler was downed, she too fell, into a coma. It wasn’t that she collapsed or fainted; she remained upright, but a curtain descended over her thoughts and feelings.
She never cried. People in a coma do not cry, they just exist. It was like that with Aliya too. When the two friends started quarrelling she disappeared into her room, lay down on her bed with her clothes on and fell asleep. No one said goodnight to her. In fact, no one noticed that she had gone. They were too consumed with shouting words and constructing new sentences. She knew that the fair-haired girl would be talking to camera after camera into the small hours. No one needed her this evening.
Late the next morning, a few rooms away, the fair-haired girl slept. Exhausted, she was lulled to sleep by the drone of tanks. No one heard the shots at night, or the planes shrieking overhead, en route to new battlefields.
Sisters, they had called themselves, when they had promised to protect each other. Shakra and Samra. Light and dark.
- Hide behind my back now, the dark one had said. - Then I’ll hide behind yours when . . .
Baghdad’s heart had locked itself behind closed doors. She was hurt, humiliated. When the sun rose there was a knock on her door. The knocking made her flinch. Before opening she tried to protect herself by appearing hard, cold, sharp.
- Good morning, how are you?
- Fine.
- You don’t look fine.
- Oh.
The fair-haired girl picked at her heart.
- What do you think about Saddam’s fall?
- I have no opinion.
She twisted the knife.
- But how do you feel?
- I have no feelings.
The intruder was merciless.
- But are you angry, unhappy, happy?
- Please do not ask any more questions.
Sisters, they had called themselves, when they had promised to protect each other. They stood looking at each other. The intruder removed the knife and gave the heart of Baghdad a kiss. The embrace was short. The wounded sister withdrew.
- I must take some time off to visit my family today, Aliya says.
- Of course, any time. Amir is outside. Would you like to go now?
- No, I can wait.
- You can go now if you like.
- No. Let’s work.
Amir is waiting in the parking lot, but not in his usual place. Now the car is outside the American barrier. The tanks have taken his place. Amir is silent, Aliya is silent. Big boys in bulletproof vests occupy the reception, the stair-well, the corridors, the exit, their city.
Sadoun Street, which runs parallel to the Tigris, one block away from the bank, is seething with men pushing carts, cars and crates. A lorry is parked on the pavement. Fastened to it is a chain, which is attached to the bars of the door of Rafidain - The Two Rivers - savings bank. The car groans and pulls, the bars give way. The door inside is smashed in with an axe. The mob rush into the bank. A few moments later they stream out again.
- A bomb, a bomb, they cry, and run over to the other side of the road.
There they stand, waiting.
- The guy who shouted ‘bomb’ wanted the money for himself!
The rabble run into the bank again - and return empty-handed.
- They took it all when they fled. The scoundrels! The vaults are empty!
The journey through the streets of Baghdad uncovers more of the same. Shops, restaurants, hotels, ministries and public buildings are emptied of anything of value. Even the city’s hospitals are the victims of plunder.
Outside the Ministry of Immigration horses pulling huge carts are waiting. Computers, TV sets, electric fans, desks, office chairs, packets of writing paper, a mirror, cups and plates are snatched up.
- We have lived for thirty years under a regime which took everything from us, freedom, purchasing power, choice. Now people feel they have the right to steal some of it back. As if that can make up for what they have lost. But they are stealing from their own people, not from the regime - that has fled. And what is a dusty ventilation fan against ten years of lost life?
The man talking regards me with sad eyes. He is dressed in threadbare clothes that once were smart. - Anyhow, it won’t work, there’s no electricity.
Aliya translates automatically, without spirit, without feeling. Amir leans against the bonnet of the car and shakes his head. It is more important than ever to keep an eye on it.
- They said they were opening the doors to freedom and they have opened those to chaos instead, he exclaims bitterly.
A strange spectacle passes us. A horse pulls a cart, which is pulling a car, which is hauling a wagon to which yet another horse is tied. A gang of men, women and children stumble excitedly after the procession, an entire family on the make.
Amid the chaos some American soldiers arrive. They walk determinedly towards a building, guns pointing in all directions.
- Weapons were stored here, explains the sergeant, Nicholas. - In the centre of town. When we arrived people were helping themselves. Now we have the place under control.
Inside the building crates containing guns, bullets, cartridges and pistols are stacked up. Some are marked in Latin, others in Cyrillic, yet others in Arabic.
Nicholas volunteers to show us other weapons’ caches. The patrol stops by a sports club. The swimming pool is empty of water, but full of sandbags. Grenades are stored in the weight-lifting room. Carefully placed between trampolines and shelves full of starting blocks are a dozen two-metre long missiles.
- Air-to-air, the sergeant says. - They have tried to tinker with them. Iraq has no air force so they have tried to convert them into ground-to-air missiles.
Nicholas is sweating. The sun shines relentlessly on
his red neck. The Americans have been ordered never to take off their heavy safety equipment.
- We heard them moving things at night and were petrified they were weapons which would make us targets for bombers, says a boy hanging around outside. He is a basketball player and made diligent use of the sports arena. Before the war.
Now the sports complex is empty. Anything of value has been looted, pictures of Saddam Hussein smashed. A few dirty shirts have been chucked into a corner, handwritten results lists trampled underfoot.