A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal by Åsne Seierstad, Ingrid Christophersen Page A
Authors: Åsne Seierstad, Ingrid Christophersen
Tags: General, Social Science, History, Biography & Autobiography, Editors; Journalists; Publishers, Sociology, Military, Language Arts & Disciplines, Customs & Traditions, Iraq War (2003-2011), Journalism
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the same church as Deputy Prime Minister Tariq Aziz and knows him well. - He is actually a good man, an intellectual who wants the best. But he is boxed in and cannot do anything differently. He can’t tell the President to go to blazes!
If it comes to war Father Albert fears complete revolt. - People have a lot to revenge. Two days ago Tariq Aziz’s wife visited me. She cried and wanted a miserable hut to live in rather than the palace she has now. She is terrified of the people’s verdict, now that the regime might topple, and asked for sanctuary for herself and her husband in the monastery where I live. But I said no. If churches and monasteries hide the hated it will harm all Christians and fan the flames of the fanatics. Anyhow, he adds, - those people have a lot to answer for.
Father Albert stands on the church square in Baghdad and sets his face against Saddam Hussein. I am suffering from shock and ask him repeatedly whether I really might write down what he has said, which he confirms. He feels safe, he says, and points to heaven.
I include most of it in my article that afternoon, but I call the priest something else and do not mention Tariq Aziz by name. I describe him as ‘one of Saddam Hussein’s closest collaborators’. That the wife of the Deputy Prime Minister is busy preparing a hideaway for the aftermath of the war could be dangerous if it were known. When Tariq Aziz is away travelling, the family are placed under a sort of house arrest. If he were to abandon ship they would be targeted. Thus it is impossible for anyone in the bosom of Saddam’s regime to get out. But like Father Albert said about his erstwhile friend: He walked into it knowingly. He closed his eyes to the Baath Party’s torture and oppression. By means of unadulterated opportunism he fought his way up the power-ladder. These people have a lot to answer for.
The Ministry of Information has been turned into a building site. From early morning until dark there is hammering, banging, sawing and welding. We circumnavigate wet cement, cutting machinery and blue welding flames. A layer of white dust settles everywhere. When I try to concentrate on the day’s article the sounds cut into my thoughts.
One day a workman cuts the satellite telephone cables by mistake. All the reporters and their interpreters rush off to Baghdad’s markets to buy new cables or something that can repair the old ones. On another occasion the path between the house and the fence against the pavement is flooded. A pipe has burst. Planks are put out and we jump from one to another.
Dust and mud are everywhere. I fear for my telephone and computer. The rows between the keys are slowly filling with sand. How much more can it take before it breaks down?
The workers try to turn the Ministry into a fortress, and the area facing the boulevard, where we have our communications equipment, grows increasingly smaller. The original walls on the first floor, constructed of glass and steel, are bricked up. The new façade does not touch the glass walls, but adds small rooms outside the glass. The workers spend hours shaping arches over the windows and rounding off corners. In spite of about fifty men being employed the work proceeds slowly.
- So the Minister of Construction is hedging his bets, I joke with Takhlef.
- Hedging his bets?
- Yes, against the war.
- Which war? Takhlef asks. - What do you mean?
- The bombs that will blow the windows in, of course.
Takhlef looks at me, shakes his head and says as he walks away: - They’re building offices for you - can’t you see. They’re building offices.
But even if Takhlef does not fear an attack, most of Baghdad’s inhabitants are busy preparing for one.
I return to one of the families I had visited with the child psychologists - the lawyer family Dhafer - to see how they are coping with preparations. Only the sons are at home. Outside the house lies a
If it comes to war Father Albert fears complete revolt. - People have a lot to revenge. Two days ago Tariq Aziz’s wife visited me. She cried and wanted a miserable hut to live in rather than the palace she has now. She is terrified of the people’s verdict, now that the regime might topple, and asked for sanctuary for herself and her husband in the monastery where I live. But I said no. If churches and monasteries hide the hated it will harm all Christians and fan the flames of the fanatics. Anyhow, he adds, - those people have a lot to answer for.
Father Albert stands on the church square in Baghdad and sets his face against Saddam Hussein. I am suffering from shock and ask him repeatedly whether I really might write down what he has said, which he confirms. He feels safe, he says, and points to heaven.
I include most of it in my article that afternoon, but I call the priest something else and do not mention Tariq Aziz by name. I describe him as ‘one of Saddam Hussein’s closest collaborators’. That the wife of the Deputy Prime Minister is busy preparing a hideaway for the aftermath of the war could be dangerous if it were known. When Tariq Aziz is away travelling, the family are placed under a sort of house arrest. If he were to abandon ship they would be targeted. Thus it is impossible for anyone in the bosom of Saddam’s regime to get out. But like Father Albert said about his erstwhile friend: He walked into it knowingly. He closed his eyes to the Baath Party’s torture and oppression. By means of unadulterated opportunism he fought his way up the power-ladder. These people have a lot to answer for.
The Ministry of Information has been turned into a building site. From early morning until dark there is hammering, banging, sawing and welding. We circumnavigate wet cement, cutting machinery and blue welding flames. A layer of white dust settles everywhere. When I try to concentrate on the day’s article the sounds cut into my thoughts.
One day a workman cuts the satellite telephone cables by mistake. All the reporters and their interpreters rush off to Baghdad’s markets to buy new cables or something that can repair the old ones. On another occasion the path between the house and the fence against the pavement is flooded. A pipe has burst. Planks are put out and we jump from one to another.
Dust and mud are everywhere. I fear for my telephone and computer. The rows between the keys are slowly filling with sand. How much more can it take before it breaks down?
The workers try to turn the Ministry into a fortress, and the area facing the boulevard, where we have our communications equipment, grows increasingly smaller. The original walls on the first floor, constructed of glass and steel, are bricked up. The new façade does not touch the glass walls, but adds small rooms outside the glass. The workers spend hours shaping arches over the windows and rounding off corners. In spite of about fifty men being employed the work proceeds slowly.
- So the Minister of Construction is hedging his bets, I joke with Takhlef.
- Hedging his bets?
- Yes, against the war.
- Which war? Takhlef asks. - What do you mean?
- The bombs that will blow the windows in, of course.
Takhlef looks at me, shakes his head and says as he walks away: - They’re building offices for you - can’t you see. They’re building offices.
But even if Takhlef does not fear an attack, most of Baghdad’s inhabitants are busy preparing for one.
I return to one of the families I had visited with the child psychologists - the lawyer family Dhafer - to see how they are coping with preparations. Only the sons are at home. Outside the house lies a
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