- Aren’t you excited? I ask Aliya.
She shakes her head.
- Don’t you wonder how your president lived?
- He lived many places.
We stop well short of the barbed wire by the entrance; we do not want to be mistaken for suicide bombers. Soldiers aim their guns at us, the tank cannons point in our direction. Amir parks the car, while Janine, Aliya and I wave our hands in the air and carefully approach the first barrier. The soldier who moves towards us does not lower his gun before we show him our press passes.
- Those are no good, the soldier says, pointing to my and Aliya’s yellow cards. - You need a press card from HQ.
- But that’s in Qatar, I protest.
- You can get them in Kuwait too, the soldier answers.
- But we have not been in the Gulf, we have been here, I stutter.
- Sorry guys, turn back.
- But . . .
- Turn back!
- I was here before you, I shout, and realise how idiotic I sound. We have survived their bombs and missiles, fought Iraqi bureaucracy, censure, fear and stress. We have lived without power and water, and then some pipsqueak from the American marines tells us what we can and cannot do.
I glance over at Aliya. Her face betrays nothing. Yet she must be cross, denied access in her own city by an American pimple-face.
Janine tries a soft voice. She has the correct card from Kuwait.
- Can’t you let them in on my pass? she tries, ingratiatingly.
- Those two, never, says the soldier.
One of his superiors comes to our rescue, a large American I had spoken to at the hotel the night before.
- Come with me, he says, and asks us to jump into his Humvee.
Aliya refuses.
It appears the limit has been reached: an American vehicle.
- Well, we don’t really need you in there, I say. - Everyone speaks English in Saddam’s palace these days.
The insult could hardly have been worse.
Aliya stands still. She struggles with her conscience, her anger, the humiliation, her curiosity. The latter wins and she jumps in behind the driver.
The destruction is total. Some buildings have been virtually pulverised; trees have been uprooted. Bombs, missiles, tanks, grenades, cannons, bullets of every calibre were used in the battle for the palace.
- The battle lasted eight hours, says the officer. - It was a long day.
We drive past an American tank; a small black pennant with a skull flies in the wind, the platoon’s emblem.
- Not all the bodies have been removed, he warns.
The officer points to some corpses by the road. Civilians. - Several arrived when the battle was as good as over. They hid rocket launchers behind their backs, aimed and shot. None of us were hit. But they were. We were prepared for street battles and our young soldiers went through tough training. But the Iraqis just ran and hid.
He stops by the next gate and hands us over to George, a black American from Harlem, New York. George smiles broadly and shakes our hands with a strong fist.
- Would you care for some sightseeing?
We follow the soldier over a carpet of cartridge cases. Past orange groves, fields and scorched gardens. It seems nobody has taken care of the place in a while. This spring, only the soldiers have kept house. The area, which covers several square kilometres, was the strategic heart of Saddam Hussein’s system. The palace was like a town - the presidential town - with an HQ, elite forces’ barracks, buildings belonging to the secret services, reception halls, and last but not least, the president’s private apartments.
- There are 258 rooms, says George.
We step into the hall. It is a Babylonian version of Louis XIV’s Versailles: hall upon hall, marbled floors and brocaded walls. Our footsteps echo. Most of the furniture has been removed, and what remains can only be described as imitation baroque, gilded plastic. The bedrooms have different types of beds - mahogany, white painted chipboard, gilded décor, ornate patterns or carvings.
In Uday’s palaces the Americans found pornographic films, crates of champagne, whisky and rum, designer clothing, billiard tables, a Jacuzzi and a mass of private photographs and weapons. Saddam’s cupboards are empty. Most of his belongings were moved long before the war.
Some of the halls have been transformed into HQs for the new rulers. On the tables are satellite telephones, computers and coffee cups. Generators have been erected to provide power. A notice on a partition wall says: ‘Freedom is never for free. The price must be paid in blood. Give me freedom or give me death. We will never forget September 11th’.
George points and explains, opens doors, shines the torch up stairs. All the while he tries to strike up a conversation with Aliya.
- Look how your president wallowed in luxury while you lived in shit, he says.
- Hm, says Aliya.
- It’s crazy, George continues.
- Hm.
- Your president waltzed around under crystal chandeliers while you guys didn’t even have clean water!
- Hm.
- He spent your money.
- Hm.
- Your money. He stole from his people. This palace should have belonged to the people. It was built with your money!
- Hm.
- You had no freedom. He tortured prisoners, gassed his own people, while at the same time sitting on a golden throne. Aren’t you mad? George asks.
Now not even a hm escapes from Aliya. She falls behind and lets the wiry Harlem boy walk on. She stops and asks if we want her to translate the plaques on the walls.
- They commemorate all the wars Iraq has won, from the time of Babylon up to the present day.
When she has translated the plaque that represents the victory over the Americans in the Gulf War of 1991, she continues to read from the ceiling. There Allah’s ninety-nine names are inscribed in black on gold. Aliya reads - The Beneficent, the Merciful, the Gracious, the King, the Holy, He Who Gives Peace, He Who Gives Faith, the Protector, the Mighty, the Compeller, the Majestic, the Creator.
George and Janine continue on. I stay and listen to Aliya, who is chanting softly.
- The Maker, The Bestower of Form, the Forgiver, the Subduer, the Bestower, the Provider, the Opener, the All-Knowing, the Withholder, the Expander, the Abaser, the Exalter, the Bestower of Honour, the Humiliator, the All-Hearing, the All-Seeing, the Judge, the Just, the Gentle, the All-Aware, the Forbearing, the Incomparably Great, the Forgiving, the Appreciative, the Most High, the Most Great, the Preserver, the Sustainer, the Reckoner, the Revered, the Generous, the Watchful, the Responsive, the All-Encompassing, the Wise, the Loving One, the Most Glorious, the Resurrector, the Witness, the Truth, the Ultimate Trustee, the Most Strong, the Firm One, the Protector, the All-Praised, the Reckoner, the Originator, the Restorer to Life, the Giver of Life, the Causer of Death, the Ever-Living, the Self-Existing by Whom all Subsists, the Self-Sufficient, the Glorified, the One, the Eternally Besought, the Omnipotent, the Powerful, the Expediter, the Delayer, the First, the Last, the Manifest, the Hidden, the Governor, the Most Exalted, the Benign, the Granter and Accepter of Repentance, the Lord of Retribution, the Pardoner, the Most Kind, the Owner of the Kingdom, the Possessor of Majesty and Honour, the Just, the Gatherer, the All-Sufficient, the Enricher, the Preventer of Harm, the Afflicter, the Benefiter, the Light, the Guide, the Originator, the Everlasting, the Ultimate Inheritor, the Guide, the Patient One . . .
Allah’s ninety ninth name is the Patient One.
When Aliya has finished she looks at me.
- Only Allah knows the hundredth name.
Then she trots after the others.
What did it feel like to be bombed, George asks when we catch him up. Aliya opens her mouth for the first time.
- We are used to it.
- I see, says George. - I mean, I understand.
He has stopped on one of the balconies and is looking out over an orange grove.
- What do the Iraqis really think about us? Are they pleased to be rid of Saddam Hussein?
Aliya does not answer. She stares straight ahead.
Even George is quiet.
After some brooding, he says:
- Well, I understand that you don’t like us. I would not have liked us if I were you. I mean if I were an Iraqi. I would fight us. For sure.
On a stretcher in an American base lies Paul from Reuters. He is covered in wounds and bandages, has gashes on cheeks, nose, arms, chest, side, hips, and down to his legs.
- My testicles are still intact, he jokes to a colleague who is visiting.
Samia, a Reuters’ correspondent, lies in the same base. Her face is cut. Shrapnel penetrated her head and still sits there. The surgeon tried to remove it but failed.
Josh has resigned. He is exhausted and tired of the war. His feet are suffering from suppurating blisters, and his back has second degree burns from sweating in the bulletproof vest while running at full speed up and down from the roof, carrying petrol cans to fill the generator.
But the greatest wounds are inside him. He has had enough. New Sky personnel have taken over. Four of them live in his room.
- I’m moving to Australia, he says when I meet him in the noisy reception area.
- To Australia?
- Yes, I have had enough of this madness for now. Come and see me there. We are leaving tomorrow morning.
David rushes past and bids farewell on the run.
- See you next time, he calls, as if we were to meet at a golf tournament.
Antonia leaves. And Giovanna and Stefan. Aliya is still quiet. Amir is increasingly sad, while Abbas has more energy every time we meet. I drag myself around.
One evening the ‘martyrs’ by the live points get on my nerves to such a degree that I ask the Americans to do something.
- They lie around on the grass among us all, I moan. - Who are they? What are they doing here?
- That’s what we were wondering, says the NCO with whom I am talking.
- They look like suicide bombers.
- They surely do.
The next evening they have disappeared. A raid was conducted in the hotel to find out whether ‘undesirable elements’ were hiding there. It had been planned by the highest authority and had nothing to do with my complaints.
The foreign warriors had been let down by everyone who had welcomed them. By Saddam who had promised to award them, by his sons who had disappeared without a trace, by the republican guard who had changed into civilian clothes, by their own government who wanted nothing to do with them. And lastly by me, who had always been terrified of them.
September 11th. Always uttered as a matter of course, as if it explained everything. Every time I speak to a soldier, without fail he mentions that date. In spite of their doubts about the war, their argument in the end comes down to: You know, September 11th.
Most of them want to return home, after months in the desert. The soldiers I meet are possibly naïve, with a strong belief that Americans can do what they want, but they are a more diverse group than I had expected.
Outside the hotel in the dark between the tanks I meet a young soldier. He shines his torch on me.
- Where are you from?
- Norway. And you?
- Massachusetts.