WHEN WE WERE KINGS
Iraq's top doctors all meet on Fridays at our hotel pool, they drink big pints of beer, eat crisps and swim. They have a British look about them. A 1950's English style. It is a look I always liked about Iraq.
Are you British? one of them asks me in the pool. "Yes.." I answer. The big burly doctor smiles. "I studied in south London, in1986.. I lived in East Dulwich.." "So did I" I reply. "Why didn't you stay there?" I asked, "I wanted to, but we are a big family here in Iraq, my father was a merchant, we inherited many properties, factories, businesses all over Iraq. I came back to look after them with my brothers."
"What was business like under Saddam?" the doctor shakes his head. "We stopped all business because of Saddam, he didn't care about business, he believed that this country was rich only in oil. Anyway it was dangerous to get into BIG business in Saddam's time. Anything that threatened him would be cut." So where you for the war?" I ask him. "No, but I'm pleased Saddam is gone." Another doctor joins us... "It was the only way of getting rid of Saddam, the war was necessary."
"What we Iraqis need to realise is that Iraq is a rich country, but that it is impossible for us to have this on our own. There is always someone who wants to share it. During theBritish rule we did well, so lets hope that the Americans get what they want, and maybe we can all do well again." The other doctor looks at me, "Iraq was the envy of Middle East. We were living like kings while Jordan was still a piece of desert, Bahrain, Dubai.. they never even existed. Now they look at us as second class citizens. That is Saddam's fault. You know the people of Europe used to say that the Arab world should take it as a compliment that Iraqi's consider themselves as Arabs."
"But you know the best period in Iraq in the last 400 years was between 1920 and 1985 when the British ruled us. Our economy grew, we had 3 Iraqi dinars to each dollar. The other doctor interrupts, "When Bremmer first arrived in Iraqwe met with him. I told him, Iraqi people are not poor, we have food and enough to eat and live, but what you have to realise is that we are 5000 times poorer than we were.
The crippling inflation of the 1990's with the UN imposedsanctions saw Iraq's inflation rise 5000 fold. It will be along journey to restore such wealth, and for most who left their money in Iraq it is too late. Samir sits listening to the doctors. He shakes his head, "You know at the end of the 1980's I had 200,000 dinars in the bank, about half a million dollars. It went to the wind, inflation, the sanctions. NowI don't have the money to bury myself."
THE MAN WITHOUT AN EYE
I'd always seen this man, the man without an eye. I'd always admired how he cared for the NBC T.V network's fleet of cars that he cleans each evening. I'd noticed how he scrubbed the tires, so the car looks brand new again. This man just works, and works. Then sleeps on the ground in the open air next to his cars. He is happy to have a job, a good job, with the Americans.
Today I stopped and let my curiosity end. I wanted to know who he was and how he lost his eye. Samir always says "Every Iraqi has a story." So what was this mans? The man lost his eye in the Iran war. He was taken to war in his late teens. One night Iranian bombing killed most of his friends, but a few, like him, were found alive amongst the dead. For some reason they were not executed but taken prisoner, and that was his story for the next 18 years.
He was released from prison in 1998 and received $300 from Saddam for his troubles. He spent the money on fixing his blind eye. He looks up from a dirty tire he is scrubbing in the unbearable heat.. "You know some people here resent me having this job.. you know, working with an American network, but what have I ever got from this country after all I've given it..?"
Sean (drunk?) console's Samir and his 'lost love'
LOVE
We are driving in Baghdad, looking for pizza, Danielle is on Samir’s mind today.. “Sean, I keep thinking of her. Really I still love her.” I point out to Samir that he said he still loved his ex wife a couple of days ago.. “Yes.. I love her as well..” Later we open an email, it is from Angela, another NGO worker.. “Really Sean I love this woman also!” Samir is passionate about love.
“Sean we need love to live.. that is why we are alive. If we don’t love what are we? You know every year I’ve been in love. And every year I’ve composed beautiful ballads for the girls I love.” Samir’s face changes. “This is the only year that I’ve not been in love.. that is why I’m so miserable.. look at me.. not composing.. nothing..”
He plays me a medley of his own compositions; A Ballad for Danielle, Ballad to Marie, Ballad to Angela….
Danielle worked for a charity in Saddam’s Iraq, in a time when Samir enjoyed a life of ‘fun with fear’. She was a piano student of his, but when they fell in love he became her student. “She used to push me, encourage me to play, to write. After years in a stale marriage she gave me my life back.”
Samir has sacrificed many things in life for his women, but nothing compares to what he gave up for Danielle. 3 years ago he had an invitation to go to America, to join his daughters and ex-wife. America has always been Samir’s dream, he wants to be famous there. Danielle was leaving for a new job in North Korea. Samir had his papers to leave as well. He waited to spend a little more precious time with Danielle before leaving. But as he waited, events that would change the course of history took place on September 11th in New York. Samir was refused entry into the USA as all visa’s from Iraq were withdrawn.
They stood kissing, in floods of tears in a crowded airport and Danielle left forever. Samir was lost again waiting for his way out to America. He bought a packet of cigarettes and started smoking again. He smoked the whole packet crying for Danielle, sat on the kerb of the busy airport road. As her plane left he made his way back to Baghdad, to his piano, the empty restaurant, his empty life. Samir has made a new application to live in the States which has been agreed, he is waiting for his papers to arrive before he will leave Iraq forever.
Each night he counts the days, the hours and minutes to the moment he can leave. Staying here is painful, seeing what is happening to his country upsets Samir. He worry’s about the future, “This place is finished now… I blame Saddam for giving the Americans an excuse to put their dirty feet on our soil and soak the land of it’s oil.”
THE GREAT IRAQI SALE
New Iraq sometimes feels like Woolworths Christmas sales. I met an American guy the other day who called himself the ‘only true carpet bagger in Iraq’. The American had been here over a year and lives in a dangerous part of Baghdad, he touts work trying to win the many lucrative contracts. This guy is on commission only and hasn’t made a buck in a year. If he does win one of the many lucrative contracts he stands to become a millionaire over night.
But the risks are great. I always look out for people like him when I turn on the news each day to see who has been kidnapped or beheaded in the ritual slaughter that takes place here every day. Of course only westerners make international news. I met an Iraqi girl yesterday who has been working as a translator with a US company for 6 months. She hasn’t seen her Iraqi driver for 5 days now. He was kidnapped and no news has emerged. But there is little ransom on his head. The truth is that they are simply waiting for his body to be found in the gutters soon. He will be dragged into the hospital fridge waiting for identification from his family.
Like the only time I visited the hospital with a French journalist friend after a suicide bomber had killed scores outside Samir’s music school. Then, a man in his early 30’s was dragged in from the street with a single bullet to the back of his head. He’d come to find work from outside of Baghdad – to support his family. As we went through his belongings we found pictures of his young children, a boy and girl that didn’t yet know their father was dead. He had been killed for working with the Americans. A simple crime in country where the only source of work – real work, is with the Americans.
So it is a tough choice here; to work and be killed for $1000 a month, or work in safer jobs, like the swimming pool attendant at my hotel who is married with a child and earns a meagre $20 a week. My swim costs me $5 a day, my favourite pizza $4. But here in Iraq most families are spending that in one week. They eat basic simple food, just enough to get by. They drive clapped out cars, queue for miles for fuel in the raging heat, get home to find they have no electricity for air coolers or money to feed the family. All this in a country built on oil, where a litre of petrol is cheaper to buy than a litre of water.
‘Blame Saddam, blame Saddam!’ Yes.. but it’s over a year now since ‘the liberation’ of this land, with no hope in sight, people are looking back to Saddam. ‘Remember the ‘good old days’ under Saddam, when you could go out at night without fear of being killed robbed or kidnapped… the days when you didn’t have to camp outside school all day in raging heat waiting for your children in fear that they are kidnapped. Even Samir has started looking back to the days when ‘we had fun with fear.. but at least we had fun’. Now my Iraqi friends tell me to be careful on the streets with my camera. The microphone looks like a rocket propelled grenade. ‘Be careful please Mr Sean.. the Americans will kill you without question…they think later..’ All Iraqi’s know that the Americans ‘deal’ to remain here after the handover of power is that they cannot be prosecuted for killing people. But of course the more people they kill the more the resentment rages, the longer they stay the more animosity builds. Iraqis have had years of war and oppression and see this American occupation as just one more. There will be no peace in this land until America leaves. There will be no rebuilding until they realise, as Samir says, “Only Iraqi’s can rebuild Iraq.”
So where is there hope in Iraq today? I look around the pool at the reporters drinking beers, the mercenaries sitting with the contractors responsible for rebuilding Iraq. I wonder if they know what is actually going on here. They are part of the ‘rebuilding process’. I want someone tell me where the rebuilding is going on. I want to be able tell the many Iraqi’s that ask me day after day. “What are all these people doing here? We haven’t seen anything in over a year..” My clever answer used to be ‘these things take time.. have patience..’ but now having been here and seen Iraq in the hands of the Americans, I am less clever, more real, more cynical. How much longer can people wait? In true American style Iraq is a catastrophe that is only getting worse. I met a French Businessman who has come here to win a contract. He wants to earn some ‘good money’ before he retires. He visited the Coalition Provisional Authority to see how he could tender a competitive bid, but he wasn’t allowed. The ‘sale’ was closed. The selected companies were chosen. The American’s only deal out the contracts to their friends. They decide who gets what in the Great Iraqi Sale.
But the French man has hope. He is giving himself 5 years here to make friends with the right people, he is hopeful of getting a contract and securing his pension back in France. Lets hope he makes it through the stormy days ahead, for the sooner the Americans distribute their contracts and leave this land, the sooner there will be hope for ordinary Iraqi’s to have a peaceful normal life.
THE BEST PIZZA IN BAGHDAD
Samir was tired, we'd been doing lots of swimming today but I was intent on pizza. We travelled over to 52nd street to a place where we'd eaten yesterday. Samir was impressed by the young women there. But when we arrived the electricity was out and the emergency generator was not working.
I decided to go for 'The best pizza in Baghdad.' but Samir wasn't happy. It was on the other side of town, and near the massive American base, very close to where a suicide-bomber killed many recently. Despite all of this (I'd heard so many good things about the place), I wanted to go. I persuaded Samir to drive.
The pizza parlour was wonderful, authentic, but expensive for Iraqis like Samir, about $4 a pizza. It had been a favourite with the Americans. But the owner wasn't happy, business was down since the Americans were told they could not eat outside of the heavily fortified 'green zone' where they live. They fear they may be poisoned.
I sat enjoying the very authentic pizza. It tasted great... until I started reading the newspaper cuttings on the wall, of the recent suicide attack outside the American camp opposite. It had done $1000 worth of damage to the pizza parlour and killed scores of people. This is 'Pizza Hut' Baghdad style. I sat on my stool at the window concentrating less on the wonderful pizza, and more on the variety of strangers pulling up in their cars..
more artwork from the Abu Graib exhibition in Baghdad
THE PRICE OF BEER - SHOP TO LET
We'd gone round to Samir's brothers home. Mahar was angry and worried. He hasn't worked since closing his alcohol shop shortly after Iraq was liberated.
In New Iraq it is almost impossible to find alcohol. The shops are targeted by religious extremists, like the Mehdi - Army. Mahar tells me that 3 days ago they killed his neighbour sitting in his alcohol shop. They came in and shot nine bullets into his body. Mahar wipes his worried brow. It is hot and sticky, the electricity is not working again. "His blood is gone with the wind now.. Mr Sean.. he left two daughters and one son."
Mahar goes into the backroom and comes out with 3 bottles of Spanish wine. "$5 to you Mr Sean... but believe I sell these at $15 each now.. since these killings alcohol has more than doubled." Samir looks concerned. "This bloody country is going to be like Iran.. I tell you I'm counting the days and minutes for my papers to come through and I'm leaving here."
Mahar looks sad. Samir is his closest brother. "You know 20 years ago Baghdad was paradise.. we would have never dreamed of going to America.. we had discos, bars, cabaret." Now Mahar is unemployed, selling alcohol to friends from his back-room. Like many Iraqi's who work in shops, hotels or drive taxis, Mahar has a degree. His two sons both have degrees, but no-one in Mahar's family is working.
We buy 3 bottles of wine, 10 cans of beer and one bottle of vodka. Samir looks at Mahar.. "Stop selling alcohol.. it is dangerous.. these religious crazies will kill you." Last week five Christian alcohol shops were blown up, many people were killed. The alcohol shops were left to burn, in the morning the gangs wrote 'Shop To Let' on the charred walls.
A beauty salon was blown up for selling ladies underwear. "You know, the Medhi Army are in control of Iraq now... they say we have an interim government but they are powerless. They are the thieves who returned to Iraq after Saddam, and now you see them giving jobs to their relatives. They are all in the hands of the Americans.. and what have they done for us? Nothing.. I tell you mr Sean we were a lot better off under Saddam. If you were an honest man Saddam would not touch you. He used to protect the Christians.."
abu graib
more art from abu graib art exhibition in baghdad
film poster for 'the pianist'
created by
mr rudeforth
FAME
Samir seems more tired lately. We drive past 'bombed-out' buildings in central Baghdad. "This city was so beautiful" Samir laments, "The only building they rebuilt was the Ministry of Oil. What kind of message does that send to the Iraqi people."
Later Samir plays in the empty restaurant. He is looking older by the day. He comes to sit with me, we drink a beer, he smokes a fag, "Only two packs today," he smiles. But he is in pain and worried. "My bones hurt Sean." He looks up at me like a little boy talking to his mother. "Sean I think I am dying... the cancer is eating me. I need to get my blood checked but I don’t want the doctors to tell me something that will ruin the rest of my life. I am so scared."
"Sean, I miss my wife. You know I still love her." It has been 3 years since she walked out on him, frustrated with his philandering with foreign women. When she left he asked her to forgive him, she looked at him and left without saying anything, just wiping a tear from her eye. Samir cannot forget this, "I’m not chasing women anymore because of my wife, I keep thinking of her. But she is sick too.. Maybe we should die together in the States."
"But you know the one thing I wanted to do in this world was to be famous. I couldn’t to it.. I know I am good at what I do, but I couldn’t be famous." Samir reaches for his glass and drinks his beer. I look around the empty restaurant where he plays for two hours each night. "Maybe this film will make you famous Samir." He smiles looking back at me. "Maybe.."
THE MAN WITHOUT A TONGUE
Woke this morning by a bomb blast, 8.30. Turn on the news and wait to hear what is was. 22 minutes later I find out that a suicide bomber tried killing a Government minister but ended up killing 4 of his guards. I go for a swim to remove myself from the war zone, then to a shop outside our heavily guarded hotel complex. The shopkeeper is a friendly 27 year old with a good command of English. I am looking for Lurpak butter but he has just sold out. The great thing about newly liberated Iraq are the imports never seen before, luxuries like Lurpak. I fancy mash and beans for lunch despite the horrendous heat. I’d seen baked beans about somewhere but couldn't remember where. I make do with processed peas. The shop-owner wants a girl friend. I tell him of the Iraqi girls I’d seen swimming in the hotel pool, "No I want English girl" he says. He starts drawing a diagram to help explain to me that 95 % of Iraqi’s don’t have sex before marriage and the 5% that do are dirty. "Are they prostitutes?" I ask.. "Yes" he says and shakes his head disapprovingly. We are interrupted by a man who enters holding a piece of paper. The man doesn’t speak. The shop owner hands the man 500 dinar, about 20p, the man nods and leaves. The shop owner tells me that the man can’t speak, he had his tongue cut out for speaking against Saddam. I watch the man wander outside looking for his next call of charity. I pause to think about what this man may have said to receive such a punishment. He looks destroyed, destitute and helpless. Whatever he said, this form of punishment has finished this human being. Perhaps he was a brave man that once stood up and spoke out against the tyranny of Saddam, when everyone else was so scared to even think bad things against him. Or maybe he’d lost it one night and swore against Saddam in a rage, a neighbour overheard him and grassed him up to the intelligence. Whatever it was, I had an admiration for him and a sadness. I watched as he strolled off in his well dressed suit looking for more charity. The shop owner tells me that his father was killed on the front line in the Iran war when he was 7. As the oldest child in a family of 4 he took on the fatherly responsibilities to look after his family. We return to my dilemma about finding Lurpak butter, he tells me to try the store next door. Next door they only have Iraqi butter, I am eager to try it. It cost 30p. I go back to my room and mash my potatoes, dropping huge dollops of Iraqi butter into it and it tastes fantastic. As I eat I can’t stop thinking of the man with no tongue. Sometimes, almost by accident you come across the brutality that ruled this land for far too long and you see the reality of what Saddam has done. I feel awkward about the war but happy that this monster has gone. The shop keeper who was so happy about the war despite the chaos today told me "Bush deserves a place in heaven, he got rid of Saddam. The Americans can have all the oil they want."
artwork from abu graib art exibition held in baghdad.
THE PIANO LESSON
Samir is giving two children a piano lesson in their home. I sit talking with the parents. We get off to a slow start, they seem afraid to speak their mind. There is a sadness in the face of the children's mother. She looks tired and I sense angry. I am curious to know how Iraqis feel about their life now, over a year after the fall of Saddam. They both look over to their children, "We are tired, tired of it all, you know each day we take our children to school, all day we wait outside in the heat for them to leave.." I know why. The kidnapping of children has been an underground industry in 'new lawless Iraq'. Ruthless gangs even have offices on the main shopping street where you go to pay the ransom. The couple are dignified like all educated Iraqi's, and although they have little money at the moment they want their kids to have their piano lessons. Culture has always been important to Iraqi's. This house has two pianos and beautiful artwork all around. Samir teaches the kids as I talk and drink coffee with their parents.
"The sanctions have destroyed the Iraqi people, 'they' needed to do this to us so we could appreciate 'their' invasion, 'their' gift of freedom." This couple were so happy a year ago, they were jumping with joy when Saddam fell. They never expected that 14 months later life would be worse than under the crippling days of the sanctions. Then, for 13 years they had no money and food to eat, now they do but without any security. "This is not freedom" the proud mother speaks. Like most parents they take their children to school each day and wait outside the gates all day. They both look at me, "Tell us what do you think? will thing gets better?"
I feel sad. I want to be optimistic but I can't. I can't lie to these people who've shown me such honesty. "We cannot speak like this to anyone.. we are afraid to express our opinions now. if we support the former regime we are a target and if we support the Americans we are also a target." Some kind of freedom in new Iraq.
This couple worked together in UN headquarters narrowly missing death by 10 minutes when a suicide bomber blew the place apart nearly a year ago. They haven't worked since. They have many job offers, as good English speakers they could earn big money with the Americans but they are too afraid. The daily targeted killings are the consequences of earning big bucks.
"We have struggled for years now.. we are tired .. we need a break..." they want to visit family in Spain and are thinking of leaving Iraq. They know little of the struggles they will face in Europe. I look around their beautiful house, the great art, books, and pianos. How will these educated, cultured people fare in the west? I fear to think.
"Iraq is not like Afghanistan.. here we are educated, cultured.. we had everything in the 70's and 80's, the sanctions starved us and killed more Iraqi's then all the wars put together. But it did something else - it starved us of books, periodicals.. We were isolated culturally and emotionally from the outside world for 13 years. a first world nation destroyed into the third world and kept there by these crippling sanctions. Saddam never felt the sanctions, he had everything."
Like all Iraqis they are pleased he has gone but cannot trust the future. It is held in foreign hands, hands that have betrayed them before and are capable of doing the same again.
Freedom
I was filming the road at night, surprised that it was so
busy when we missed our turn off to Samir’s home, something
you don’t do on Iraq’s most dangerous road... the road to
the airport. It’s a one-way road so we crept nervously along until
we arrived at 4 narrow aisles heading to the airport
checkpoint. We took the second aisle and drove down and
found ourselves facing the bright headlights of a U.S
tank. I was waving my BBC card frantically.. ‘BBC… don’t
kill… don’t kill…’ I know how these tanks had squashed
numerous civilian cars in the past year, but luckily these kind
soldiers let us pass. We made a U-turn and were on the road
back. Samir said a prayer. We held our breath, and hoped for
the best, and drove the same dangerous road back. Difficult
to know danger on an empty road at night. Samir was scared,
I knew that because he wasn’t speaking. He spoke only to
shut me up. "The danger is out there, it is around us always
Sean. You just don’t realise it." I couldn’t see anything.
On each side of the road were the remains of houses and palm
trees that had been hacked down by the American’s after the
resistance had hidden and fired from there.
We get home safely to Samir’s and hit the whiskey. He was
panicking. "Do you realise what could have happened there? We
could have been killed by both sides." Samir worries a lot
in this dangerous troubled land. We relax and he opens up to
me about his past. He tells me horror stories of his time on the
front line in the war with Iran. He still has nightmares,
waking up screaming in the night. He cannot forget the face
of the young Iranian man he killed. The young mans eyes are
still vivid in Samir’s mind, as he sliced open his
throat. "Imagine a pianist doing such things. I want to make
the world more beautiful with my music not kill people." On
the news we hear that a Bulgarian man has been beheaded by
his captures. Another beheading is planned tomorrow.
Saga, Samir’s daughter enters the room looking distraught.
Her lovely aunty, Samir’s ex-wife’s sister, has breast
cancer. It starts Samir ruminating over his own possible
cancer, but he is too afraid to have it checked out. He
lights a fag from his 3rd packet of the day. We smoke, eat, and
drink whiskey. Saha is flicking through the satellite
channels, surfing the 200 readily available stations. I try
to imagine the Saddam times when there was only two state
channels. "It must be so much better now?" I ask. Saha
shakes her head, "No, there are 200 channels but there is
nothing to watch, only some music and a food
channel." Samir sits up, "This morning I turned the
television on, it was the erotica channel, I couldn’t
believe it, there were two men having sex! What is
this?" "Freedom?" I suggest. Saha sits up, "No .. this is
not freedom, this is dangerous, it is going to devalue our
society... Saddam protected it."
"But surely the Saddam channels were just propaganda?" Saha
agrees. "Yes of course they were, they were there to protect
him, but they also protected our culture, and the values of
our society. Who will protect that now?" Saha flicks through
the channels shaking her head. "I will never allow my
children to watch this. That is why my sister Rita, will not
send her children to school in America. She says it is like
a jungle there. Is that freedom?"
"But surely it is better than before?" Saha shakes her
head. "Not for me it isn’t. Before I had a job. Now I don’t.
Before I had security, could go visit my friends, wander the
streets whenever I liked, now I can’t." Saha sits down
opposite me. "Saddam was a dictator but we knew the rules.
If you obeyed the rules you could do almost anything you
liked. I never needed to have a gun in those days either. In
a way that was freedom to me."
Suddenly the electricity goes out, we continue the
conversation in the dark. "Look, they’ve been here for more
then a year now and we still don’t have electricity for more
then 6 hours a day." The bedroom is hot and sticky without
any power for the air conditioning, the temperature was 50c+
in the shade. Over breakfast we hear a big bomb blast,
later we find out it was a suicide bomber, aiming for the
Americans, but killing more innocent Iraqi’s. Saha looks at
me. "So this is freedom is it?" "No it isn’t freedom.
Freedom takes time." I reply. Saha looks at me
smiling, "Freedom takes time.. Look how long the Americans
been waiting.."
TO DIE FOR
Another hot sticking night, so I ate with Samir in the empty restaurant where I first met him 7 months ago. Haider the waiter wasn't looking happy. "They've just had their wages cut." Samir points out, "So have I." "Why?" I ask, "They claim business is down." "But the hotel is full" I point out. "Yes but the restaurant isn't.." Like me the guests are bored with the hotel's sub standard food, and now the situation seems artificially better in Baghdad people are venturing out to restaurants. This was unheard of a few months ago.
Haider brings my wine back and pours Samir and me a glass. "You know these waiters are all graduates Sean, waiting for companies to come and invest in new Iraq so they can find decent work." It is a waiting game for all Iraqis, with moments of hope that things will settle down and Iraq can be rebuilt.
An American journalists joins us, "What's the news?" I ask. "Nothing big." He looks frustrated. I know he is paid for every story he files and when things are quiet here, it means no money for him. "We haven't had a car bomb for a while in baghdad" he points out, "But friends of mine say they are brewing up something big." I try to read the tone in his voice, is this hope for more stories, hence work, or despair for the people of this war torn land so recently 'liberated'?
Samir's met many like this guy before. He offers me a knowing glance and leave's to the piano. He plays Mozart beautifully, holding his head proud. There are a couple of guests in the empty room that appreciate him tonight. He returns to the table, lighting a fag from the end of his dying fag, and drinks his wine. "You know two people appreciating my music is better then having 100 people in here that don't, thank god we have got rid of all those merceneraries."
"I'm not sure we have," the American points out, "After those 4 where killed the other week they are under strict orders to not be seen." 4 security men from the hotel were ambushed by an army of resistance in a highly organised attack, using information which can only be got from the inside. The American journalist shakes his head, "You know, we can't afford to trust anyone in here. they all could be spys."
Haider comes back over to pour more wine for us. He smiles at me. I smile back at him. The American is looking decidedly awkward. ‘You can get paranoid in places like this’ I thought. Which is why some months ago I stopped talking to others about 'the situation'..... 'intelligence' would emerge in the form of rumours of imminent attacks on the hotel. these rumours often came from the western security companies based at the hotel. Their job is to protect big American TV networks and to justify the $800 a day per man, they would make 'intelligence' reports that would often put us on high alert for a week of an attack. For me it meant drinking an extra bottle of Scotch with Samir and then sleeping as far away from my window as possible shielded all night in my flak jacket. Then we began to question this 'intelligence', no-one knew where it came from or how reliable the sources were. Finally I decided that these security guys, sitting around, day after day, night after night, were simply justifying their $800 a day per man, with their 'intelligence'. It made no sense and increased suspicion and hostility. So when I look at my American friend I can imagine what is going on in his head... As a result major broadcasting companies like the BBC are sheltered in what seems like safe houses secured by these companies. They are not permitted to venture outside without having a security man at their side. But at least the BBC'S security company are not armed unlike the American networks. The other day a friend of mine saw some private security men driving through a busy street in downtown Baghdad pointing sub machine guns out of their windows.
Haider stands to the side of us waiting to take our order. He is a big gentle giant, someone I have warmed to over the months. He is married with a couple of kids. He was a good time guy before meeting his wife, but now he has changed. He prays 5 times a day and looks forward to a better life like all Iraqis. I can tell that my American friend hasn't taken the same time to get know him and doubts remain in his mind. He can't even decide what to eat tonight.
Despite the inherent dangers of living here I feel safe with people like Haider around me, and all the Iraqi friends I have made. I know 'I can't afford to trust anyone' .. but I do here. I feel an affinity with Iraqi people, a trust and friendship I have not felt anywhere else. When they say they will die for you they mean it. But when I look at my American friend, I fail to understand why.
I remember another journalist passing through here telling me a story of when she was shot in Palestine, a young boy leapt out in front of her to protect her. He died and she lived. I always remembered the story. She told it in such a matter of fact way. I doubted whether she really appreciated his actions and felt, like my American friend that some people go through life like that.
FEAR
"Put that camera down will you!!" Samir screamed at me today.
He normally does this when we are driving through his
resistance stronghold neighbourhood, but this time it was in
downtown Baghdad. A convoy of American tanks and humvees had
passed us and I wanted to get shots of them. I'd always been
over-cautious but after 7 months in Iraq I was feeling
brave. With the handover of power I stupidly thought that
the Americans may be less gung ho. The situation has cooled
since the boiling point in April when kidnapping was rife
and beheadings made headline news. So much so that I shaved
my beard completely today. Samir was shocked, "Sean you look
so beautiful... do not grow another!" he insisted, "You look
so much younger."
But he was less at ease on the road with American tanks. So
were the other drivers. The tanks passed and a humvee was
swaying from side to side across 4 lanes refusing to let any
traffic overtake. This is normal practice since a few
passing cars had taken shots at the soldiers in the past.
But still, in the sweltering heat people get frustrated. So
I pulled the camera out against Samir's better wishes and
got this in the frame. Suddenly 3 soldiers jump to their
guns and aim, right at us. "Sean get that fucking camera
down .. they're gonna kill us." I pulled the camera down and
the humvee took off.
Samir grabs hold of my camera, "Can't you see this prick-
looking thing (the microphone) looks like an RPG - (rocket
propelled grenade) to them. I lowered my camera .. We
continued driving in shock. Samir was shaking. I was
stupid. "Don't you realise, since the handover of power they
can do whatever they want, there is no come-back on them, it
is their agreement for staying to patrol new Iraq".
I shuddered to think of the consequences. I began to think
about the atrocities I have heard about during the past year,
when frightened American soldiers first response is to
fire, and ask question's later. Marla's workload flickered past
my mind. If all that happened when there was come-back on
their actions what could happen now? Later in the hotel a
journalist confirmed my fears, just 2 days ago an American
patrol had let rip into a car killing all. No-one knows the
reasons, no-one cares now. Without any investigation what is
there to go on? The Americans in such circumstances never
stop. It is against rules. Just like when a friend saw a
tank cross lanes on a motorway and a passing car had no time
to move, the tank went straight over it killing the family
inside. Still they never stop, it is against the rules. It
is up to relatives to make the claim for compensation. Yet
still knowing all this I felt things had changed, after all
I'd shaven my beard, a symbolic move after months of itching.
It reminded me of when I first arrived here in January this
year.. "Just how dangerous is it out there?" I asked someone
in my hotel. "Just keep well away from the Americans" I was
told. "You've got more chance of being killed by them in
this place then by any resistance fighter."
Later we watch American convoys pass from my hotel balcony,
they are pointing their guns at everyone and everything they
pass. Samir shakes his heads looking concerned, "Look at
them poor American soldiers thousands of miles away from
home. They must be so scared." Fear is the most dangerous
thing here.
Gun rage.
Samir came into my hotel room shaken this morning. He was caught up in another bout of road rage, Baghdad style. Despite the new Iraqi Government taking control on the 1st July things are still relatively lawless here. A driver was arguing with another driver both pointing guns at each other. Samir’s car was sandwiched in, he couldn’t move. The police arrive grab the man’s hand and he starts firing.
The daily perils of living in a country where most households have guns. I remember when I first arrived, it seemed crazy. But now having lived here for over 6 months it makes sense. I would want a gun if I wasn’t living in my well fortified hotel. And when Samir’s neighbour was murdered on her doorstep back in March I took ‘the law’ into my own hands. Fadi, Samir’s 25 year old son had sold the family Kalashnikov thinking things were going to get better. Samir was worried about his son and daughter living in the resistance stronghold neighbourhood with only a hand pistol in the house. So I gave Fadi $120 to buy a Kalashnikov. He got one the very next day. It seemed a sensible thing to do at the time.
But Fadi has temper trantrums. He was involved in a punch up the other week with a driver who cut him up. Thank God he didn’t have his gun with him. There is a hole in the hallway of Samir’s home where he let a round off from the Kalashnikov I bought him. He had been arguing with his sister about the muslim girl who he hopes to marry. Samir’s family are Christians and he feels it will bring shame on the family if Fadi marries her. He will have to become a Muslim himself in order to marry her. Anyway when the subject was raised, it led to an argument and Fadi grabbed the gun. Samir fought with him trying to pull it off him and a bullets fired into the ceiling. It could have killed either of them. I thought of taking the gun back but then thought about the risks they are living under in this part of Baghdad. In the end I decided to leave him with it hoping that he can marry his muslim girl without the loss of any life.
I came back to my hotel to find the guard standing proud with a golden plated Kalashnikov. It looked like something out of James Bond. “Where did you get that ?” I asked. “$300 on the street.. it is beautiful isn’t it?” In a funny sort of way it was.
"IRAQI'S NEED ANOTHER SADDAM"
"Hide that camera will you.." Samir screams. "I told you my
area is full of insurgents, they will kill us both. These
bastards are destroying everything now. They should kill
them all." I pull the camera down, we continue driving to
Samir's, listening to Mozart on the stereo, the baking
heat making us both drip with sweat. Samir's air conditioner
in the car is broken, he doesn't have enough money to buy a
new radiator, he lost all his piano students after the war a
year ago. It is not safe to travel anymore, and the roads
here are gridlocked since the American's closed so
many main streets.
"You know I wish you could have seen me a few years ago. I
was never like this. I had $200,000 in the bank before the
1991 war, then the sanctions came and the money was
devalued, and so was all our lives. We were a first world
nation reduced to a third world country. Can you imagine
that? all the luxuries you like having in Britain suddenly
being taken away from you overnight'.
We pass an American patrol. "But I blame Saddam for
everything, he gave the American's the excuse to be here
now. He stole 30 years from every Iraqi's life'. There is a
road block, now guarded by Americans and Iraqi soldiers.
this is new Iraq.
So why are the insurgents still fighting then? I ask him.
Samir believes they are Saddam loyalists and foreign
fighters. But many tell me they are ordinary Iraqi's
fighting to liberate their land from the American
occupation. We reach Samir's home, I quickly disappear
inside the house, keeping a low profile. The house is hot,
the electricity is not working and the generator is not
strong enough to power the air coolers. Then the electricity
comes on and the air coolers work.
We watch an interview with an Iraqi minister from the new
interim government, defiant words on tackling the
insurgents. "We will deal with them in our own way, in a way
only the Iraqi people know" he smiles, and so does Samir.
His words send a shiver down my spine. I see Ariel Sharon
appear momentarily in his face. Samir gets agitated,
"Iraqi's need another Saddam, they need a dictator here.
There are too many little Saddam's out there to control."
Then the electricity goes out again. Samir is angry. "They've
had a year to get this right... Saddam sorted this out in 3
months after the war in 1991 and look at the place..." he
goes off into another rant. I looked out of his window at
the war torn neighbourhood, riddled with bullet holes, a US
tank lies on a roadside destroyed.
Samir puts his arm around me. "Saddam knew how to run this
country. He knew how to deal with his people."
sean 09 07 04
SMALL WORLD
Floating on the dead sea looking out to the promised land, it
was quiet, peaceful, like biblical times. Then Samir got water
in his eye, it burned. We were both covered in black mud, I
had to guide him to the shower over the hot burning sands.
For a moment I was Jesus and he was the blind man,
then I heard him scream. I wasn't looking and he hit his
head against a pole, stuck out there in the sand.
Back home in Amman, a friend of Samir's calls round. An out
of work saxophone player who left Iraq 10 years ago after his
house was taken from him by Saddam's men. He is depressed so
we drink some beer, then we end up here in the Sheraton where
I write now. We watch the musicians play and then the singer
comes over smiling at Samir "are you Mr Peter?" "yes" Samir
answers, he holds a card out, "do you know this man?" we look
at the card, it is Robert's card. The billionaire mystery
from a couple of weeks back. Robert had promised to ship
Samir's grand piano to America, but we never heard from him
again. He was an enigma, we explained to the singer that Robert
had made Samir play the piano down his mobile phone
to friends in America. He told us they were important White House people,
then the singer smiles at us, "he told me to do the same."
Samir looks embarrassed. Well it is a small world.
sean
TODAY FRESH AIR.
Samir made it through the desert with his daughters and
granddaughter. I made it through the air, the dangerous
airport road was empty the corkscrew take off exhilarating.
We met for hummus in Hashem's, the best hummus out here,
drank wine and smoked cigars in the Four Seasons hotel,
pretending we were rich for half an hour then went back to
the humble apartment Samir has rented.
Tomorrow we see lawyers and plan for Saha's visit to the US
embassy. The weight of the war zone has been lifted from all
of us and although we face impending goodbyes we are on
holiday doing normal things like shopping in Safeway's.
sean 04 july 04
CRADLE OF CIVILISATION
Samir the pianist was angry today, he was blaming Saddam
for taking 30 years off every Iraqi's life. He became more
inflamed when he saw a protest supporting Saddam, shown on
the BBC today, "look I told you, they should not allow him
to speak, he knows how to reach his people." The gang were
leaping around chanting for Saddam holding pictures of him
above their heads. It is one year after the fall of Saddam
and 3 days after the new interim government took power.
"These Iraqi people need a strong leader. They need a
dictator like Saddam, there is no other way" he laments.
Then I get angry .. "look democracy cannot happen over
night.. these things take time" then the lights go out, the
air conditioners go off. It is 50c here in Baghdad. We are
stood in the sweltering heat without light or fans. Samir's
mood switches. "What have the American's been doing here for
a year? we still only have electricity for 6 hours a day and
the generators out here are not powerful enough to power the
air conditioners.." I decide to carry on filming in
darkness, the curtains are closed to keep out the unbearable
heat. "You know Saddam rebuilt Iraq in 3 months after the
Gulf War in 1991.. then Iraq was really destroyed. this time
it wasn't and still we are without electricity." I began to
think, you know if the Americans wanted the Iraqi's to support
them, it is easy, they should just provide the basics for
them. Earlier we had passed one of the many motorists pushing
their clapped out cars in the street. Samir was
laughing, "look we are country of petrol, why are these
people pushing their cars." We pull up for fuel joining a half
mile queue, 30 minutes later we get to the top of the queue
but we are sent away. Our number plate ended in 'even'
numbers and today only those ending in 'odd' numbers could
get fuel, but Samir's tank was low, so we pull over to one of
the youngsters on the roadside selling black market fuel
from cans. Samir can fill his tank for less then a dollar
here, petrol is cheaper then water. But not on the black
market, we paid 5 times the price. Samir often buys from the
black market, sitting in fuel queues for hours in the
unbearable heat, the air conditioning is not working in his
car. The boy pouring the fuel is joined by his sister, she
starts tugging on my shirt, then her mother comes over and
speaks in Arabic to Samir. He is laughing, "this mother is
asking if you want to marry her daughter and take her out of
Iraq."
We drive off. Samir looks at me, "you know the Iraqi people
deserve better then this, we are not a nation of beggars, we
are an educated nation, this is the cradle of civilisation.
I wish you could have seen me 15 years ago.. I was a rich
man and so were these people."
postscript
Samir is sad. Rita his daughter and his lovely granddaughter
Lulu are leaving back to the States. Samir thought they were
crazy to come in the first place, but 3 months ago at the
height of the siege of Fallujah they came. They hid their
American passports and passed safely through Fallujah.
But now they are leaving back to the States, to join his ex
wife and other daughter who is married there. Saha his
eldest daughter and Fadi his only son are saying goodbye
tonight. Although Saha, a pro Saddamist surprised me, she
wants to try get a non immigrant visa to the States to join
the others. She'd always teased her father who has dreamed
of living there all his life but now she is trying when we
go the Amman tomorrow. She has been crying a lot over the
last few days, the empty house seemed full of life with Rita
and her child. Saha always carries a deep sorrowfulness in
her eyes, she really doesn't want to leave her home, but
with all that is happening here she seems to have changed
her mind. She also knows that her sick mother will never
come back. Conflicted isn't the word for Saha, she looked at
me saying, "yes.. I'm going to give it a go," then looked
back to the wonderful Iraqi food she is cooking and looks up
sheepishly, "but you know, Rita has been there 5 years now
and she doesn't like it."
Anyhow it is too dangerous for me to travel on the road so
I'm flying with my friend Marla, the American aid worker who
looks after families bereaved by the Americans. We are going
to meet Samir and his daughters in Hashem's Hummus Bar in
downtown Amman, and I can't wait. Simply the best hummus
outside of Abu Shukri's in the old city of Jerusalem, where
I used to breakfast daily when I made a film there. We will
float in the Dead Sea, try get Saha a visa for America and
finally say goodbye to Rita, Lulu, and possible Saha.
Oh, how is poor Samir going to feel. He is waiting for his
papers, not getting any younger, desperate to taste the
American dream, discover success or as he says 'simply die in
peace.'
sean 03 07 04
"DO YOU LOVE SADDAM?"
I have been here in the Al Dulamie hotel for 3 days, I’d
avoided haggling over the price, then the boss, Abu Noor
showed his face round the corner of my door. "Mr Sean about
your stay.." It was time to haggle. I’m usually good at
haggling but Abu Noor is better, a real expert, or at least
someone I always fail to outbid. He is a rotund gentle man. He was
happy to see Saddam in the dock, Saddam killed his younger
brother. He doesn’t agree with the death penalty but in
Saddam’s case he said the people need to see justice. In an
angry moment he tells me that Saddam should be put in a cage
in the zoo, paraded for the people, and left to die there. Abu
Noor runs a cheaper end, family run hotel next to a 4 star
flash place over the road. Around us are about 5 hotels,
(well 4 since one was bombed a few weeks ago by a suicide
bomber who also killed the 13 year old cigarette seller in the
street.) All the hotels here supposedly profit from what
looks like good security, guns, concrete walls, checkpoints,
etc.. none of this means anything of course until it is put
to the test. Can anyone stop a suicide bomber I ask one of
the many private security companies working here? No, they
answer. Are we safe against a rocket propelled missile
attack I ask? No they answer, if they want to send an RPG
over here they can. They got the Palestine Hotel a few
months back by firing a mortar off the back of a donkey and
cart. The first mortar hit the hotel, the second would have
certainly killed people except that the donkey shat itself
and ran away, dragging the mortar's with it. The joke for
months after was that 'the donkey saved our lives’.
As I wake this morning I hear on the news that the Sheraton
Hotel was rocket attacked killing 3 people.
When I arrived here on my first visit since the fall of
Saddam in January, the Sheraton had just been hit. I was told
that it was probably the safest place to stay now as it had
already been hit. That advice came from one of the many
expensive security companies working here for contractors,
t.v. news organisations, and who also protect the US army convoys.
I went against their advice and found a little family run
hotel, the ‘Dulamie’, a famous fallujah family. I figured
that as Fallujah was the hotbed of resistance in Iraq this
hotel wasn’t gonna get hit. Abu Noor would always point to
his father in the lobby, "Look he is the tribal leader, no
one will touch us here." Shame the Americans never
understood the power of tribal leaders when they occupied
this land over a year ago. They’d have been having an easier
time by now if they had. In places like Fallujah it is
difficult to imagine that the people were welcoming the
American’s when they arrived. But heavy handed American
tactics soon led to resentment, a pattern seen throughout
Iraq, stories of American soldiers putting their feet on
tribal leader’s heads is unimaginable here. It is a crime
that incites the whole tribe to take revenge, which
they do. And so things escalate.
Anyway, Abu Noor wanted his money. He is a shrewd businessman and I
was tired and couldn’t argue for long. Finally I agreed to
pay $1000 for a month, I know others are staying here for
$700 and $800. Poolside, I opened a bottle of wine and drank
with Marla, an American woman, who is here to help Iraqi
families that have been bereaved by the US. She helps kids that
have been orphaned find compensation. The heavy handed
American response to an attack is to let rip in the general
direction regardless of who they kill. As a result Marla has
her hands full with children without parents and parents
without children. She helps them make applications to the US
to claim the $1200 paid to any family who has someone killed
by accident by the Americans, a very difficult one to prove
though. Marla has been looking into a friend’s case. A
journalist had uncovered a story from Abu Griab prison where
a US soldier, currently on trial for torturing Iraqi
prisoners, is accused of killing one of his victims. Marla
has a high powered US lawyer helping her see that justice is
done to the soldier and that compensation is paid.
Poolside, we were all tired, talking war, an American friend Quil
joined us, listening to our conversation he looked up from
his beer. "can’t we talk about sex.. or something else, it’s
always war and death.. and killing." He should have been
with me and the French journalists last night I thought. I
didn’t feel like talking sex after such sad tales from
Marla. But then I’ve only been back here 4 days and Quil has been
here 6 long weeks. It’s amazing what 6 weeks in a war zone
can do to your mind.
POSTSCRIPT
Sweltering heat in Baghdad today. I went against all advice
for my safety and headed out to the most famous pizza
restaurant in Baghdad. It has been 'warned' on a number of
occasions for entertaining westerners and even the US army. The
threat of a bomb attack doesn't add to the wonderful taste of
the food and wine. but for the 90 minutes we are there it is
wonderful; like stepping out of all this madness.
I'd gone with George, a French journalist, who is interested in
the other film I have been setting up whilst out here, 'a
behind the scenes documentary of the trial of Saddam'. We met
more French journalists there, the ones from the other
evening, but this time there was no talk of sex. Just the
story.
One of them was working for an American network and wants to
meet with me tomorrow night to talk about buying into our
behind the scenes film of the trial. Good news I guess, but I
was just enjoying the wine and air conditioning. Simple fun
for a simple man. It seems the American networks have annoyed
the Iraqi authorities by recording the sound of Saddam's
voice yesterday at the trial. And boy what an effect it has
had on the streets, not only are our guards putting the
thumbs up to Saddam, but my driver now also. On the way he
declared to me, "Sean.. I love Saddam."
I came back to the hotel to add all this into the blog and met
the receptionist at th" desk. He looked up at me with
loving eyes and said, 'Sean I love Saddam" I was becoming
confused. I thought that the two glasses of good Lebanese wine had
twisted my mind. I went into the kitchen and asked the tea
boys "Do you love Saddam?" No, they answered, pulling their
fingers across their throats, "finished."
What is difficult to grasp here as my French friend George
pointed out, "Arab people think from their hearts. Saddam was
Iraqi, an Arab..he was one of them.. now they see a new
leader, Ayad Allawi, the best of a bad bunch, a former CIA
guy working with the Americans who is still guarded by
Americans. Saddam was one of them.. they respect that.. even
though he did all those things.. now who have they to look
to..?"
After months of incomprehension, studying the confusion
Iraqi people have felt since the fall of Saddam, things are
becoming clearer to me. Like Samir said yesterday 'imagine
your country invaded and your queen paraded and humiliated
like saddam. how would you feel? Saddam was a bastard, a bad
man, but he was also our President, we feared him a lot'. And
I started to see that silently many Iraqi people also
respected him for his singled handed stand against America.
sean 02 07 04
Saddam and all the small talk.
I missed my Samir today. I was sat in front of my telly in
the hotel room thinking about Saddam's appearance in court.
I was tired. I'd been poolside last night with one bottle
too many of red wine talking sex with French journalists
listening to the odd explosion outside our walled compound.
I needed to sleep-in but a Sudanese friend called early and
woke me. He seemed distraught. He told me that his cousin,
a Sudanese with an American passport had been kidnapped
last week. He was responsible for trying to find money to
take to one of the many 'kidnap offices' on Karada. A big
industry in lawless Iraq. They passed the money and were told
that their cousin would be waiting at home. But two days
later they still heard nothing, until news came that his
dead body had been found in the street. Abdullah looked at
me with sad eyes. He came to Iraq 15 years ago fleeing a
civil war in his own country, but all he has ever seen here
is war and hardship. "still better then home" he
insists. "you know Iraq has never been more unsafe, they
respect chickens more then humans now. You know you can be
killed for as little as $15 - I know a cafe where you can
hire people to kill. More important people are little more
expensive maybe $50."
Abdullah left and I went back to bed, fell into a deep sleep
and missed Samir who I was supposed to meet around the pool.
So there I was sat waiting for Saddam's courtroom appearance
on my own. I suddenly thought to film it, with Samir and his
family, but I was a little nervous. Yesterday I'd put my foot
in it with Saha and I was worried she may be angry with me
still. I'd pushed her too much asking probing 'Paxman' like
questions about her mother and Samir. I left her in tears. I
felt terrible.
But I went anyway and Saha was out. Samir was with his
brother. Neither seemed bothered about Saddam's tv
appearance until I pushed them. I wanted to film them,
especially 'Saddam loyalist Saha' but she was out. Finally
the pictures came through and it was electric. Samir and his
brother watching avidly. Even Fadi, the wayward son, pulled
himself away from his porn sites on the internet to come
see.
Samir got angry. "This man should not be speaking. He will
stir the people up again. He knows how to get to them. They
should kill him now and have done." Then Saha and Rita
arrive home. They rush into the room. Saha is unrepentant
about her views. "He should not be tried. He is still the
President. Iraqi people love this man." WHAT? I'm shocked
and look to Rita to make sense of this. After 2 years living
in America, maybe she can shed light on this. She looks at
me.. "you know Sean, we all love this man. Me too." Samir
leaves the room. He has heard it all before.
Later, driving back to the hotel, he tells me that his
children do not love Saddam in the way I think. He remembers
first seeing Saddam being paraded on tv with his long beard,
being manhandled by a dentist. "You know I hate the man
passionately but when I saw this it made me so depressed. He
was our President, our leader for years. Imagine if Britain
was invaded and they took the Queen and did this her and
showed her on television, imagine how the British people
would feel. My children are like all Iraqi people, they are
proud and they feel wounded by what has happened. It doesn't
mean they want to defend Saddam .. but he was our President
Sean for 25 years."
We pull up to the checkpoint that leads into our hotel. 5
young guards all with Kalashnikovs open the car to search it.
Security has been increased since the recent suicide bomb
attack on the hotel complex. I smile at a burly looking guard
and attempt small talk. "You see Saddam on tv?" he looks at
me sternly and smiles and holds his thumb up to
me. "Saddam .. a very good man." I look at the guard next to
him. He is smiling too. "Saddam.. a good man." We drive
through leaving the guards clutching their guns. I look at
Samir, thinking about our pro saddamist guards and how easy
it would be for them to switch loyalty, or be providing
information about who and where people are staying in the
hotel. But samir is angry, "what did I tell you... stop
talking Saddam with people will you. These are tense times."
Newly liberated Iraq is certainly no place for small talk.
Sean 01 07 04
