Before World War II nearly a quarter of Baghdad’s inhabitants were Jewish. Following a Nazi-inspired coup in 1941 many hundreds were killed and many more decided to leave. When Israel was created seven years later, 150,000 Jews were still living in Baghdad, but most of them left over the course of the following years. To leave was tantamount to losing everything - Jews were not allowed to sell their property.
Now only a handful remain, thirty-four to be precise. The synagogue lies hidden behind a stone wall but few have the courage to visit it. Along the east bank of the Tigris the walls and houses were once decorated with the Star of David; now the stars have been hacked away and deep wounds left behind.
Tim’s ancestors left Baghdad and the emasculated Ottoman Empire in the nineteenth century. They made for the prosperous British Empire: Bombay, Calcutta, Singapore and Shanghai. When Tim’s father was four years old the family moved to London.
Tim has always known that he originally came from Baghdad. - We came to Iraq in the year 596 BC, his father had told him. - Once upon a time we lived in Babylon.
When Tim applied for an Iraqi visa the first time, a process which took him ten months, he omitted to mention that he was Jewish. In the space on the form for religion he wrote ‘Christian’. Thus the first Judah in over a hundred years arrived back in Baghdad.
But then there is the surname, which in Persian actually means Jew.
- Judah? What sort of name is that? people in Jordan asked him.
- It’s just a name. It doesn’t really mean anything, Tim answered. In Arabic a surname exists which is pronounced in virtually the same way.
Every day, before and even after the war started, our ears are pumped full of anti-Jewish propaganda. Officialdom in Iraq never uses the word Israel as the regime does not acknowledge the formation of the state of Israel; they call the country ‘The Zionist State’.
One day, when we are stuck in traffic, Aliya suddenly says that all people are of equal value. - Well, apart from the Jews, of course.
Tim doesn’t say a word.
Aliya thinks for a moment and then adds generously: - But I do think, even among Jews, there are some decent people.
Tim nods. He has by the way one more problem to deal with: his nationality. To be British is not always an advantage when stopped by Baath Party officials. One day, while shopping at an electrician’s, they approach us.
- Norwegian, I say.
- French, Tim says, and waves his French passport. As his mother is French he has two passports. The French are popular in Iraq owing to their uncompromising attitude to the USA’s warmongering.
- Why does it say British on your accreditation? the officer asks. - British? Tim says. - That must be a mistake.
The officer looks doubtfully at us before entering into a long conversation with Aliya, who eventually manages to extricate us from the mess. Tim was unaware that the Arabic on his yellow accreditation card, which we have to wear round our necks, classifies him as British.
- You must be honest about your background, Tim, and not boast that you are French when you are really British, Aliya scolds.
In the end I find Father Albert. The monastery is hidden behind pale blue doors, as I had been told, in a lush and beautiful garden. A lean nun lets us in. Having spent seven years in the Vatican, she speaks Italian like a Roman and shows us to an ante-chamber while prayers are being said.
My most vivid memory from St Anne’s is the scent. Tomato and garlic. Maybe spaghetti Bolognese? Has the nun learnt more than quotations from the Bible during her Roman stay?
The Roman Iraqi comes and sits with us when Mass is over. She speaks about St Peter’s, about grace and mercy. She tells us that at night many Iraqis come and sleep in their basement. - They think they will be safe here. Muslims come too, she confides in us. - They think our songs are beautiful.
- So you found us, Father Albert says when he enters the room. As if he knows how I’ve searched for him. The old man leads me up to the third floor, to his office. Aliya lets me go alone.
- Iraq will burn, he says gloomily as he sits down at his desk by the window. - Everything around us is seething. The Shias are mobilising, the Kurds are mobilising, the fundamentalists are mobilising. Christians are increasingly frightened. Up until now we have been spared Islamists in Iraq. This is the work of the bombs.
His office is full of religious symbols: crucifixes, carvings of Jesus, paintings, but first and foremost books cover the walls. He himself is writing a work on the history of Christians in Iraq. He has little time for writing; most of his days are spent travelling around talking to people.
- It is the work of the bombs, he repeats. - So many killed, so many maimed. Why must they kill so many innocents? That is why hatred takes root in people’s hearts. I was all for toppling Saddam, he was an evil man, but not in this way. I do not understand Bush. All I see is that he is destroying this country.
Father Albert asks me to leave. It is not good if neighbours see foreigners staying too long.
- God bless you, he says, before I find my way down the stairs.
Jamal-with-no-fingernails has been allocated an office beside the suicide bombers’ recruitment office. There I run into Aage from Norwegian TV2 who is settling his account. I am renewing my press card. The long queue snakes away.
- We’re off tomorrow morning, Aage says.
Hearing that gives me a shiver. I do not like people leaving, it makes it more frightening to stay. Fredrik and Aage are off with a few other cars the next morning.
I play with the thought. Leave behind the fear, the bombs, the war. Go home. What is in store for us?
The Americans will soon be outside Baghdad. No doubt the ground war will be terrible. They might fight street by street.
That night I scribble down in my diary:
Things are hotting up here
incredibly exciting
but,
if I don’t want to be here any longer,
I’ll have to decide now.
As though the book will answer me. I wish I could leave, but I can’t. The next morning I drop in on Fredrik and Aage to wish them a safe journey. They wish me good luck and give me the key to their room; now Aliya will be on the same floor as me - that will make life easier.
The Americans are now inside the red circle and we speculate about the possibility of chemical attacks. Wherever I go I take my gasmask with me - but usually leave it in the boot of Amir’s car when I return. The topic of conversation among journalists is always the same: Where are the Americans?
We are told that they have taken the airport. An ABC correspondent, who accompanied the troops from Kuwait, claims that he is reporting from the runway at Saddam International Airport, twenty kilometres from the centre of Baghdad.
- That’s American propaganda, Aliya whispers. - Don’t listen to them.
- But they reported it on the BBC. You always used to listen to the BBC?
- Yes, and they’re always lying.
Later on in the day al-Sahhaf reports that the Americans are not at Saddam Airport, and that if they ever try to take it the airport will become their graveyard. That same afternoon a coach trip is arranged out to the airport. None of the reporters see any Americans, but as they are leaving fighting suddenly breaks out. A Reuters reporter misses the bus and is forced to take cover as the bullets whistle over her head.
Those of us who missed the airport tour stand on the flagstones outside the hotel and gape. Andrew from the BBC asks us what we are doing. When I tell him about the day’s meagre pickings, he says: - You guys do your little stories. I am working on some serious stuff.
Serious stuff; who can find that, in barricaded Baghdad?
I am at a loss. My head buzzes with rumours, lies and half truths. What should I write about? Again I find myself inside a bubble. If I had been twenty kilometres outside of town I would have known something, but not here. Afternoon is approaching and I give up. For the first time I send an email to my editors with the title: ‘Nothing from Baghdad today’. I am at the epicentre of the world’s attention and can find nothing to write about.
My legs feel like lead when I descend the stairs to make my live report for Norwegian TV news. What to say? I have trawled page after page of agency reports: Reuters, AP and AFP. What do they actually say? It is nearly seven. I drag myself over to the camera, the ‘snail’ is stuck in my ear and I hear the voice of the producer. She sees me on the screen in the Marienlyst control room and I greet her through the black eye of the camera.
- How are you, Åsne?
- Fine, I hear myself say, a bit too high-pitched, a bit too happy.
- Oh, you’ve disappeared.
- The lights have gone, I answer.
The evening is dark around us. It appears that the electricity has gone all over town. What has happened? A few blacked-out seconds pass before the camera crew are able to start the generator and my white floodlight returns.
The theme tune to the news programme crackles like a mechanical echo from Oslo to Baghdad, and Einar Lunde’s voice is in my ear.
- We hear that electricity has failed all over Baghdad. What is the reason?
Possible causes flit through my head. Have the electricity works been bombed? All at once? Is it sabotage? Have the Iraqis themselves turned it off? To conceal troop movements perhaps? Or chemical gas canisters?
- We do not know the reason for the Baghdad black-out, but in all likelihood the Iraqis themselves have turned the electricity off, I answer. The fact is that no bombs have fallen since the morning.
The next day, while driving around the empty streets with Aliya, I suddenly remember it is Friday and I suggest we go and hear what the mullah in Abu Hanifa mosque has to say. Neither of us is wearing a head-scarf, and we are too far away from the hotel to return, so we try to find a shop. Everything is closed. The ceremony is about to begin; people are streaming into the mosque.
- What about knocking on a door and asking if we might borrow one? I suggest.
- That’s not possible, says Aliya.
- Why not?
- Why not? OK. Wait here.
A few moments later she is back with two shawls.
The mosque is overflowing. Anyone unable to get in sits outside.
- I pray to Allah for my children, for Baghdad, for the soldiers at the front, one woman says. Her tears flow. It’s the stress, the fear, the strain, she explains.
The mosque is divided into two: a large area for men and a smaller one for women. The atmosphere is charged. Serious faces look to the mullah, who is standing on a platform at the end of the room. He calls the Americans barbarians.
- Their aggression has shown how they hate the Arab world. This is a dirty war. Houses fall down over our heads. Babies die in their mothers’ arms. Missiles are fired at holy places.
The Arab countries, and in particular Saudi Arabia, come in for some harsh criticism too. The mullah accuses them of betraying Iraq and selling themselves to the USA. - They have eased the way for the enemy. Arabs who support the killing of Iraqi Muslims by the Americans deserve a place in hell. We pray to Allah that the inhabitants of these countries will rise up in rebellion against their leaders.
Usually the mullah speaks once before the general prayer. Now he interrupts his speech several times and calls on the congregation to pray. He finishes with a last request: Do not listen to the traitors’ broadcasts. They try to enfeeble our will to resist, and whoever gives you erroneous information is a sinner.
Outside the mosque the topic of conversation is the same as the day before: Where are the Americans?
- When someone said that the airport had been taken last night, I went down into the basement and prayed before I went to bed. I was quite sure I would wake up in an occupied city. The roads would be blocked and American tanks would be trundling around the streets, a young woman says. - But when I woke it was absolutely quiet. I thought, maybe Baghdad is still free. Maybe Allah heard my prayer.