Baghdad Diaries Read online

  Day 30

  It’s been one whole month. ‘Read my lips.’ Nobody seems to mention that fact. We are still here, ruined, and going strong. Everyone was firing in the air today. What for? Nobody knew what it was all about. Munir said dramatically that it was an invasion. In fact, it was a salute for the funeral of those who died in the shelter. I think that this firing in the air could be interpreted as a sort of indirect protest; they say that in Mosul there was an actual demonstration.

  Our big mistake was not to move out of Kuwait by 15 January; that would have left the Allies in a hell of a dilemma. I wish I could see into the future – what is in store for us?

  Day 31

  We woke up to a totally black sky today. Who knows what they bombed. Smell of burning gasoline everywhere and a nasty, windy, sandy day. Please, rain, come and feed my plants.

  We got water from the mains, and I filled every available bucket and watered some of the orchard plants. There was a peace rumour for a couple of hours; stupid people started shooting into the air, celebrating our victory. Talk about bending the facts to suit one’s purpose.

  I had to go to the doctor today – inflamed tonsils, throat and lungs, plus a blocked nose. He said, ‘Do you smoke?’ Very funny. I told him it was from our smoking chimney. At one time it was smoking so badly that visibility was down to a few metres. We couldn’t understand what was happening, all of us choking away. Then Munir had a brainwave. ‘Maybe the chimney’s blocked,’ he said. Sure enough it was. It goes to show how poorly the brains are working. Too late, though. I’ve been coughing non-stop for a week now. The doctor, a very nice GP, said everything was inflamed and that if I continued in this way I would become asthmatic. He plied me with many medicines. Surprisingly there were not too many people in his waiting room. One cannot afford to be ill these days – everyone has too much work to do.

  The score today is 76,000 Allied air raids versus 67 Scuds.

  Day 32

  The scene next door in Dood’s house is as follows – Najul is mother hen and everybody is under her protective wing. When the air-raid siren sounds she goes immediately to comfort her grandchildren who are scared. They all pile up around her. Everyone else follows her, her daughter, sister, brother-in-law, son-in-law; it’s like a train. Najul and family share the master bedroom downstairs and Mubajal, who is totally dependent on her sister, insisted on staying close by in the dining room where she spent her time shivering with fright and cold. On the first night a large rat was found lurking in the loo nearby – Mubajal, husband and daughter quickly took their mattress and went upstairs to a small room of their own.

  Salvador had a fight with some dogs today. I shooed them away but not before they had hurt his foot which is now all swollen. Poor guy. He cries when I send his girlfriends away. One is white and the other black. I feel guilty.

  Ma is making an orange cake in the dark; Suha is hovering nearby and learning the process. Ma intends to bake the cake all night long on the dying embers. She thinks it will act like a slow oven. Her past efforts have been small loaves of bread, some of which have been good.

  Amal fell down and bruised her nose and cheek, and broke her glasses. Now she’s an even worse hazard. Amal and Munir have a thing about keys. They are permanently looking for keys which they claim to have doubles of – but the keys are always misplaced, lost or with neither of them. Two peas in a pod, those two.

  We have stopped burning tyres after the BBC commented on it, and have invented a new form of camouflage – covering the bridges with poor old eucalyptus trees. They are uprooted and placed upright between sandbags. Now our bridges have wilting trees growing out of them. Apparently they are planted on bridges in the hope that their swaying will confuse the accuracy of the targeting – computers supposedly don’t like moving objects! I wonder what genius thought that one up.

  Day 33

  I coughed all night. It rained, which was very nice. But between my coughing, the air-raid sirens and the bombing, I think I only slept about half an hour. Feeling sick. Ma’s cake was burnt on the outside, raw on the inside, and tasted of smoke.

  Day 34

  After the rains the streets became black and shiny with great puddles that looked like oil slicks. All the black smoke descended with the rain. Are we retrieving our oil from Rumeila?

  Tariq Aziz has gone to Moscow, but I don’t think that will help us any. Bush is fighting a dirty war. Look what he did to Dukakis during the last campaign. He will continue to hammer us ‘til the bitter end, he doesn’t care how many Iraqis he kills. The West seems to have only three images of Arabs – terrorists, oil sheikhs, and women covered in black from head to toe. I’m not even sure that they know if there are ordinary human beings who live here.

  Have we hit rock bottom yet, or do we still have some way to go?

  Hisham came this morning to pay his condolences on Mundher’s death, and to say hello. He has been in Suleimaniya all this time, apparently a lot of people went there to get away from the bombing. He was followed by Tim Llewellyn,* the first foreigner I’ve seen since the war began. I have cousins who are married to Brits but they have been here so long that they are tainted. One does not think of them any longer as foreign. When I saw Tim at the bottom of the drive, I literally bristled. I wonder if he felt it? I’m happy to say that by the time he’d come up our long drive I had gotten over my hostile feelings. After all, one cannot blame individuals for what their governments do. Otherwise we would all have to answer for the mess we’re in, and we surely had no hand in this matter. Tim brought faxes from Sol, Dood and Charlie, our first contact with family and friends. A break in our isolation.

  We have a new anti-aircraft gun, a 16-millimetre or whatever, very close by. It makes a beautiful, slow, dull, thud-like noise and adds weight to our nightly open-air concert. A modern symphony of sounds, discordant yet harmonious. At night, when the sky is covered with great big white, yellow and red flashes and our neighbourhood gun is thudding away, it is almost possible to fool oneself into thinking that one is attending a Philip Glass-like opera with an overlay of son et lumière. No son or even words yet, but in time it will be history, and they can have the whole of Iraq in which to play this light and sound in. Nobody agrees with my interpretation of our war music. Funnily enough, I cannot listen to any real music.

  I don’t like the siren. It’s disturbing in its persistence. The dogs also get upset by that sound, and start barking the minute it goes off.

  Well, Mr Bush said no to the overtures of Tariq Aziz. I never thought he would say yes anyway. It doesn’t serve his purpose. What a brave man, he passes judgment on us while he plays golf far away in Washington. His forces are annihilating us. I find it very difficult to believe that we have been so discarded by everyone, especially the Arabs. I presume that this war will be the end of so-called Arab unity – that was a farce even while it lasted. I don’t think I want to call myself an Arab any more. As an Iraqi, I can choose to be a Sumerian, a Babylonian or even an Assyrian. If the Lebanese can call themselves Phoenicians, and the Egyptians Pharaonic, why can’t we follow suit?

  We had a super barbecue lunch today. A lovely day, but quite noisy – the racket is still going on even now at midnight. I can’t stand the Voice of America going on about American children and how they are being affected by this war. Mrs Bush, the so-called humane member of that marriage, had the gall to say comfortingly to a group of school kids, ‘Don’t worry, it’s far away and won’t affect you.’ What about the children here? What double standards, what hypocrisy! Where’s justice?

  Day 35

  At about 10 o’clock this morning Tim came by with a BBC retinue, saying that he wanted to do a piece about us surviving in situ. I talked. I don’t think I was very good, didn’t say any of the things I really wanted to say. I hope they edit all the dumb bits out. Then they filmed us drawing buckets of water up to the roof, and Najul and company camping in Dood’s house with Jawdat lying sick in bed. I sent them off with oranges recently picked
from the orchard. It will be funny if Sol and Davies see us on television.

  The build-up for the land war continues. Are we capable of doing anything now? Are we to expect miracles?

  Day 36

  I am sitting outside typing this diary. It’s a beautiful day, delicious-looking, everything clean and shining after the rains, even the oil slicks have disappeared. I’ve always wanted to write a book starting with this sentence: ‘I live in an orchard with 66 palm trees and 161 orange trees; three male palm trees face my bedroom window, reminding me of their potency – the only males in residence. An adobe wall separates us from the neighbouring orchard.’ I just typed my coffee cup off the stool with the typewriter carriage – a slapstick image from a silent movie.

  We had a peaceful night last night. No air raids. The silence continues. It seems unnatural.

  I can hardly believe it, but I’ve actually forgotten the taste of ice and of cold beer. Warm beer is getting to me. What does it matter? I only have a few bottles left.

  My first anemones have come out. I bought these seeds last year in the USA. They are white. Could it be a sign of peace? Anyway, something good from the USA has grown here.

  Day 37

  Pat heard me on the BBC yesterday. I was called an angry woman – just as well they didn’t mention my name. They didn’t edit out the silly things I said, like America must be jealous of us because we have culture and they don’t, and that is why they have bombed our archaeological sites. Well, who in their right minds would be jealous of us? Charlie used to tell Kiko when he was small, ‘Bad luck, kid, not only were you born an Arab, but an Iraqi to boot.’ What would he say now?

  M.A.W. went to have lunch with Khalil, and was given Khalil’s pet cock to eat. It gave him indigestion. Khalil had had this cockerel for seven years before it started to go slightly crazy and ate up two of their hens. Then he turned on the ducks. Khalil took him to the vet and the vet told him to cook him into a tishreeb*. Imagine cooking and eating a pet you’ve had for seven years. It’s almost like cannibalism. Khalil is so particular about his personal hygiene that he even locks his freezer just in case anyone should sneeze or cough into it and the germs pollute the goods inside.

  It must have been about 9 p.m. and we were all in the kitchen washing up in the flickering candlelight after dinner. It being my turn, I’d cooked up a delicious concoction – pasta with a vodka sauce. The pasta was good, the real thing inherited from the Italian archaeologist who had rented Dood’s house, and not stolen Kuwaiti stuff. Suddenly there was a terrible noise and a bright light coming closer and closer, a sun homing into us through the kitchen windows, a white, unreal daylight illuminating us all. The floor was shaking so violently that we thought the house was coming down on our heads. We crouched on the floor and suddenly, without our knowing how, the door opened and all six of us were outside in the garden. An immense fireball was hovering over us, a fireball that appeared to be burning the tops of the palm trees. Suddenly this giant flaming object tilted, turned upwards over our heads and went roaring up into the night sky. Suha was on her knees, arms raised high, and screaming, ‘Ya ustad, why here, why in the orchards, why among our houses?’ She calls Saddam ustad** – imagine using that polite term when the world is exploding around us. We discovered later from the BBC that it was a Scud missile, launched from a mobile truck. It landed in Bahrain. At the time we couldn’t decide whether it was a plane, a missile or a rocket, or even whether it was coming or going. For the first time since the war began, I thought it was all over for us. I’m sure that if its trajectory had been a few metres different we would all have been incinerated. It was like watching a rocket launch from Cape Canaveral, except this was no television and we were underneath the blast.

  Immediately afterwards and while we were still outside, Ma takes me aside and whispers to me hoarsely, ‘This is all your fault because you said that the Americans have no culture.’ Honestly, she’s quite batty sometimes. Talk about paranoia. Meanwhile, next door in Dood’s house, Najul had thrown herself on top of little Zaynab, and Saysoon had thrown herself on top of them. Then Zaynab’s voice was heard saying she wanted to get up. Najul said no, and the answer came back, ‘In that case, I’m going to pee in my pants.’ Zaynab’s reaction to every air raid was to want to pee.

  At 4.30 a.m. Ma walks into my bedroom with a candle and says, ‘Your radio is still on.’ I wake up and start listening to it. It seems we have agreed to the Moscow initiative, but it’s too late because I think the land attack started at four. I don’t know what to think any more. Nobody could understand Our Leader’s intentions from his speech yesterday. We took a vote at Asam’s house, ten of us. The verdict ended up with three to seven in favour of withdrawal. I was one of the three who voted that he would withdraw, hoping to be right this time, so that at least the soldiers at the front would be saved. We have lost everything else. As usual, I was wrong.

  At 5.30 I go down and make coffee for the three of us. Amal is awake and listening to the radio.

  Day 38

  Everyone is in a terrible depression today. Amal walked off without any breakfast when the discussion became too heated. We had to go after her. She returned with us, tight-lipped and disapproving. I think it is a bit much. We are all entitled to say what we like here. If one couldn’t think and talk freely at home, then one might as well give up the ghost. It’s bad enough that we can’t talk outside. Needles showed up with bag and baggage, Menth carrying her bedding behind her. She had been staying at his house but has now decided to join us. Ma yelled at her and they had a fight. She said, ‘That’s what I’ve come for.’

  It’s a balmy day, spring is everywhere. It’s difficult to believe that there is a war on. We have already had two air raids this morning, planes all over the sky. Fuzzle came by and cooked us a delicious hot lentil lunch.

  Apparently last night’s Scud take-off was seen and heard all over the Suleikh, and everyone thought it was directly over their heads. It was launched from somewhere near our bridge. I thought it had touched and singed the tops of the palms, it appeared that close. How and with what does one ignite (is that the right word?) a Scud? How far back does one have to stand? They seem to be horrifically inaccurate. One’s mind boggles at the sheer stupidity of war.

  Other people have heard me on the BBC. It has also been broadcast in the Arabic service. Amal is slightly miffed because they didn’t broadcast what she said. She talked better than I did but she has such a soft voice. My well-known foghorn, as the nuns in school used to call my voice, was used instead.

  If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it is that Bush and that horrid Rambo Schwarzkopf* will be thought of as heroes after all this is over. Will they take responsibility for the destruction and bloodshed? Their sanctimonious attitude is unbearable, as if we are the only bad guys in the world.

  Air-raid sirens sound only after the planes have already come. White streaks across the sky, the sound of bombs falling and then the siren goes. I don’t know why they even bother. I’m glad that this ineptitude of ours has not been publicized yet. Our ratings as the laughing stock of the world might rise even higher.

  We had a barbecue dinner through the air raid, our hearts were not in it. Najul and co. have become more accustomed to the air raids and now join us in eating outside.

  Day 39

  Today is as ugly as yesterday was beautiful. It’s misty, smoky and thick with air-raid smog. God knows what they’re burning. It’s noon and we’ve had five air raids already. My bronchial cough will not go away, which means the air is full of stuff. One can practically see it, it’s that thick, least of all breathe it. Imagine what our lungs look like now. How many Hiroshimas so far? Tim Llewellyn says that the Iraqis are resigned to their fate. That is true. We’re just waiting now – a few days, a few weeks. Bush and the amir of Kuwait had a breakfast date in Kuwait on the 25th. Well, it’s the 25th and they’re not breakfasting together yet. Small comfort.

  Days 40 and 41

  Nights and d
ays full of noise, no sleep possible. What will happen to all of us now? For forty-odd days and nights – a biblical figure – we’ve just been standing around with our mouths open, swallowing bombs, figuratively speaking, that is. We didn’t have anything to do with the Kuwaiti take-over, yet we have been paying the price for it. Meanwhile Our Leader is alive and well – or not so well, we do not know. We’re living in an Indian movie, or rather like Peter Sellers in The Party, refusing to die and rising up again and again, another last gasp on the bugle. In comparison, we come up every now and then with a Scud. Indian movies never really end, and I don’t think this scenario will end either. If it were not such a tragedy, it would be quite funny.

  Every time we do the Tarot cards with Mubajal – the Allies versus us – we get death, doom and destruction and one good survival card. The Allies get the same.

  Tim came by to pick up some letters that I’m sending with him. He’s leaving to go back to Cyprus. It took him ages to find me. I was pruning roses and taking cuttings in Najul’s garden. Gardening is my only relief. Its therapeutic qualities are fantastic – for soothing company, nothing beats plants. If I’m feeling aggressive, I cut and prune, and when I feel hopeful I plant.

  Day 42

  Defeat is a rock-bottom feeling. This morning, the forty-second day, the war stopped. They kept at us all night long, just in case we had a couple of gasps left in us. It was the worst night of bombing of the whole war, relentless – nobody slept a wink. The noise was indescribable. We shook, rattled and rolled. Nobody could call this one a concert night, disharmony with no breathing spaces.