Robert is interrupted by the Minister for Information, who strides in. Proudly, al-Sahhaf announces that from now on Iraq will use unconventional weapons against the Americans.
I look at Robert questioningly. Unconventional weapons? Does that mean weapons of mass destruction? Chemical, nuclear?
That same evening Iraq’s first suicide bomber strikes. Ali al-Nawani drives his taxi straight into an American roadblock outside Najaf and blows it up. Four Americans are killed.
The next day we are told that
this
is Iraq’s new unconventional weapon: suicide bombers.
Aliya is sitting in reception engrossed in
The Revolution
. Usually she translates automatically, not always able to stifle a yawn.
- What are you reading about?
- Ali.
- Ali who?
- Ali, the martyr, of course.
Aliya shows me a picture of the twenty-year-old. He looks strong and determined, but the picture was probably taken long before he decided on any terror action.
Aliya looks around, thoughtful. - He must be brave. He’s so young and beautiful. It can’t have been easy . . .
Then she becomes serious and whispers. - You know, suicide is forbidden in Islam. It’s considered
haram
- illegal. But because he gave his life to Allah,
haram
doesn’t count.
She breathes a sigh of relief, pleased that she has managed to explain such a complicated theological issue.
- Now he’s in Paradise and will get his reward, she assures me, and lightens up; a reward in Paradise compensates many times the loss of one’s life. - He’ll go straight to the top, you know. In Paradise there are seven levels, and he’ll go to
al-firdous -
the top level. Only the Prophet Muhammed and holy men and martyrs are there.
Aliya translates the article, which is on the front page, or rather what is left of the front page beyond the usual portrait of the president.
‘President Saddam Hussein hails the martyr’ is the headline. ‘The president entreats Allah to open the doors of Paradise to Ali’. In addition, Saddam Hussein honours the martyr with two posthumous orders. ‘This is Mesopotamia’s first martyr. Ali - one of the military forces’ most outstanding heroes. By turning his body into a destructive bomb and following the example of his Palestinian brothers, he taught the aggressor a lesson. Now his sacred soul rests with Allah.’
Ali had been an NCO. The newspaper reports that one day he had informed his superiors that he was prepared to sacrifice his life in a suicide attack. According to the paper he chose his own method and place. While the Americans claimed that four soldiers had been killed, the Iraqis claimed the figure was higher: Eleven killed and ten wounded, and in addition two tanks and two armoured cars destroyed.
- Most countries in the world condemn acts of terrorism, I object.
- Well, what are the Americans doing? Killing innocent women and children. Isn’t that terror? The Americans might be our superior in arms, but we are morally superior. Anyhow, Allah is on our side, says Aliya.
Increasingly, people resort to religious rhetoric when talking about the war. Paradoxically, as long as Saddam Hussein has been in power, Islamic and fundamentalist religious groups have been brutally persecuted. During his first years in power Saddam Hussein insisted that Iraq should be a secular society. He feared that religious groups would upset his power base and executed tens of thousands of religiously active Muslims accused of radical fundamentalism. During the 1990s his strategy changed, as he believed religious behaviour could help him. In time he started to employ religious platitudes to increase his support in the fight against Bush. The Islamic groups, which had sought refuge in neighbouring countries to escape persecution, are now welcomed home as heroes and liberators.
Over the loudspeakers we are ordered to attend a press conference with Vice President Taha Yassin Ramadan. I would rather go into town with Aliya and talk to people about Ali, the martyr. On the way out we are stopped by Kadim. - Where are you going? The press conference is starting.
- We thought . . .
Kadim looks at me with his sad eyes.
- Why do you not go on press conferences? Why do you not go on bus trips? What are you doing here? If you do not turn up we have duty to show you out.
We go and sit at the back of the auditorium, waiting for Ramadan, one of Saddam Hussein’s closest colleagues.
- They arrive with their B-52s, capable of killing lots of people. What is our answer? To wait until we Iraqis have designed the same type of bomb? No, for that we do not have time. Now all Arabs will turn themselves into bombs. If one bomb from a B-52 can kill five hundred or more, our freedom fighters will kill five thousand. Suicide bombers are enlisting every day. This is just the beginning, Ramadan says. - You will get more good news in the days to come. We now have a force of several thousand warriors from different countries. They will martyr themselves for our cause; they have even said they do not want to be returned to their home country after their martyrdom. They want to be buried in sacred Iraqi soil. They seek Paradise and the road leads through Iraq.
We are alarmed when we discover that the recruitment office is in Hotel Palestine. Suicide bombers belong under the same department as the human shields - the Ministry for Peace and Friendship - and share their offices. Between the lift and reception is a door I had never noticed until I saw potential suicide bombers disappear inside. Behind the door is a corridor and down some steps the recruitment office.
With every day that passes, more and more sinister types appear in the hotel lobby. It is easy to distinguish them from the close-cropped Iraqi bureaucrats, each sporting a neat moustache, but otherwise beardless. The sinister types have dishevelled hair and wear either the traditional tunic and wide trousers or various military personal effects. They all wear the Palestinian scarf. They are everywhere, in the reception area, on the roof, in the garden from where we broadcast our TV reports, lying around in the grass. I feel their glowering looks but never dare return their stare. It is a relief that the entire Ministry of Information, together with women and children, live with us, the infidels, in the hotel.
Next door to Antonia a ‘dozen gloomy types sporting Islamic beards’, as she describes them, move in. On the second floor are Tunisians, Syrians and Jordanians.
Lorenzo has been spying on the foreign warriors for several days. He notices that they are marked down on lists before taking their leave and disappearing. None of them stay long at the hotel.
At the beginning of the war they crossed the border without problems. A journalist who had accompanied one bus said that no one was checked at the border; they had been allowed straight through.
One day an entire busload of warriors is bombed. After the Americans gain control of the roads from Amman and Damascus the border crossing becomes more difficult. Travellers report seeing men sitting by the roadside, arms bound, guarded by Americans.
- They still cross the border, a driver says. - Now that they can no longer use the roads, they come through the desert and go straight to their positions.
In Iraqi news media the hero status of the foreign warriors compares favourably with that of Ali. Front page homage is paid to the first two foreign soldiers killed in battle.
The Revolution
reports: ‘Iyad and Fadi killed many infidels before the two Syrians themselves became martyrs. They are now in Paradise, the enemy they killed in hell. To honour the two martyrs a 24-hour raid against enemy positions was initiated. Twenty-three enemy soldiers were killed. Thirty-five tanks, six armoured personnel carriers and one helicopter were destroyed.’
The newspaper’s commentary becomes increasingly vindictive and poetic as the war advances. The article about the two foreign suicide bombers ends thus: ‘The mothers and wives of the enemy will cry blood, instead of tears, when their men are slaughtered by our hallowed soldiers.’
- They give me the creeps, Lorenzo says one day when a couple of suspicious types trot past us in reception. The TV station transmits interviews with mujahideen warriors. One after the other, Kalashnikovs cocked, they promise the viewers they will liberate them from the occupiers.
- I had a good job in Hamburg as an engineer, says one of them. - But I woke up one day and realised I could not go on living in the same way and so I enlisted.
According to Iraqi TV, two brothers sold their hairdressing salon in Oran in Morocco to pay for a ticket to Iraq. - When an Arab is in danger we must help, they say.
- Why don’t the Americans bomb that TV tower? Lorenzo whispers.
The
Corriere della Sera
correspondent himself lives a shady existence. He is one of those hated by Uday. He was actually expelled a month and a half ago, but refused to leave. On one of his last days in Iraq he interviewed Tariq Aziz, who told him he could stay as long as he wanted. Uday was informed but he had already expelled him and was so angry he ripped Lorenzo’s accreditation from him when he next saw him. One of Uday’s subordinates picked it up from the wastepaper basket and gave it back to Lorenzo.
Every time they meet Uday snarls. - Get out. No one is protecting you here.
Lorenzo tries to avoid using reception and instead enters and exits the building by the back stairs. The disappearance of the five other unaccredited ‘illegal’ journalists has given him a serious fright. They too were without the ‘protection’ of the Ministry of Information.
-
Cossa posso fare?
What can I do? Leave Iraq to you guys? he says despairingly, throwing up his arms and inviting us to his room for a cappuccino.
One morning I am woken by loud noises from the car park. I peep over the balcony and see a busload of warriors, fully armed, rush towards the hotel entrance. Has hell been let loose? In that case, safest to stay put. The telephone rings. It’s Tim.
- Thirty suicide bombers from Yemen have arrived, come and have a look.
I shuffle down the stairs to secure an exclusive interview with a Yemeni. I suppose it does not matter where I am if they are going to blow the hotel to smithereens. In the reception area they are performing a war dance, Kalashnikovs raised over their heads. They too have learnt Saddam slogans.
The victory is yours, oh Saddam
We sacrifice our blood, our soul
For you, oh Saddam
You are the perfume of Iraq, oh Saddam
The water of two rivers, oh Saddam
The sword and the shield, oh Saddam
After a while I spot Kadim in the background. Naturally, the show’s producer is the press centre’s number two. The suited bureaucrat lets the Yemenis holler for a bit, then ushers them determinedly into the auditorium. They are followed by a handful of journalists clutching notebooks. Kadim claps his hands and nods to one of the dancers.
- We are from Saana in Yemen and are here to fight side by side with our Iraqi brothers. Together we will defeat the enemy of mankind - USA! the leader of the crowd cries.
- Attack! Fight them! Kill them! is the refrain.
- We will attack from all sides. They won’t even draw breath, another chimes in.
- The time has come to introduce jihad to the world. We will defeat Zionists and Christians, the leader cries. The group dance and clap their hands a little more, then march in step out of the hotel and into the waiting buses.
Thirty-year-old Salah Rahman is sitting on the front seat of the bus. He arrived in Iraq the previous week and says he is prepared to fight with Iraqi troops to defend Baghdad.
- The USA thinks it can decide everything. Bush is a terrorist. He cares more about his dog than he does about the rest of the world. He is the agent of the Jews and wants to control all Arabs. The USA is a snake, the fangs are Israel. But this time he’s mistaken; Allah is with us and therefore we are stronger, is all he has time to say before the doors close on him. The bus leaves the car park, heading towards the desert in the south.
Tim has a problem - his surname is Judah. To be a Jew in Saddam’s Iraq is dangerous. He could be accused of spying for the Zionists, the ultimate enemy.