Haidar stands on the street, fidgeting, a pistol hanging out of his pocket. He has a large graze on his forehead and scratches on his arm. He is talking to his friends. They have been sent by their mothers to buy bread. Haidar is twelve and attends primary school. But all of them are closed and Haidar and his friends have other things to do.
- I am responsible for the purchase of food for the family, Haidar says, self-consciously pleased. He enjoys himself in the queue, which winds from the road, up the steps and into the shop, smelling of freshly baked bread. At the far end of the room the baker, quick as lightning, rolls the pitta dough into a ball, throws it on to a long shovel and pushes it into the open oven. After a few seconds it is done, taken out and heaved onto the counter where it is picked up and, still steaming, stuffed into a bag.
- We have never seen queues like these, says one of the bakers. - People have to drive many kilometres to get bread. We stay open as long as we can. After all, people have to eat.
Haidar fumbles with his mother’s housekeeping money. - Actually, the war is not too bad. I have more freedom now, I don’t have to go to school, I play football every day, shop, and then we play soldiers.
- Soldiers?
- Yes, we play Israelis and Palestinians, he says, and shows me his toy pistol.
- Don’t you play Americans and Iraqis?
Haidar shakes his head. Maybe the war between America and Iraq is too serious to play. Haidar has seen pictures of mutilated children and has listened to his parents’ worried conversations. Should they stay or should they go?
Anyway, how can you play at being a bomber?
Near the bread shop in Baghdad’s Karada neighbourhood are two rusty old bangers. The wrecks are loaded with bags, water containers and food. Blankets and mattresses are rolled into big balls on the roof.
- We can’t bear it any longer, says Maysun Najib. - The children can’t sleep at night, they cry and are petrified. We have lost electricity and water so we’re locking up and leaving.
- Where are you going?
- We haven’t made up our minds yet. We haven’t really anywhere to go to. We have relatives in Mosul but we don’t know if the road is safe. A neighbour’s car was hit by shrapnel as he returned from Mosul yesterday. Those who were sitting in the front seat have wounds all over their bodies; our neighbour in the back seat was hit in the hand. But I still think it’s safer to go there than to remain here. The fighting might start tonight. When we have finished packing we’re going to the bus stop to ask the drivers. They’ll tell us the best way out of Baghdad, Maysun sighs. Some of her children run around her legs; she has got five between 6 and 18. They are happy to be going on a journey, a journey into the unknown. North, east, west - they’re leaving regardless.
Baghdad’s inhabitants felt that the war was drawing nearer this morning, when the crackle of machine-guns and the thud of heavy artillery replaced the boom of the night bombs. This is one of the reasons many families have decided to flee. The motorways out of Baghdad are jam-packed with overloaded cars, the majority full of women and children.
The presence of the soldiers has changed the atmosphere in town. Lorries laden with heavily armed soldiers drive around the deserted streets. Now and again they fire in the air, as if to celebrate the fact that the battle for Baghdad’s streets is about to start. They wave their weapons and make V-signs to passers-by. Several tanks are lined up by the motorways, ready to advance. Cars tow mobile cannons and there are large concentrations of troops around Baghdad. At important junctions soldiers are lined up and green-clad men drive pick-ups. Several of the town’s parks have been turned into camps with trenches, positions and barracks.
Ahmed sits on a stool in Sadoun Street and watches the workers cement up his hotel. ‘Atlas Hotel and Restaurant’ reads a neon sign over the entrance. A revolving glass door has been turned into a wall. The windows on the first floor have been carefully bricked up; only a tiny sliver of window remains until the whole house is sealed in.
- It’s best like that, says Ahmed, sadly. - Now not a single bullet will get through.
- The airport has been taken, the Americans report for the second day in a row.
- Yes, they took it, but we have recaptured it, retorts the Information Minister. - They won’t survive the night, he adds and reiterates that Iraq will use unconventional weapons. He calls it a ‘mission of sacrifice’. The statement leads us to frenzied speculation and we stare even harder at the bearded faces in reception.
At nightfall the town is quiet - too quiet. I cannot sleep. Where is the bombing? Poison gas makes no sound, no boom. I wait and wish for the explosions. At least then we know where the war is. My skin tingles. My body tingles. I toss and turn in the dirty sheets, then pad out to the balcony. The guards are also quiet, staring up at the sky. Restless, sleepless, waiting.
Finally sleep overcomes the frightening silence. But only for a few hours. I wake at daybreak, not to dull thuds or explosions, but to something sharper, closer. Mortars, small rockets, grenades, bursts of machine-gun fire. Bullets fly through the air. Street fighting! It has started. My stomach knots. I close my eyes, try to push it away. Curiosity forces me out of bed and I creep over to the window.
There! On the other side of the Tigris I spot American tanks. By the Presidential palace! The Americans have taken Baghdad during the night. They have entered the heart of the city. Explosions spread like wildfire round the palace as the third infantry division advances. From the window I see Iraqi guards running for their lives along the river bank, some of them in their underwear. Some jump into the river. Another ammunitions depot explodes.
Two Iraqi soldiers give themselves up, hands held over their heads. They are forced to the ground, face down. One of them turns round. He is shot by an American soldier. The Iraqi jerks in convulsions and lies lifeless on the ground.
It is Monday, 7 April. It is nearing 7am and I am scheduled to broadcast for Swedish TV. Bewildered, I look towards the soldiers and tanks on the opposite bank, then down to the guards on my side. They are still wearing their Baath Party uniforms.
I stop for a moment and pull something from behind my bedside table. It has been there since the very first night when I realised I could not sleep wearing a bulletproof vest. For the first time I put it on. So far, as long as danger has arrived with rockets and bombs I have figured that a bulletproof vest would not make much difference. But now, with the battle raging all around, it might be wise to start wearing it.
‘Good morning, this is Stockholm, can you hear us?’
The noise around me is deafening. It is difficult to hear what the anchorman is saying. Sometimes I have to ask him to repeat a question, or try to second-guess him.
- The battle for Baghdad has started. There has been heavy fighting going on for the last two hours - artillery, cannons, grenades. Bombs have hit central Baghdad. I can see over to the other side of the river where there are several fires. We have seen . . . from the hotel we see American tanks capturing Saddam Hussein’s Presidential palace. They are shooting . . .
It is difficult to hold a clear thought during the constant shelling. STV’s anchorman, Morgan Olofsson, who I know from my time in Moscow, translates and explains my Norwegian phrases to the Swedish public.
- Where else, as far as you can see, or know, are there American troops?
- They have surrounded Baghdad. As far as we know they have occupied the southern and eastern parts. Where most of the inhabitants live, downtown, there has been no fighting. The various coalition forces have different tasks, some the Presidential palace, others the ministries, and yet others military installations. This is where the battles are raging now and which we can hear . . .
A machine-gun volley can be heard close by.
The feature in ‘Morning Report’ is supposed to last a few minutes. I hear the editor tell Morgan - ‘Delay the weather’.
- To those of you who are waiting for the weather forecast, we will delay it for a moment, Morgan tells the public. Then he returns to me. As I talk, I hear the editor say: ‘Skip the weather’.
- The fighting has now lasted for two hours - very intense, continuous . . . also machine-gun fire. Which indicates that the fighting is only a couple of hundred metres away. That implies that it might be the Special Forces. They have been in Baghdad for some time, undercover and now—
The blast is so strong that I fear my eardrums will burst. Hell. I lose my thread. Swoosh. Bang. Another crash.
—and now taking over central parts of Baghdad.
I should take cover, I think. More explosions. Behind the hotel, maybe? Whoosh. But you can’t do that in the middle of a live broadcast. ‘Skip the sport’, I hear the editor say. I continue. It will upset the public if I just disappear. Boom! I’m no longer thinking, I’m flying. It is as if a missile has landed right by me. The air pressure tosses me around, throws me to the ground; I am behind the hotel in a single leap. The cameraman is running too, like everyone else. Smoke pours from the river bank. Has a missile struck our side of the Tigris? On the other side of the parking lot? An error?
The machine-gun fire continues to crackle.
In Stockholm Morgan tries to calm the viewers. - There we lost Åsne Seierstad - you might have heard the explosions in the background.
The camera continues to record from its tripod, while the cameraman has taken cover with me.
- Here are pictures from downtown Baghdad, Morgan continues, slightly doubtful. - On the other side of the river they are battling for the Presidential palace, a large complex where American soldiers have gained entry. Some journalists have sought refuge during the fighting . . . Åsne, you might be able to hear us, I do not want you to attempt to get up, but if you can hear us, you might let us know what is going on.
Morgan is quiet for a few seconds before he continues. - We’ll wait and see.
I have two things on my mind. The gaping camera filming into the empty void. And the frightened viewers. I have to return to ‘Morning Report’.
- It sounds as though she might be returning, I thought I heard them talking. We are watching live pictures from Baghdad this morning where the fighting for the capital has started.
The cameraman and I look at each other; without speaking we agree to continue the transmission. He returns to the camera and I run over to the stool I was standing on, replace the plug in my ear, adjust the microphone and look into the camera.
- And we have Åsne Seierstad on the screen again. We lost her for a moment while she took refuge from the fighting that is going on nearby. Åsne, maybe you can hear me now. What is going on?
- Eh, it is difficult to tell, impossible to know where the bombs drop, from where the missiles are coming, or the shooting. But actually . . .
I swallow; there is sand in my mouth.
. . . I think, however, that the majority of Baghdad’s citizens will stay indoors today. The bullets are whizzing around people’s houses and the only thing to do is to stay at home and wait until it is all over.
- Where are you standing? And what is that we see behind you?
I turn round to have a look.
- Oh, that! That is a statue of Saddam Hussein. We’ll have to wait and see how long it will stand. I hear the American soldiers like to shoot at pictures of Saddam Hussein. But now on the other side of the Tigris . . .
There are no soldiers on ‘our’ side of the Tigris yet. The city streets are deserted, a few cars visible. Soldiers loaf about, perplexed, watching the fighting taking place on the other side of the river; their helmets are inadequate, their faces anxious.
Kadim convenes an impromptu meeting on the roof of the hotel. This is to be al-Sahhaf’s legendary press conference, where his parallel sense of reality is seriously exposed.
- I apologise for having woken you up this morning with these shots. But I want to let you know that we have forced back the enemy and you can now rest, he says.