by Jean Sasson
“He smiled broadly before saying, ‘I read your time account in the paper and it was excellent. You are a fitting granddaughter for Sati Al-Husri. He would be pleased.’ He then tapped me lightly on my shoulder and said, ‘I want you to promise me that no matter what, this pen of yours will go on writing on behalf of our great revolution. Write what your integrity sees fit and you are on the right road.’
“I thanked him for his kind words, and he then asked me if I owned an automobile. I replied that I did, so then he asked me if I was pleased with my home. I said I was and he seemed amused. He said, ‘You are Salwa’s daughter. You don’t need anything or anyone,’ which I thought was an odd comment, but after considering his words and the manner in which he said them, I understood that he was giving me a compliment, because my grandfather Sati had raised his daughter to be a strong woman with opinions and insisted that she seek a noteworthy education, which gave her independence, and having those qualities combined in an Arab woman is a rarity in Iraq.
“Saddam then buzzed someone from his telephone and a photographer came into the room and took several pictures. Saddam surprised me when he kissed me on my forehead and told me to continue making the great Sati Al-Husri proud. Then, at the last moment he told me, ‘Just thinking about your grandfather, Sati Al-Husri, and what he stood for, makes me proud to be an Arab.’ Then he shook my hand for a final time and walked me to the door.
“When I walked into the next room, the man named Amjed, who had been my original contact regarding this meeting with Saddam, presented me with an envelope and two leather boxes. He said that a car was waiting to take me wherever I wished to go. I told him to take me to the Al-Jumhuriya offices, where I went to meet my boss, Sahib Hussein Al-Samawi, as I had promised him.
“Sahib was ecstatic about the meeting and Saddam’s praise, and he began to make plans to print my article in the paper for a second time the following day. There was even a side editorial about Saddam’s interest in Mayada Al-Askari’s work and his admiration for that particular piece.
“When I arrived home I opened the envelope, and once again, there was exactly 3,000 Iraqi dinars. Inside the two leather boxes were two watches. One was an expensive Patek Phillipe with diamonds on white gold and the name Saddam written inside the watch, and the second one was an Omega gold watch with Saddam’s picture on the face. I played a small joke on my mother. When she came home I had one watch on each wrist. Mother choked with laughter. I wore one watch for a few weeks, but soon put them both away in a drawer because I couldn’t bear to see Saddam’s face, or his name, every few minutes.
“A few days later a palace representative came to the newspaper and presented me with a leather-bound folder with a gold-leaf border. Inside were two pictures of Saddam with me. Sahib framed one for the newspaper offices and sat it on his desk, and Mother framed the second one and placed it on a bookcase in the sitting room.”
Mayada paused and stared at the faces of the shadow women. The women were staring back at her, wanting to hear more stories. Samara said that she must not stop—that she had to tell them every detail of every meeting with Saddam.
Mayada laughed and said that her voice would not last much longer, but that she would share the most important points of two or three more meetings.
“In 1982,” she continued, “I had written an essay for Fonoun magazine titled ‘This Beautiful Silence,’ which had to do with war but was primarily a romantic account of a woman telling a man that she didn’t need words to express her feelings for him, because their love was like great poetry. Muhammed Al-Jazaeri, who was the editor-in-chief of the magazine where the article appeared, had telephoned me the day the piece was printed. He was excited to tell me that the Minister of Information, Latiff Nusaif Jassim, was going to present me with a letter, a large sum of money and a television set. I was to appear at the Ministry the following morning at ten o’clock.”
“That night was sleepless,” Mayada said. “I was startled that the romantic piece had caught the interest of Saddam.”
“Why were you surprised?” Iman asked. “All Iraqis know that Saddam is a romantic man.”
“That is true,” Aliya claimed. “My brother the general knows one of his guards, and he says that Saddam is devoted to stories centered around the love of beautiful women for a brave warrior. He must have seen himself in the article.”
“Well, maybe,” Mayada agreed. “In any case, the following morning I presented myself at ten o’clock. The Minister of Information was exceptionally pleasant and said, ‘Your writings never fail in making Abu Uday [father of Uday, meaning Saddam] our great leader, may Allah preserve him, happy with your writings.’ Minister Jassim reported that he was conveying the President’s exact words and that the President asked him to tell me, ‘It is like a breath of fresh air to read her writings while [he is] in the middle of his national duty (meaning the war with Iran).’ The President was sorry that he was unable to present me with the award himself, because he was away at the front commanding Iraq’s heroes.”
Mayada did not share the rest of the story, which had a painful ending for her. That article was published the second time the following week with a reference to Saddam’s award, or takreem as it is called in Iraq. She was introduced as the writer and her photograph was printed, and as a result she received bags of letters from soldiers at the front. One letter that she had never forgotten came from an anonymous soldier. He confided that he had always looked for her articles but that he would never do it again, because now he knew that she was “one of them”—meaning Saddam’s followers—and was writing only what they told her to write. She was deeply wounded by the letter because she knew that she had never been told what to write by anyone. Mayada did not write political commentary, which always had to follow the party line—she simply wrote what she felt about life and love, and it just so happened that Saddam had been drawn to her writings.
She told the shadow women, “My third takreem was presented in 1983, after I returned from a lengthy government trip to Sudan and wrote a piece called ‘Vertical Rays of Sun,’ referring to the Sudan’s intense heat, and in the piece I discussed the country’s poverty. Being in that country reminded me how much I loved Iraq.
“Once again I received word from the Ministry of Information that I was going to receive a takreem from the President, and that I should appear at the palace at 4:45 the following afternoon.
“Although it was late November it was still warm. When I arrived I was astonished to see that the palace grounds were teeming with crowds of men and women and children, and I thought for a minute that the palace was holding a fair or some other entertainment for the public. After a second look, however, I saw that there was no gaiety in the crowd—everyone looked miserable. The women were dressed in black to mourn their martyred sons or husbands who had died at the front. I thought that the palace looked as shabby as the poor Iraqis squatting on the lawn, and then I remembered that all the proceeds from the sale of oil were going toward the war effort, so that should not have been a surprise.
“I suddenly realized that the crowd was there to collect money. I knew from news stories that every widowed woman, or every family that lost a son, received 5,000 Iraqi dinars [$15,500] for their sacrifice. These payments were considered a Diyya, or compensation for death. I knew the routine. Saddam would receive all the people there, five at a time. Each person would hand Saddam a letter, explaining where the father or son had been killed. Saddam would read the letter and then write instructions on it, saying how much money each person should be given. The mourner would then take the letter to the palace accounting office, where the money would be paid.
“Although the government made the payments in the beginning, the money ran out before too long. There were just too many dead soldiers. I was told later that the Saudi and Kuwaiti governments were the ones issuing the funds for payment. Iran had become the neighborhood bully, and the Al-Sabah family of Kuwait and the Al-Sa’ud family of Saudi Arabia were rewa
rding Iraqis for keeping Iran off their own backs.
“When I went into the palace, the secretary ushered me into Hussain Kamil’s office, a man who was a junior officer at the time but who would one day marry Saddam’s oldest daughter, Raghad, and consequently become one of Saddam’s most trusted assassins. But after all those good things came Kamil’s way, it all ended when Uday, Saddam’s oldest son, became jealous of the enormous sums of money that Kamil was skimming from various government projects. Uday became his brother-in-law’s devoted enemy. Knowing that Uday, who everyone knew was insane, would eventually murder him, Kamil fled to Jordan and humiliated Saddam with his disloyalty when he began to inform Iraq’s enemies of everything he knew about Iraq’s weapons program. When Saddam deceived him into returning to Iraq by assuring his safety and even holding his hand on the Quran and swearing that he would never harm the father of his grandchildren, Kamil foolishly returned and, of course, was murdered within a few days.
“But on the day that I met him, Kamil had not yet come into favor—or gone out of favor.” She began to laugh and covered her mouth with her hand. “I admit that I felt an instant loathing for Hussain. It had nothing to do with the fact he was an unattractive man of small stature with a long crooked nose that overshadowed a big bushy mustache. I was truly repulsed after looking into his eyes. That man had eyes that were filled with contempt for everyone around him, including me.
“However, he industriously attended to his duty. I was there with a poet and a musician, all invited there to accept cultural awards.
“Both of them were unusual. The musician was a tall, dark man whose eyes flashed with happiness. He had written a very popular patriotic song that was quite catchy, and Saddam had commanded that it be played at all the military posts. The verses were, ‘Oh land, your soil is my Kafour’ [the substance that Muslims sprinkle around a dead person’s cloth before they are buried]. Do you remember that song?” Several shadow women began to nod and Samara bobbed her head as she hummed a few notes.
“The poet was the musician’s physical opposite, a small, skinny man with yellowed skin. He had written a poem celebrating Saddam’s greatness, a poem that expressed the love Iraqis felt for their President.
“Soon the three of us were led into another room. I was called to see Saddam before the poet and the musician. When I left those two, they were so giddy about their first meeting with Saddam that the musician had jumped to his feet and sung his song, while the poet had begun to chant his verses.”
Samara burst out laughing, and Mayada laughed, too.
“I was relieved to leave them both behind. However, I could still hear their voices ringing all the way to the end of the long hallway.”
Each of the shadow women joined in the laughing.
Mayada gathered herself and continued, “This meeting was different from all previous meetings. When I saw Saddam, he seemed preoccupied. I understood the reason for his ill temper. During those days, the war with Iran was not going well. Saddam had underestimated Khomeini. I still cringe when I remember that Khomeini used young children as minesweepers. How would Iraq defeat such an adversary?
“Saddam complimented me on my writing and said he was pleased I was so free-thinking. He said he expected nothing less of Sati Al-Husri’s granddaughter. He began to speak in a rush when he told me that regardless of what others thought, he wanted diversity when it came to writers. He said that that was what I was giving the people. He told me that I was pleasing him and that the last thing he wanted was journalism wearing a uniform. I’ll never forget him saying that the Iraqi people needed to think of other things besides war. He added that the love of a loyal woman was every man’s dream.
“Well, I was so stunned at his ‘free’ talk that I could barely answer him. He then smiled and said, ‘Let’s have a photograph.’
“I felt that he was in a huge rush to push through his appointments, so I told him that I was already the proud owner of a photograph with His Excellency. I really didn’t want to take too much of his time, considering the war.
“When I said that, he laughed for the first time. He said, ‘So let’s make an album, and if you keep writing with such talent, an album is in your future.’
“After our picture was taken, he asked me if I needed anything in particular, that he wanted to present me with a special gift. He was in such a fine mood that I blurted out what I really wanted. I told him that I longed to take my baby Fay and travel to London to visit my mother. She was recovering from surgery. He asked me if I wanted to take Salam with us, but I replied that my husband was fighting on the front and I wouldn’t think of taking him away from that important duty. Then, just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“Saddam told me that my wish was granted. I have never been so surprised. As we all know, Iraqis are prohibited from leaving Iraq during wartime, unless it is for government business. I stood there speechless while he called in his secretary and issued orders for airline tickets for me and my baby. We were going to London. Then Saddam surprised me even further when he issued a second order that I should be given 5,250 Iraqi dinars [$16,275] for the trip. I’ll never forget the look on the secretary’s face. I was not a member of the inner circle, so he was stunned that I was receiving this exception.
“Although my style of writing appealed to Saddam, I knew that my connection to Sati was a major reason I was so privileged. As I departed the palace I thought about how the respect and admiration won by my grandfather, Jido Sati, from every Iraqi, including Saddam Hussein, was now affecting my own life in such a positive manner. I thanked my Jido Sati and hope he heard me.
“From that time, I heard that Saddam followed my writings. In 1984, the Iraqi News Agency in London called Mother when she and I were visiting England, informing her that her daughter’s writings had been pointed out by President Saddam Hussein as the best writings for 1983. I was surprised that the writings that most intrigued Saddam were several articles I had written about fortune-telling. Those were the most desperate days of the war, and fortune-telling was becoming very popular in Iraq. Iraqis were looking for solutions in many unorthodox directions. I had also written a paper dealing with parapsychology. This was part of a program for Saddam’s eyes only, which was conducted for the General Publication Surveillance Directorate, which was listed under the Ministry of Information but was in reality functioning as a solo department.
“One day I received a telephone call from the palace with a message that Saddam wanted to question me about that research. I went to the palace hoping he would be in high spirits. But he was still in a low mood because of the Iranian war. Saddam got to business in a hurry. He told me that he was highly interested in something called ESP, or extrasensory perception, and he wanted me to do some special research for him on out-of-body experiences. He then confided that the Russians were doing excellent work in that field.
“I worked as hard as I could on the research and presented it to the committee. But I heard nothing about it from Saddam. I forgot about it. Then in 1986, I received a message from the Journalists Federation. They told me that President Saddam Hussein had been so impressed by that particular research that he had presented me with two pieces of land. Those plots were in a location called Saydiya in Baghdad. And that was the last of my private encounters with Saddam.”
Not wanting the morning of storytelling to end, Samara said, “What about Saddam’s wife? You promised you would tell us more about her.”
Mayada nodded and agreed, but before she could tell those stories, one of the guards burst through the door. That man had an evil grin on his face, and when he called out Samara’s name she burst out crying because she knew that she was being taken away to be tortured.
After Samara left the room, the women were no longer in the mood for gossip. Mayada pushed herself from the floor and sat quietly on her bunk as the other shadow women slowly returned to their own bedding. They all sat and waited, because they knew that when Samara returned she would need their support. The k
nowledge of what was happening to Samara was so depressing that Mayada could do nothing but despair. A few hours later the cell door opened and Samara was thrown back into the room, where she stumbled and fell into a heap on the floor. Her small cries brought all of the women to their feet, and everyone gathered around her broken body. In one quick glance Mayada saw that Samara was bleeding out of her nose and her ears, and that her arms were covered with cigarette burns.
Tears began to roll down Mayada’s face as she stooped and helped lift Samara to her feet. For some reason the face of her gentle father flashed through her mind. Her father had taught her to be soft, saying that if she did not quarrel, no one on earth would be able to quarrel with her, but standing there looking at Samara, she knew with a great certainty that her father had been wrong.
5
Saddam’s Wife, “The Lady” Sajida
Eager to help Samara, two or three shadow women tried to lift her up, but they lost their grip and Samara slid back to the floor. Mayada, too, reached out toward Samara, but to Mayada’s surprise, her vision blurred and Samara’s arm seemed first to grow tiny and distant, then to swell large and immediate. Shaken, Mayada propped herself against the prison wall and stood quietly. Although she could feel the coolness of the thick concrete on her face and body, the darkness encircling her was almost total, and the shadow women appeared as misty figures, like spiraling smoke that would speedily disperse.
Mayada’s range of vision shrank further and she turned to the wall for comfort. The concrete was cracked, and Mayada noticed for the first time indentations in the wall, thin grooves made by fingernails. She pulled back in alarm. The claw marks, she knew, belonged to other terrified Iraqis frantic to escape the hell that their life had unexpectedly become. Mayada reached to place her own hands in the grooved cement and discovered, to her horror, that her fingers were a perfect fit. Mayada wanted to scream and run away but there was nowhere to run. She was a prisoner in a tiny cell with other women. She collapsed against the wall and struggled to regain her composure. Although she could do nothing, she could hear the other women struggling to help Samara.