Naked in Baghdad

by Anne Garrels

  Amer’s friends in the nearby suburb of Huriya expect they will be ordered out next. Just a week ago this family was defiant, saying they would take up arms and fight the Americans in the streets if need be. Now they say Iraq doesn’t have a chance, and given the inevitability of defeat, they want Saddam to step down, leave the country, and spare his people.

  These are the first real signs, after a brief moment of defiance, that people see the end in sight. Even a statement read in the name of Saddam seems to hint at the first signs of official anxiety, and even disappointment with Iraqi military units. It says that anyone who is unable to fight must withdraw and give an opportunity to someone else. The statement also calls on Baath Party members to stay true to their oath. Tonight there was footage of someone said to be Saddam visiting residential areas of Baghdad. If indeed it was he, this would be his first public appearance in two years. But what is amazing is that he is doing nothing, at least nothing visible, to help his people. He doesn’t visit the wounded, or the troops. This is all just fiddling while Rome burns, a delaying action with the end now clear.

  I swear I heard artillery today. Whether this came from jumpy Iraqi soldiers shooting wildly in the air or from American troops who may have reached the city, no one knows.

  It’s Friday, the Muslim holy day, and many people go to the mosques, where they look not only for solace but for information. Journalists follow. The Abu Hanifa an-Nu’man mosque in the al-Adhamiya district is crowded to overflowing. During the sermon the imam, Abdul Ghafour al-Qasi, tells the faithful the powerful Iraqi forces were able to defeat the Americans at the airport. He urges the congregation not to listen “to the aggressors’ media.”

  Meanwhile, the ineffable Information Minister Mohammed al-Sahaf continues his daily show with increasing glee. His demonic laughter reached new heights today. Comparing British and American forces to a “snake in a quagmire,” he relishes his newest appellation, “lost desert animals”—but like the imam’s, his description of the war is increasingly at odds with U.S. and British reports from the battlefield, a fact that is not lost on more and more Iraqis. Today he said American troops, tanks and all, had been air-dropped into the airport, an interesting concept. Clearly he did not wish to acknowledge, however absurd his explanations, that the Americans had managed to enter over land. That would have contradicted his portrayal of American troops “nailed in Umm Qasr, Nasiriya, Najaf, and Kut.”

  He makes an ominous pledge at today’s follies. Promising “nonconventional action” against U.S.-led forces at the airport, he says, “This is not military. We will do something to them that will be a great example for those mercenaries.” At the words “nonconventional,” a ripple goes through the press corps. Is this an admission that the Iraqis would use chemical weapons? “No,” he says, explaining that Iraqis might resort to martyrdom or guerrilla actions, adding, “We will do something which I believe is very beautiful, very new and creative.”

  APRIL 5, 2003

  Amer appears with his mustache much reduced in size. He found a barber who was still open and he managed to get a hot shave. He’s a little put out, though, by the excessive mustache trim. It was his pride and joy. It always strikes me how banal war is on a day-to-day basis, and how ordinary things remain important. In Berlin Diaries, one of the great books about World War Two, author Marie Vassiltchikov spends much of the devastating bombing looking for a pretty hat. In Bosnia, where there was a critical shortage of medicines, friends would nonetheless put luxurious face creams at the top of their wish lists, explaining that they just needed something to make them “feel like a human being.” In Kosovo the local women remained coifed, made up, and neatly dressed amidst the terror.

  Here at the Palestine, the hotel generator provides enough power for one dim light over the bed. That’s it. In desperation, I figure out how to hotwire this light to an electrical strip, so now I have power for the computer and the satellite phone. A vast improvement as the car battery only lasted for about twelve hours before I had to recharge it, and that meant humping it down eleven flights, putting it in Amer’s car for a couple of hours, and then humping it back up eleven flights. Amer was jealous of my Rube Goldberg technique, but he was too proud to have me, a mere woman, come and rewire his room. Instead he got an electrician to come in and, it’s true, he now has much better power than I. His TV and refrigerator even work! But he can have the TV. I don’t speak Arabic, but after days of enforced practice I can sing the songs to Saddam, including the new ones that are being produced. I just worry that the hotel generator will become so overloaded with our creative rewiring that it will simply explode, leaving us in total darkness.

  Early this morning, rumors began to spread through this sprawling city of five million that American troops had indeed finally entered Baghdad. I got online and checked the wires and, yup, Abrams tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles from the Army’s 3rd Infantry Division entered Baghdad in broad daylight today. They came up from the south, turned left at the Tigris, and then headed for the newly renamed Baghdad International Airport, which has been under U.S. control since yesterday.

  I’d personally seen no signs of American troops in the city center, and with phone service now out, limiting communications around town, they were initially hard to pinpoint, but Amer tripped on them when he tried to drive out to the southern edge of the city. Qadm was apparently desperate to find out if his wife and children are safe, given that American troops have come up through the villages where they are staying with relatives. He asked Amer to take him south, in the direction of Babylon. They were blocked as they tried to leave the city and saw the remains of the first U.S. probe. Four-wheel-drive Nissans, the vehicle of choice for senior Iraqi officials, smoldered on the highway. Destroyed Iraqi military vehicles and the remnants of heavy artillery, rocket launchers, and antiaircraft guns littered the road. Among the detritus of what had clearly been a fierce fight was an American tank.

  I persuaded Amer to take me back there so I could check it out. I didn’t dare get out of the car because Iraqi troops were still in the area, but I confirmed the damage, and the carnage. The corpses of dozens of Iraqi soldiers could be seen along the highway.

  Since the roads are blocked from the south, Iraqis now have to ditch their cars and walk into Baghdad. A man who reached the city said with astonishment that he had seen more than two dozen American military vehicles and hundreds of American troops pass him on the road. The drivers at the hotel are also a great source of information. One of their wives watched as American tanks passed under her window. She wept with relief, not at the sight of American troops, but because they didn’t harm her neighborhood.

  In districts to the southwest near the airport, Amer tells me, women and children have fled. Only men are left. But if this was supposed to be a valiant stand by the Republican Guard, it has fizzled. According to a friend of Amer’s, six members of that elite force retreated from the airport area, running across open fields to his house. They said many in their unit had been killed or had surrendered. This friend was in despair at how quickly the Iraqi forces had folded, telling Amer, “We have lost.”

  Meanwhile, Information Minister al-Sahaf remains defiant to the point of absurdity, telling us the Iraqis have ousted the Americans from the airport. He tells us we are free to go and see for ourselves. In fact, we are not. Once he has left, other officials from the Ministry of Information tell us that not only are we not allowed in the southern surburb of Dora, but we would be crazy to go there because it is too dangerous. (Sahaf also promised us a victorious tour of the airport within the hour. Needless to say, it didn’t happen.)

  BRENDA BULLETIN: APRIL 5, 2003

  Annie is now asleep after a chaotic day in which she and the intrepid Amer got places (she said “I’ll tell you how later”) that no other journalist did. First into the southern part of the city, where the U.S. armor burst through in its lightning foray; then out near the airport, where sporadic resistance continues; then into forbidden neighb
orhoods; and finally into civilian hospitals, which were in fact filled with wounded, cowering Republican Guards. She was interviewing one man who said that he was just a simple civilian, sitting at home minding his business, when his house was hit by dastardly Americans. The patient’s father, however, not hearing this story, then blew the poor fellow’s cover by proudly boasting that his son was an Iraqi and could endure pain—he was after all an officer in the Republican Guard. It was then established that this young man had, yes, been in his house when it was hit, but he was with his commander and other officers.

  Confusion and chaos reign. People who last week were promising to fight to the bitter end are fleeing, saying that all is lost. Annie called just before tucking up, dirty and very tired. Still no electricity at the Palestine; water cold and dirty; wine levels down and the still-unopened bottle of gin looking like an option. “I look like I’ve been in garden muck all day,” she says. Annie loves muck of any kind. Her hair, now embedded with a crust of Iraqi sand, is no longer brushed but molded. Drawing on the past, she calls it “Afghan hairspray.”

  I ask her if she wants to see what I have been writing about her. She has been off the Brenda List for almost a month. Maybe it will be a diversion, maybe give her a laugh. She’s too tired to say no.

  Her editor called shortly thereafter. “She’s something else,” he said with relief and something of an appreciative laugh. “She’s been very naughty today, your girl, but she scooped everyone. Extraordinary stuff.” I guess Annie did not exactly check in with the boss to get permission.

  V

  APRIL 6, 2003

  Vint sent me a bunch of Brenda Bulletins. He had taken me off the list lest I know how worried he’s been, but after we talked he realized we both knew, but weren’t telling each other, about all the possible scenarios. I am overwhelmed, and not a little daunted by his extraordinary prose. He’s supposed to be the artist in the family! A friend has called them “love letters,” and indeed that is what they are.

  This is all much easier on me than on him. I just lurch from day to day, desperately making sure I have something to file morning, noon, and night. I honestly don’t have time to be frightened most of the time, and when there is a lull, I just fall asleep. And I sleep so soundly that in the morning I have to check with my fellow reporters to find out if there was bombing overnight. How embarrassing to admit that I slept through much of “Shock and Awe.” But frankly the bombing hasn’t been very bad, and it is stunningly accurate for the most part. I don’t know what lies ahead, though.

  While I do a two-way for Weekend Sunday with Liane Hansen, the bombs finally let loose with a radio-worthy racket while I am on the air. For some reason every time I have broadcast before, they have fallen silent. Today they really shook me and the hotel.

  The Information Ministry now wants us to go to Dora, so the tour du jour is what Amer and I saw on our own yesterday—the burned-out American tank. Today there is a large crater next to it. It looks like the Americans came back to put it well and truly out of commission so the Iraqis could not use it. Iraqi kids and soldiers clamber over it, posing for the cameras, but as war planes roar overhead they run for cover, as do I. I’m not wearing my bulletproof vest or helmet. Now that ground fire is more likely I guess I had better, but it is so heavy I can barely move in it. If I tilt to one side I topple over.

  Iraqi officials claim there are several other destroyed American tanks, but provide no evidence to support this, and when the Information Minister does his stand-up comedy routine today, repeating assertions that the Iraqis have beaten the Americans back from the airport, I catch some officials looking pretty despondent, maybe even angry at his lies. As to how the Americans could be seen at the airport if they were not indeed there, Sahaf has another creative answer: they were using stage sets. Disney meets Baghdad.

  Masses of people are trying to leave the city. The roads north and east are bumper-to-bumper. It’s hard to imagine there’s anyone left here. There are long lines around gas stations, but many acknowledge it’s now probably too late.

  Amer and I discuss possible story ideas. He has described to me how Iraqis remain tied to their clans, which are subsets of the larger tribes that divide Iraqis. Even though he left his hometown of Ramadi long ago for Baghdad, Amer continues to donate what he can each month to the clan, which is a large, extended family grouping numbering in the hundreds. The money goes for weddings, funerals, and the needy.

  I would like to meet a tribal sheikh, or clan leader, but given the atmosphere of fear, Amer suggests we wait because now, as he rightly says, I won’t hear anything approximating people’s real feelings. He has close friends in the al-Mashadani tribe, one of the most important in Iraq. Though they are based in al-Tarmia, just fifty kilometers north of Baghdad, there is no way, given current conditions, for us to get there. Their story, as he tells it, is a microcosm of Iraq under Saddam.

  Saddam’s half brother Sabawi appropriated some of the best Mashadani tribal land. While defending the rich pasture, one of the sheikh’s sons was shot and killed. Members of the tribe took revenge, shooting up Sabawi’s house. The sheikh’s other sons were then arrested and ordered to be executed. A meeting between Saddam and the tribal leaders was called to resolve the brewing crisis. This was by no means the first time one of Saddam’s half brothers had caused problems but, despite internal family feuds, Saddam relied on them and tolerated their excesses.

  The sheikh told Saddam, “We are at your mercy,” but he also added, “We have defended you and sacrificed our men in many wars, and we are loyal members of the Republican Guard.” It was a veiled threat. Saddam was caught between the demands of his family and tribal politics. He agreed to release the sheikh’s sons, but he refused to return the land. It ended in an uneasy standoff that is still being played out behind the scenes. Amer suggests that this is just one of many reasons the Republican Guard has failed to fight as expected, and he thinks that these family and tribal disputes will continue long into the future.

  At about 10 p.m. Tim in the next-door room knocks, just to make sure I am OK. I really don’t know him very well and am very touched.

  APRIL 7, 2003

  All night there has been the sound of fighting, but for the first time I can clearly hear machine guns. Something is going on right across the river. I stand on the balcony in my nightie looking out across the muddy-green Tigris to the palaces, ministries, and security headquarters that have symbolized Saddam’s power. I struggle to identify what appear to be four military vehicles coming around a bend of the Tigris. They approach the Republican Palace. There is an exchange of gunfire. Tim, the ITN cameraman on the next balcony, says they are American Bradleys. An ammunition dump explodes in front of us. Iraqi troops flee their trenches and run for the river, some still in their underwear. Two raise their hands and give themselves up. It looks like they were ordered to lie facedown on the ground. The clouds move in, blocking the view. As Tim’s videotape later shows, one of the Iraqi soldiers turns over. An American soldier shoots him. The body convulses and then lies motionless.

  Far from seeming liberated, Baghdad feels claustrophobic. All day long the sound of rockets, antiaircraft guns, and artillery presses in from all directions. The fog of sand and smoke from the fires envelopes the city. Drivers who dare to venture out can’t see what’s going on just a few yards down the road. Families have no idea how relatives and friends are faring because the phone lines remain cut.

  An American plane has dropped four 2,000-pound bombs in Mansour, an exclusive Baghdad neighborhood, apparently following a tip that a senior leadership meeting was happening there. When we get to the site, there’s nothing but rubble and no sign that Saddam is under it. There’s no evidence of unusual security activity.

  The information minister hurried to the hotel to repeat assurances that American troops were in headlong flight and had failed to penetrate the city. Little matter that gunfire rages just a few hundred yards away. Be assured, he said. Baghdad is safe, s
ecure, and victorious.

  The largely deserted streets and constant sound of small arms and mortars testify to a different reality. To the north of the river, which divides Baghdad, soldiers who’d been manning trenches disappear. A quick bus tour organized by the Information Ministry is designed to show us that there are no American troops in the city, and we see none. It’s a quick tour. Perhaps the driver was scared.

  Iraqis answer questions with questions: “What’s going on?” “Do you know where the Americans are?” “How long will this go on?” “How long do you think the Americans will stay?”—an admission that they will be here, even if the good minister says they aren’t already. There is weariness and wariness. Those who dare to admit they loathe Saddam voice suspicion about American promises of liberation. They hear reports that the United States might stay in Iraq for years. They say they don’t want to be ruled by a foreign power.

  As I wrap up the day, Amer calls from his room with an interesting tidbit. Iraqi TV made no mention of the anniversary of the founding of the Baath Party. It’s usually a major holiday but today: nothing.

  APRIL 8, 2003

  The battle for the center of Baghdad begins before dawn within the sprawling gardens of Saddam Hussein’s Republican Palace. The fighting takes place behind a curtain of date trees, but I can track the progress by watching the tracers, smoke, and flares gradually shift as American tanks repel an Iraqi assault. The tanks then move out of the palace compound into the city’s open streets. Eventually two tanks move onto and hold one of the main bridges spanning the river. For more than seven hours the palace grounds resound with artillery, rockets, mortars, and tank guns backed by the vicious strafing of an A-10 Warthog. The plane moves slowly above the hotel and then lets rip on the Planning Ministry with volleys of cannon rounds—they turn the building into flaming Swiss cheese. The noise is like nothing I’ve ever heard. I record it, but when I listen later, the result doesn’t even begin to capture the reality. It reminds me of Chechnya, when I dutifully hauled out my microphone and recorded the ferocious, and utterly indiscriminate carpet bombing the Russians unleashed—all the while lying in a snowy ditch shaking uncontrollably. When I filed the tape, a producer back in Washington took it out of the piece, with the cutting comment, “You know, it really sounds like a car backfiring.” He was right, but I wished he could have left me believing it had somehow been worth the effort.