Uday al-Taiy is one of those cold-blooded and effective pieces that every dictatorship needs. He is in charge of us; he advises the ministers as to who should stay and who must leave. This is what occupies us above all. To be allowed to stay. The rule is ten days. Only a few are smart, cunning, lucky, important or rich enough to stay beyond that period. And most of them are only granted an extra ten days. The visa and how to buy, trick or bribe to get it is the big topic of conversation among journalists. How many days have you got left? Do you think they’ll extend it? Who have you paid? Wow, you got the extension! How?
These conversations are intertwined with topic number two: When do you think the war will start? At the beginning of February, at the end of February, at the beginning of March, the middle of March, after the summer? The visa has to last long enough to enable us to cover the war, and to that end we have to enter the lion’s den, Uday al-Taiy’s lair.
Anyone wanting to talk to him is obliged to come between 9 and 10 in the evening. Any earlier and he will be with the minister. The result is a queue of journalists all glaring at each other. They want to be alone with the mighty man, to submit their case in secrecy. Just wait your turn to enter and listen to Uday’s monologues. It must give him perverse pleasure to hear our applauding and fawning. All because of the bloody visa. We sit on the perch until we fall off while we wait for the moment when we can submit our request.
- We must combat America’s imperialism before they subdue the whole world, Uday says and draws heavily on a cigarette, while a Japanese from Asahi, a pale, freckled lady from the
Guardian
and a classy TV star from France 2 nod. The beautiful but slightly moth-eaten Parisienne bobs her sky-high heels up and down. It is her way of saying she isn’t getting the attention she deserves. The Japanese looks down, while the lady from London wraps a large necklace around her finger. An American TV producer sits in the corner, without applauding, without contradicting. My face is serious and humble and I wait politely for my allotted time. I am not high enough in the ranks to either applaud or protest. I don’t dare nod for fear of nodding at the wrong place. The lady from the
Guardian
interrupts continually with new points. She and Uday seem to agree about most things. The TV star’s heels bob ever more angrily; then she too throws in some fierce criticism of the USA. The time is drawing to a close - the urgent matters must be dealt with. The
Guardian
wants to visit Basra; the Parisienne wants to interview Tariq Aziz. The TV producer needs permission to import one more satellite telephone. The Japanese needs an office in the building. I want to extend my visa.
- You are all flunkies of the USA. None of you report the truth, Uday screams. The air is stiff with smoke. On the wall the omnipresent picture of the president glares down at us. Behind Uday’s back are stickers from newspapers and TV stations all over the world. A television in the corner plays the incessant music videos.
To repay the attention shown, Uday allows the French and the English lady to talk. The Japanese is too polite, the American too haughty. My mouth is dry from all the smoke and I sink deeper into the low sofa. I am terrified of saying something and upsetting him. Stories abound of journalists who were exposed to Uday’s wrath and put on the first plane to Amman.
Suddenly the monologue is at an end and he gets up, says goodnight and strides out. I feel the eyes under the furrowed brow boring in to me, or through me. Hell, now I’ll have to come back tomorrow.
I’m on my way back to Gertrude Bell’s exercise in patience. Out in the parking lot Josh grabs me.
- Dinner?
Josh is an engineer with Sky News. He is responsible for the satellite system which enables the channel to report at any time from anywhere. He has the most contagious laugh and the broadest Scottish accent. Half of what he says goes over my head, but the other half usually makes me laugh. We have been bumping in to each other over the last years, at a refugee camp in Macedonia, during demonstrations in Belgrade, on a mountain top in the Hindu Kush, in the desert near Kandahar, and now in Baghdad.
Josh has been to Iraq before. During the last Gulf War he saw active service with the British Army. He was a soldier for eleven years, before being hired by Sky News.
Many TV companies recruit from the forces when they need technicians or cameramen. The one-time soldiers have stamina and war experience and bring a certain assurance to the team. They have learnt battle psychology and first aid. They know the difference between incoming and outgoing fire, and are the last to complain. Some of the correspondents also have army careers behind them.
We tumble through the door to the al-Finjan restaurant. The whole of Sky News - reporters, producers, photographers, technicians and editors, in addition to many other colleagues - are shown to a trestle table.
The British contingent are regular customers and the staff cannot be helpful enough. Rather, they know exactly what we want, and serve us beer. In cups so as not to antagonise the guests at the table nearby. Prohibition was part of the Islamisation campaign during the 1990s. Goodbye whisky, hello prayers and shawls. The former godless Saddam was suddenly being photographed in mosques, praying.
Al-Finjan is run by Alaw, a Christian Armenian who has tricked his way past the restrictions. That means contacts and patrons in high places.
We talk about the approaching war, wars we have experienced, where other wars might break out and which hotels will be safest once the bombs start falling. Al-Rashid lies right in the ministry jungle, al-Mansour between the Ministry of Information and one of the main bridges, Hotel Palestine opposite the Presidential palace. My tiny al-Fanar, close to the Palestine, makes them all smirk.
- That dilapidated building will collapse at the smallest explosion.
One dish follows another, the cups are refilled. I try to imagine the opposite situation. Great Britain is expecting a major attack from Iraq. It is feared that bombs will rain down over London. Rumours abound that Iraqis are planning wholesale takeover of many of England’s larger industrial plants, oil companies and shipping. Should Iraq win the war, it is expected that its leaders will maintain power for a considerable period, until a friendly regime is in place, a regime which serves Arab interests. Right in the middle of this rumour-flood Iraqi journalists flock to London. They check in at the best hotels, rent extra rooms to house their equipment, splash money about, demand to follow their own customs and drinking habits. They have brought with them gasmasks and bulletproof vests, and buy up bottled water and tinned food which those who live there cannot afford. In the evening, they gather round the restaurant tables and await one thing: that their president will give the go-ahead for the destruction of London.
How would they have been received by the inhabitants of London? By restaurant staff? By the British Ministry of Information?
Back in 707 Said has come up with another decoration idea. A small red, yellow and black patterned rug adorns the narrow strip of floor at the bottom of the bed. How would I furnish the room of someone who had come to report on the destruction of my country?
The days pass interviewing people who won’t talk, translated by interpreters who won’t cooperate, in a country where eyes and ears are everywhere. Never in my life have I worked under such difficult conditions. Not because there is no water in the tap, or a threat of guerrilla warfare. Nor the difficulty in sending articles home. The problem is that there is nothing to send. The list I gave to Mohsen has come to nothing.
- Not possible.
- OK.
- Impossible.
- Of course.
- Not allowed.
- That’s fine.
- No permit.
- I see.
- Out of the question.
- But . . .
- Maybe
- Oh.
- Be patient.
- Mm.
Instead I traipse around with Takhlef.
- Would you like to see the result of the sanctions in the hospitals? he asks. - Hundreds of thousands of children are dying because we are forbidden to import essential medicines.
- I have read about them everywhere.
- But you haven’t seen them yourself.
- We can’t all write about the same sick children, I answer stubbornly.
Takhlef gives me an astonished look. This is the first time I’ve grumbled. We visit a food distribution point instead. Most Iraqis are dependent on rations distributed by the government. Rice, flour, beans, lentils. In the expectation of a long war the population are being given several months’ worth of rations.
For the first time I notice the sandbags, the only visible sign of Iraqi war preparations. On street corners brown sacks are stacked into little towers. The tiny forts are more comical than frightening, as if they belong to a different time.
We stop by a small shop. Every neighbourhood has an outlet which deals with rations. Huge sacks and boxes are placed on the floor next to some scales. The owner is weighing out foodstuffs when we enter.
Almost imperceptibly people freeze, turn away. Takhlef seems to take no notice. The female owner fetches large iron weights to measure everyone’s portion, her gaze averted. My minder grabs a woman whose eyes are watching the gauge carefully.
Takhlef translates ponderously. About food, family, fear of war. Having watched her receive rice and flour into her bags, Takhlef asks whether I am satisfied with the answers and whether I will allow her to leave.
- She must leave when she wants! I interrupt.
Takhlef tells me that she had asked many times if she could be spared from answering the questions. - But I said no. After all, we have to finish the interview.
The woman’s husband is ill and she wants to hurry home to nurse him. She fidgeted with impatience during the long interview, while I, not understanding, dutifully noted down the answers, or rather Takhlef’s detailed translation.
- Then let her go, I cry indignantly.
People never say no to an interview. They always stop, nobody ever says they don’t have time. Now I understand why: they are obliged to answer Takhlef’s questions, as if he were a policeman. In most countries people hurry away if they are asked for interviews on the street. That is impossible in Iraq.
I feel an acute need to get rid of Takhlef. But interpreters are not exchangeable. We are. ‘Hundreds of journalists are sitting in Amman, waiting for an entry permit’, is the refrain if we ever complain.
- You must leave! Uday thunders.
It is the end of January and the last chance to ask for an extension. One more day and I’m illegal.
- Please, give me ten more days, I beg.
- No!
- Please!
- No!
I can’t go now. I have hardly seen anything, even less understood anything.
-
S’il vous plait, Monsieur Uday
.
Uday has a weakness: anything French. He studied at the Sorbonne and has many friends in France after years at the Iraqi embassy in Paris. Those who know him also know his passion: French cheese. Consequently he is often supplied with Camembert and Brie in exchange for a visa and a bit of goodwill. There is neither Chèvre nor Roquefort in my suitcase, but I gamble on a bit of charm à la Française.
-
D’accord, je vous donne cinq jours
.
- Only five days. That’s any moment now, I protest.
-
Oh la la! Quelle Femme! Dix jours! Ca vous va?
I scurry out of the office. Ten new days! I go to Nabil’s to celebrate the extension.
Nabil’s walls are pink, the sofas are soft and there is everything from Middle Eastern specialities to shrimp cocktail in Thousand Island dressing on the menu. In addition they have Lebanese, Italian and French wines, served with a carefully folded napkin round the bottle. As soon as the glasses have been filled the bottle is put under the table and removed when it is empty.