Mayada, Daughter of Iraq: One Woman's Survival Under Saddam Hussein

by Jean Sasson

  Samara leaped to her feet and grabbed an empty pot made of iron. She ran to the metal door and began banging with the pot and shouting, “We need help!”

  After a long moment someone came to the door and opened the little slot. “What is the problem?”

  Samara shouted, “I think this new woman is having a heart attack!”

  Mayada suddenly realized that none of the shadow women even knew her name. She tried to push herself up on her arms to gain their attention. She wanted to tell the women something of herself, so that if she died she could depend on any woman released to search out her children and relieve them of the anxiety of not knowing how their poor mother had left this earth. She told them, “Please, please listen. I am Mayada Al-Askari and I live at Wazihiya Place and my phone number is 425-7956. If I die, or if I do not return, please have someone call my daughter Fay and tell her what happened to me.”

  One of the shadow women scrambled to find a small piece of charred wood they kept for such a purpose. Samara grabbed it from the woman’s hand and asked, “Repeat the information.” Samara wrote the details on the wall with the charred stick. She told Mayada, “Do not worry. You will return to your children. But if for some reason you do not, your children will be informed, by the first woman to gain freedom, that you were here.”

  The man had left without saying what he might do and Mayada suffered the sinking feeling that she was going to be left to die. But in a few minutes two new men arrived, although it was clear they had been interrupted while eating. One was still chewing and the other was using his fingers to pull some food caught between two teeth. The one chewing swallowed, and asked, “Who is the troublemaker?”

  Samara told him, “It is not a joke.” She then pointed to Mayada. “That woman is having heart problems.”

  The man sighed with irritability, and marched toward Mayada. He stood and stared at her face for a minute, then took his finger and poked her in the chest as if he could that way ascertain the seriousness of her condition. He shouted for Mayada to get up and follow him. Samara and another shadow woman who was tall and strong came to Mayada and pulled her to her feet. Slowly the two women walked to the door with Mayada before releasing her to the two men.

  The hospital was only one building away, but Mayada had to pace her steps due to the escalating chest pains. One of the two men kept whining about his supper growing cold and the second complained about her rate of speed. He asked her why a young woman walked with the gait of an old woman. Since Mayada believed she was going to drop dead of a heart attack, she voiced her opinion of their conduct, telling them that they should be ashamed to treat an ill woman this way. Her bold words won her a slap on the side of the head from one man and a shout from the second man.

  Mayada and her guards finally reached the hospital. Although the exterior of the building was new and modern, the interior was untidy and filthy. The two men led her to an examining room.

  One of the guards said, “I’ll go find Dr. Hadi Hameed,” before walking away.

  The other guard stood at the door, watching her.

  The guard quickly returned with a white-coated doctor who was walking with his head down, staring at his feet. His demeanor gave her the impression he was elderly. But when he raised his face to her, she saw that he was a young man with a handsome face and dark eyes. The doctor startled Mayada when he expressed concern for her situation. Then he politely asked her to sit up on the examining table, and he proceeded to take her blood pressure. The doctor looked at Mayada with worry in his kind eyes, and told her what she already knew: Her blood pressure was dangerously high. Searching his caring face, Mayada reminded herself that her prison experience might cause her to adopt an unreasonably simple view of human nature. She must remember that many Iraqis were forced against their will to join the Baath party. These same people were coerced to accept government jobs that were unsuitable for anyone with a compassionate heart. She believed that this doctor was one of those people.

  He proved Mayada right when he glanced over his shoulder and noted that the two men had stepped away. The doctor spoke to her in a low voice. “There is nothing wrong with you that release will not cure. But since your fate is not in my hands, I will give you some tablets that I believe will settle your heart.” He then turned to open a drawer in a metal cabinet and selected a packet of small pink pills, handing them to Mayada and instructing her, “Put one under your tongue and let it dissolve. Anytime you feel a chest pain, you should do the same thing.” But he cautioned, “Do not to take more than one pill every few days if you can avoid it. These pills cause severe headaches.”

  The pill was already in her mouth. She nodded.

  The doctor turned away and began to document her visit.

  As the pill dissolved, Mayada looked around the room. She noted that the examination table was covered with black plastic, and the plastic was covered with the heavy dust of that morning’s sandstorm. That sand might now work in her favor, Mayada mused. This doctor’s caring manner had given her an idea. Confident enough to take a risk, she used her finger to write the telephone number of her children’s grandfather—who had remained friendly to her and the children even after the divorce—in the dust. Mayada then appealed to the doctor’s kind heart. She asked him, “Dr. Hameed, please call this number and tell whoever answers that Mayada has been taken to Baladiyat. Tell them to call my mother, Salwa, in Amman. She will know what to do.” Mayada stared at the young doctor.

  Dr. Hameed gazed at Mayada for a long moment. His expression clearly displayed the internal battle raging between his head—which warned him of the dire consequences of discovery—and his heart, which was shattered by the human despair he was forced to witness. Dr. Hameed stared down at the number Mayada had written in the dust. She breathlessly watched his lips move. He was memorizing the number, Mayada realized. The doctor looked over his shoulder once again, then picked up a cloth to wipe the dust and the digits from the plastic. He gave no sign as to whether his head or his heart had prevailed. Yet Mayada knew that whether he called or not, he wanted to have the courage to call. She must remember that the two of them—and all Iraqis—now lived in a terrible time, and this good man could be tortured to death for deviating from Baathist Party rules of conduct.

  Mayada opened her mouth to ask if she could rely upon his humanity. But at that moment, the two guards returned, insisting that they must return her to her cell. Mayada froze, fearful that Dr. Hameed might be so anxious about the safety of his own loved ones that he would tell these men of Mayada’s request for assistance. But the doctor said nothing. Instead, he looked her straight in the eyes and said, “You will be better, so go back and try to get some sleep.” His words gave Mayada hope that he would make the call that might save her life.

  The men rushed her back to cell 52, although she asked them to walk slowly to accommodate her chest pains. But the two paid no heed. The rapid pace made her heart throb, and she was surprised at the sense of relief she felt upon reentering cell 52.

  Samara rushed to Mayada’s side and helped her back to the bunk, and several shadow women gathered around to make her comfortable. Mayada was given a folded blanket for a pillow, while another was placed between her and the cold bunk. A third blanket covered her body. The women had been served their supper while Mayada was in the hospital. As promised, Samara had saved her a plate, but Mayada could not eat.

  The women began talking about their own lives. Mayada learned that the woman named Rasha was a Shiite from the south. Another woman named Safana was a Kurd. Another nameless woman was a Sunni from Baghdad. They asked Mayada to tell them everything she had seen while outside the cell. Mayada sighed heavily as she told them she could not yet speak, but that tomorrow she would gladly answer all their questions.

  One of the shadow women spoke up and asked the question that Mayada had been expecting since relating her family name. “Just tell us, are you related to the great Jafar Pasha Al-Askari?”

  Mayada paused, thinking
about her answer for a moment. She considered denying the fact, because people would often begin to behave as though she considered herself better than others, which was not the case. And some people, upon hearing of her lineage, would turn into devoted enemies for no reason at all. Still others would shift their normal behavior and treat Mayada with reverence, as if she were a member of a royal family. But looking into the kind eyes of the simple women who shared her cell, Mayada was struck with a deep certainty that they would remain the same considerate women, no matter whose bloodline she shared. “Yes,” she admitted with a weak smile, “Jafar Pasha was my grandfather, the father of my own father, Nizar Al-Askari.”

  The shadow woman reached down and touched Mayada’s cheek with a decided tenderness and told her, “My grandfather once met your grandfather when he came to the south collecting votes for King Faisal I. He always said Jafar Al-Askari was a great Iraqi. Many times I heard him say, ‘If only we had men like Jafar Pasha still among the living, we Iraqis could have avoided this nightmare.’ ”

  As if those words had unleashed their voices, the other shadow women began to exchange memories of a time when Iraqis had hope for a better future. Mayada overheard several others declare quietly that Jafar Pasha had made beneficial differences in the lives of their own families, too. Samara looked down at Mayada and smiled. “We will repay that great man by taking good care of his granddaughter.”

  2

  The Four Black Doors

  Throughout history, there have been great men who united themselves with important moments. During and after World War I, Jafar Al-Askari, Nouri Al-Said, King Faisal I, Lawrence of Arabia and Sati Al-Husri were such men. Three of them were closely related to Mayada, and she knew their lives as she knew her own.

  In 1918, at the end of the Great War, 400 years of Ottoman power had finally ended. No government ruled Iraq, and the Iraqi people found themselves with a chance for a new beginning. The British and French governments, which had helped them defeat the Ottomans, promised freedom for all Arabs. And compelled by this dream, Jafar, Nouri, Lawrence of Arabia, and Faisal risked their lives many times.

  But no man was more daring than Mayada’s grandfather, Jafar Al-Askari.

  It was perhaps a twist of fate that Jafar Al-Askari was born at the same time the Ottoman Empire was dying. He entered the world on June 13, 1885, and his parents, Mustafa and Fatima, were living in Baghdad, where his father was serving as the Military Governor of Iraq and the Chief of Staff of the Fourth Army.

  Jafar favored his father in every way, with chestnut hair and brown eyes that flashed with gold, and a brilliant mind that allowed him to excel in military strategy, languages and politics.

  As a son of an Army Chief of Staff, Jafar received the finest education. And because his father was a military man, that schooling was directed toward the art and practice of soldiering. Then tragedy struck. Mustafa noticed a red mark on his shoulder, a mark the Turks call a “Lion’s Paw.” Whether the mark was a cancerous melanoma or perhaps even anthrax is unclear, but Mustafa was bed-ridden and soon died a painful death.

  Though he mourned the death of his father, Jafar went on to complete his education. While at military school, he met his lifelong best friend, Nouri Al-Said. The two men grew so close that they made a pact to marry each other’s sister, and followed through on it: Nouri married Jafar’s younger sister, Naeema, and Jafar married Nouri’s sister, Fakhriya.

  When World War I broke out, Jafar fought with the Ottomans and the Germans, quickly becoming a highly decorated general, but Jafar was so uniquely talented that the British approached him to fight on their side. Jafar refused their appeals until Sultan Mohammed Resat ordered the execution of several of Jafar’s friends. He became disillusioned with the Ottoman cause and agreed to the requests of T. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) and Prince Faisal of the Hijaz (later to become King Faisal of Syria and Iraq) to join the Arab Army. It was during the war that Jafar and Prince Faisal became close friends. Jafar Al-Askari became the Commander of the Arab Regular Forces. He was the only man in World War I awarded the top military decoration from both the Germans and the British.

  When the British occupied Iraq after the war, they had great difficulty keeping Iraqi tribesmen from attacking their soldiers. In order to appease the Iraqis, the British chose to assume an indirect role in ruling the country, and set up a monarchy supervised by the British government. After much discussion and with the encouragement of British representatives in Iraq, Winston Churchill decided that Prince Faisal, whose father ruled Mecca and Medina, would be Iraq’s new king, despite the fact that Faisal had never set foot inside Iraq’s borders.

  When Faisal arrived in Iraq to take over the country, his close friends and former army commanders Jafar Al-Askari and Nouri Al-Said were there waiting to serve him. Hundreds of Englishmen and Iraqis gathered on the banks of the Tigris River for Faisal’s coronation. The proclamation was read in Arabic, announcing that Faisal had won the election of the people, and a band played the British anthem, “God Save the King,” much to the shock of the Iraqis present.

  Jafar served as Minister of Defense and Nouri served as Chief of Staff. From that first day there were many struggles, but the three men held the country together by sheer determination. Then, in 1933, after only twelve years of rule, King Faisal became very ill with heart problems, left for Switzerland, and died there at the age of forty-eight. Prince Ghazi, King Faisal’s only son, became King Ghazi I.

  Jafar had lived in London for a number of years, but in 1934, his friend and brother-in-law, Nouri, who was now the Iraqi Prime Minister, appealed to Jafar to return and help him run the government. Nouri explained to Jafar that he faced so many foes in Iraq that he needed the strength Jafar represented by his side. Jafar adored England, where he said he needed only to carry a walking stick—unlike Iraq, where he needed to be armed at all times. Nevertheless, the situation in Iraq was becoming more and more turbulent, and Jafar finally agreed to Nouri’s appeal, once again assuming the position of Minister of Defense.

  Two years later, in October 1936, Jafar ordered the army to perform a series of routine exercises, but he was met with a surprise. A man that Jafar believed to be his friend, General Bakir Sidqi, Commander of the Second Division of the Army, decided to stage a military coup, the first in modern Iraq.

  Three airplanes dropped bombs, and while one fell harmlessly in the Tigris, the other two hit the Ministry of the Interior and the building that housed the Council of Ministers. Another bomb hit the main post office building.

  Jafar decided to meet the army and stop it from marching on Baghdad. The British Ambassador Sir Clark Keer was there when Jafar made the vow, and Keer later wrote that Jafar’s mission was an act of sheer gallantry, a bravery no other man in the government possessed. King Ghazi was concerned for Jafar’s safety, but Jafar said it was his duty to protect the king and the country. As Jafar was leaving, King Ghazi apparently shuddered with a premonition. He ran out of the palace to stop Jafar, but it was too late—Jafar was gone.

  Jafar could not know that his friend Sidqi had asked five of his associates to kill him. The first four of the five said they would never kill a man as noble as Jafar Al-Askari. The fifth man however—Captain Jameel, a man who had never met Jafar—agreed to serve as the assassin.

  A number of Sidqi’s troops met Jafar on the outskirts of Baghdad and told him they would escort him to Sidqi. Jafar was asked to sit in the front seat, and soon realized that something was amiss. He turned in his seat to face the men, saying, “I have a feeling you people are going to kill me. But I am not afraid of dying. Dying is the natural end of every human life. I tell you, however, that if you start killing, you will be held accountable for all the hardship you will put this country through. You will create a river of blood.”

  When the car stopped at Sidqi’s camp and Jafar got out, Captain Jameel shot him in the back. Jafar lived only long enough to turn around and cry out, “Noooooo!” A hasty grave was dug in the sand a
nd Jafar was buried. Bakir Sidqi swore his men to secrecy.

  When Jafar failed to return to the palace, the country descended into chaos. Jafar had been the glue that held the government together. Sidqi took over Baghdad and forced King Ghazi to name a new government.

  The Arab world was shocked that Jafar Al-Askari was dead. Sadly, Jafar’s prediction that Iraq would become a river of blood came true. Sidqi was soon assassinated by officers loyal to Jafar. The royal family remained at the head of numerous rotating governments, as one military coup followed another.

  In 1958, the royal family invited Mayada’s parents to accompany them on a holiday before returning for the wedding of the king, Faisal II, but Mayada’s mother, Salwa, insisted that Mayada have a French Dior gown for her role as flower girl in the wedding.

  Mayada was only three, but her mother had arranged a fitting at a French Dior shop in Geneva. The family was in Europe when they heard that General Abdul Karim Qasim, an army officer, had ordered a number of soldiers to surround the royal palace. Over a loudspeaker, they ordered the family to step outside. It was only 7:45 in the morning, but soon afterward, the kitchen door at the back of the palace opened and the royals began to spill out. The officers shouted for the family to step toward the little garden at the side of the palace and stand next to a huge mulberry tree. The royal family lined up, along with the servants. The very young king, confused, kept saluting the officers.

  A captain by the name of Al-Obousi shot at the king, splitting his skull open. Everyone else then opened fire. After the massacre, the bodies of the family were dragged to a van, and a crowd began to loot the palace.