- But can he stop Bush?
Joseph is at a loss for an answer. - I’ll listen to what he has to say. But it would have been better if he had gone to Washington to talk to Bush. He’s the one who wants war.
Like most Iraqi Christians Joseph is a Chaldean - an entity within the Catholic Church. Of Baghdad’s fifty churches, thirty are Chaldean, and in many of the churches Mass is conducted in Chaldean, or even in Aramaic, the language that Jesus spoke. The liturgy is the oldest in the world and Iraqi Christians try to maintain their culture and rites. The number of Christians in Iraq has nearly halved over the last fifteen years. Now they account for barely three percent of the population or three quarters of a million people. Every year thousands of them try to leave the country, to the USA or Europe. The Islamisation of Iraq and the increasing influence of the imams worry them. In spite of their low numbers, Christians have enjoyed a privileged position in Iraqi society. They have been well represented in the Baath Party and in Saddam Hussein’s elite forces. One of the President’s most important men, Tariq Aziz, is a Chaldean. - With Saddam Hussein at least we know what we have got. A new regime might be influenced by religious fanatics, goes the refrain.
- There is no antagonism between Christians and Muslims in Iraq, Joseph and Hussein assure me. - We are brothers and worship the same God.
Joseph has been given a few hours off to listen to the cardinal; he takes off his apron and leaves while Hussein waits for the call to prayer from the mosque. We lose sight of Joseph in the crowd by the church. Aliya stays outside. That’s OK by me, I would rather be alone.
In the garden behind the church a short, stout priest leaps about. Can he spare a few moments to talk? He can, and in fluent French.
Father Albert does not agree with Joseph that there is no animosity between Christians and Muslims. - The average Christian will get this high, he says, but no higher and points to a spot in the middle of his stomach. - The best jobs, the best pay are reserved for Muslims. But the worst is yet to come - the advance of the fanatics. It’s seething and bubbling, he says with a concerned expression.
Father Albert is curious about the Pope’s message. - God moves in mysterious ways. But here in Iraq neither popes nor cardinals count. It depends upon the good will of one man. There is now only one way left to avoid war, that our good man leaves the country, he says. - Just write it. I’m an old man and must be allowed to say what I want. Saddam Hussein must leave the country. But that he’ll never do.
Father Albert is just as critical of the American president. - He pretends to have good reasons for going to war. But he does not. He just wants control.
The priest belongs to the same church as Deputy Prime Minister Tariq Aziz and knows him well. - He is actually a good man, an intellectual who wants the best. But he is boxed in and cannot do anything differently. He can’t tell the President to go to blazes!
If it comes to war Father Albert fears complete revolt. - People have a lot to revenge. Two days ago Tariq Aziz’s wife visited me. She cried and wanted a miserable hut to live in rather than the palace she has now. She is terrified of the people’s verdict, now that the regime might topple, and asked for sanctuary for herself and her husband in the monastery where I live. But I said no. If churches and monasteries hide the hated it will harm all Christians and fan the flames of the fanatics. Anyhow, he adds, - those people have a lot to answer for.
Father Albert stands on the church square in Baghdad and sets his face against Saddam Hussein. I am suffering from shock and ask him repeatedly whether I really might write down what he has said, which he confirms. He feels safe, he says, and points to heaven.
I include most of it in my article that afternoon, but I call the priest something else and do not mention Tariq Aziz by name. I describe him as ‘one of Saddam Hussein’s closest collaborators’. That the wife of the Deputy Prime Minister is busy preparing a hideaway for the aftermath of the war could be dangerous if it were known. When Tariq Aziz is away travelling, the family are placed under a sort of house arrest. If he were to abandon ship they would be targeted. Thus it is impossible for anyone in the bosom of Saddam’s regime to get out. But like Father Albert said about his erstwhile friend: He walked into it knowingly. He closed his eyes to the Baath Party’s torture and oppression. By means of unadulterated opportunism he fought his way up the power-ladder.
These people have a lot to answer for.
The Ministry of Information has been turned into a building site. From early morning until dark there is hammering, banging, sawing and welding. We circumnavigate wet cement, cutting machinery and blue welding flames. A layer of white dust settles everywhere. When I try to concentrate on the day’s article the sounds cut into my thoughts.
One day a workman cuts the satellite telephone cables by mistake. All the reporters and their interpreters rush off to Baghdad’s markets to buy new cables or something that can repair the old ones. On another occasion the path between the house and the fence against the pavement is flooded. A pipe has burst. Planks are put out and we jump from one to another.
Dust and mud are everywhere. I fear for my telephone and computer. The rows between the keys are slowly filling with sand. How much more can it take before it breaks down?
The workers try to turn the Ministry into a fortress, and the area facing the boulevard, where we have our communications equipment, grows increasingly smaller. The original walls on the first floor, constructed of glass and steel, are bricked up. The new façade does not touch the glass walls, but adds small rooms outside the glass. The workers spend hours shaping arches over the windows and rounding off corners. In spite of about fifty men being employed the work proceeds slowly.
- So the Minister of Construction is hedging his bets, I joke with Takhlef.
- Hedging his bets?
- Yes, against the war.
- Which war? Takhlef asks. - What do you mean?
- The bombs that will blow the windows in, of course.
Takhlef looks at me, shakes his head and says as he walks away: - They’re building offices for you - can’t you see. They’re building offices.
But even if Takhlef does not fear an attack, most of Baghdad’s inhabitants are busy preparing for one.
I return to one of the families I had visited with the child psychologists - the lawyer family Dhafer - to see how they are coping with preparations. Only the sons are at home. Outside the house lies a pile of planks.
- To nail over the windows in case of war, Ahmed explains. He is studying law at Baghdad University. - It depends on where the bombs fall, but it might help to stop the windows from shattering, he says.
Ahmed and his brothers walk to the back of the house, stride over the kitchen garden, past the tethered sheep, past the little well, down some steep steps into a tiny, smelly room. Bottles of water, blankets and mattresses are piled high. - We are safe here, no bombs can reach us.
The bomb shelter was built in the 1980s during the war against Iran. It was used in 1991, 1993 and 1998.
The law student makes it plain to us that the Americans will be breaking all known international rules if they go to war. - We are a peaceful people.
- But there will be war, his little brother Ali says resignedly. He has been taught at school how to defend himself. - If there are explosions you must throw yourself down on the floor. If there are chemical weapons you must hold something in front of your nose and mouth.
- And you must walk into the wind, the third brother Amar adds. - Not with the wind, but into it. Or maybe it was with it? he wonders.
- It depends on where the chemical explosion is, Ahmed says.
- Yes, and which direction the wind is blowing, Amar says.
- No one can overcome the wind, says Ali. - That’s an Iraqi expression, think about that.
It’s hard to work. It’s hard to find stories. As the limits are so strict, good ideas, ideas that could be carried through, are few and far between. It feels as though I am living in a bubble; the world I live in and the one I write about are totally separate. Only now and again do I find a tiny connection to the other world, to the Iraqis.
One day the calendar tells me that it is Valentine’s Day, and I remember Nabil’s invitation. My company consists of five Frenchmen. As we arrive, the bubble we are living in becomes even more impenetrable. The distance between ‘us’ and ‘them’ is total. The entire pink restaurant is covered in red balloons with the words ‘I love you’. Garlands in gold and silver stream from the roof. A dance band is engaged for the evening and plays everything from melting Arab
Habibi
-music to ‘Lady in Red’. The tables in the middle of the room are moved to the side, and Nabil has got an elegant dancefloor.
When we go in a rose is pushed into our hands, and we are shown to our table. The bubble moves across the room, leaving dirty footprints on the floor. We are incorrectly dressed: creased shirts, jeans, muddy trainers, no elaborate hairstyles.
The Iraqis are dressed to kill in shimmering creations and sparkling jewellery; all in gold, red gold. The women’s crowning glory has been sprayed stiff to last the night. We are at two different parties.
Sumptuous dishes are brought to the table to celebrate an American tradition. Neither I nor the French have any special relationship to the day, it is the same for the ordinary Iraqi, I imagine. But Nabil seems to have made a point of making it one of the country’s festivals. One of the Frenchmen outlines his project for the evening: to chat up one of the beautiful Iraqi women. But the dazzling ladies are well guarded by brothers and spouses.
- Unfortunately there is no champagne, he sighs. - That might have helped me on the way.
Suddenly I realise I have not danced for ages and I lure the lustful Frenchman onto the floor. The Arab-style pop resounds from the loud-speakers; I copy the ladies I have seen on the music videos and wriggle over the floor. Another couple joins us, then another. At the end of the first number the dancefloor is heaving.
The bubble has burst, at least for the moment. We dance together - square dances, belly dances, folk dances or to old Elvis numbers. Sweat pours off everybody, trainers gyrate among spangle-covered pumps. I feel accepted for the first time. People smile at me. But I know it is an illusion. In any other Arab country people would talk to us, maybe invite us home, advise us on which sights to visit. But in Iraq the foreigner represents danger. The situation’s absurdity hits me. It is 14 February. This very evening Hans Blix has presented his report to the UN Security Council, a report which left little doubt of the outcome.
On his side, Saddam Hussein is calling for holy war. In the mosques, during Friday prayer, a martyr’s death was upgraded. During his TV transmitted speech and clutching Ali’s sword, the mightiest Imam in Baghdad encouraged people to fight against and resist the invader. - I have never before heard the Imam in such a belligerent mood, one man said as he left the mosque.
We of the trainers, jeans, unkempt hair and notebook-in-back-pocket have come to Nabil’s to pass the time - waiting for war to start. The well-groomed and bejewelled tables next door wait too. For something to happen.
Nabil interrupts my thoughts. He presents his beautiful wife to me and presses her hand in mine. It is her and the baby twins that Nabil wants to get out in time. When is that? In time?
Close to one of the children’s hospitals, it is said that there is a children’s graveyard. No one knows exactly where, not Aliya, not the driver, nor any of our colleagues. After a month in Baghdad we have learnt that it does not pay to ask the Ministry of Information. The less they see of us the better. In spite of the strict rules preventing us from travelling anywhere without permission, the system is far from watertight. They quite simply do not have the resources to spy on everyone all the time.
We look in district after district. After several failed attempts, we finally walk in through the graveyard gate, there we find a man dressed in a worn blue overall, a Palestinian scarf rolled into a turban on his head.
The man carries the tiny bundle in one hand. He strides over the graves and mounds of earth. The bundle of white cloth is two-day-old Haidar.
The little boy had died that morning. - Blood poisoning, says the gravedigger. - His face is blue, his body is covered with lumps, he explains, folding the white cloth back for us to see. He covers it up quickly and lays the boy on a stone.