A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal by Åsne Seierstad, Ingrid Christophersen Page B
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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pile of planks.
- To nail over the windows in case of war, Ahmed explains. He is studying law at Baghdad University. - It depends on where the bombs fall, but it might help to stop the windows from shattering, he says.
Ahmed and his brothers walk to the back of the house, stride over the kitchen garden, past the tethered sheep, past the little well, down some steep steps into a tiny, smelly room. Bottles of water, blankets and mattresses are piled high. - We are safe here, no bombs can reach us.
The bomb shelter was built in the 1980s during the war against Iran. It was used in 1991, 1993 and 1998.
The law student makes it plain to us that the Americans will be breaking all known international rules if they go to war. - We are a peaceful people.
- But there will be war, his little brother Ali says resignedly. He has been taught at school how to defend himself. - If there are explosions you must throw yourself down on the floor. If there are chemical weapons you must hold something in front of your nose and mouth.
- And you must walk into the wind, the third brother Amar adds. - Not with the wind, but into it. Or maybe it was with it? he wonders.
- It depends on where the chemical explosion is, Ahmed says.
- Yes, and which direction the wind is blowing, Amar says.
- No one can overcome the wind, says Ali. - That’s an Iraqi expression, think about that.
It’s hard to work. It’s hard to find stories. As the limits are so strict, good ideas, ideas that could be carried through, are few and far between. It feels as though I am living in a bubble; the world I live in and the one I write about are totally separate. Only now and again do I find a tiny connection to the other world, to the Iraqis.
One day the calendar tells me that it is Valentine’s Day, and I remember Nabil’s invitation. My company consists of five Frenchmen. As we arrive, the bubble we are living in becomes even more impenetrable. The distance between ‘us’ and ‘them’ is total. The entire pink restaurant is covered in red balloons with the words ‘I love you’. Garlands in gold and silver stream from the roof. A dance band is engaged for the evening and plays everything from melting Arab Habibi -music to ‘Lady in Red’. The tables in the middle of the room are moved to the side, and Nabil has got an elegant dancefloor.
When we go in a rose is pushed into our hands, and we are shown to our table. The bubble moves across the room, leaving dirty footprints on the floor. We are incorrectly dressed: creased shirts, jeans, muddy trainers, no elaborate hairstyles.
The Iraqis are dressed to kill in shimmering creations and sparkling jewellery; all in gold, red gold. The women’s crowning glory has been sprayed stiff to last the night. We are at two different parties.
Sumptuous dishes are brought to the table to celebrate an American tradition. Neither I nor the French have any special relationship to the day, it is the same for the ordinary Iraqi, I imagine. But Nabil seems to have made a point of making it one of the country’s festivals. One of the Frenchmen outlines his project for the evening: to chat up one of the beautiful Iraqi women. But the dazzling ladies are well guarded by brothers and spouses.
- Unfortunately there is no champagne, he sighs. - That might have helped me on the way.
Suddenly I realise I have not danced for ages and I lure the lustful Frenchman onto the floor. The Arab-style pop resounds from the loud-speakers; I copy the ladies I have seen on the music videos and wriggle over the floor. Another couple joins us, then another. At the end of the first number the dancefloor is heaving.
The bubble has burst, at least for the moment. We dance together - square dances, belly dances, folk dances or to old Elvis numbers. Sweat pours off everybody, trainers gyrate among spangle-covered pumps. I feel accepted for the first time. People smile at me.
- To nail over the windows in case of war, Ahmed explains. He is studying law at Baghdad University. - It depends on where the bombs fall, but it might help to stop the windows from shattering, he says.
Ahmed and his brothers walk to the back of the house, stride over the kitchen garden, past the tethered sheep, past the little well, down some steep steps into a tiny, smelly room. Bottles of water, blankets and mattresses are piled high. - We are safe here, no bombs can reach us.
The bomb shelter was built in the 1980s during the war against Iran. It was used in 1991, 1993 and 1998.
The law student makes it plain to us that the Americans will be breaking all known international rules if they go to war. - We are a peaceful people.
- But there will be war, his little brother Ali says resignedly. He has been taught at school how to defend himself. - If there are explosions you must throw yourself down on the floor. If there are chemical weapons you must hold something in front of your nose and mouth.
- And you must walk into the wind, the third brother Amar adds. - Not with the wind, but into it. Or maybe it was with it? he wonders.
- It depends on where the chemical explosion is, Ahmed says.
- Yes, and which direction the wind is blowing, Amar says.
- No one can overcome the wind, says Ali. - That’s an Iraqi expression, think about that.
It’s hard to work. It’s hard to find stories. As the limits are so strict, good ideas, ideas that could be carried through, are few and far between. It feels as though I am living in a bubble; the world I live in and the one I write about are totally separate. Only now and again do I find a tiny connection to the other world, to the Iraqis.
One day the calendar tells me that it is Valentine’s Day, and I remember Nabil’s invitation. My company consists of five Frenchmen. As we arrive, the bubble we are living in becomes even more impenetrable. The distance between ‘us’ and ‘them’ is total. The entire pink restaurant is covered in red balloons with the words ‘I love you’. Garlands in gold and silver stream from the roof. A dance band is engaged for the evening and plays everything from melting Arab Habibi -music to ‘Lady in Red’. The tables in the middle of the room are moved to the side, and Nabil has got an elegant dancefloor.
When we go in a rose is pushed into our hands, and we are shown to our table. The bubble moves across the room, leaving dirty footprints on the floor. We are incorrectly dressed: creased shirts, jeans, muddy trainers, no elaborate hairstyles.
The Iraqis are dressed to kill in shimmering creations and sparkling jewellery; all in gold, red gold. The women’s crowning glory has been sprayed stiff to last the night. We are at two different parties.
Sumptuous dishes are brought to the table to celebrate an American tradition. Neither I nor the French have any special relationship to the day, it is the same for the ordinary Iraqi, I imagine. But Nabil seems to have made a point of making it one of the country’s festivals. One of the Frenchmen outlines his project for the evening: to chat up one of the beautiful Iraqi women. But the dazzling ladies are well guarded by brothers and spouses.
- Unfortunately there is no champagne, he sighs. - That might have helped me on the way.
Suddenly I realise I have not danced for ages and I lure the lustful Frenchman onto the floor. The Arab-style pop resounds from the loud-speakers; I copy the ladies I have seen on the music videos and wriggle over the floor. Another couple joins us, then another. At the end of the first number the dancefloor is heaving.
The bubble has burst, at least for the moment. We dance together - square dances, belly dances, folk dances or to old Elvis numbers. Sweat pours off everybody, trainers gyrate among spangle-covered pumps. I feel accepted for the first time. People smile at me.
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