by Anne Garrels
In off-the-record meetings, weapons inspectors have told some reporters to get out of Baghdad. They may not have found any weapons of mass destruction, but they nonetheless warn reporters that Iraqis may well defend themselves with chemical or biological agents. I decide it’s time to unpack my chemical-weapons suit. It’s been twelve years since I tried one on—during the Gulf War—and I’m out of practice.
Issued by Communications and Surveillance Systems Ltd. in London (their Web site is Spymaster.com), the suit has the seal of approval of the Israeli army. There are plastic trousers, a smock and hood, booties and gloves, plus a gasmask. There’s also a container of decontamination powder. According to the leaflet, the powder is to be sprinkled over any liquid that might collect on the suit so that no drops touch the skin when it comes time to take the suit off. The label says one size fits all, and it might just. On me it is enormous. Style is definitely not a selling point; Mr. Lee Marks at CSS had sweetly warned, “It’s not very pretty,” and he’s right. It reminds me of one of those rubber garments that late-night television commercials promise will make you lose weight in no time.
As I struggle with the mask, it’s quickly evident that I would not survive an NBC (military shorthand for nuclear biological chemical warfare) assault. In fact, according to the leaflet, I am already dead, having failed to hold my breath, keep my eyes shut, and secure the mask within the prescribed nine seconds.
I did not go to one of the media boot camps in the run-up to this crisis, because I was simply too busy and, perhaps incorrectly, assumed I knew most of what they were going to teach. Colleagues have said they actually learned a great deal that might improve their chances of surviving a war in Iraq, and as I survey the gear laid out on the floor in front of me, I wish I knew more about the sinister array of chemical and biological substances Saddam Hussein may or may not have in his arsenal. My research material lists blister agents, which cause the skin to bubble and burst, and nerve agents, which send victims into convulsions. Some smell like cut grass, others like burnt almonds. I am not encouraged by one news report that says you’re likely to be “doing the floppy chicken” by the time your nose picks up the distinctive aromas.
By all accounts, the most valuable part of boot camp was the combat first aid, and here I’m relying on the tips I’ve picked up as an emergency medical technician back home in Norfolk, where I am a novice on the ambulance crew: don’t use a tourniquet if you can stop bleeding some other way, because, once starved of blood, the affected limb will have to be amputated afterward; never loosen a tourniquet once the bleeding has stopped, because it will just start gushing again; and removing an object that has impaled a friend’s flank is a bad idea; you’ll just make it worse. I may not get my chemical suit on in time, but I feel pretty good about using the injector of atropine, an antidote which comes with the kit. This skill has won me a couple of new friends in the press corps, who are stunned to learn of my EMT training and swear they will faint if they have to puncture themselves.
MARCH 17, 2003
I log on to find an all-points message from NPR management announcing “time-sheet training.” Just what I need right now. Happily, it is cancelled later in the day. In truth, everyone is treating me with kid gloves, so much so that I’m beginning to feel like someone with a terminal disease.
NPR can be an insatiable beast. First there’s Morning Edition, then Talk of the Nation in the afternoon, and then All Things Considered, not to mention the hourly newscasts. Given the nine-hour time difference from Washington, this means working a double shift. I work the Iraqi day, to collect information, but I don’t finish up until ATC airs at 1 a.m. my time. I haven’t been spared a broadcast since I arrived, but I have been spared calls from local stations wanting to do their own interviews. And when I call in to what is known in radio parlance as “record central,” the engineers are solicitous. Informed that it is difficult, sometimes impossible, to get through on the congested satellite system, they never put me on hold or ask me to call back.
Loren has also spared me a lot of what must be going on back at NPR, but I sense he’s had to cope with endless meetings about my situation. I can only imagine the reaction when management finds out that NBC and ABC pulled out of Baghdad today, with CBS soon to follow. I gather all the news organizations have been conferring among themselves back in New York and Washington, comparing notes on what to do. The New York Times and The Washington Post are now getting a major case of nerves and are talking about pulling their people out too. If they leave, I can’t imagine NPR agreeing that I would stay.
I am sad to find out that a British friend is leaving, but his reasons are more than good. His newspaper is sending in an additional group, among whom there are people “who are not journalists.” He’s cryptic, but the gist is that the Iraqis would have good reason for suspecting that his team includes spies, and he justifiably feels that his editor has put his life in danger. The European Broadcast Union and my old friend Bruno from Chechnya are also on their way out. The Iraqis have not let them take their equipment with them, however.
There is now a steady succession of convoys of GMC Suburbans heading for the Jordanian border. The normal fare for the twelve-hour journey to Amman leapt from $200 this morning to $500 by noon. By late afternoon the trip topped $1,000, and it is still climbing. Many news organizations have been ordered out following Secretary of State Colin Powell’s warning that all Westerners in Iraq are at risk. The Canadian TV team is also pulling up stakes. I will miss them, as they have been among my closest friends here. As far as I can tell that leaves about 150 journalists, with only a couple dozen of them American.
So far, Saddam’s regime has not ordered us out. Officials in fact seem to want us to stay, perhaps to fuel the antiwar movement they are banking on, but, as usual, on their terms, and, as usual, they have their own peculiar way of showing their regard. The Information Ministry has now been taken over by intelligence officials. A whole new set of minders has appeared, with benign people like Saleh being let go. I am so glad I went through all the trouble of getting him accredited yesterday! Amer and I confer about what this change will mean. He has a plan and disappears. Hours later, he returns triumphant. He has gone over Qadm’s head, and has somehow persuaded someone at the ministry to include him as a minder—but it won’t be free. The deal, and there is always a deal, is that we have to get a relative of this official a job with Turkish television, and this means we will have to pay her salary as well. At $200 a month, I figure it’s a bargain.
Just when I think I’ve got logistics sorted out, there’s a new wrinkle. The Al-Hamra says all journalists have to leave. On orders from the Information Ministry, we may live in one of three hotels, none of which is particularly appealing. There’s my old haunt—the Al-Rashid, rumored to be a target; the Mansour is too close to the Information Ministry and the TV Broadcast Center, other likely targets. That leaves the Palestine Hotel. I’ve had a couple of rooms booked there protectively, though I’d hoped this dump would not have to be my home. Maybe it was a decent hotel in the ’70s, but it has since gone to seed and desperately needs a cleanup, if not a total overhaul. The lobby is oppressive, the red tablecloths in the restaurant are permanently stained, and the soiled walls in the rooms bear telltale marks of where pictures have been removed and furniture shifted.
Amer and I pack up all my stuff yet again, retrieve damp laundry, and transfer everything to the delightful Palestine. Considering the tips I have laid out for each move, my stocks of bottled water are now worth more than fine champagne. There’s gridlock in the Palestine’s lobby as TV crews arriving with cart-loads of gear collide with groups trying to leave.
I drop everything in my room and race out to try to get some last-minute reporting done. I make one last visit to the communications beacon known as Saddam Tower. There’s a sky-deck restaurant whose days appear numbered. A few game souls are dining on the last supper, and the Sudanese elevator operator nervously asks what is to happen. The tower
rises a full 600 feet over the city and is a testament to Saddam’s remarkable ability to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. At its base a larger-than-life bronze statue of Saddam stands in triumph over disembodied heads of George Bush the elder and Margaret Thatcher, who lie vanquished at his feet. They defeated Saddam and took his tower down, but Saddam put it back better than ever and added his curious interpretation of history. Rebuilt to twice its original height after it was toppled in the ’91 Gulf War, the tower would seem to be a prime target once again.
In the shadow of the tower, Iraqis are mobbing pharmacies for medicine and the wait for gas is now five-plus hours. Shop owners and restaurants have emptied their premises of valuables and are locking up. Leading imams have called for jihad, saying the duty of Muslims is to threaten American interests anywhere they can. This follows an edict from Iraq’s top Muslim scholars that anyone who provides help to U.S. or British forces will be condemned to hell. This has made some among the Christian minority worry that they might be numbered among the infidels.
Yet at the Catholic Church of the Virgin Mary, Christians and Muslims continue to pray together. Twenty-five-year-old Saheer, in stylish Western clothing, lights a candle alongside her Muslim friend who is dressed discreetly in a long skirt and shawl. Together they pray to the Virgin for peace. There is no talk of victory, no mention of Saddam Hussein. This Christian and this Muslim say they are the best of friends, and that they will remain so.
BRENDA BULLETIN: MARCH 17, 2003
A most welcome call this afternoon. Brenda is well, on her toes, thinking smart, and moving fast, if only to stay a jump ahead of the rumors that swirl like dust.
She phoned in good spirits but guarded, to say that all the remaining foreign journalists have now been moved to the Palestine Hotel for “safety.” She would not or could not say how many there were other than “a lot.” She had smartly reserved a room in the Palestine after leaving the Al-Rashid en route to the Al-Hamra early last week. She did so to insure that her room had the right orientation for her satellite phone. She talked quickly, quietly, and without lights on so that her antenna would not be spotted. She did say that the Palestine is located “across the river” and that it appears to be in a “safer” neighborhood. But she’s seen better accommodations. Then again, she’s also seen worse.
I asked for the phone number in the room. “Well, I can’t tell you. There is no number listed here in the room. I’d have to go downstairs and ask, and I can’t do that.” “Why?” I asked. “Because I’m naked.” “Naked? Why naked?” She explained that there was another rumor that the secret police were running a sweep of the hotel, looking for illegal satellite phones, and she figured that if a naked woman just out of the shower answered a knock at the door, she might stand a chance.
She has been reunited with the most important asset she could have: a smart and good driver called Amer, the same one she had on her first trip. In the meantime he had been working for some Japanese reporters, but they have all gone home. With his help, Brenda’s room is now stashed with crates of bottled water and long-life milk, a lifetime supply of Kit Kats, and trash cans full of tap water for bathing. So there she is on the 6th floor, well-stocked with her dozen yet-to-be-embroidered pillowcases, waiting for what is to happen to happen.
Just to be clear: Annie has been on the Brenda Bulletin list up to this point and, as I wrote recently, she rather enjoyed seeing herself transmogrified into a comic-book character. But I sense, at least for the moment, that this situation might become something quite different. Given the stuff I am seeing on TV—that the Iraqi decision to move the journalists to a central location could be a prelude to taking them hostage—I have decided to take her off the list and drop the use of Brenda. She doesn’t need to hear any more rumors from here. She has enough of her own. I have no idea whether she will be allowed to stay. I have no idea what NPR has counseled, but I will talk to them tomorrow. I do know that as of several days ago, she felt her chances were better in a Baghdad bathtub with her Kit Kats than in a convoy of journalists trying to make their way to the border. After Afghanistan, Annie is allergic to gaggles of journalists in convoys.
Let us hope that Brenda will be able to reappear soon. She reminded me just before hanging up that the soft drink of choice in Baghdad is named “Cheer-Up.”
Cheers,
V
MARCH 18, 2003
Overnight, President Bush said the Iraqi crisis had reached the final days of decision. He gave Saddam and his sons forty-eight hours to leave Iraq. If they refuse, Mr. Bush said American and British forces massing at the border will wage war “at a time of our choosing.” Iraqi officials quickly dismissed the ultimatum, and Saddam was shown meeting with his sons at undisclosed locations in Baghdad. Saddam warned invading troops to expect a “Holy War.” With the clock ticking down to tomorrow’s deadline, the UN weapons inspectors have pulled out. The last remaining diplomats are following.
Everyone trades what tidbits they know or have heard. A senior Iraqi official told Anthony Shadid of The Washington Post he should stay “because there will be no fight and it will be over in days.” But who’s to say Saddam won’t order the arrest of Westerners and deploy them as human shields at potential American bombing sites, as he did with scores of Western businessmen before the Gulf War in ’91? I corner Qadm and ask what he thinks. If I am scared, he says, I should leave. He offers no assurances, but I didn’t really think he would or could. Nonetheless, I e-mail Loren that I continue to believe I should stay.
It’s beginning to resemble a bad episode of Survivor as reporters are pulled out, flee, just plain lose it, or defy their bosses back home in order to stay.
Television crews who left last night have reportedly been detained on or near the border by Iraqi security. It’s unclear what’s going on. In some cases companies failed to pay their bills with the Information Ministry, in part because it was impossible to do so. The fingerless cashier didn’t turn up. But we’re also hearing that officials are demanding “a currency-clearance certificate,” documentation that heretofore had not been required. This bolsters arguments that at this point leaving is as dangerous as staying. The New York Times ordered John Burns and his photographer, Tyler Hicks, to find the most expeditious way out yesterday, but both wish to stay and they managed to persuade their editors to delay their departure for several reasons, including concern about possible hazards on the exit route. I keep giving NPR my “just taking it day by day” line, but in fact it may now be too late to leave.
The Information Ministry cashier appears, so just to be on the safe side I shell out the $1,500 fee for the past ten days. If I had declared my sat phone, it would be twice that. I resent having to pay them for the pleasure of censorship but collect the receipts, which I will need if indeed I decide to bolt.
Foxholes and sandbagged dugouts are sprouting like prairie-dog hills around the city. Policemen in helmets direct the diminishing traffic. Iraq’s newscasters have yet to report a word of the speech that President Bush gave to the American public last night. There has been nothing about the American ultimatum and nothing about the forty-eight-hour time frame. But Iraqis, so adept at reading between the lines, must have been tipped off that something was awry when Saddam changed tonight from his dapper suits to a military uniform. The city still doesn’t look prepared for a full-scale military siege, but it’s impossible to determine what military preparations might be going on in the outskirts, since we can’t get there.
We are permitted to attend Baath Party demonstrations in the city. The Party members have all donned their green military-style uniforms, but I get a sense of desperation in this crowd of largely overweight bureaucrats, many of whom probably joined the party for job security and advancement. As with the Communists in the Soviet Union, cynicism, self-protection, and self enrichment are the guiding principles.
Some Arab reporters were taken outside Baghdad to see a group of volunteer fighters from France, Algeria, Morocco, and Libya. Th
ese fighters claimed they were prepared to blow themselves up following the “Palestinian method.” There are some strange types turning up at the hotel who would appear to be more of the same.
With time running out, Bruce Drake, NPR’s vice president of news, agrees I can stay at least for now, writing, “I hope you realize I felt it my responsibility to put you and Loren and Barbara [Rehm] to every possible test in making the decision we ultimately make. In the world of clichés the buck stops with me. There is no hour that I do not think about your safety.” NPR has never faced anything like this before. I thank him for trusting my instincts, because instinct is all I am working on.
I’m exhausted from discussing the pros and cons of staying. As far as I am concerned, the decision is made. I finally call Vint and ask him if it’s OK with him. We don’t go into the details. He just says, “I trust you.” It is amazing how on the really big things you don’t talk very much. But I know he knew what I was thinking, and he knew I knew, and on and on after so many years, and many sort-of-similar situations.
MARCH 19, 2003
The city is strangely quiet. Most people simply shrug, as if to say “We’re doing what we can.” Instead of praising Saddam, they say they are trusting in God. Baath Party members have now taken up positions in every neighborhood. Amer says there are security and intelligence personnel along with them in the same nondescript uniforms. No one has shoulder boards or name tags. It’s impossible to know who, or what rank, anyone is. They are not a military force to defend the city, but a blanket of terror to ensure that people behave. Knowing the price they could pay for saying the wrong thing, people say little.
