by Jean Sasson
Several nights each week, Salwa’s manicured garden was the setting for dazzling evening buffets. Before each evening’s guests arrived, Salwa’s servants would move sofas and chairs from inside the house to spots outside beneath the towering date palms, welcoming visitors who would arrive just after sunset, when the aquamarine sky mellowed to pink.
The swish of gentle swaying trees and the clatter of night insects would fill the air, and Salwa and Mayada would entertain some of the most intriguing people in Baghdad. Mayada was fashionably trim in those days, and she loved to display her figure in chic designs bought by her mother in Paris, Rome or London. Mayada could not know that this was the last summer that she would be considered one of Baghdad’s trendiest women. Dusky Iraqi beauties, their dark hair pulled back with colorful flowers, strolled Salwa’s garden in stylish fashions from abroad that often pushed the limit of Middle East propriety, while elegant men smoked cigars, tipped small beakers of liquor, and whispered misgivings about the current war, confident that their opinions went unrecorded in the sanctity of Salwa Al-Husri’s garden.
Despite these pleasant moments, a gathering darkness had settled over Iraq. A ghastly war with their Persian Iranian neighbors had raged for four long years, surprising Iraqis accustomed to wars no more than a month long. But as the Iraqis reminded themselves, they had little experience fighting other Muslims. Iraqi wars were generally fought against Israelis, and everyone knew that wars with the Jews didn’t last very long.
Iraqis had good reason to imagine that the current conflict with Iran would be similarly short-lived. Soon after the war’s 1980 start, the Arab League had tapped a “Committee of Good Endeavors,” composed of Arab officials, and sent the committee to Iran to seek peace. Iraqis believed the committee would quickly return to Baghdad with an agreement.
Mayada, however, had misgivings about the committee’s journey, thanks to a window on world opinion that few Iraqis shared. Most foreign publications were forbidden in Iraq, but Mayada’s mother had recently returned from a trip abroad with her suitcases crammed with prohibited items, including news magazines. No one at Iraq’s border dared search the bags of Salwa Al-Husri, family friend of Dr. Fadil. And when Salwa unpacked her luggage, she passed around foreign newspapers and magazines, some of which analyzed the current situation between Iran and Iraq. Mayada read them all, asking friends to translate the foreign languages she could not read.
One smuggled magazine was the well-regarded German news-weekly Der Spiegel. One cartoon in Der Spiegel made Mayada reflect on the daunting task that faced the Iraqi military. The cartoon depicted Saddam in military fatigues kicking Khomeini, and was captioned, “Okay, so you got your boot inside. Now how are you going to get it out?”
The specter of Khomeini’s obstinate personality, backed by millions of Iranians willing to die for their leader, dampened Mayada’s spirits. With three times Iraq’s population, Iran could absorb three casualties for each Iraqi casualty. And Iran was led by a man who was every bit as mulish as Saddam Hussein. The numbers did not bode well for Iraq.
In October 1980, two months into the war, Mayada and some fellow journalists sat in Al-Jumhuriya’s fourth-floor offices, overlooking Baghdad. Without confessing to her colleagues about the European magazines she had read, Mayada opined that the current conflict might prove to be a lengthy, difficult one. Her friends ridiculed her naïveté and, permitting their laughter to silence her doubts, Mayada set aside her reservations to join the conversation, which was considering the possibility of a ten-day countdown to the conquest of the Iranians. The gathered reporters even began to sketch a victory celebration. Defeat was so unthinkable that it was simply never explored.
But then a massive number of Iraqi corpses began to filter back from the front. The streets of Baghdad were suddenly filled with flapping black funeral banners, each emblazoned with a soldier’s name and death site, along with a verse from the Quran, “Martyrs never die,” and a slogan from Saddam, “Martyrs are more generous than all of us.” The number of black banners swelled daily, and soon everyone recognized that the Iraqi army was hemorrhaging soldiers.
In the beginning, Saddam gave each martyr’s family a plot of land, 5,000 Iraqi dinars ($15,500) and a current-model Toyota. A catchy children’s tune soon acquired new lyrics to reflect the times, as Iraqis expressed their scorn for the war’s daunting toll:Now my father will return from the front
Nailed to his coffin.
My mother will marry another man,
But I will ride a new Toyota.
Although Mayada suffered enormously through the terrifying air raids, petrified for her one-year-old baby, Fay, she was strangely removed from the day-to-day conflict itself. Unlike most Iraqis, she didn’t have a brother or a father or an uncle or a cousin fighting at the front. All of Mayada’s male relatives were either dead or living in exile. And her husband Salam was in no immediate danger, because he was stationed at a base close to the city. In fact, Salam was so privileged that he was allowed home every other day.
Mayada even enjoyed a successful career as a feature writer at Alef Ba magazine in Baghdad. Her professional situation was an unlikely one, since a media career was generally open only to Baath Party members, but shortly after Al-Bakir and Saddam seized power, they made it clear that the Salwa Al-Husri family was so loyal to Arab Nationalism that they did not have to join the Baath Party to prove it. Mayada had graduated from high school and had studied at a university abroad without joining the Baath Party. Mayada’s sister Abdiya enjoyed the same exception, although a bully from the university had once tried to force her to join the party. After Abdiya calmly replied, “I will be sure to ask Saddam about your invitation and get back to you,” the subject was forever dropped.
After Dr. Fadil befriended Mayada’s family in 1979, other unexpected perks for an Iraqi outside the Baath Party began to fall Mayada’s way. She was appointed a reporter and a feature writer for several publications. She was invited to become a member of the Journalists Federation and the Writers Union. She worked in the Arab Labor Organization for eight years, and, unlike every other Iraqi in the organization—and thanks to her family history and Dr. Fadil’s influence—she was never forced to work with intelligence officials, a job that would have forced her to spy on colleagues, friends and even family. She even knew a man in the Arab Labor Organization who had turned his own wife in for ridiculing Uday, Saddam’s eldest son. That unfortunate woman was now serving a long prison sentence. And through it all, no one approached her to join the Baath Party.
Despite her political insulation, Mayada’s common sense warned her not to test the waters of political journalism. Instead, she chose to write about her love of Iraq, which was genuine, and to pen stories that focused on love and romance. Such efforts matched her writerly aspirations, and she knew only too well that opinionated reports too often created political problems for the author. Now that she was a mother, she had to value her personal safety.
But one Thursday morning in April 1984, Mayada’s happy estrangement from political journalism abruptly ended. Kamil Al-Sharqi, her editor-in-chief at Alef Ba, called Mayada into his spacious office and told her, “This is a difficult time, Mayada. All Iraqis must sacrifice. We have many reporters at the front, and our feature writers must now accept extra duties.”
Mayada nodded in agreement, unsure of where the conversation was leading.
“You have been chosen to write a piece about Saddam and Iraqi security policy during this war with Iran. You must seek an interview with Ali Hassan al-Majid. While you interview him about Saddam and security, try to find out some personal details about the man, too. The Iraqi public is curious about this mysterious cousin of our great President and General, Saddam Hussein.”
Mayada rolled her head back in surprise at his unexpected request. Although she had received a number of writing awards from Saddam, she was not a member of his inner circle. Did Kamil believe she could dial the palace and ask the President to make his cousin grant
her an interview? If so, Kamil was mistaken.
She remained silent, trying to recall what little she had heard about Ali Hassan al-Majid. Dr. Fadil had recently been promoted to Head of the Intelligence Service. When he had described his promotion to Mayada and her mother, Dr. Fadil had mentioned in passing that Saddam’s first cousin, Ali Hassan al-Majid, was taking over Dr. Fadil’s old post as Director General of the Iraqi Secret Police, better known as the Amin Al-Amma. The position made Ali al-Majid an extremely powerful man. Ali was also one of the most prominent members of the Baath Party. Despite his new eminence, however, Mayada had heard from senior reporters that Saddam’s cousin had little use for the media and refused all requests for interviews, in an effort to maintain a low public profile.
Mayada pursed her lips before asking Kamil, “I understand he does not give interviews. How will I convince him?”
Kamil shrugged and smiled. “You will figure it out, I am certain.”
“I’m not so sure,” Mayada admitted.
Kamil stood up from behind his desk and walked around to escort Mayada from the room. “You will get your interview. Just put your mind to it!”
Although pleased to be taken seriously, Mayada left Kamil’s office with foreboding. She was entering new territory. But she could hardly refuse such an assignment and still expect to advance in her career. Yet given that Ali Hassan al-Majid hated the press and declined all interviews, Mayada hardly knew where to begin. Further, Ali was a powerful cousin of Saddam Hussein and a busy man during this time of war. What would make him agree to an interview with her, a feature writer of what many people would consider soft, womanly journalism?
Mayada spent the afternoon calling many influential friends who might have contacts with Ali Hassan al-Majid. After being turned down by more than ten friends, each of whom assured Mayada she was wasting her time pursuing a man who did not give interviews, she decided to go home. Perhaps her mother would have some ideas.
Later that evening after she put Fay to bed, Mayada sat down to dinner with her mother. After the cook had served the food and returned to the kitchen, Mayada explained her delicate problem.
Salwa listened carefully, then breezily volunteered her advice. “Mayada, ask Dr. Fadil to intervene on your behalf. He called earlier and said that he plans to drop by on his way home.” Seeing Mayada’s look of skepticism, Salwa confidently assured her daughter, “He will help you. I am certain of it.”
Mayada was not convinced. She had overheard Dr. Fadil insulting Ali Hassan al-Majid more than once, leaving little doubt that he soundly disliked the man. Dr. Fadil insisted Ali al-Majid was an uneducated brute, like most of Saddam’s relatives. And although Dr. Fadil’s new post as head of the entire intelligence service placed him in the bureaucracy above Ali al-Majid, Saddam’s cousin was nearer and dearer to the powerful President’s heart, which would give Ali the emotional edge in any political conflict with Dr. Fadil. Surely Dr. Fadil recognized that reality, and that would explain Dr. Fadil’s dislike for al-Majid. So why would he contact a man he hated? Just to help her?
While waiting for Dr. Fadil’s visit, Mayada took a pen and paper and wrote down everything she had heard about Ali Hassan al-Majid.
From the few photographs she had seen, he was an attractive man who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. He was born in Tikrit, the first son of Saddam Hussein’s uncle, the brother of Saddam’s deceased father. Like Saddam, Ali’s family belonged to the Sunni Muslim al-Bejat clan, part of the al-bu Nasir tribe, which was the dominant tribe in the Tikrit district. Like all Iraqis of that day, tribal loyalty played an encompassing role in his early life, and he forged lifelong relationships with clan members, including Saddam.
From his earliest days, Ali al-Majid was a fervid supporter of the Baath Party, but unlike Saddam, his status was strictly low-level. Before the 1968 revolution, in fact, Ali was a lance-corporal who functioned as a simple army motorcycle messenger. But as his cousin Saddam solidified his power, Ali’s influence skyrocketed.
Ali had earlier demonstrated a head for courting power when he married the daughter of Ahmed Hassan Al-Bakir, Iraq’s President after the 1968 revolution. But when Saddam pushed Ali’s father-in-law Al-Bakir aside to seize the presidency in 1979, Ali remained loyal to his tribe and to his cousin Saddam, rather than to his wife’s father. In Iraqi tribal society, Ali’s decision was no surprise. If forced to choose, a man would always retain loyalty to his tribe rather than to his wife’s family.
After Saddam’s seizure of the presidency, Ali advanced quickly in the Baathist hierarchy and became one of Saddam’s most trusted officers. He was a Baath Party veteran and a high-ranking member of the Revolution Command Council. With the Iran-Iraq war in progress, Ali was now one of Saddam’s closest military advisors.
When Dr. Fadil arrived, Mayada’s mother quickly forced the topic out into the open. She poured Dr. Fadil a drink and gushed over his latest book before saying, “Mayada has a special favor to ask of you.”
Mayada studied his reaction. Dr. Fadil didn’t look very pleased. Since he had first come into their lives as an admirer of Sati, Mayada had asked Dr. Fadil more than once to help neighbors and friends with security problems. On most occasions, he had proved pleasantly helpful. But after her awkward appeal two years earlier for assistance in helping Um Sami locate her twin sons, Dr. Fadil had grown wary of Mayada’s requests.
Dr. Fadil cupped his drink in his hand. “Of course,” he said to Salwa and her daughter. “I will do anything I can for you, Mayada. You are a proud daughter of Iraq.”
She spoke in a rush. “Kamil has given me a difficult assignment. I am supposed to contact Ali Hassan al-Majid and secure an interview. Kamil wants the magazine to do a piece on Iraqi security policy. And on Saddam. Lastly, while I’m at it, I have been told to find the ‘real’ man behind the military officer. Thus far, no one can help me. He’s very elusive.”
Dr. Fadil winced. “Ali Hassan al-Majid? Why should the Iraqi people care about him?” Dr. Fadil pretended to spit. “I spit on him!”
Mayada drew back in alarm. She glanced at her mother.
Salwa watched Dr. Fadil’s outburst with a half-smile on her face. She sipped her coffee and then spoke. “Dr. Fadil, do not worry if you cannot do this. It seems that no one can convince this al-Majid to agree to an interview, anyhow. I’m certain he would turn you down, as he has everyone else. He has become far too powerful to bother with those he feels are beneath him.”
At Salwa’s words, an unfamiliarly frightening expression flickered in Dr. Fadil’s eyes. He sat with his mouth open for a brief moment before he pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet. He even tipped his drink over in the process. His face was flushed a deep red. “Do you really believe he would dare to refuse me? Never!” Dr. Fadil fumed for a few minutes, then looked down at Mayada and said with certainty, “You will get your interview. Do not worry.” He then rushed from the room, shouting over his shoulder, “I will call you tomorrow with the time and place for your interview!”
Once the door was slammed behind him, Mayada’s mother began to laugh and clap her hands lightly.
“There is a little lesson for you, daughter. No Arab man can bear hearing that another man is believed to be more powerful. The man will do whatever is necessary to prove otherwise.”
Salwa leaned forward and lovingly pinched Mayada’s cheek between her fingers. “Listen to my words. You will get your interview.” She brushed the front of her dress with her hands while yawning. “Now. I am tired. I believe I will retire early this evening and read for a while. There is a new magazine article recently released about your Jido Sati. I want to see if the writer got his facts correct.”
Watching her mother gracefully walk from the room, Mayada felt a flash of admiration. Her mother never failed to get what she wanted.
While she was lying in bed the following morning, anxious about the day and the task before her, her telephone rang. The caller was Dr. Fadil.
His voice was businesslike, almost abrupt. “Mayada. Ali Hassan al-Majid will be pleased to see you. Go to my old offices. That is where he spends his days. Be there Monday morning at nine sharp. Let me know how it goes.” Dr. Fadil hung up the phone before Mayada had a chance to thank him.
Dr. Fadil had come through for her once again. She leapt from her bed with new energy. She couldn’t wait to see Kamil’s face when she informed him that she had secured an interview with the elusive Ali al-Majid. The article would be a triumph for the magazine.
Although pleased, Kamil failed to show the expected surprise when she told him the good news. Instead, he invited her into his office to prepare questions for the interview. It was early April, and Saddam’s birthday was April 28. Kamil wanted to run the first article about the President, and if Ali al-Majid saw fit to make a few personal comments about himself, that would be icing on the cake.
Kamil ended their meeting by telling her, “Mayada, it is difficult to give you advice on this interview. No one knows this man. This is his first interview. Follow your instincts, and see where the interview takes you.”
The following Monday, Mayada arrived at Dr. Fadil’s old offices. She was anxious and wished for a moment that she was there to see Dr. Fadil rather than his intimidating successor. Her hands shook with nervousness. She didn’t know what to expect.
She was escorted into his office, and was surprised to see that Ali al-Majid had changed nothing of the decor. The ceiling was still discotheque tacky, the game tables still stood expectantly, and Dr. Fadil’s old furniture was still in the same position. She glanced down and saw that the brown carpet that Dr. Fadil had long trod still covered the floor. Then Mayada lifted her gaze to the back of the large office.
