Country born
between river and river
Country torn
between sword and sword.
Country between Hajj Omran and Basra.
Between revolution and death.
Saady Yossuf - Postcards from Hajj Omran
DAY 1
WHAT WE FIGHT
The family know I'm American, but it seems they also know I'm not America.
Sabehna settles back in her chair. No Westerner could find such comfort without cushions. I breathe the heat, and Sabehna doesn't. Hooded, cloaked in black, she seems to process then reject the sun. The beads of sweat framing my nose make me feel dirty.
Sabehna is pale and content. Her eyes are as black as her frock, and limpid, her face pockmarked and pickled by time.
"You speak as though there are choices," she says.
"Children deserve to be children," I reply, and even as I speak I know that I'm guilty of carrying the glitter from my world, my life. Yet I'm still conscious of the laughter of the two boys as they wrestle and push around her skirts, and I still want to blame her for the fact that the joy of the two boys lies in release from the day rather than celebration of it.
"They're fortunate," she says. "A thousand like them die every month."
"They're not my sanctions," I reply, the defensiveness a reflex I'm developing.
She grins. Many of her teeth stand in splendid isolation. They twist away from her lips, blunt yellow sculptures. "None of us are responsible. That's the truth, isn't it? Leave it to the politicians."
"I know the argument," I say. "But one man can't stop the Tigris flowing."
"America's God stopped the Nile."
I chuckle. "I think that's a story."
"Stories carry heavy weights."
I stand and brush the dust from my pants. Sadly, the room is guilty for that, not the street.
A television set grumps in the background. Urgent voices. Swift words. I've seen nothing like that TV since I was a child. Large, round volume dial. Push button channel control. On its screen, a man in a white suit with an Omar Sharif moustache is delivering a news bulletin. There's a map behind him, but the colours are dancing, and I can't make it out.
"I have to go," I tell her. "Thank you for your time. And your hospitality."
"Khurram says you're here because you write stories," she asks.
"Stories of people. True stories."
"It isn't easy to tell the truth."
The two boys are standing now, ready for me to leave, honouring politeness if only as a momentary expectation.
The angles of Walid's face are hardened by dirt. Ramy, though the older of the two, seems juvenile by comparison. I know he's fifteen, but he looks ten. His eyes are big and round and brown.
"Do you tell the boys any stories?" I ask Sabehna. "Arabian nights. Sufi. Aladdin."
She rocks back to think. The back legs of the chair strain under her considerable weight. When she replies, I can tell she thinks she's passing on a great truth. "Stories need air. In these days, they can't breathe. But yes, I tell them the occasional story. And they tell me stories too. Without any stories, Iraq wouldn't have the strength she does."
I can't resist it. "You're not talking about children's stories. You’re talking about lies."
"Are you still a guest in my house?" she flashes back. Age has not wearied her.
I withdraw the thrust quickly. "I'm sorry. I'm just curious. As to how much people believe of what Saddam tells them."
She wheezes a laugh. "Not all," she replies. "Only what he says about America."
*****
"Did you ever go back to see if the splinter
Of bomb had licked the life of a civilian
or a child.
Iraqi children are drinking milk and eating food
Laced with your arsenic.
You have sown a crop of hatred
And I am afraid."
Ifti Nasim - Iraqi Children
I return to the Sheraton, but Khurram is late. I sip tea and wait. I attract little attention because my clothes and skin colour blend well, and my Arabic is fluent.
An American at a nearby table is being treated with honest interest and exaggerated courtesy by the hotel staff. I nod in his direction, and he returns the gesture. His nervousness implies newsman rather than servant of the UN. I'm considering joining him when Khurram arrives, his suit irregularly patterned with sweat. Sweat also beads his upper lip. If I don't look too closely, I see Peter Ustinov.
He sits down heavily.
He looks for a handkerchief and doesn't find one.
As he recovers from the heat, I pour tea into his cup. The overhead fan spurts into brief life, then spits to a standstill again. He glances up.
"Bloody generator," he says.
"Can't they fix it?"
"Why should they? Within weeks, you'll blow it up."
I've known him less than a day, but I already hate him when he's in this mood. It pushes me into a protective crouch, and I support the stars and stripes more vehemently than I'm later comfortable with. To avoid that, I change the subject. "I met with Sabehna," I say. "Thank you for arranging it."
"My pleasure. The taxi came for you?"
"Yes."
"So what did you learn of ordinary Iraqis?"
His ironic accent on the last two words is an undisguised insult. "Haven't I told you that I resent that tone?" I ask him.
"You've mentioned it."
"I'm researching a book, not a Washington Post article. This isn't a knee-jerk thing to feed to the masses."
"So you tell me."
Again I have a choice. Fight for ten minutes or change the focus. I change the focus. "I met her grandsons," I tell him. "Walid and Ramy. Great kids."
"Actually, you met her nephews," he replies. "But she does have three blood grandsons. They're at school, though. So you wouldn't have seen them."
"Why aren't Walid and Ramy at school?" I ask.
"They have to eat." He waves a hand in a labyrinthine gesture I don't come near to understanding. "They have to pay their way. They aren't completely family, you see."
"That's a pretty horrendous distinction."
"Is it? Is it an Arab thing then, Martin? Are such lines never drawn in America?"
I shrug. I feel petulant. I take a gulp of tea and hide my discomfort. It's too hot to do anything with it other than sip it.
He interprets my silence. "You suppose they are."
"Yes," I admit. "I suppose they can be."
He leans forward. At some stage, he's lit a foul smelling cigarette. I lean back, out of the drift of the smoke. "For your book," he says, "the story of Walid and Ramy. Their father was killed in the Gulf War. Oh. Shall we call it the first Gulf War? Or is it too early for that? Is there a flicker of hope, do you think?"
I stare at the red flocked wallpaper in the hope of skipping this particular diversion. It occurs to me that the hotel is like a massive Indian restaurant. It’s almost theme park decoration.
The gambit succeeds. "And as for the mother," he continues, "dead six years ago. Some odd disease or other. Needs must. Sabhena's youngest son and his wife took them in."
"And put them to work by the sound of it."
"Indeed."
"Doing what?"
"They shine shoes."
"They do what?"
"They shine shoes. Just as boys did in your country once. Only black boys, I seem to recall."
I ignore the barb. I'm getting good at it. "In Iraq or anywhere, at any time, in any place, that's a sad way for children to live their lives," I say.
Khurram slurps his tea. Brown fluid runs down his chin. "The streets are dusty, and they're full of dusty men. Men trying to find weapons of mass destruction. Men being physicians for social responsibility. There are hundreds of shoes to be shined. Maybe if Sabhena's younger son worked, it would be different. But he doesn't. He was a butcher once. A relatively wealthy man."
"And?"
"The war lost him his shop."
"How did I know you were going to say that? And it doesn't excuse Ramy and Walid. Making them work at that age is just abuse."
"Is it? They eat. They smile."
"Exhaustedly. They smile exhaustedly."
"Walid can sing in English, you know," Khurram says. "From your Titanic. My Heart Will Go On. All the words. Beginning to end. He isn't stupid."
I shake my head in wonder. "Another good reason why he shouldn't be working. How much a shoe?"
Khurram huffs another laugh. His shoulders wobble. "Fifty cents the pair. But men looking in dirty places for dirty weapons need two shinings a day."
*****
"Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the LORD scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth."
Genesis 11, Verse 9.
We rendezvous with Jasim in a café a block away from the hotel. Before I meet her, I watch her squeeze her red Toyota in-between two trucks. It's an old car, but it's not dented. I already know that's unusual in Baghdad.
As she walks towards us, Khurram tells me, "She isn't the ordinary Iraqi you were so anxious to meet. She claims to trace her family back to Mohammed. Nouveau poor, one might say if one was European. She has a degree in economics. Spent two years in the United States before the war. Her husband fought against Iran, but because of his wealth was spared the trouble of defending Kuwait. Far from ordinary. I thought you should meet her anyway."
I nod. "The reason being?"
"You'll see."
I watch her approach. The three old men with sun scorched faces at the corner table stop laughing and watch her approach. The young waiter with a drink poised between tray and table watches her approach.
The first thing I read in her is pride. Before I've even spoken to her, I know she'll expect me to note her beauty. But for me, that's the second thing. After that, it's the clothes. She's wearing a cobalt blue dress, thigh length, a Western cut, and the cut seems incongruous because she's also wearing the traditional headscarf.
We stand as she joins us. She smiles, but it's a brief, businesslike gesture. I note that her skin is olive, more Lebanese than Iraqi, and flawless. I feel quick blue eyes assess me, and I have a strong impression that she doesn't despise what she sees. So I'm uncomfortable as Khurram makes the introductions.
"I told you about Martin Aziz," he says. "Well. This is Martin Aziz."
"A pleasure," she claims.
She sits. Khurram and I do likewise.
The waiter is already at our table. Jasim orders Pepsi. Then she turns to me. "So you're a writer?" she says.
I feel myself flush. I'm attracted to her, and I'm well aware she knows it. "Of limited success," I reply, hoping self-deprecation is a quality she'll find pleasing.
Khurram intervenes. "Martin has two books in print," he says. "The last one was a story about elephants."
Khurram's dismissal, however knockabout the intention, undermines my play at humility. I'm forced to boast. "It wasn't a story," I tell Jasim. "It was non-fiction. All about the ivory trade. It was serialised in the Sunday Times. I like to think it did some good. There were prosecutions…."
I trail off. She isn't interested. Khurram smirks.
"And now you intend to write about Iraq," she says.
"Iraq before Armageddon," Khurram butts in. "Babylon before the fall. Before, mind. Not during, or after. When Baghdad is burning a week or so from now, Martin will be in New York, meeting with his publisher."
"That's not fair." I address the defence to Jasim, not Khurram. It's not his taunting that makes me rise to the bait, but her moue of disapproval. "My visa is limited to three weeks."
"I'm sure I can help with an extension," Khurram mentions.
"I may ask you to do that," I tell him. He smirks again.
Jasim's Pepsi arrives. She sips at it, then says, "So, Mr. Aziz. You have Arab blood."
Again her directness, a remark I interpret to be based only on observation, feels like an accusation. "I actually have Iraqi blood," I tell her. "My father's was born in Basra. He's a doctor. He studied in Los Angeles in the 1970s, met my mother, and naturalised."
"Ah, but don't let the complexion fool you," Khurram says. "The skin is Arab, but the soul is American. American Christian. American registered Democrat. American baseball fan."
Jasim raises a perfectly trimmed eyebrow.
"Some of that's true," I tell her. "But I hate baseball. And what Khurram won't allow is that I understand I have a foot in two different worlds. If that wasn't the case, I wouldn't be interested in writing the book."
"My brother is a doctor too," she tells me. "As you know. That's why I'm here. He'd like to do what your father did."
Khurram delivers a stage cough. The message is clear. He's set this woman up, given her false hope, just so I can hear her story. He doesn't want me to expose him. And I can't. I know he's arranged various things for me over the next few days, and if he takes umbrage those opportunities might disappear. I might even be on the next flight home.
"Yes," I say. "I understand so."
Khurram relaxes, leans back in his chair and starts to hunt through his pockets, doubtless for his cigarettes.
"He's a surgeon," she says. "A skilful surgeon. But he can't get by any more. My mother has to find money for him from savings. And there isn't much. When that's gone, he'll have nothing, and she'll have nothing, and there'll be nothing for my children. But in America…."
"In America, he'd be well set up. He could send money."
She nods. "I was told you might help. I was told America needs doctors. I can't go there of course. I've nothing to offer. And my children can't go either, even when they're grown. They can get degrees here, good ones, but nothing of value in the real world." There are tears in her beautiful eyes now. I can't judge the sincerity of them. "Life is hard now, with the sanctions," she continues. "Even for people with a little money. And there are the health problems. So many new diseases. Medicines are expensive. With money from America, things would be different. And he'll go. I've talked to him, and he'll go."
Khurram raises a hand for silence. The waiter is at the next table. As I wait for him to move on, I can hear Dory Previn singing in my head. "Give me your poor, your maladjusted…."
But not, I'm confident, your Iraqis. Not right now.
I lie. "I'll do what I can," I say, resisting the temptation to glare at Khurram.
"Khurram says you know people."
"It's possible. Far from certain, but possible."
"I'll be in your debt." She passes me a slip of paper. I turn it over.
It's a telephone number.
"Tonight," she says, "if you wish."
Now I do glare at Khurram. He doesn't react.
"That isn't necessary," I tell her, and hand the paper back.
She closes her fist around it. I'd expected her to be grateful, but she seems offended. "Well, for whatever you can do," she says, "thank you."
She stands, and so do we. The Pepsi is untouched. Khurram bows slightly and I copy him. She inclines her head in acknowledgement.
I watch her to her car. I want to have kept the phone number, and I'm glad I didn't.
When she's gone, I launch into Khurram. "What kind of man do you think I am?" I ask her. "Even if I could help her, I wouldn't want payment. Any sort, but particularly that sort. How could you put her in that position? Adultery…."
Khurram waves a dismissive hand. "It goes on all the time. Here, like anywhere else. Iraq is changing, Martin. Young women in short skirts. Without scarves. Have you no eyes?"
"But you gave her hope when there is none. I don't know how you can live with yourself."
"Easily," Khurram replies. "Hope is a gift in Iraq. Even false hope. You both gain. She takes her hope away, and in return you learn that not all Iraqis see America as the great Satan. Well, you learn either that, or that there are some who'll sleep with the devil for a place by the fire."
*****
"Father, give me the Bull of Heaven,
so he can kill Gilgamesh in his dwelling.
If you do not give me the Bull of Heaven,
I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld,
I will smash the door posts, and leave the doors flat down,
and will let the dead go up to eat the living!
And the dead will outnumber the living!"
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet VI.
DAY 2
WHO WE FIGHT
The schoolyard is full of smiling children. Boys with eyes as brown as hazels and girls with dark hair who stare and giggle. Khurram has clearly arranged this riotous assembly in advance. The headmaster, a man well past retirement age with an explosion of grey hair, tells me I'm permitted to ask them any questions I wish. First, though, the children will sing for me.
The song is melodic and cheerful, the voices high and innocent, but the words are blades slicing away at the children's' futures. They praise Saddam Hussein as though he's a faultless deity. They anticipate the death of Americans.
I've already been taken around the school buildings, seen classrooms lined with brightly poster painted death scenes - guns being fired at tanks or at aeroplanes emblazoned with the letters USA or with the stars and stripes; American soldiers lined up before a firing squad. One little girl has already presented me with a photograph of Saddam, telling, "I carry it everywhere, but it's yours now. I'll get another." A boy has given me his painting, which is of a dead Arab man clutching a gun. The painting is captioned "Martyrs are the true heroes."
"How can they teach such songs to children?" I ask Khurram. "All that hate."
Khurram shrugs. "Our media isn't as efficient as yours. We have to poison minds on a one to one basis."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"I want to leave," I tell him.
He lights a cigarette, shielding the flame of his lighter with nicotine stained fingers. Then he says, "I thought this would be enlightening for you."
"Propaganda from kids? Enlightening? Is this the truth you want me to take back? Is this Iraq today? Children who can't think?"
Khurram smiles. "The truth lies not in what people think, but in what they do. Come. I'll show you something else if you wish. But you'll disappoint the children."
"I know what they'll tell me," I say. "So I'll disappoint them."
*****
"Their ways are verily loathsome unto me.
By day I find no relief, nor repose by night.
I will destroy, I will wreck their ways,
That quiet may be restored. Let us have rest!
I will establish a savage; 'man' shall be his name.
Verily, savage man I will create.
He shall be charged with the service of the gods
That they might be at ease!"
From Enuma Elish (When On High) - The Babylonian Epic Of Creation.
The something else is an orphanage. Khurram tells me on the way that divorce is a growing problem in Iraq and often results in abandoned children. "It's easier for one parent to throw a child on the street than for two," he claims.
"Not in America," I reply. "You've no “all folks are the same” excuse for that one."
Again Khurram's mere presence obtains him all the favours he needs. I make a mental note to ask him why that is - when I made my request of the Ministry he was identified merely as liaison, but I'm beginning to suspect he's a lot more than that. Too many people nod at him in the street. Some even step aside. He's a face, there's no doubting it.
At the orphanage, the children are even younger than those at the school. Some are just babies. The oldest are no more than five. As at the school, though, they line up for my inspection. They're in identical pyjamas, red for blood, red for sacrifice, red for brightness, red for the state. They're shepherded by a group of women who don't wear identical clothes but do wear identical looks and do all display headscarves. I've never felt more American, and I've never felt more manipulated. I've noted from the placard in the garden that this is Government House Orphanage, and it's obviously a display institution. I know that Khurram has already taken me to places where CNN reporters wouldn't be permitted to go, but Government House Orphanage is, I'm sure, not one of them. I suspect it's open all hours to interested foreign devils. So I don't understand Khurram's intent in bringing me here.
I talk briefly with Bayon, the director. I can't think of anything to ask her without getting a stock answer, but I try to surprise her by enquiring whether the orphanage employed any men. My provocation seems to annoy her. A woman's job, she tells me with a sniff, is something a man would find it hard to adjust to.
I also ask her how the orphanage is funded. She admits that the government helps. As do some wealthy male benefactors, although that source of revenue is drying up.
The orphanage children, like the schoolchildren, have organised a show for me. They gather in a line, and the boys at both ends of it hold pictures of Saddam Hussein. "Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be teachers," they chant, and one boy steps forward and shakes his fist. Not at me, but his eyes are angry. He knows what he's doing, and he has a vague idea of why he's doing it. This is not a boy reciting by rote. This is not the Hokey Cokey.
"Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be farmers," the children then announce, and a second little boy emerges from the group. Another tiny fist is shaken.
"Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be soldiers," the children tell me, and this time an older girl advances to deliver the threatening gesture, before telling me directly, and with a smile, "We will kill the American invaders." At this, all the children laugh, and they clap their hands.
Walking back towards the hotel, I ask Khurram, "So how exactly was this morning intended to benefit me?"
"Are you hungry?" Khurram replies.
I struggle to adjust onto the tangent. "I suppose so. Why?"
"All Americans are hungry," he says. "It's a state of being for you. The reason for being. The British were hungry before you. And the Turks before them. But you can't eat us. We'll twist and kick inside you. You might eat me. But some of those children, the ones who survive your bombs, they'll cut your stomachs open from the inside."
*****
"And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and Calneh, in the land of Shinar."
Genesis 10, Verse 10.
"I looked around for coastlines in the expanse of the sea,
and at twelve leagues there emerged a region of land.
On Mt. Nimush the boat lodged firm.
Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
One day and a second Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
A third day, a fourth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
A fifth day, a sixth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
When a seventh day arrived
I sent forth a dove and released it.
The dove went off, but came back to me;
no perch was visible so it circled back to me."
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet XI.
"When Alexander the Great, died there were, in Mesopotamia alone, three hundred towns and cities bearing his name."
Saady Yossuf - Postcards from Hajj Omran.
"Last week the French called themselves the old world and called you the new," Behbehani says, spitting out enough grains of rice to make me feel uncomfortable. "Ha! The cheek of it. France! The old world. Such pomposity. We are the old world, Mr. Aziz. Iraq is the old world."
I'm with Khurram and Midhat Behbehani. Behbehani is a historian, perhaps Iraq's leading historian. His small black spectacles, perched on the end of his nose, suggest academia. His eating habits don't. Mother always told me not to speak with my mouth full. Until I met Behbehani, the logic behind that bit of folk wisdom was never entirely clear to me.
"Tell him how old," Khurram says. He's unusually subdued, a respectful student.
I steal his thunder. "I know how old."
"He went to an American school," Khurram tells Behbehani. "General Grant, Wyatt Earp and Patton. And a brief reference to Uruk."
Behbehani shovels in another forkful of rice. "I suspect our American friend knows more of our history than you do, Khurram," he says. "I suspect most people know more of our history than you do."
Khurram colours slightly. And Behbehani has me then, on the basis that my enemy's enemy is my friend. "I know what the encyclopaedias tell me, but I don't have a feel for Iraq's past if I'm honest," I admit. "Maybe you can give me that."
Khurram starts to say something, doubtless something cutting, but Behbehani holds up a silencing hand. "You're in the Cradle of Civilisation, Mr. Aziz," he tells me. "I'm sure you know that part of our history. Once this was Mesopotamia, the Fertile Crescent - the location, we're told, of the Garden of Eden, was the land between our two great rivers; between Duja and Furat, the Tigris and the Euphrates. Eden or not, here was the birthplace of the people who pushed the world out of prehistory. Civilisation flourished here before Egypt breathed, before Greeks spread their wisdom, before Rome conquered the known world. Four thousand years before Christ, the Sumerian people had developed complex irrigation systems, cereal agriculture, writing."
"Cuneiform," I say, just to impress.
"Indeed," Behbehani confirms, and I bask in that confirmation. "And here too we invented the wheel, and constructed the first plough. We developed a mathematical system based on the numeral 60, which is still the basis of time in the modern world."
We talk and eat, Behbehani and I, whilst a whipped Khurram remains for the most part silent. The chicken and rice accompanies the story of Sargon, the Akkadian who built an empire extending as far as Lebanon - an empire which fell when the great city of Ur rose up against Akkadian rule. The leftovers are still being picked at when I'm told of Noah, who lived and floated his boat from Fara, 100 miles southeast of Bab-ili, soon to become Babylon, or in English the Gate of God. I chew sticky cake as I'm educated on the life of King Hammurabi, whose code holds firm down all the centuries in that it introduced legal protection for even the lowest classes, made the state the responsible authority for enforcing the law and decreed, "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" - that the punishment should fit the crime. The cheese helps me through the time of the Cassites to the Assyrians, who divided the circle into 360 degrees, who invented longitude and latitude for geographical navigation, whose celebrated King Nebuchadnezzar the Second built the Hanging Gardens, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world.
"All for his concubine Amyitis," Behbehani explains, "Legend says she was born in Media, and that she pined for the mountains. The Gardens were the closest thing to those mountains the King could give her."
Coffee, bitter and strong, is the complement to tales of grand invasions - Cyrus, and Alexander the Great, then Behbehani skips quickly past Christ to the great wars with the Arab Muslims and to Dhat Al-Salasil, the battle of the Chains, so named because Persian soldiers were chained together so that they couldn't flee. This, I'm told, was a time of jihad. It's a word I ask Behbehani to explain because of its regular appearances in the news.
"Named after Jihad fi Sabeel lillah," he obliges. "Westerners misinterpret it as all-out war, no holds barred. But Muslims are regulated by religion even in the way they fight. Prohibited from rape. Prohibited from the killing of women, children, religious leaders - more broadly, anyone who hasn't actually engaged in warfare."
Over cigars, I learn of Abu Ja'far Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khawarizmi - he discovered algebra, invented the number zero and introduced Hindu numbers - which mediaeval Christian Europeans saw as the work of Satan - to the Arab world. On then to a more familiar name, the Mongol Temujin, who led his armies into the Middle East, changing his name along the way to Genghis Khan. Temujin's grandson Hulagu Khan elected to march on Baghdad with two hundred thousand Tartars, and contemporary accounts say that rivers of blood flowed in the streets for forty days, that all the alleys were filled with bodies.
By now we have brandy in cups. The restaurant is emptying. Behbehani raises his aperitif in a mock toast to me and winks. "So you see, my friend," he says, "you will not be the first to try to trample over us."
"Nor the last," Khurram chimes in. "When you are gone, we shall still be here. Available to supply you with lessons in civilisation."
The weight of the centuries Behbehani has piled on my shoulders leaves me maudlin. "We're not coming with swords," I say. "When we're done, there may be no alleys for you to lie in. I don't want that."
Behbehani smiles. "Then you're a civilised man. I hope we meet again."
"I hope so too," I reply.
*****
"Their children also shall be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses shall be spoiled, and their wives ravished."
Isaiah 13, Verse 16.
"And upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH."
Revelation 17, Verse 5.
Khurram leaves just after eleven. I collect my key and take the lift to the eighth floor.
Jasim is waiting in the corridor. She's taller than I remember, and her hair is down. She takes my breath away. When it returns, I use it for honesty. I can't mislead her again.
"Khurram was taking advantage of you," I tell her. "There's no quick legal way to get your brother into America."
She nods, says nothing. I look her up and down and decide that she'd come to seduce me, to create a debt. A black, hugging dress, cut just below the knee. Black stockings. Black high heeled shoes.
I find myself wishing that things were different, that she'd dressed for me, not for her brother. But I force my message across nonetheless. "He wanted to help the book. He thought you'd give me an idea of how the middle classes were reacting to the probability of invasion. He caught me by surprise, and I played along. I wish I hadn't."
She nods again. "I know Khurram of old," she says. "What you say doesn't surprise me."
"Again, I'm sorry."
"You could still invite me in," she says. "That would be polite."
"Would that be wise?" I ask. "Now you know the truth."
"Wise?"
"Safe."
She chuckles. I think of bells. No, that's a lie. I think of sex. "For you?" she asks. "Do you have to protect yourself against women, then? Are you impossible to resist?"
I feel heat in my face. "For you. You might get… oh, I don't know… stoned or something."
"Just for entering a man's room."
"Yes."
"You've a lot to learn about Iraq before you write about Iraq, Mr. Aziz. We're a secular society. And Baghdad is a city, not a shanty town."
"I know. But…."
"I can safely go in your room, Martin. If you're prepared to allow it, naturally."
"Of course." Her use of my first name thrills me, so much so that I fumble with the key card. She watches with a smile. I'm closer to her now, and her fragrance reaches me - a subtle cedar note that nudges me towards lust.
Once inside the room, I open the door wide for her, and as she moves past me I switch on the lights. I expect her to take one of the armchairs by the window, but instead she sits on the bed. I offer coffee. She declines.
I pull the chair from under the writing desk and straddle it. "So how can I help you?" I ask.
That smile again. "A bed for the night, kind sir."
"I don't understand. Have you been thrown out of your house? Not because you met with me, surely?"
She loosens her hair still further, so that it falls across her shoulders. Then she says, "I told you that times are hard for all of us."
"You did, yes."
"So I have to work. When the opportunity arises."
Finally, I understand. "You're saying you're a… that…."
She helps me. "An escort."
"Yes. But no. A woman like you…."
"Just for the last eighteen months. I haven't made a career of it. And I'm careful. Only the international hotels. Only American men, or Europeans. Once a month, perhaps. When I have to. When funds are low."
I catch myself wondering whether her legs are really as long as the shape of the dress implies.
"Why me?" I ask.
"Khurram's idea. If you're offended, I'll leave."
I know how important it is, for my own integrity and that of the book, to send her home. Instead, I say, "How much will it cost me for you to stay?"
"The bill is paid," she replies.
I'm not surprised. Khurram is such a manipulator.
I recall so many bar conversations in which I've told friends how sad prostitution is, that it's the yoke of women and the shame of men.
So the fact that I'm not going to be paying acquires substantial importance.
*****
"A slippery path is not feared by two people who help each other."
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet V.
"Come, Shamhat, take me away with you
to the sacred Holy Temple, the residence of Anu and Ishtar,
the place of Gilgamesh, who is wise to perfection,
but who struts his power over the people like a wild bull."
Spoken by Enkidu in The Epic Of Gilgamesh.
And later, I recall other bar conversations when, po-faced and naïve, I held forth on the need to divorce sex and love, that the first could not beget the second.
But when Jasim rolls from me. when her lips leave mine and she settles in the crook of my arm, I know that I've found my Euridice, my Helen, my Juliet. My heart hammers against my ribcage, and my body throbs in the aftermath. She's pleased me and she's used me, enough that currency wasn't the only trade. Now she breathes in my ear, and her fragrance spins in my brain.
"Will you stay the night?" I ask her.
"Yes," she replies. "Of course."
"Your husband…?"
"Dead. Desert Storm."
"You're not that old."
"I am that old."
"The children?"
"Grandparents."
We breathe together. In time. Lovers. Oh yes indeed, we're lovers. My heart slows. I feel myself start to drift. I decide I don't want to drift.
"Tell me about Khurram," I say.
For a moment she doesn't answer. For a moment I suspect that she's asleep. Then she says, "He's more than he seems."
"More in what way?"
"If he's looking after you, you're an important man."
"Me? Far from it."
"Someone thinks you are."
"Someone?"
"Someone with influence."
"Does he know Saddam?"
"Probably."
"Is he a friend of Saddam's?"
"Possibly."
"I'm not important. I'm just a writer."
"I believe you."
"Are you suggesting Saddam… well….?"
"Knows you're here?"
"Yes."
"Probably. I doubt it's a priority for him."
"But for someone."
"Iraqis believe in the power of history."
"I'm not a historian."
"Won't your book be history one day?"
"It'll be a personal view."
"All history is somebody's personal view." She shifts onto her back. Already I'm beginning to want her again. The memory is fading and sweet.
"But he thinks I'll be an apologist," I interpret.
"Will you?"
"No. I've seen a lot of things that concern me. And the past concerns me. The Kurds, more than anything."
"There's concern, and there's propaganda. Perhaps Khurram trusts you to draw that line."
"That's my intention."
"Then that's why he's working with you."
I consider that. It makes a little sense. "Do you know your Omar Khayam?" I ask her.
She giggles. "You're an Arab scholar now?"
I caress her breast. Her body lifts. "The moving finger writes, and, having writ, moves on," I recite. "Nor all thy piety not wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out one word of it."
She touches me in a place that threatens to end the conversation. "There are always footnotes," she says, "and some people read footnotes."
"That's my legacy then? A footnote on yet another war to end all wars?"
"My hero," she says. "Shall I give you some adulation?"
I decide to let her change the subject.
*****
"And, behold, here cometh a chariot of men, with a couple of horsemen. And he answered and said, Babylon is fallen, is fallen; and all the graven images of her gods he hath broken unto the ground."
Isaiah 21, Verse 9.
DAY 3
WHERE WE FIGHT
Jasim leaves before seven, claiming that she needs to collect the children to take them to school. I ask how old they are. A girl, eight, and a boy of six, she tells me. It's only when she's gone it occurs to me that these are not children of a man who died in the Gulf War.
I ask if she'll meet me for dinner. She says that she'll try. I don't believe her.
Ten minutes after she's left, Khurram is at the door. I suspect he's been waiting in the lobby until he saw her go. I'm already dressed, and I don't want him to see the unmade bed, so I come straight out. In the lift, I challenge him. "What kind of a man do you think I am?"
"Jasim?"
"Yes. Jasim. You're pimping now?"
He shrugs. "Hospitality."
"That goes beyond the definition."
"Apparently not. I saw her leave."
It's a statement I can't counter. I'm angry, but frustrated.
Over a breakfast of fruit and bread, he tells me his plan for the day. A visit to a military training school. Lunch with a minister. A wedding.
The last takes me by surprise. "I'm sure I won't be welcome at a wedding," I say. "Whose arm did you twist?"
"You'll be very welcome," he says, spitting out bread. "When I told them, they were honoured."
"You're controlling me," I object. "I only see what you want me to see. I asked for some freedom."
"Where better to meet a cross section of Iraqi people than at a wedding?" he asks. "But you're free to do as you wish."
"But you can't guarantee my safety if I wander off, of course. Aren't you going to tell me that?"
"You'll be safe."
I realise that I've painted myself into a corner. The schedule he proposes is interesting, full of colour. I'll find nothing as promising on my own.
"I'll stick with you, I think," I tell him. "For today, anyway."
"Jasim will be at the wedding," he says. "That should cheer you up."
"I don't particularly want to see her again," I say.
I can tell he knows I'm lying.
*****
"lf you are Gilgamesh, who killed the Guardian,
who destroyed Humbaba who lived in the Cedar Forest,
who slew lions in the mountain passes,
who grappled with the Bull that came down from heaven, and
killed him,
why are your cheeks emaciated, your expression desolate!
Why is your heart so wretched, your features so haggard?"
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet X.
We walk to the military school. It's a windy day, and people go about their business with care. I ask Khurram what would happen to Jasim's brother if the authorities knew that he might try to leave the country.
"They'd kill him," Khurram replies. "Perhaps his family too."
I'm startled by the offhand reply. "That's outrageous."
"It's life in a country under siege."
"Not an excuse."
"It isn't intended as one."
I weave a little. "Jasim seems to trust you," I tell him.
"Why should she not?"
"She thinks Saddam's a buddy of yours."
He chuckles. "Does she?"
"Yes, she does. Is he?"
"I don't think he's a friend of Iraq."
"You'd rather see someone else in control?"
"Pretty much anyone. I have Kurdish blood. But Iraq has no choices now. Iraqi people have no choices. America has made it that way. How many billboards have you seen since we left the hotel?"
"Of Saddam? I lost count."
"They're pinned to the walls with American glue. Practically, and metaphorically."
"You say you have Kurdish blood. If there's a war, you stand to benefit."
"Your government doesn't care about the Kurds. It cares about oil. And you could have the oil. If yout hand was open hand, not balled into a fist."
"You think we should pacify Saddam?"
"I think you should help Iraq. And probably sow the seeds of Saddam's downfall in the process. The open hand. It's an old Sufi proverb."
"Folk wisdom," I say, contemptuous, then I relent. "Tell me."
"The proverb?"
"Yes."
"It goes like this. One day, Yussuf's wife was cooking his favourite meal, a dish filled with lean meat and crunchy nuts. Yussuf was helping out, and the nuts were his joy. He wanted to be sure his wife used enough. So he reached into the jar and grabbed as many nuts as he could. But then he found he couldn't pull his hand from the jar. As much as he complained and wriggled his wrist, he was stuck. His wife heard his cries and came to help. "Force your hand further into the jar," she said. Yussuf couldn't see how this would help, but he trusted his wife, and he did as she advised. His wife said, "Spread your hand, then make it very small, then try again to pull it free." Yussuf did this, and his hand slid out of the jar."
"Not rocket science, this, is it?" I pointed out.
Khurram ignored me. "But Yussuf was still upset. "What about the nuts?" he asked. "Now I have no nuts." His wife smiled and took the jar. Then she tipped half of its contents onto a plate. Do you see, Martin? Do you understand?"
"Oh, the moral's clear enough," I reply. "Don't marry a simpleton."
Khurram grins. "Indeed. What a shame, then, that no-one has ever passed that folk wisdom on to the young ladies of London and Washington."
*****
"And Babylon, the glory of kingdoms, the beauty of the Chaldees' Excellency, shall be as when God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah…. It shall never be inhabited, neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to generation: neither shall the Arabian pitch tent there; neither shall the shepherds make their fold there."
Isaiah 13, Verse 20:
The military school is a single storey building surrounded by blocks of flats. Here, Khurram explains, members of the Baath party train compulsorily for two hours every day in one month of every year to fight the coming jihad.
I watch a line of women in traditional scarves, fashionable dresses, high heeled shoes and make-up put through their paces. They handle the AK-47 assault rifles as a boxer might carry a handbag.
"What do they learn?" I ask. "Other than how to shoot themselves in the foot, I mean?" I'm not really concentrating. One of the younger women reminds me of Jasim, and I'm already aching to touch her again.
"Emergency first aid procedures," Khurram replies. "Marching."
"Oh, I can see they learn marching," I say. "I'm sure marching will be a lot of use."
The latest march has taken the women to a wall and they stand with their backs to it. It's clear they're conscious of my presence. They glance in my direction occasionally. When the male instructors aren't watching, the women whisper behind their hands.
I watch a drill. The women practice pulling back the rifle bolts and they aim at imaginary targets, many of which seem to be very close to me. My confidence that the guns are not loaded starts to slip a little.
Khurram introduces me to the school commander. We talk briefly, but the conversation is continually interrupted by his need to bark orders across the courtyard. The women are goose-stepping now, and like the children, they enjoy singing. "Saddam Hussein will be here forever," the chorus runs, "whatever the demons do."
Khurram produces a small camera from the inside pocket of his jacket. "A photograph for the book," he suggests.
The commander, Khurram and I gather in front of the women, who are holding their rifles high in the air like Mexican bandits. The one who looks like Kasim is next to me, and she smiles. In Iraq, it seems, I'm Tom Cruise.
The commander leads us to the front gate. "We're ready," he says. "Go back and write that we're ready."
I don't want to hurt his feelings. "They know how to handle those guns," I tell him.
His back stiffens with pride. "Have a safe flight," he says. "Safe journey home."
*****
"The trapper went off to Uruk. He made the journey, stood inside of Uruk, and declared to Gilgamesh:
"There is a certain fellow who has come from the mountains--
he is the mightiest in the land,
his strength is as mighty as the meteorite of Anu!
He continually goes over the mountains,
he continually jostles at the watering place with the animals,
he continually plants his feet opposite the watering place.
I was afraid, so I did not go up to him.
He filled in the pits that I had dug,
wrenched out my traps that I had spread,
released from my grasp the wild animals.
He does not let me make my rounds in the wilderness!"
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet I.
In the Palestine Hotel I meet an Iraqi junior minister. He's a small man, moustache cut to emulate Saddam's, silver grey hair slicked back to right and left from the crown. I know already that he'll be difficult, because Khurram told me the hotel was chosen deliberately, a small message to a Westerner in support of Saddam's new big message - that the Arabs must become one nation. The food is carefully chosen too. Lamb. White rice.
He seeks to educate me. He tells me at length about the Young Turks, whose notion of creating a unified Ottoman Empire as a nation state lit the fuse for Arab nationalism in Iraq, and of how, when Turkey allied with the Germans during the First World War, the Hashemite family of Hussein ibn-Ali promised to aid Britain by fomenting revolution in return for British recognition of Arab independence after the war.
"You were our friends then, but you didn't keep your word," Khurram says.
"Westerners never keep their word," the minister adds. "We forgot the lessons of history."
I don't embarrass Khurram by commenting that his views appear to have hardened in this company. Instead, I show off. "I know much of this. The League of Nations split the Empire up. Mesopotamia was put under a British mandate. With a timetable for independence. Which wasn't kept."
"Oil," Khurram says. "Then, as now."
"Oil and trade routes," the minister confirms. "So there was an uprising, as a result of which Britain imposed a Hashemite monarchy and set our frontiers for us, without regard to tribal settlements, without regard to our legitimate claim on Kuwait."
"We gained independence under a British puppet king," Khurram tells me. It's a double act now. "So in the thirties came the Sidqi coup."
"The only surprise being that it took so long," the minister adds.
I'm able to avoid the brainwashing because Jasim keeps slipping into my thoughts, and so I'm relaxed enough to prick the bubble. "Sidiq was a tyrant," I remind them. "He was killed by his own supporters."
"He established a principle," the minister lectures. "Against a foreign imposed constitution."
On we go through a tedious dinner. I'm told more things that I already know – of King Ghazi's plan to invade Kuwait in 1939, forestalled only by the fatal encounter between fast car obsessed monarch and lamp post; of the 1941 pro-Nazi Golden Square coup, which led to the second British occupation of Iraq and the prevention of Yunis Al Sabawi's planned pogrom against the Jews - during this two day period, known as the Farhud, I'd read that many Iraqi Moslems opened their homes and fed and protected their Jewish friends.
Each event the minister narrates is painted with day-glo propagandist paint. Even when he comes to 1948, and the alliance with Transjordan against Israel, he concentrates on the liberation of Palestinian refugees rather than the horrendous pressures subsequently placed on Jews in Iraq which led to Operations Ezra and Nehemiah, the airlifting of Jews from Baghdad.
But I'm also told things I didn't know, which make the yawning worthwhile. I'm very interested to learn, for example, a snippet of background information concerning a 1959 assassination attempt against then Prime Minister Abdul-Karim Qassem. Following the Suez crisis, when Iraq was arguably allied with Israel against Egypt and there was growing pressure for the annexation of Kuwait, Qassem had organised the overthrow of the Iraqi Hashemite monarchy (the King escaped briefly, disguised as a veiled woman, but was caught, tied to the back of a car and dragged through the streets - at the end, there was nothing left of him but half a leg.) At this time, Iraq was in turmoil, and there were actually three unsuccessful attempts on Qassem's life. I hadn't known, and it's a fact the minister passes on with pride, that amongst the frustrated third assassination squad was a young Saddam Hussein.
The minister finishes his coffee and is immediately in a rush to leave. I've found this, in my limited experience, to be a common characteristic of politicians - my Senate representative was the same when I talked to him before my trip. When the free lunch has gone, a politician is suddenly a very busy man. Places to go, things to do, people to see.
But as soon as the man is gone, the vodka arrives.
"I know the owner of the hotel," Khurram explains.
"You know everyone in Baghdad," I reply. "So why the lecture in Iraqi Nationalism As Defined By Our Glorious History?"
Khurram sulks. "Everything I do for you, you throw it back in my face. How hard do you think it was to get that appointment?"
I suspect he's feigning offence. I've known him long enough now not to take the faces he chooses as carrying value. "Very easy, with your contacts," I tell him. "And you knew I'd throw this one back. It's exactly the opposite of what I wanted. He's as far from the Iraqi people as it's possible to get."
"True," Khurram grants. "But he tells the Iraqi people what to say to people like you. An intelligent writer should know what he's up against. And the interpretation of history is the politics of the people. What he told you is taught in our schools. A little colour, Martin. It can't hurt."
*****
"May a crossroad be your home.
May a wasteland be your sleeping place.
May the shadow of the city wall be your place to stand.
May the thorns and briars skin your feet.
May both the drunk and the dry slap you on the cheek."
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet VII.
I was almost married once. I wasn't deserted at the altar, but it was close. The night before, Susan rang me and gave me twenty five minutes worth of her second thoughts. In the end, she decided she was happy to fulfil the commitment. In the end, I decided I wasn't either.
So I don't like weddings.
But this isn't a wedding. Or more accurately it isn't the sort of wedding I fear, an occasion dominated by significance. It's a wild party, and one of 43 taking place at my hotel that evening. It's Thursday night, and in Iraq Thursday is getting hitched night - mainly because Friday is Iraq's national day off (Christians get Sundays too), and one day's honeymoon is better than none.
"Is it an arranged marriage?" I ask Khurram. I'm filling in time, of course. I know I should be interested, but I'm scanning the crowd for Jasim. Nonetheless, I expect him to say no.
"Yes," he says, fisting nuts into his mouth. No open hand for him. "Most are."
The room is full. People are shoulder to shoulder. My ears vibrate. Horns and drums. It's like a Status Quo concert. Ramped volume, repeated notes. Pretty much everyone is wearing Western clothes. Hoop skirts are favoured. There's a smattering of veils.
Khurram shouts something at me. I don't quite catch it, but it includes the word "respects." Then he's pulling me up from my seat, through the crowd, and suddenly I'm up on a raised platform, a stage, shaking hands with the groom, kissing the bride on the cheek, and I'm covered in confetti. I'm meeting the father of the bride and the uncle of the groom and flashbulbs are popping. I whirl through white suits and lilac dresses, air kisses and red flowers.
"They pushed the boat out," I yell at Khurram. By now, he's dancing vaguely with a matron who almost matches his size.
"He's a car dealer," Khurram bellows back. "He can afford it."
The bride and groom are posing for photographs. A strikingly beautiful woman links the groom's left arm. His bride links his right.
Someone touches my shoulder. I turn to be dazzled by Jasim."
"God," she says. "Jealousy. Just look at that."
"Well, hello," I reply. "Jealousy. Who?"
"His first wife," she says. "Have you seen the way she's gripping his hand?"
*****
"Guards on my house
Guards on my voice
Guards on my Gulf
Guards on Crowned heads from Abha to Ifran
Guards on my prison
Guards on flowers
Guards on the tipsiness of wine
Guards on the branches of the trees
Guards on my homeland."
Saady Yossuf - Post Cards from Hajj Omran.
Jasim holds my hand. I enjoy that fact. I enjoy that it isn't the other way around.
I lead her out onto a balcony. Below us, the streets are deserted. Baghdad already has the mindset to cope with bombing. On other balconies, I know, CNN and BBC and NBC reporters are watching the skies, expecting nothing much as they sip their room made cocktails. Liking Pina Coladas. Not getting caught in the rain.
I turn Jasim to face me. "I'm falling in love with you," I tell her. “I can’t help it.”
Her eyes are moist. "Are you?" she replies. She doesn't smile.
"Yes. I am."
"Are you falling far enough to want to get me out of Iraq?"
"Yes."
"And my children?"
"Yes."
"And can you?"
"No."
Now she does smile. "Go up," she says. "Give me twenty minutes. I'll knock three times. Like the song."
*****
"A hurricane, which mightily hunts in the heavens, are they
Thick clouds, that bring darkness in heaven, are they,
Gusts of wind rising, which cast gloom over the bright day, are they,
The high enclosures, the broad enclosures like a flood they pass through.
From house to house they dash along.
No door can shut them out,
No bolt can turn them back.
Through the door, like a snake, they glide,
Through the hinge, like the wind, they storm.
Tearing the wife from the embrace of the man,
Snatching the child from the knees of a man,
Driving the free man from his family home.
May the spirits of heaven remember, may the spirits of earth remember."
The Seven Evil Spirits.
DAY 4
WHY WE FIGHT
Khurram is insufferably Sufi again over breakfast. He tells me that the city is now host to voluntary human shields from all over Europe. Miss Germany is here and wants to "talk peace" with Saddam. A banner bedecked London bus has arrived, having travelled through Europe and Asia. Anti-war protesters are requesting licence to situate themselves at target sites, such as power stations. Khurram is clearly amused, and I ask him why. That's when I get another Sufi story.
"A king was dying," he says, "and his doctors said he could only be cured by the gall of a man who was innocent, strong, intelligent, free and who had survived a great fall. The king instructed a search, and a boy was found who had once tumbled out of a tree. Because he was free, the king had to bargain with the father and mother, who accepted gifts in return for the boy. Then the king instructed his axe man to take the boy's life. As the axe was raised, the boy looked heavenward and smiled. The king's raised a hand to halt the blow. "You're going to die, boy," he said. "Why the smile?" And the boy replied, "My mother and father don't care if I die. My king seeks to save himself by my death. Who else can I look to for protection but God?" The king was ashamed then, and told his court, "It's better for me to die with honour than live on at another's expense." He gave the boy money, and set him free. Within a week, the king was well again."
I laugh. "Karma. You're telling me now you believe in karma."
"Where shall I from thy hand for succour flee?" Khurram recites. "Against thine own power I will justice seek from thee."
"Oh, I missed the point," I reply. "Who'd have thought that possible with stories of such clarity? You're saying these human shields might actually achieve what diplomacy can't?"
Khurram shrugs.
"George Bush doesn't need gall," I tell him. "He already has plenty of it."
*****
"Blood in Babylonia, what is the difference between the squads of years and the squads of death? Would that my arm be a tree-root, I'd unleash my Winged Bulls, and with the magic of my Gods and children, stop the invaders at Uruk's gates."
Saady Yossuf - Post Cards from Hajj Omran.
We visit the Golden Mosque, leaving our shoes, as is custom, at the door. It's Friday, the Muslim holy day, and the building is packed with male worshippers - the women and children are waiting outside for their turn.
A couple of clerics meet Khurram just inside the prayer hall, and I'm told how very pleased they are that I honour them with my attendance. I wonder in passing whether the worshippers would feel the same way if they knew I was American.
I can hear snippets of the sermon. Commit to the holy war. Now is the time. Attack the Americans in their ships, in their tanks, in their aeroplanes. There are shouts of solidarity, and there is the familiar sight of raised fists.
We tour the courtyard. The building is immense. Pilgrims sit against the outer walls. Family groups, some with bone white infants, have taken up residence, huddled together. Stoves are working, and the smell of cooking is in the air.
"Is it always this busy?" I ask Khurram.
"No,” he says. “Only when people feel threatened. Or before the Hadj pilgrimage to Mecca. Times when it's wise to be close to God."
Near the mosque entrances, soldiers stand in small groups. We're challenged as we leave, but Khurram flashes a card, far too quickly for me to see what’s on it, and the troops stand aside.
*****
"Charge the violation to the violator,
charge the offence to the offender,
but be compassionate lest man be cut off,
be patient lest man be destroyed."
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet XI.
We visit Sabehna in the Bab-al Shaikh quarter. This time she's alone. The boys are out shining shoes.
It seems that Khurram has taken her by surprise. With a slight bow to me, she smoothes down her black robe and invites me in.
Khurram takes her into the small kitchen. When the pair emerge, the reason for coming back is made clear. Khurram has urgent business. He'll be back in two hours. In the meantime, Sabehna will "take responsibility" for me. I'm irritated by the condescension and the restraint, but I'm not in a position to say so.
"There's a farmer's market across the street," Khurram says. "You can take photographs from the balcony."
"Oh, happy day," I reply.
When he's left, it becomes apparent that Sabehna has taken his suggestion as an instruction and that she won't settle until I've captured some pictures of Iraqi street commerce in action. I oblige her. I also take a shot of her - she agrees to this reluctantly.
We go back in and she makes me tea. In the absence of the boys, the TV set is blank, so I look around the room. My eyes settle on a photograph and I walk over to study it. An officer in uniform.
When she returns, I ask who the young man is.
"My son," she says.
"Killed in the Gulf War?"
"No. At Khorromshahr. The war with Iran."
I nod. My sympathy is real. "That was a bad time for Iraq."
"Iraq is always at war," she replies. "All times are the same."
I know what she means. Saddam was at war with the Iranians for eight years from 1980 onwards - starting the conflict only a year after succeeding Al-Bakr as President. A million lives were lost and not an inch of ground gained by either side. Then, in 1990, came the six weeks of Desert Storm, during which one hundred and forty thousand tons of explosives, the equivalent of seven Hiroshima bombs, descended on the country - another 100,000 soldiers and tens of thousands of civilians dead. Then within days of Desert Storm ending, a brutal conflict began in southern Iraq and in Kurdistan, where rebels took control of most of the region's towns. Iraqi suppression created two and a half million refugees. And since then, the air exclusion zones, Clinton's 1993 Tomahawk attack, the Kurdistan civil war, the troubles in Ramadi and Abu Grein prison. "All times are the same, and all times are hard, I suppose," I say.
"There are the U.N. rations," she replies. "But they run out well before the end of the month. Khurram helps."
I nod. "I thought he might."
"There's evil in the world," she says. "It's free. Unchained. Khurram is a good man."
"By evil, you mean the United States?"
"Not the American people. But their government? Yes. People, though, are all the same. Iraqi people. American people. Israeli people."
"You're right. A lot of Americans oppose a war."
"I am sure that is true. But sadly even the common people are always trying to find reasons to fight. They do not need to, and in their hearts they do not want to, but they do so nonetheless. There is a story about four men with a gold coin. One, a Persian, wanted to buy angur. The second, an Arab, was determined the money should be spent on inab. The third, a Turk, insisted they buy uzum. And the fourth man, a Greek, picked up the coin and said, "We shall purchase stafil." So a fight broke out, and bruises were given, and no solution was reached until a wise man offered to mediate."
"I recognise inab," I say. "I presume they all wanted grapes."
She nods. "Indeed."
"Are you sure you're not related to Khurram?" I ask. "He's a fan of parables."
She raises a grey eyebrow in surprise. "I have three sons. Khurram is the oldest."
While I'm absorbing the surprise, Walid returns, and over his objections and mine, Sabehna despatches him to buy cheese and bread from the local bakery.
It's the best lunch of the week.
When Khurram returns, he's in a hurry. We have a man to meet, he says. I embrace Sabehna, and don't feel at all awkward in doing so.
In the hallway, a vacant eyed woman and a little girl are shelling peas. We have to step over the woman's legs.
"You never told me Sabehna was your mother," I say to Khurram when we're out on the street.
"You never asked," he replies.
*****
"You loved the Shepherd, the Master Herder,
who continually presented you with bread baked in embers,
and who daily slaughtered for you a kid.
Yet you struck him, and turned him into a wolf,
so his own shepherds now chase him
and his own dogs snap at his shins."
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet VI.
By the time we reach the tea house, squeezed between two monolithic blocks of flats on the left bank of the Tigris, it's early evening. We sit outside - only men are permitted inside and our new companion apparently likes to flirt with the ladies. The evening isn't warm, but my jacket's enough to keep out the chill. We drink tea in small opaque glasses, filled to a third their height with sugar before anything else is added. A large water pipe filled with heavily perfumed tobacco is being passed around. I avoid it - I've never smoked. But I have an occasional pang of jealousy at the sighs of satisfaction that a pull from the hose seems to bring. There is a low buzz of conversation, punctuated by the clicking of dominoes and occasional shouts of triumph or despair as games conclude. Street children circulate, and as usual Khurram is expansive, calling a boy over every now and then - never a girl - and buying him a Coke – this is a treat because Coke is imported, whereas Pepsi is made locally. The sky is clear – and because our companion is boring, I spend a lot of time studying the stars.
“I have no-one," Mahdi says. "And things will be worse."
Mahdi is Khurram's friend. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the Iranian war. Mahdi was captured and spent sixteen years in Iranian jails before being allowed to come home. He'd been offered asylum by the Red Cross, but had chosen to return to Baghdad. He seems to be Khurram's hero.
"Will you fight again?" Khurram asks. "Against the Americans?"
Mahdi shrugs. "Probably."
Khurram looks at me, an earnest look, as though to tell me I should take something from this. I don't. I see a man who buys and sells scrap metal and electronic equipment for minimal profit. He's admitted it takes him a day to earn less than a dollar. I see a man who remembers Baghdad as a vibrant city, full of bars and clubs. I see a man who could exist in any city of the world, a man who the army suits, a man who can't be expected to survive without a support structure. But his last words to me as we shake hands do stay with me. I can already see them on the frontispiece to my book.
“They should come," he says. "Your people should come. We'll either die, or for better or worse, Iraq will change.”
*****
"Babylon hath been a golden cup in the Lord's hand, that made all the earth drunken: the nations have drunken of her wine; therefore the nations are mad."
Jeremiah 51, Verse 7.
Khurram leaves me in the hotel lobby.
I've made no arrangement with Jasim. I expect to see her, but she doesn't come.
*****
"Lo, I will bring a nation upon you from far, O house of Israel, saith the Lord: it is a mighty nation, it is an ancient nation, a nation whose language thou knowest not, neither understandest what they say."
Jeremiah 5, Verse 15.
DAY 5
HOW WE FIGHT
I'm awakened at seven by a hammering on the door. I open it to find Khurram. It's the first time I've seen him in a jacket and tie. He's holding airline tickets, which he flaps at me.
"You're on the 9:30 flight," he says. "Get packing."
My first response is pathetic. It’s a whine. "I'm here until Wednesday at least."
"You've worn out your welcome."
"I haven't done anything."
"You have to go."
"Why?"
"You have to go. Peace isn't coming, so you have to go."
"Are you throwing your friends out too? The human shields."
"No."
"I don't understand."
"You don't have to. You just have to go."
"I want to see Jasim."
"That isn't possible."
"Khurram…."
"Martin, I'm sorry."
"You messed things up, didn't you?” I accuse him. “Was it that she slept with me? Or was it her brother? Did someone overhear what she said about her brother?"
He sighs. "Leave it alone."
"It’s Mahdi, isn’t it? You told Mahdi something you shouldn't have."
"I'll wait in the lobby," he says.
*****
"And Babylon shall become heaps, a dwelling place for dragons, an astonishment, and a hissing, without an inhabitant."
Jeremiah 51, verse 37:
Khurram summons a taxi. My bags are loaded into it. I refuse to get in with them, but Khurram calls over a soldier who's idling in the hotel entrance and makes me change my mind.
Throughout the journey, we sit in stony silence. Khurram is up front with the driver, doubtless so as to ensure that silence.
"I won't leave," I tell him in the check-in queue.
"Not even for Jasim?" he asks.
"Yes. I will for her. Is she safe if I go? Is that what you’re saying?"
"Safer. I'll write to you."
"Are you safe, Khurram?"
"Perhaps. If you go. I'll write."
It's enough to permit me to shake hands.
*****
"Go up on the wall of Uruk and walk around,
examine its foundation, inspect its brickwork thoroughly.
Is not (even the core of) the brick structure made of kiln-fired brick,
and did not the Seven Sages themselves lay out its plans?"
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet I.
IRAQ BEFORE THE STORM
by Martin Aziz
PROLOGUE
During the 1990s American planes operating in the Gulf managed to destroy a nation. They bombed hospitals and schools. They bombed water purification plants and electricity installations. They destroyed churches, bridges and mosques. Don't take my word for it. Harvard University's fact finding mission at the time will confirm it for you. Madeleine Albright will confirm it for you. She was once asked whether US actions, particularly sanctions, could be justified in light of the death of half a million Iraqi children, and she said that they could.
Americans saw little of this. Yes, there were occasional media images of sick children on the UNESCO campaign adverts, but that was about it. A people were under siege, and the western conscience slept. What we did see we only saw, in the words of the Egyptian poet Amal Donqol, through "a slit in the wall."
With this book, that's the best I can hope for - to open up another slit in the wall.
I'm an Arab American. I'm half-Iraqi. So if you're the kind of reader who visualises yourself riding on a nuclear missile and waving your hat in the air, stop now. I will not become one of your authors of choice.
I've visited Iraq on a number of occasions. And I was fortunate enough to visit just before… well, what happened.
We all know what happened.
Whilst there, I fell in love.
I have a letter which says the woman I love is safe. It may be a lie. Within the next few months, I hope to find out, but I don't know whether that will be possible.
My intention in visiting on that last occasion was to produce a record of ordinary life in Iraq, because I thought that ordinary life would disappear. A historical document? A good friend of mine had hopes for that. But I don't make such claims. Here is the book, and you must judge for yourselves. Now it's done, it doesn't seem as important as it once did.
I'm sorry to say I have other things on my mind.
Martin Aziz, Paris, March 2004.
NOTES:
1. Gilgamesh was an historical king of Uruk in Babylonia, on the River Euphrates in modern Iraq; he lived about 2700 B.C.. Many stories and myths were written about Gilgamesh, some of which were written down about 2000 B.C. in the Sumerian language, on clay tablets which still survive The tablets actually name an author, which is extremely rare in the ancient world, for the version of the story used here - Shin-eqi-unninni. Maureen Gallery Kovacs was the translator.
2. Enuma Elish (When On High), the Babylonian/ Mesopotamian creation myth, was written no later than the reign of Nebuchadrezzar in the 12th century B.C., but there is little doubt that this story was written much earlier, during the time of the Sumerians. Henry Layard found within the ruins of the library of Ashurbanipal in Nineveh texts that were not unlike the Genesis creation in the Bible. George Smith first published these texts in 1876 under the title, 'The Chaldean Genesis'. The test is Akkadian written in the old Babylonian dialect.
3. The Seven Evil Spirits was translated by R.C. Thompson in 1903.
4. The code of Hammurabi is the earliest legal code known to history. A copy of the code is engraved on a block of black diorite nearly 2.4 m (8 ft) high. A team of French archaeologists at Susa, Iraq, formerly ancient Elam unearthed this block, during the winter of 1901-2. The block, broken in three pieces, has been restored and is now in the Louvre Museum in Paris.
5. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon were situated on the east bank of the River Euphrates, about 50 kilometres south of Baghdad. An observer at the time described them as having "plants cultivated above ground level, and the roots of the trees are embedded in an upper terrace rather than in the earth. The whole mass is supported on stone columns... Streams of water emerging from elevated sources flow down sloping channels... These waters irrigate the whole garden saturating the roots of plants and keeping the whole area moist. Hence the grass is permanently green and the leaves of trees grow firmly attached to supple branches... This is a work of art of royal luxury and its most striking feature is that the labour of cultivation is suspended above the heads of the spectators."
6. The story of the boy and the sick king was narrated by Sadi of Shiraz and is from, "Sadi: The Rose Garden" translated by Edward B. Eastwick.
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