I know the risk I am taking, but I am not frightened. If I die my death will be wonderful and if I succeed I will have rendered this country a great service, Scheherazade persuades her father, before she crawls in to the bloodthirsty king and starts the story telling, for a thousand and one nights.
Only time will tell whether the activists are as brave as she was.
As February draws to an end the foreign embassies are busy evacuating non-essential staff. Externally the barricades increase, internally they are emptied. The most absurd part of the evacuations are the sumptuous farewell parties.
The French ambassador has not yet recovered from the loss of the plentiful and laboriously collected wine cellar which disappeared during the first Gulf War. Hence
l’ambassadeur
gives a scrumptious reception overflowing with champagne and vintage wine. He is not going to fall into the same trap and, in anticipation of the war, has long since stopped reordering wine. As he says late that night, smiling: Now I can’t give
même une toute petite reception!
Janine and I have taught Aliya to toughen up and we now go around town without permission. A sunny winter’s day, our goal is Baghdad’s posh neighbourhood. Here we will try and discover whether they too are leaving the country.
We are admitted to Fatima’s house. It is late morning but she is still pottering about in a pink velvet dressing gown embroidered with gold roses. Fatima and the children have packed necessities and are waiting for the husband to decide when the time has come to send them off to safety. Necessities represent an infinitesimal part of their belongings. The family live in a palace covering a thousand square metres. There are five bathrooms, in Italian marble, and the family have five children of school age. The enormous sitting room is empty; they very rarely entertain. The shelves in the library are bare.
- We haven’t had time to buy any books yet, Fatima excuses herself.
The villa’s sitting room windows are ten metres high, covered in thick brocade. Fatima is one of the few who, despite sanctions, has never wanted for anything.
- If you have money you can get hold of everything. Even scarce medicine; that comes in from Jordan, she explains while the maid serves coffee in tiny oriental cups. But not even the richest can buy freedom from the threat of American bombs. Furniture is being covered up, gates locked, cars driven away.
- To Jordan. We have relatives there. There is still time, but the war is getting close, Bush has made up his mind, she says resignedly, looking around the sitting room.
- This is not a safe place. The house is sound but there are many windows, and anyhow there are several military installations around here, Fatima sighs. A heavy lethargy weighs down the rich man’s wife. She rarely leaves the house and her maid sees to most things. Not even the evacuation is decided by her. - Allah decides when our time on earth is up, but my husband will best know when we must leave.
Fatima’s husband is a timber merchant and one of those who has earned enormous sums owing to sanctions, enabling him to build a palace in the al-Wasiriya district of town. Several of Saddam’s confidantes have their mini castles here.
- That is another reason we don’t feel safe here. Many of
his
men live here, Fatima confides in us, mimicking falling bombs with her hands. - Their houses will be attacked first.
At the fashionable restaurant al-Finjan, in Arasat Street, the owner Alaw sits with his wife Ani. We meet them a few hours after our rendezvous with Fatima.
Ani’s hair is bleached and styled, her fingers full of rings, she wears an elegant reddish brown tweed coat and skirt. Her days consist of mornings in the beauty parlour, evenings at one of Baghdad’s private clubs, and long hours at home.
- Life here is dreary, she wails. - It’s so boring, nothing happens.
The upper-class wife is well aware that the boring days might soon be over, replaced by an excitement most people could do without. Now Ani’s husband is trying to buy her and their son out of both boredom and the unwelcome excitement.
Last year he visited Germany and returned with the latest Mercedes. This year he brought nothing back. He had gone to apply for a residence permit for his wife and son. He knows that their sumptuous home, complete with DVD player, granite floors and European furniture will give little protection against bombs.
- In order to get a German visa I have to deposit 100,000 dollars in a bank as guarantee, Alaw explains. - And even having done that there is no guarantee that they will get the visa. If they don’t get the visa there are two alternatives, a farm outside Baghdad, or Jordan. But I would prefer to get them out of the area altogether, to Europe, where it’s safe.
In Shahbendar the three friends are saying their farewells. They smoke hookah and sip the house speciality: spiced citron pressé with sugar and boiling water.
Samir is off to Damascus the following day. Once in Syria he will try and obtain a visa for Europe. Samir is one of Iraq’s promising young sculptors; the French centre of culture in Baghdad once exhibited his works. Most of all he wants to get to Paris, and his luggage includes twenty sculptures depicting the same theme: a fragile winged woman tries to take off, but her heavy, solid legs hold her rooted to the ground. The woman is fighting a dragon.
- My family are left behind, my mother, my sisters. It doesn’t feel good, he says gloomily. - But I want to achieve so much and when I have a chance to escape the bombs then I’ll grab it. What can an artist do in a war? All the galleries are closed, people try to sell their art, no one buys.
The friends too would like to leave, but can’t. - I’ll have to stay and paint war pictures, Haidar laughs. - When the war is over I will arrange a large exhibition, he dreams aloud, and refuses to let the seriousness of the situation take over. - True life is to make your wife happy, work a bit, dress elegantly, smell good, swan around town, discuss with friends. This is the philosophy of an Iraqi artist. You must not contemplate death, because life is not infinite.
- There is no point ruminating about war before it has even arrived, says the quiet Rafik. - War is in any case routine.
- In Iraq we are ready for war, like you are ready for winter, Haidar smiles.
The café buzzes with hushed conversations. Outside the door a boy is selling caramels. People give him money but leave the caramels. The beggar’s brat cannot flee the bombs. He can only hope that someone will take him down into a cellar and hold their hands over his ears so he will not hear them.
The farewell party continues throughout the evening. The three artists have arranged to meet in one of Baghdad’s better auction houses, not for the purpose of selling but to meet friends. Grasping a glass of tea and with the auctioneer’s voice droning in the background, Samir whispers. - I am frightened for my father, who is an army officer, I am frightened of the bombs, I am afraid of the Shias and the Kurds, and the secret police, I’m frightened of everything. Sometimes even my own shadow scares me.
But in spite of worrying about the family remaining in Baghdad, he wants war. - Of course I would have preferred a velvet revolution. But assuming the war does not deteriorate into a bloodbath we will all be singing when the Americans arrive. -
Allons boire une verre
. . . Let’s have another glass.
Samir guffaws. - What a happy day that would be!
His face darkens. - Unless all the glasses are broken.
In the hectic last days of February people try to get rid of non-essentials. If they are forced to flee, cash is better than crystal vases. Anyhow people need money to stock up on essentials: food, oil, petrol and water. At Baghdad’s numerous auction markets supply far exceeds demand.
In a large, dusty square, men stand on crates calling out one item after another. A large collection of furniture and household goods lies all around, much of it well-used. Around the piles people gather; they either need something or want to get rid of something.
- You need to iron your shirt, the auctioneer calls. People laugh. In a town with limited recreational facilities, this is entertainment. But in spite of the jokes falling hard and fast, the iron remains unsold.
- Five thousand dinar, the auctioneer calls. - I’m starting at five thousand. A shamefully low price, it’s worth a lot more. Any offers? Iraqi steel. Hard, immaculate.
No hands are raised, in spite of the price of around £1. For the moment, irons are an irrelevance. People buy drills and spades to dig wells in backyards, industrial tape to seal windows, sandbags to cover walls, warm blankets for bomb shelters, lanterns and lamps.
Some neighbours have come to see if they can find a second-hand generator. - It might come in useful if the electricity plants are bombed. We’ll take turns using it so the whole street can benefit.
The two strapping men are the neighbourhood’s representatives. But there are no generators for sale this evening. On the other hand, there is a dinner set in a pale blue pattern, over one hundred pieces, one with yellow roses and gold edges in delicate porcelain, some mirrors, scales, a radio, a TV, pots and pans in all shapes and sizes, stoves, stools, beds.
A woman runs her finger thoughtfully round the gold-edged flower service. Then she pulls her coat tighter around herself and walks on. Some children roar with laughter. They have found a pink swing to play on.
Duraid and his daughter Sera are sitting on a plush green sofa. They are waiting for it to be called up and hope someone will come and have a look. - We decided we didn’t need it any longer. Anyhow, it has always been too big, and was in the way too, Duraid explains. He is employed as an engineer at a state-run factory.
The descending spiral began in 1980 when Saddam Hussein decided to attack Iran. The war lasted eight years and the costs were enormous both in the loss of human life and for the economy. The disastrous invasion of Kuwait followed two years after the peace treaty with Iran. UN sanctions seriously hobbled Iraq’s economy. Following twelve years of sanctions and embargos the middle classes’ purchasing power plummeted. Lawyers, engineers, doctors and teachers fought to make a living by taking on extra jobs, driving taxis in the evenings, or selling up old belongings. Auction houses sprang up like mushrooms. They jostled for place along the banks of the Tigris and in the course of a few years Baghdad’s six large auction rooms increased to sixty.
- Everyone’s waiting, no one is buying, one auctioneer sighs. - I have been calling out the same things week after week. When the stuff has been here five weeks people have to come and take it back.
Duraid and his daughter’s sofa is called up. Total silence. The auctioneer tries in vain to entice people.
- Normally it would have been snapped up, Duraid sighs, having sold many belongings over the years. - But people don’t want to replace their furniture now. Who wants to buy something that can be shattered to bits in a week or so, or that they might have to leave behind?
Nine-year-old Sera sits sulkily beside her father. She turns away when I speak to her.
- Be polite to the lady, Sera, her father says.
Sera shakes her head, folds her arms over her chest and looks demonstratively the other way. She mutters something into the ground.
- She is frightened of you, she thinks you are an American, the father explains.
- I am not from America, I say, and smile my warmest smile. But Sera is not susceptible to flattery.
- You look like one and you don’t have to tell lies.
The father strokes Sera’s head and explains that she dreads bombs and war. She has heard on TV that the bombs will soon start falling and that American soldiers will break into people’s houses.
- She has changed recently, the father says. - She cries a lot and cannot sleep at night.
Suddenly Sera looks me in the eye.
- Why do you want to kill us?
- Most people don’t want to kill anyone. Including the Americans. But some politicians want war, I try.
Sera looks at me sceptically.
- Come on, Daddy, let’s go.
Sera grabs her father’s hand without condescending to look at me.