Baghdad Diaries Read online

  Nuha al-Radi

  Baghdad Diaries

  1991–2002

  SAQI

  Contents

  Prologue

  Funduq al-Saada or Hotel Paradiso

  Embargo

  Exile

  Identity

  These diaries are dedicated to the people of Iraq and to all others who have suffered the crippling effects of war and sanctions.

  My heartfelt thanks to my sister Selma who made the publication of these diaries possible, and to Toby Eady for his perseverance.

  Prologue

  I am to write, as usual, and as usual I say: I am not a writer. But I must update this diary to cover all the years since the published edition. Nothing really changes, only the years. As I look through my notebooks, I notice that some passages indicate the days and months and some have no date, but the year is always missing – a telling sign. I have titled the last chapter ‘Identity’ because I always seem to be chasing mine, via residence permits, visas or by constantly having to prove that I am an ordinary law-abiding person.

  I now live in a third-floor flat in Beirut; through the windows I see buildings and a bit of sky, and one palm tree in the Saudi Embassy next door – a far cry from my Baghdad orchard with its 66 palms and 161 orange trees. When we first rented this flat in 1970 we used to have picnics on the nearby hillside; now you cannot see the hillside, let alone the sea, only a concrete jungle. But it is home.

  In 1919, my father, an only child, was one of the first Iraqis to study in the USA (in Texas); his subject was agriculture. It wasn’t so difficult being an Iraqi in those days. He went around the world with just a piece of paper from the British Consul, as Iraq was then under the British Mandate.

  In 1947 he was made Ambassador, first to Iran and then India. To most Iraqis India meant snakes and tigers, but we loved India and stayed for nine years. With the revolution in 1958, my father was retired and returned to Baghdad. We each went abroad to study – my sister Sol (Selma) became an archaeologist and restorer, I became a ceramist (now painter) and my brother Dood (Abbad) an architect and planner. Sol is now married to Q (Qais), doctor and scientist, and Kiko (Rakkan) is her son from her first marriage. Dood is married to Shuhub and has a daughter and son.

  My mother was one of four. Naira was her elder sister, better known as Needles: neat and coiffed even when sleeping. They had two brothers. Tariq became a gynaecologist in Britain, married and stayed there. The younger one, Mundhir Baig, was a good-looking charmer and wily lawyer.

  Baghdad is built on both banks of the river Tigris. It winds through the city in a double ‘S’. The northern and southern ends terminate in orchards, but by now the city has outgrown these limits.

  When the war started in 1991, it seemed natural that family and friends should come and stay in my orchard. We felt safer being together; it was more economical and, yes, also fun. Our district, Suleikh, is at the north end of the city.

  All the characters I speak about in this diary are relatives and friends.

  Funduq al-Saada, or Hotel

  Paradiso

  19 January 1991

  On the eve of the war I went to the Rashid Hotel to pick up a letter that Bob Simpson* had brought from Charlie in Cyprus. He also sent me some seed packets of Italian vegetables, a tiny leak in the UN embargo. They will come in handy when we have water again. His room was full of hacks nattering away and waiting for the big moment. I told him very authoritatively that there would be no war.

  ‘Wish I could believe you,’ he said.

  I’m not sure why I was so definite that there would be no war – my positive attitude had friends and family phoning me up for reassurance until the last day. Perhaps I simply couldn’t believe that in this day and age leaders could be so childish and/or plain stupid as to think that war could solve any issue. I underestimated the destructive instincts of man and the agenda of the forces allied against us. Not that we are angels, after all we did the first wrong. But one cannot rectify one wrong by another of even bigger proportions. At least that’s what I thought. After all, I witnessed at first hand three revolutions in Iraq, the Suez war in Egypt and some of the Lebanese civil war. Man’s follies have no limits. In this instance, nobody wanted to communicate to allow for a compromise. As an Iraqi expression has it, one hand cannot clap alone. Obviously there is room for only one bully in this world.

  The last six months of pre-war days were all the same, days sandwiched with nights; with the start of the war, days and nights became one long day. I don’t have a 1991 calendar so I can’t even tick the days off. It is all one. This is the third day of the war; it has taken me that long to realize that war has actually begun and I am not dreaming it. I have decided to write a diary, to keep some kind of record of what is happening to us. After all, this kind of thing doesn’t happen every day.

  Day 1

  I woke up at 3 a.m. to the barrage of exploding bombs. I let out a huge groan that I can still hear. I couldn’t believe that war had started. I went out on the balcony, the sky was lit up with the most extraordinary firework display – the noise was beyond description. My dog, Salvador Dalì, was chasing frantically round the two houses looking up at the sky and barking furiously. I couldn’t get an answer from Ma and Needles’* phone so tried Suha who answered in a hushed voice from her shelter under the stairs, and told me to put out my lights. ‘What for?’ I asked. ‘All the street lights are still on.’ Suha, being a fastidious and efficient person, had taped all her windows and doors against nuclear fallout, and organized the windowless room under the stairs as her shelter and stashed it with provisions. I refused to take any such precautions, but Ma insisted on it and made a variety of designs on my windows, scrimping on the last ones as she ran out of tape.

  Later on I ventured outside to put out the garage light. Salvador was very nervous. Shortly after that we lost all electricity, I needn’t have bothered with putting the lights out. The phones followed suit and went dead. I think we are done for, a modern nation cannot fight without electricity and communications. Thank heavens for our ration of Pakistani matches. Thinking of you Handy, glued to the television in Karachi – are you with us? Why are we being punished in this way?

  With the first bomb, Ma and Needles’ windows shattered, the ones facing the river. It’s a good thing their shutters were down otherwise they could both have been badly hurt. One of poor Bingo’s pups was killed in the garden by flying glass – our first war casualty. Bingo is the mother of Salvador Dalì. Myra, Ilham and the boys came in the morning, went and then returned to stay the night.

  Day 2

  Myra, Ilham and the boys went off to Khanaqin, they think they will be safer there. Amal and Munir, whose house is also on the river, lost all their windows the first night they moved in. Ma and Suha come and stay the nights, during the day they all go off to check on their own houses. Needles prefers to stay with Menth. My closest neighbour M.A.W. joins us for dinner; his wife is away in London.

  Said came by and picked up Suha and me to have lunch with Taha. Said has a good supply of petrol but is not ready to give us any of it. We had kebab and beer; delicious. They were both quite unfazed by the situation and think that we are doing quite well. I can’t think what they mean. No air raids en route. Salvador still barks wildly when the sirens go.

  Today, all over Baghdad, government trucks threw bread to the thronging crowds.

  Day 3

  Suha and I spent the day merrily painting in my studio while the war was going on full blast outside. I wonder where this detachment comes from, whilst others are gnashing their teeth with fear. This afternoon we saw a SAM missile explode in the sky. I also caught Mundher Baig riding around on his grandson’s tricycle, scrunched up with his legs under his chin, peda
lling round and round in his driveway. He said he was enjoying himself. He misses his grandchildren and is convinced that he will not see them again.

  At night we had a fire in the orchard. At first we thought it was war damage but in fact it was Fulayih’s fault. He had been burning some dry wood near the dead core of a palm tree, trying to turn it into coal. We used up all our water, Dood’s house and mine combined, plus the fire extinguisher from the car to put out this fire. Now we have no water, and Fulayih has no coal.

  Day 4

  Woke up to an air raid at 5 a.m. Went to Zaid’s house to leave a message and saw his two old aunts, each probably 110 years old; one was bent double over the stove while the other never stopped chattering beside her. Because of the constant air raids they are afraid to go upstairs to their bedrooms so they sleep in their clothes on couches in the sitting room, missing their familiar mattresses and pillows. They seem oblivious to the enormity of what’s happening around them, concentrating only on the immediate things, so old and frail yet so alive and entertaining. Their phone still works so I tried to call Assia and Suha whose house is right across the river from the Dora refinery. A huge black sky covers that part of Baghdad. It must be horrific living there. No one answered the telephone.

  Mundher Baig started a generator for their house on precious and scarce petrol. Ten of us just stood around gaping in wonder at this machine and the noise it made. Only four days have passed since the start of the war and already any machinery and mod cons seem to be totally alien, like something from Mars.

  Suha is experimenting with making basturma* from the meat in her freezer. Our freezers are beginning to defrost, so it’s a good thing that it’s so cold.

  Salvador continues to attack M.A.W., who aggravates him by brandishing his walking stick at him; we now have to escort him in and out of the orchard. At dinner M.A.W.’s stomach growled and Ma thought it was an air raid. Cooked potatoes in the fireplace, trying to save on gas. M.A.W. said one could taste the potato in the smoke, admittedly they were charred. The sky is a wondrous sight at night, every star clearly shining amidst the fireworks and the continuous noise of explosions. I hope Sol and Dood are not too worried about us. They should know that we are survivors.

  Made a dynamic punch tonight with Aquavit, vodka and fresh orange juice. We ate fish and rice.

  Day 5

  Munir gave me a calendar today. It’s 21 January. My painting of Mundher Baig and family is nearly finished. Got my bicycle fixed. It’s a brand new one, never been used, and we had been trying for days to inflate the tyres. They both turned out to have punctures. I told the guy who was mending it that it was new. ‘They always come like this,’ he said. Does someone actually puncture them before they leave the factory? It’s an Iraqi bike, imaginatively called Baghdad. It’s a good thing they didn’t call it Ishtar; her name already dignifies fridges, freezers, soap, matches, heaters and hotels. You name it, it’s called Ishtar. That proud goddess of war would not have liked her name being associated with such lowly things. Imagination is not our strongest point when it comes to naming things.

  We are now all going to the loo in the orchard, fertilizing it and saving ourselves some water which no longer flows out of the taps. Janette comes by every day. She says everyone has gone off to the countryside because it’s the best place to be during a war. Then she said, ‘But your house is like being in the country anyway, and that’s the best place to be in. Lucky you.’ She’s so right. None of us is budging from this orchard paradise, which it truly is. She is looking around for a bedfellow today, quite crazed. I said it wasn’t uppermost in my mind right now.

  Basil came by and I told him to put his mind to work on basic agriculture. Now that we are back in the Dark Ages, we have to figure out a way to haul up water from the river. He is cooking up all the foodstuff he had in his freezer and feeding it to his cats. His wife and daughters can’t be bothered.

  Apparently people have taken off for the countryside with their freezers loaded on their pick-up trucks. They eat their way through the food as it defrosts – barbecues in the country. Quite mad. Only we would escape from a war carrying freezers full of goodies. Iraqis have been hoarders for centuries. It’s a national habit. Since one never knows when anything will be available on the market, one buys when one sees, and in great quantities. Most people automatically queue up when they see a line forming, not caring what’s at the other end; boot polish, soap, tomatoes or a useless gadget. Needles says she is running out of chickens when she has twenty left in the freezer.

  Day 6

  Got up for the regular 5 a.m. air raid. It finished an hour later. We go and queue for petrol – our ration: 20 litres. Amal, who never remembers to wear her glasses, backed into a wall.

  The entire country has collapsed and disintegrated in a few days. They say that outside Baghdad everything appears to be normal. I wonder how long we can survive this kind of bombardment. This afternoon Muwafaq and Ala’ brought a hysterical, crying Hind. They wanted to come and stay here. Hind screamed and cried all the time. She insists on dragging everyone down to their cellar every air raid, now she wants to drag the entire household (grandmother, mother, brother, fiancé and herself) to Khanaqin. No one wanted to go there; the alternative was to come here. Poor Maarib, who is not well and has trouble with her eyes, does not want to be parted from her own bathroom. In normal times she takes about five baths a day and puts cream all over her body after each one. I go to their car. Hind is still crying. I am very stern with her – rules of the house are no crying, no guns, no smoking. She continues to howl, saying, ‘I’m scared, I don’t want to die.’ No stopping her waterworks, they leave undecided.

  Today is the sixth day. I hope we get water tomorrow.

  Day 7

  The worst has happened – beer without ice. Cleaned out the freezer and removed a ton of different kinds of bread. All I ever had in my freezer was bread, ice and bones for Salvador. Asma had so much chicken in hers that she gave some away and grilled the rest. Now Nofa goes around chewing on chicken rather than her usual chocolate bars. She is keeping those for harder times, she says.

  Following Suha’s recipe for basturma, Ma began making her own. None of us has ever made basturma before and we thought that it would be a good way to preserve our meat. We minced raw meat and mixed it with a lot of different spices and salt, and then stuffed the mixture into nylon stockings (in lieu of animal intestines, which were not available). Suha’s hand mincer was resurrected and put to use. We are using Dood’s house as our fridge – all that marble, what a come-down. My bread covers all the tables and the basturmas hang above.

  We have to eat an enormous amount of food so as not to throw it away. This means we shit so much more – all is done in the garden. If we use the bathroom, we fear that the sewage will back up on us – I have only now discovered that electricity moves it. One takes so much for granted. Wonder whether the Allies thought of such things when they were planning the bombing. I don’t think we will be seeing electricity for a long time to come.

  Started burning the rubbish today and clearing the orchard of dead matter. Amal was helping, wearing her usual high heels even for collecting brambles.

  Rumour had it that we were going to have a difficult night ahead. This is the seventh night, maybe Bush thinks he is God too. But it clouded over, so maybe God was on our side tonight. Now there are three gods. Who will win?

  We got some water today but the pressure was too weak to get it up to the tank on the roof. Never mind. I’m not complaining. At least we got to fill up all the buckets. All our drinking water must be boiled now.

  I finished Mundher’s painting so we had a little party to celebrate its unveiling. Everyone was impressed and thought I deserved a prize. We opened a bottle of champagne and ate meloukhia* and a million other things. I wish that our stock of food would finish so that we could eat a little less. M.A.W.’s sister and brother-in-law fled their house in Fahama and came to live with him. Now there are two more for d
inner. She left dressed in a green suit, which is all she possesses now. They huddle together for security. She is sweet but hardly says a word. He never stops talking and is as deaf as a post. He is probably the last surviving communist in this country. In his youth he was well known for singing old Iraqi songs, so he entertained us and lulled us all to sleep with his nice voice – sleeping heads lolling in different directions.

  Day 8

  Silence reigns. It’s six in the morning, and no air raid. I ate so much last night that I couldn’t go to sleep. Depression has hit me with the realization that the whole world hates us and is really glad to ruin us. It’s not a comforting thought. It’s an unfair world. Other countries do wrong. Look at what Russia did in Afghanistan, or Turkey’s invasion of Cyprus, or Israel taking over Palestine and Lebanon. Nobody bombed them senseless the way we are being bombarded now. They were not even punished. Iraq has had many high and low peaks in its long history, we have certainly become notorious. This will be neither the first nor the last time. ‘Too much history,’ as Sol always says. At least Baghdad is now on the map. I will no longer have to explain where I come from.

  I had these two dreams before the start of the war: the Americans in battle fatigues jogging down Haifa Street and lining up in the alleyways, kissing each other. They were led by a girl dressed in red who was running very fast. Then suddenly the scene switched and I was coming out of the house and everything was dry as dust, just earth, and I was all alone. I said to myself, ‘I will build and plant it so that it will be the most beautiful garden.’ Later, what bothered me about this dream was the loneliness of it. Am I going to be the only survivor?