by Anne Garrels
We met in Afghanistan last year not long after four journalists were killed there. One of them was Maria Grazia Cutuli, his colleague at the Corriere, and Lorenzo had been sent to Afghanistan to investigate her death. It’s hard to believe that only a year has passed since then. With the situation in Afghanistan still far from settled, who would have guessed we would meet again in Baghdad with another U.S. intervention in the offing?
It really was almost exactly a year ago, following the “rout” of the Taliban. After months reporting from the north of Afghanistan in the run-up to the fall of Kabul, I had taken a break and was trying to get in again from Pakistan. The border was suddenly closed without explanation. What I didn’t know was that a caravan of my peers had been attacked a few hours down the road inside Afghanistan.
When I finally drove into Jalalabad the next day, I found out the details. A convoy of journalists had left Jalalabad for Kabul. Suddenly thieves stopped the second and third cars near the village of Sarobi. They pulled out four journalists. Within minutes all were dead, shot in the back, their bodies left near the road. The rest of the convoy fled back to Jalalabad, where I found them in shock.
It was soon Thanksgiving. The American journalists organized a dinner inviting everyone, regardless of nationality, who was at the Spin Ghar Hotel. Turkeys had been located, dispatched, and stuffed. Collecting ingredients in the market had been a challenge, but this traditional meal had taken on a new meaning, in addition to providing some sanity in the midst of madness. Everybody was too frightened to move out of Jalalabad. A somber group gathered around several tables laid end to end. Pam Constable of The Washington Post had been in the deadly convoy, and she raised a glass to her friends who had not survived it. Many of us hadn’t known the four journalists who were killed, but we knew what they were doing, and why they were in Afghanistan, and no one could help but think, “There but for the grace of God go I.” In “dry” Afghanistan, there was only one bottle of wine for the assembled group, numbering over forty, and as it was passed down the table everyone was chided to take but a sip. I could only think it was like Holy Communion, which I had not attended in years.
Geraldo Rivera, who’s recast himself as a war correspondent, arrived as the meal was under way. He seated himself at the end of the table, as if this were the way we always dined. He was catered to by an obsequious entourage. He was also surrounded by a contingent of armed guards he had hired. He had not yet announced that he, too, was packing heat, and ready to take on Osama bin Laden mano a mano, but it was clear he was playing by different rules that blurred the lines between journalist and combatant. He was upping the ante and I didn’t want to be in his playpen.
The next day I decided I would go on to Kabul alone, with a trusted translator. Some journalists wanted to mount another convoy, but I was not anxious to travel in a large group, especially if weapons were involved. Journalists weren’t using public transportation. This seemed like a window of opportunity. Bus drivers told us they had not been attacked. They were willing to take us, so I decided to go for it. I didn’t tell anyone in the hotel about my plans because I was nervous about the Afghans who were hanging around the lobby. It was impossible to know who they were and where their sympathies lay. At five in the morning, my translator and I boarded the bus. Wrapped in a shawl, I tried to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Along the way, Afghan passengers pointed out the turn in the road where the four journalists had been killed. That day there was nothing to suggest that the particular rocky curve was different from any other. Had I not known what had happened I would have thought it merely a starkly beautiful landscape. The trip was uneventful and we arrived safely in Kabul.
DECEMBER 5, 2002
The Bush administration continues to insist that Iraq has weapons of mass destruction. The Iraqis insist that they don’t. UN weapons inspectors say they are satisfied with progress and will speed up the pace in the weeks ahead.
Our daily routine for now is to track the inspectors. In the early morning fog, a phalanx of UN vehicles speeds out of the Canal Hotel, which is the inspectors’ base, for what’s become the daily chase through the streets of Baghdad and beyond. First, the UN’s white four-wheel-drive Toyota Land Cruisers head west, then north, then west again, all to keep the Iraqis and us in suspense about their ultimate destination. Today, after a two-hour circuitous drive, they eventually reach al-Muthanna, where gates immediately open. Chief Weapons Inspector Demetrius Perricos quips that he is going to the moon, and it’s hard to argue with his description. With the exception of the weapons factory, the bleak desert landscape stretches as far as the eye can see. Inspectors in blue baseball caps spend five hours scouring the spread-out installation that was once the heart of Iraq’s chemical-and biological-weapons industry. It was largely dismantled during earlier inspections in 1998, and later, when we are permitted to enter, I see the carcasses of disabled equipment, each tagged with one of the inspectors’ four-year-old labels.
As we wait outside, dozens of camels wander by, a weird contrast to the sophisticated weapons Iraq had or still has. I finally see Amer, who’s back working with his Japanese. He hasn’t gotten my e-mails because the Iraqi government has temporarily suspended Internet service, since the United States has been flooding the country with messages urging Iraqis not to fight in the event of war. He has brought me some food, which I happily gobble up, but my new driver is jealous. Given how vicious the backbiting can be, Amer says he has to keep his distance. Ahmed is jealous because I clearly like Amer more than I like him, and he undoubtedly fears that he could lose his lucrative commissions. In addition to the money I have shelled out for visa support, he gets a hefty chunk of the $100 I ostensibly pay the driver each day. Amer would do a much better job, but he doesn’t have the protection of close relatives in the Information Ministry and can’t risk moving into Ahmed’s territory.
The crunch comes this weekend. Iraq has until Sunday to provide a detailed list of its biological, chemical, nuclear, and missile programs. Today Baghdad once again denied having weapons of mass destruction, which puts it on a direct collision course with the United States. Washington insists it knows Iraq has them and demands full and frank disclosure, warning it will disarm Iraq, by force if necessary. Iraq promises to provide a huge amount of material on its arms programs, but it says those programs include only activities that are allowed.
With late-night press conferences and late-night deadlines, I’ve been living on room service, but tonight I decide to break out of my enforced isolation and try the “National Restaurant” downstairs. It’s always empty, but the menu seems more enticing than the grim coffee shop down the hall where the rest of the international press corps hangs out. The manager is clearly delighted to have a customer. With no one around, he starts talking remarkably freely. His name is Faez. He’s a Christian, a minority in Iraq. He prepares a delicious meal of hommous and grilled lamb, followed by succulent dates, for which Iraq was once famous. He tells me that dates are Iraq’s version of Viagra, and packs up a box for me to take home. He also offers me some red wine, which is far more useful just at the moment. It appears in a discreet tumbler with a can of Pepsi placed next to it for camouflage. Under Saddam’s current rules, bars have been closed down and booze is only to be imbibed at home. Faez dismisses the waiters, anxious to talk about the situation in relative privacy. He asks what I think will happen. He is evidently of two minds about a war and the removal of Saddam. He makes it clear that he hates the regime, but he is scared to death that what might follow could be even worse.
DECEMBER 6, 2002
Inspections of Iraqi military sites have been suspended for two days while Muslims celebrate the end of the fasting month of Ramadan. At Baghdad’s main amusement park, there are screams of happiness and excitement as the rusty roller-coaster dives down the track. For a brief moment, families here appear to have shed whatever fears they might harbor. Most are from Saddam City, a poor Baghdad neighborhood hit hard by sanctions, and are scraping by
on tiny salaries and government food handouts. But today they are decked out in new clothes. Women wear their wedding jewelry, or what’s left of it. Most have had to sell off anything of value to feed and clothe their families. A thirty-two-year-old government worker who makes a mere $10 a month is splurging on his nieces and nephews. He’s brought them to play video games. “Today,” he declares, “there is no thought of war.”
A photographer, Nadeen Juhad Akadi, says business has never been better. As he snaps families in their holiday finery, he says people are optimistic that the embargo will be lifted soon because if the inspectors do their job successfully they will find Iraq has no illegal weapons.
He echoes the words of President Saddam Hussein that people must be patient. They must let the inspectors disprove U.S. allegations that Iraq continues to have weapons of mass destruction. Despite the threat of war coming out of Washington, Iraqis smile and ask to have their photograph taken with me. Sa’ad, my minder, is in constant attendance, so I’m left to wonder what people really think.
Next to the amusement park is one of Baghdad’s many monumental war memorials. It’s customary on Eid, the holiday celebrating the end of Ramadan, to honor the dead. Children race around playing tag, seemingly oblivious to the toll Iraq’s recent adventures have taken. This memorial, which resembles a vast blue teardrop, commemorates the Iran-Iraq war that ran for eight years in the ’80s. The names of 500,000 Iraqis who were killed are inscribed on the walls. A man whispers in English that in fact far more died in the war. He does not answer when I ask if Saddam’s policies are worth such suffering.
The dark museum, housed below-ground, is moving in its unusual simplicity. Instead of Baathist bombast there are modest glass cases showing the personal effects of soldiers who were killed: cigarettes and lighters, ID cards and half-finished letters to family members. I ask Sa’ad to translate one of the letters. It’s from a wife to her husband. It was found in the soldier’s pocket after he was killed. “I am very longing to see you and your smile, my dear,” Sa’ad begins. He breaks off and turns away. His face is damp with tears. He’s embarrassed, recovers, and refuses to discuss his feelings.
On the return trip from the amusement park I’m alone in the car with the driver. In central Baghdad we pass one of Saddam’s many extravagant palaces, an obscene expression of his aspirations to grandeur. I point to it and ask him what it is. He blanches, warning it’s not wise to look too closely and that it is dangerous to stop here. With no encouragement he then goes on to say that Saddam has no interest in or understanding of a simple man like him. He says people are not afraid of a U.S.-led war because they believe Americans will only target Saddam and government sites, not ordinary people. However, he continues in his very broken English, Iraqis are afraid of the aftermath, assuming the country will fragment and dissolve into a vicious civil war.
After I have filed my reports, I join some Canadian colleagues for a late dinner outside the hotel. The restaurant is a dark, smoky place where they serve tumblers filled to the brim with straight gin. Its lack of color is its most desirable quality, since it can pass for water. The conversation takes a distressing turn when it turns out that one of the journalists is delighted he has managed to blackball a colleague. She insulted him somehow in the past and in revenge he showed Iraqi officials transcripts of her reports. She has never been able to get a visa since. Iraqi officials aren’t the only ones playing nasty games.
DECEMBER 7, 2002
Iraq hands over to UN weapons inspectors the required declaration on their weapons programs, past and present. It exceeds more than 11,000 pages. The press conference has been delayed several times in the course of the day. Hundreds of journalists champed at the bit inside the Information Ministry until we were finally ordered to get in our cars and drive to another ministry complex. This resulted in another high-speed chase through Baghdad’s streets ending at a building braced with armed guards. We are locked into an auditorium and told we cannot leave until the proceedings are over. I panic. I am due on the air for Morning Edition in a little more than an hour. I race out, jumping over seats and climbing over colleagues, only to find my exit blocked by humorless security. I sputter something. Qadm is there and lets me through. I suspect he thinks I am going to have a complete meltdown.
I’m told later that after I left the situation got completely out of hand. Camera crews pushed and shoved to get into a room where the thousands of pages of documents have been put on display. They smashed down a glass door, but in the end all they saw was volume upon volume labeled “chemical,” “nuclear” or “biological,” with nothing allowing them to judge the contents. It’s going to take days for these documents to be vetted by inspectors and reach the UN Security Council in New York.
Just when the Iraqis look like they are gaining some ground, Saddam makes an extraordinary and provocative statement through a spokesman on television. I sit taking notes as Sa’ad translates. It’s a letter to the Kuwaiti people. Advertised as an apology for the invasion of ’90, it’s in fact more defiance. True, Saddam does apologize to the people of Kuwait for the pain Iraq’s invasion caused, but he still blames the Kuwaiti government and the United States for forcing Iraq to take such extreme measures. He then goes on to say that the Kuwaitis are being had by their leaders, and he praises those who have recently attacked U.S. soldiers who are now massing in Kuwait. When the broadcast is over, Sa’ad clearly approves of what Saddam has said. When I suggest that this may just make things worse, he looks disturbed.
DECEMBER 10, 2002
Diplomatic debates over the degree of Iraq’s compliance with UN resolutions continue. It’s a good time to get outside Baghdad and go south, where Iraq’s Shiite majority is concentrated. Qadm supports my request and offers to help me with contacts, saying with more than a hint of bitterness, “I am a Shiite and one of the few in the Information Ministry.” I am surprised at this admission but I don’t wish to appear too enthusiastic about his offer of contacts, since he may have been just feeling me out about my real intentions. The Shiite issue is a loaded one and reporters have been warned or even expelled for writing about Iraq’s restive majority. In Jordan I have heard stories from Iraqis about increased vigilance by Saddam’s security services in the south. Beyond the thousands of U.S. troops poised for a possible invasion, the Shiites constitute the greatest potential threat to Saddam’s grip on power.
With the full understanding that it will be difficult, I would still like to tap into this community and see how their memories of the past affect how they think about the present, and I would like to know more about what kind of Iraq they envision in the future. I’ve asked to go to Najaf, the burial place of Ali, the son-in-law of the prophet Mohammed whose battle in the 7th century over who had the right to succeed the prophet precipitated the major Islamic schism between Shiites and Sunnis. Suddenly tonight Qadm says all trips outside the city are cancelled.
It’s late. Given the nine-hour time difference, my deadline for All Things Considered is 1 a.m. my time. I’m sitting at my desk in the hotel room trying to weave the bits and bobs I have accumulated into a coherent whole. It’s like so many late nights in so many other hotels on so many other foreign assignments. The desk doubles as a dressing table, so there’s a mirror in front of me. It’s firmly affixed to the wall lest guests try to steal it. At times I put a towel over the mirror since I can’t bear to look at myself as I pound away on the computer. Each day I get grayer. I should follow Lorenzo’s advice and get some physical exercise, but I forgot to bring a bathing suit with me and haven’t had time to go out and buy one.
In many ways covering Iraq is much like covering the former Soviet Union, where I began my career in the late ‘70s. Then, as now, we all had to live under the close supervision of the security services, in approved housing with approved translators who, like Sa’ad, reported regularly on who we spoke to, where we went, and what questions we asked. I worried then, as I do now, about putting “sources” in danger. There, how
ever, I could speak the language. I could pass for a Russian and stand in shops overhearing conversations. There’s no way here I can pass for an Iraqi, and unfortunately I don’t speak Arabic.
Saddam’s Iraq is somewhere between Stalin’s reign of terror and the decaying Brezhnev regime. Cracks are appearing. After his efforts at social engineering, when he murdered or resettled restive ethnic groups, Saddam feels the need to woo them with promises of perks, money, and goods if they behave. And for all the ethnic and tribal splits, there is an Iraqi identity that has emerged over time. Like the Soviets, many Iraqis are well educated and proud of their history, and they have aspirations to regional leadership. And like the Soviets, they fear themselves. Again and again they’ve indicated that they feel they are an ungovernable mixture of peoples who need a strong leader to remain a strong, united country. I would love to corner the foreign minister Naji Sabri and ask him why he has stayed loyal to the man who executed his brother.
It’s been almost twenty-five years since I started out as a correspondent in Moscow. I so remember my first day in the bugged apartment, wondering how the hell I was going to cover the country. I still have those fears every time I get a new assignment. The difference now is that I don’t blow up as easily. Then I was intemperate, much more insecure, and unnecessarily aggressive in the way I dealt with Soviet officials, not to mention the people I worked with. I like getting older, even if I don’t like looking in the mirror.
Life doesn’t turn out at all how you expect it. I never intended to be a correspondent. I started behind the scenes as a production assistant and was propelled in front of the camera because ABC News figured I spoke some Russian and a vice president had the audacity to think I might do something that other correspondents they had sent to Moscow would not. I thought I would have kids. I didn’t, and I would not be doing what I am doing now if I had. With rare exceptions, the women who do this are single or childless.
