Before the girls leave I ask for their phone numbers, so I can contact them later.
A boy sits alone at the end of the table. He belongs to the girls’ circle of friends, and stays behind when they leave. While Aliya is away for a moment, he murmurs - They don’t say what they really mean. No one can say what they really think.
Then he leaves.
Shortly afterwards Hadil returns accompanied by a furious man. He is incandescent with rage.
- You must never contact us, he hisses.
It is Hadil’s father. The Army major whose task it is to defend Iraq from bombs. Iraqi military personnel receive strict instructions not to have any contact with foreigners.
- Where did you write down the number? Where? Give it to me, he says, and tears the page from the notebook where Hadil has scribbled her number. The father crumples up the paper, thrusts it into his pocket and turns on his heel. He marches out of the café, followed by a trembling Hadil.
We sit down again. Aliya is upset and frightened. Absurd. Hadil’s father fears Aliya and Aliya fears Hadil’s father.
When I write my small piece about the farewell lunch I wonder whether or not to include the boy’s comments. I add them, then cross them out. Someone might find him. Someone might have seen him. But I store the two sentences in my head; the first critical utterances in Baghdad.
I have long been pestering Aliya about visiting a newspaper or a TV station.
- Of course, Aliya says, and nothing happens.
I insist. Nothing happens. More insisting. Nothing happens. Yelling and insisting. Nothing, apart from Aliya sulking. No one has answered her request, she says breezily. I try another brazen tack.
- If we don’t visit a TV station, a newspaper or a radio station today, I have nothing to write about. Consequently you have nothing to translate and therefore I won’t pay you. Regardless of how many hours we spend waiting at the Ministry, there’ll be no salary.
Aliya glares at me. She purses her lips; the corners of her mouth tighten and her eyes narrow. Finally she gets up from the chair and walks towards the press centre. In a little while she comes back. Point blank refusal, no Iraqi TV visit.
- Strictly prohibited; broadcasting is a strategic and sensitive target, Aliya says.
I perch on the plastic table outside the press centre, legs dangling, and look defiantly at Aliya. - Don’t give up at the first hurdle.
Aliya slinks back to Mohsen. She returns after a while and says he will let us know in one hour.
- Shall I translate the newspaper in the meantime? she offers. The only thing she really enjoys is translating, preferably from newspapers and preferably from Saddam Hussein, which is really one and the same thing.
- Please do.
- War preparations must be stepped up, Aliya reads.
That is the headline in al-Qadissiya, the Iraqi army’s mouthpiece. ‘War preparations must be stepped up’, is also the headline in al-Thawra, and in the Government-run newspaper editorial. Uday Hussein’s newspaper Babel has the same headline. The man who has been talking about war preparations is Saddam Hussein.
When Aliya is halfway through the speech about the approaching war, I stop her. I have heard it all before.
- Maybe we should check the newspaper permission, I say and look meaningfully at the clock which is moving towards afternoon.
Aliya protests that she has not yet finished.
- We can do that in the car, en route, can’t we? I smile.
Aliya saunters slightly faster than normal when she returns. Instead of her normal downcast expression, she looks me straight in the eye. The permission is in her hand.
In the al-Iraq reception area hang no fewer than thirteen portraits of Saddam Hussein. I feel like commenting on the pictures, but hold my tongue - as usual. Aliya and I do not share a sense of humour. A man arrives to show us around. He asks what we want to see. - Everything, I say. - And I would like to interview the editor.
In the first room two men sit staring into the air. They are proofreaders and wait for the day’s text. Above them hangs a fourteenth portrait.
Mohan al-Daher receives us in his office where the fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth portraits hang. In one long yawn he enlightens us about Iraqi strength, American cowardice and the enemy which is about to be crushed. When the yawn is drawing to a close I slip in a question.
- Bush gave Congress a strident speech yesterday. What will be al-Iraq’s reaction?
- I am waiting for the text, says the editor.
- The text?
- Yes, the text from INA.
- So the news agency writes the paper, I say; I should of course have realised that.
- Yes, says the editor, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
- But what do you think the newspaper will contain today?
- I have no opinion about that. The decision will be taken by those most fitted to take it.
Regardless of the text al-Iraq can safely begin choosing the front page picture. The motive never changes.
- Only the president is worthy of front-page exposure, the editor explains.
Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. I count down the wall. Twenty-three. In the basement the text ticks in on a large reel. The letters are imprinted in red ink. The sound of the keys is like that of an old-fashioned typewriter. When the text is transmitted a scribe tears the paper off the reel, hangs it up in front of his computer and imports it into the paper’s processing system. Ten men or so sit behind computers and copy in various parts from the reel.
One of the men shows me the paper’s picture archive - an ordinary Word programme. The man in charge of photos clicks and opens, enlarges and reduces. Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. Forty-four. My head is reeling. Sixty-two. I am guessing. One hundred and eighteen. Roughly speaking, seven hundred and ninety-four. The portraits chase each other across the screen. I forget to ask whether they can choose themselves.
A broad-shouldered man enters carrying some handwritten sheets of paper and tosses them to one of the scribes. Wow, I think. A real journalist. I walk over and ask if he has written those crumpled pieces of paper himself. He confirms that he has.
- What have you written?
- Page eleven.
- Page eleven?
- The sports pages, the broad shouldered one explains before disappearing back up the stairs. The only pages the paper entrusts to its own people.
As I am about to leave I notice him. One of the scribes behind the computers is staring intently at me. His dark eyes follow my movements. The man is skinny and his cheeks hollow. He has lost most of his hair but he is not old. When I walk past he stubs his cigarette out in a dirty ashtray.
I can barely hear his voice.
- But you cannot read my thoughts.
I stop and pretend I’m searching for something in my bag. My back is turned half towards him as a signal that I want to hear more, without looking at him.
- We want freedom, he whispers. The picture on the wall looks down at him. Almighty.
My editor wants a longer article for the weekend. They are keeping a whole page for me. Doubting that I know enough, am not able, have not met enough people, makes me decline. - I’ve got nothing to write about, I say. But to no avail.
- We’ve already set aside a page.
On the page they want something from Iraq. ‘Something from Iraq’?
I have only disparate pieces and try to string them together. I turn them over in my mind, playing the voices over again.
‘Once upon a time’, Iraqis relate nostalgically, ‘when we were the first civilisation in history, the Assyrians, the Sumerians, Babylon . . .’ ‘Once upon a time . . .’ they go on, ‘when we could feed the whole Middle East, and the schools were not lit by candlelight. ’ Before the war against Iran, before Kuwait, before the bombs. But the memories of a golden past do not light up the dismal reality. A reality where hangers-on and petty black-market kings gr
ow increasingly fat while the remaining inhabitants are kept in fear and poverty.
Seven fat fish from the Tigris swim leisurely around the brick-built swimming pool. Their tales swish quietly. Now and again one or other bobs to the surface and the reddish skin flickers in the sunlight. Small palms wave in the wind over the pool and the manicured lawn. Ali stands by the barbecue waiting for someone to order grilled fish.
The restaurant is starting to fill up. Winter is still in the air. The real heat usually arrives in March. But the restaurant has open fireplaces. Braziers are placed underneath the tables; no one is cold who has warm feet. Two dozen waiters or so in freshly laundered suits react to the smallest signal.
- Before it was always packed here, with ordinary people, Ali says while dousing the flames with some water. There is not much money around now. People eat at home.
Ali makes about £50 a month. That’s enough for him and his family and is a reasonable salary by Iraqi standards. The waiters make around £20. - Not enough, not enough, one of them whispers hastily while laying the table. It is safest not to talk to foreigners. The restaurant walls have ears. They who complain are not patriotic.
Mahmoud is one who can afford to eat grilled fish. A one-time owner of a furniture factory, he had to sell owing to sanctions. Now the middle-aged businessman fixes things for other people, he says, without elaborating further.
- The system, he whispers. - The system. Many are poorer, only a few have grown richer. They are here now, he says, and nods almost imperceptibly towards the other guests: four men at a nearby table, gold chains, black bags and walkie-talkies, a benefit strictly controlled by the authorities and a luxury awarded very few.
Suddenly all the tables fill up. Approximately fifty men in suits arrive and as a matter of course take over half the restaurant.
- Ministry of Trade, Mahmoud whispers. - They are important, they have money. Those who hitch on get rich.
He is alluding to those who support Saddam Hussein. - Businessmen, heads of ministries. But the sword is ever-present. Anyone who murmurs or tries to jump ship risks being murdered. I’m part of it myself, he continues. - I have eleven children. The eldest are at university. I have no choice. But I live in fear of the sword.
Mahmoud is not voicing platitudes. The regime of Saddam Hussein has clung to power with the aid of a complex system of informers, violence and brutality in order to crush every attempt at divergence or disagreement. The system is based on a combination of fear and a sophisticated network of informing, and also on the ability to manoeuvre economically through the closed Iraqi market.
Although sanctions have weakened most Iraqis’ purchasing power, an increased traffic in contraband has enriched a few. Sanctions were aimed at enfeebling the regime but have actually made people more dependent on it. Sanctions have isolated the country from the outside world and have made it easier to reward loyalty and punish deviation. It is virtually impossible to operate on any large scale without the regime keeping track.
Saddam Hussein makes sure that people are moderately well fed by rationing staple foodstuffs. At the same time, the monopolies caused by the sanctions render it easy for him to favour hangers-on. But woe betide them if they become too mighty or too independent. The regime constantly sends people to their death for corruption or economic activity.
Al-Arasat is Baghdad’s Champs Elysées. Here exclusive Armani suits are for sale, soft velvet sofas, all brands of cigars, perfume and luxury articles. Here are up-to-date computers, shops full of exclusive TVs, stereos, videos and other electronic hardware. In spite of the sanctions, in spite of import embargos.
But Al-Arasat too suffers from any comparison to former days. In several places the pavements have been replaced by gravel walks and rubbish is everywhere; but the neon lights keep on shining. Here is the nightclub and restaurant ‘Black and White’ with a large swimming pool in the garden. Here the well-to-do celebrate weddings and birthdays. Here can be seen videos never shown on state-owned TV channels, and here alcohol is served, if the liquid is discreetly poured into the glass and the bottle hidden under the table. Once upon a time Iraq was one of the most liberal countries in the Arab world, but a few years ago Saddam realised that Islam could help him. Alcohol disappeared from the restaurants and an increasing number of women took to wearing the headscarf. Even Saddam himself, before usually portrayed holding a gun, is now shown at prayer.
The country’s social hierarchy has been fundamentally changed by the hyper inflation of the 1990s. Iraq’s middle classes were once highly educated and well to do and the country’s literacy and writing proficiency among the highest in the Arab world. The salaried classes are the losers. Many have sunk into poverty.
A quarter of an hour’s drive away, in a poor part of Baghdad, Wahida and her sons await the month’s rations. Here the roads have not been paved for many years, there are potholes everywhere, and the doors to the shops and homes hang crookedly. As no one knows what conditions will be like next month, the UN, for the first time, are handing out two months’ rations in one go. During the last seven years Wahida’s staple food requirements have been provided for by the Oil for Food programme. The programme means that Iraq can export oil as long as the income is earmarked for ‘humanitarian aid’. To this end approximately two million barrels are exported every day.
The agent, as she is called, measures up on scales with large iron weights. Every Iraqi gets 9 kilos of wheat, 3 kilos of rice, 2 kilos of sugar, 200 grams of tea, half a kilo of washing powder, and a quarter kilo of soap. In addition they receive a small portion of beans, peas, food oil, salt and powdered milk.
Since the Oil for Food programme started, the number of undernourished and malnourished people has decreased. Sanctions had then been in place since 1991, originally introduced to force Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait. But in spite of Oil for Food alleviating the situation somewhat, a quarter of Iraqi children suffer from chronic malnutrition. That and diarrhoea are the most common causes of death amongst the youngest children.
The agent in this part of town is called Karima. She runs a little general store which she took over when her husband died. - Once upon a time we had ten brands of tea, all sorts of cakes, soap in all colours and smells. Today I have one type of tea, one of soap, no cakes. When people get tea through the rations they don’t buy any other brand except for a very special occasion. The tea they get in the rations is a mediocre tea, like everything else we get, not bad, not good. Just like the flour, not the best, not the coarsest. Everything is in the middle, mediocre.
Wahida nods while her sons carry out large sacks, the rations for the whole family. The food is heavily subsidised by the regime. Everyone pays 250 dinar, around 10 pence. But when the average monthly wage is £4, the remainder disappears fast. All extras are expensive and the majority have had to cut down on everything: food, clothes, house.
- Life is harder, Wahida admits. - Before I was just an ordinary housewife, looking after my family. Now I get up every morning at five, make cheese and yoghurt, which I sell on the street, from a table by our house. I only return home in the afternoon to attend to my own family, she sighs. Like most Iraqis her husband has to hold down two jobs.
The little woman dressed in black slips out of the door. Turkish delight, sunflower seeds and the mixture of nuts lie untouched. So does Karima’s small assortment of shampoo and toothpaste. People are using increasingly less. The quarter kilo of rationed soap is used for most things - face, hair and hands. If one can afford to keep the entire ration, that is. Some are reduced to selling part of it at the market.
Wahida and her sons load the goods onto a rusty car someone has lent them. One can sense the nostalgia in her face when the older woman remembers the times when Iraqis could enjoy the riches the oil brought.
‘Once upon a time’ children were given books at school, four million people had not yet fled the country and no one had to sell their jewels for a piece of meat or some antibiotics.
She waves w
earily from the car as they bump off. ‘Once upon a time’, when there was life . . .
One day a notice is pinned up on the board outside Uday’s office. Military parade in Mosul. At last we are permitted to leave Baghdad, with our guides of course, and in a group, and only as far as Mosul. The town lies in the north of the country, on the border of the autonomous Kurdish region. It is one of Iraq’s most important and oldest towns and is where muslin comes from I seem to remember having read somewhere. We skip about the Ministry of Information like little children, happy to be allowed out, to breathe some fresh air, see the country. I proudly tell Abdullah on reception that I won’t be back that night, I’m off to Mosul.
We dash up the motorway at 120km an hour, the radio on full blast, Aliya and the driver in the front, Janine and I in the back.