by Anne Garrels
As I unpack, I realize that the case with my sat phone doesn’t have a seal. I look at the customs form issued at the border. Though I declared it, the phone isn’t listed, just my computer. Maybe this is a blessing. I decide that I will not confess to the Information Ministry that I have a phone. I’ll save a lot of money, since they charge $100 a day for the privilege of having a sat phone and maybe, just maybe, I’ll be lucky if they decide to confiscate them down the road.
While I have been traveling, Hans Blix, the United Nations chief weapons inspector, told the Security Council that Iraq’s destruction of thirty-four of its banned Al Samoud missiles was “a substantial measure of disarmament,” and he said Baghdad had begun to provide information on its biological and chemical weapons. Mohammed ElBaradei, the chief nuclear arms inspector, was also cautiously optimistic, saying there was no evidence that Iraq had revived its nuclear weapons program. Both said more time was needed, but representatives of the United States, Britain, and Spain are talking of days, not months, before military action.
They have called for a March 17 deadline for Iraq to disarm completely or face invasion, but they have no support for a resolution from Russia, China, or France. This emotional battle in the United Nations goes beyond Iraq to the future of collective action.
I check in with the Information Ministry to get my ID. Qadm looks at me strangely, as if to say, “What are you doing here?” It’s clear he never approved the visa, money notwithstanding, and his look suggests he knows I bought my visa in Amman. Bought or not, it is valid, has all the right stamps, and is good for ten days. If there is going to be a war, I hope it starts by then. The ten-day rule still holds and everyone is worried about getting visa extensions. They line up outside Qadm’s office, begging, pleading, and paying.
Lorenzo Cremonesi of Corriere della Sera is still here, and his hair is wilder than ever. He hasn’t had a visa extension in a month and he is living in the shadows. He also no longer has a valid press card, so he can’t enter the building and skulks around the parking lot trying to avoid Qadm and his boss, the dreaded Uday. As Qadm negotiates the plight of some journalists, I hear him bark something unintelligible but clearly unflattering about Lorenzo and warn Lorenzo to make himself even scarcer. Just how he has survived so long without being expelled I don’t know—and neither does he.
I drop by the NBC office to see Carol Grisanti. She’s been here three months without a break because if getting extensions is difficult, getting a new visa is even more problematic. She’s clearly exhausted and the hard part hasn’t even started. I leave a care package with bath oil, other unguents, and T-shirts for the approaching hot weather. She’s writing a situation report for her bosses back in New York. As far as I can tell the situation is utterly confusing, with nothing but rumors and baseless speculation.
The American networks are threatening to pull out if they’re not allowed to move their operations from the Information Ministry, a likely U.S. target, to somewhere safer, but the Iraqis are holding firm. With their tons of equipment and satellite dishes, television companies are totally dependent on the largesse of our keepers. I, on the contrary, can broadcast with my sat phone in the privacy of my hotel room, assuming I am not caught.
The press corps, which has now swelled to more than 500, continues to overwhelm the government’s ability to provide individual “minders,” and without a minder our movements are restricted, and right now I don’t have a minder. Daniella, the Serb-Iraqi, has been fired for failing to pay her sponsors a cut of what I paid her. I track down Amer, who’s still loyally working for the Japanese reporters. However, they have no taste for war and are planning to leave soon. Amer thinks that when they leave he will be able to be my minder, though he hates to use that word, with all its connotations. He suggests I keep a low profile so Qadm doesn’t assign me someone else. This means I will have trouble working for a few days, but it’s worth the wait.
In the meantime I have Majed again as a driver. He dares to suggest I pay him directly and not go through his nephew Ahmed. This is the clearest sign yet that the regime is in its final days. Ahmed, with his ministry contacts, has been skimming $80 of the $100 I have been paying Majed.
Majed briefs me on what’s been going on. First impressions are that here at ground zero of possible bombardment there is a surreal semblance of calm. Everyone is still going to work and school. Rush-hour traffic clogs the city streets. Construction workers continue to repair the gargantuan limestone-walled headquarters of the Baath Party, which was struck by American cruise missiles in ’91 and again in ’98 and will more than likely be a target this time. Construction also continues at the Information Ministry.
I get the distinct impression that people have adopted a blind fatalism, but the truth is there’s really not much they can do. You would think there would be a run on stores for food and water, but most can’t afford these luxuries. They depend on the rations the government has doled out, and they have now been given rations for five months in advance. As a sign of how desperate people are, many are selling their rations in the markets, not hoarding them, because they need money for other essentials like medicine.
We stop by the ration distribution point in Majed’s neighborhood. When I drag out my tape recorder, the young men working there say they will fight the Americans to the end. When we get back in the car Majed says, “I know these guys, and how they think, and they won’t fight for a second.”
Those who have money have scooped up all the generators on the market. People are also buying plastic garbage cans to hold water supplies. Considering that Iraq is one of the world’s largest suppliers, there is a shortage of propane gas for cooking. The government appears to have commandeered stocks. Majed tells me in his neighborhood he’s seen soldiers pack trenches with propane canisters, presumably so Iraqi forces can explode them as cheap bombs if and when American troops appear. He tells me Baath Party members have been going door to door warning families that they must stay at home in the event of war or else their houses will be destroyed or confiscated as punishment. The party doesn’t want the Americans to arrive in a deserted city. Majed observes dryly that you can bet the Baath Party will move relatives to somewhere safe.
We visit some acquaintances who have enough garden space to dig their own small bomb shelter. The kids think it’s a great addition, and they rampage around, playing in the tiny fortress. They are too young to remember the earlier bombing raids. Their parents look on, unwilling to tell the children how bad it might be, and they are scared to talk into a microphone about their true feelings. But this extended family, who have warmly welcomed me, is clearly hoping that life will be better before long, as long as they all survive.
I e-mail Vint to tell him I am safe.
MARCH 10, 2003
After so many weeks here on and off, Mohammed, the head of room service, now knows my habits far too well. Concerned because I don’t eat breakfast, which is automatically included in the bill, he drops by mid-morning with coffee and fruit. It’s also an opportunity for him to ask me, in the seclusion of my room, what I think is going to happen. I don’t really have much to offer. He pulls out a photograph of his wife and four kids. He asks if I can help him and his family go to America. I have to explain, as I have done too often in the past, here and in other countries, that I am not an official and have little influence, and I suggest that his timing might not be the best.
My main task today is to avoid the Information Ministry—the feeding frenzy of rumors and the inevitable question, “Are you staying?” I have no idea what I’m doing. Television producers tell me the American networks and CNN had a deal that they would stay together or leave together, but now that agreement is eroding and each organization is deciding its own fate.
I go down to the hotel coffee bar for a cappuccino, or that’s what they dare to call it: a confection of instant Nescafé and frothy powdered milk. As I sit there, making lists of things I need to do, I spy a man I know, but I can’t remember where
I know him from. We lock eyes. He too is trying to figure out why he knows me. We quickly establish credentials. Bruno was in charge of the European Broadcast Union operation in the Russian town of Khasaviurt on the border of the breakaway region of Chechnya in 1994. The war stories pour out. I spent Christmas and New Year’s of ’94–’95 there, arriving late one night, after a long, meandering train trip of more than a thousand miles from Moscow, to where Bruno had set up his broadcast base camp. He fixed me up with a bed in the “women’s room.” The only hitch was that I had to share it with a producer from AP television. It was a little strange to snuggle up next to someone I didn’t know with the intimate question, “Do you like the right side or the left?” Stranger still, she didn’t bat an eyelid. We were just too exhausted.
Bruno had set up broadcast operations for European and American organizations in a summer camp for wrestlers that clearly was never intended as housing for dozens of journalists in midwinter. In those days, which were not so very long ago, journalists did not have individual portable satellite phones, and we would line up for time on EBU’s cumbersome but nonetheless efficient equipment. We went out during the day, collected information, and then returned to base by nightfall to broadcast. You had time to distill your thoughts. There was no instant broadcasting.
The Chechen conflict was the worst either of us can remember. Indiscriminate Russian bombing was matched on the ground by the unpredictable behavior of drunk, unsupervised, terrified Russian soldiers. Bruno and I reminisced about New Year’s Eve, the night the Russian troops moved into Grozny. I got caught there as the tanks poured in. The Chechens trapped them in the city streets. They would hit the first and last tanks in a column so the rest couldn’t move, and then pick off the fleeing soldiers. Those I later spoke to said they were newly drafted, untrained, and had no idea where they were or what they were supposed to be doing. I spent most of the night hiding in a basement as the fighting went on outside. At dawn, there was a lull. I poked my head out. Buildings all around me had been reduced to rubble. The streets were littered with burned-out tanks and the charred bodies of soldiers. One lone tank was cornered down the street, wounded but not dead, its gun turret desperately flailing as the soldiers inside tried to escape, but there was no way to maneuver out of the trap. Is the fight for Baghdad going to turn into street-to-street fighting, as Iraqis fear?
Chechnya is a reminder of how quickly events take on a life of their own and determine the future. In the beginning, the Chechen fighters had been ordinary residents—teachers, merchants, and doctors—who didn’t think they had a chance. Many were fed up with their brief independence, saying it had brought them nothing, but they also resented Moscow’s arrogance and blatant racism. They thought they were making an honorable, valiant, short-lived stand against a much more powerful aggressor and were stunned by the Russians’ miscalculations and their own successes. In a matter of hours, the brutal battle in Grozny hardened attitudes on both sides and laid the groundwork for the extremism that gradually developed.
While I was in Chechnya, Vint had arrived in Moscow for what was supposed to be a delirious reunion. Instead, he got deliriously sick. While I hunkered down in Grozny, he sat in my Moscow apartment with a raging fever watching Jaws in Russian. He claims to have understood every word. Now he waits back in Norfolk.
I call home. We dodge the issue of whether I’m staying or not. I just say I’m taking it day by day. Iraq has destroyed more banned missiles and dismisses concerns about a U.S.-declared March 17 deadline, suggesting that UN weapons inspector Hans Blix might visit Baghdad. A senior Iraqi official has belittled outstanding questions that inspectors have raised about Iraq’s arsenal of chemical and biological weapons, calling them “technical details.” But he also said that Iraq was preparing for battle.
Just as I turn out the light, Faez calls from the desk. Like Mohammed, he wants to drop by for a reality check. He comes up and asks about the news of the day. His question, like everyone’s, is not if there will be war but when.
MARCH 11, 2003
The hotel hop has started. We’ve all known for a long time that the Al-Rashid might be an American target, and now, with war likely, news organizations are protectively booking rooms elsewhere. Just where might be safe is not clear. I am lumping for the Al-Hamra north of the Tigris River. A number of colleagues are also moving there, so I will have chums. At first the management tells me it’s booked up, but a couple of hours later a room is free as NBC checks out to move somewhere else. What do they know that I don’t know? As good a friend as Carol Grisanti is, she has her professional secrets. I keep my room at the Al-Rashid but schlep most of my stuff to the Al-Hamra, which I actually like much better. For the same money I have a suite with a kitchenette, which, given the prospects, seems propitious.
When I go down to the lobby to survey the general layout, the day manager points to a notice from the Information Ministry reminding us we are not permitted to have satellite phones in our rooms. This is a gentle coded version of “There will be a sweep so hide it if you have it.” The word spreads that tonight is the night. I call NPR and warn them that if they don’t hear from me in time for All Things Considered, it means I had to hide the phone.
Where to hide the phone? In my underwear? Behind the cushions in the couch? In the oven? No, it won’t fit. Then there is the other issue raised by reports of new American weapons that will fry our electronic gear. Word has it that the only way to protect our satellite phones and computers from that threat is to put them in a microwave oven. After all, a microwave keeps the “waves” in, so, it’s been argued, it will also keep them out. The rush on the few microwave ovens available in the market turns into a race. I just don’t have the energy.
When one lives in a city whose very skyline may look profoundly different in a matter of days, the question “What do you do exactly when bombs begin to fall?” takes on a very real meaning. As far as we know, there aren’t any significant government targets around the Al-Hamra, but it is possible that some of Saddam’s family have houses nearby, and by afternoon the staff has criss-crossed all the windows with tape to prevent the glass from shattering inward. In the city center, government workers are taking computers out of key ministry buildings, which are likely to be U.S. targets. Most Iraqis intend to hunker down as well as they can.
There are only thirty-four shelters in this large city and most are in elite neighborhoods. Majed notes bitterly that they are only for members of the Baath Party. He says there’s no protection in his area. Many Iraqis echo this, saying they have no choice but to seek solace in prayer. And even if there is a nearby shelter, Iraqis don’t trust them. They remember all too well the devastating hit on the Amariya shelter in ’91 when a U.S. bunker-busting bomb killed 403, many of whom were women and children. It’s now a museum, a favorite stopover for minders and a site for vigils by foreign peace activists.
Majed is desperate for the United States to come in quickly. His house was destroyed in the ’91 bombing, but he harbors no resentment and wants the Americans to end Saddam’s tyranny. At the Tiger Eye liquor store, run by Christians, a salesman avoids political discussion but hands me a stack of calling cards, saying, “Give these to the American troops and tell them we will be happy to meet their needs.”
Though dictatorial Iraq strictly limits access to foreign media, it’s a poorly kept secret that a small number of Iraqis have access to satellite TV through black-market dishes. They will witness a possible onslaught with one eye on CNN, the BBC, or Al Jazeera, the other on the real thing—that is, of course, if they have a generator and the signals aren’t interrupted by sophisticated American weapons.
One Iraqi who Majed and I discreetly visit demonstrates his illegal satellite system. The dish is hidden on the roof beneath a scrim of fabric. “We watch the news every night for every little update,” he says, adding, “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but at least we know what’s going on.”
Some Iraqis would like to leave the countr
y, but many are afraid even to apply for a passport. Majed says his friend in the passport agency warned him not to apply now because the authorities will consider him a traitor and exact punishment. His son is a police officer, and he tells me the police have been ordered to stay at headquarters twenty-four hours a day. They can go home only to get a change of clothing.
Diplomats are similarly on alert. Most embassies have closed. Those still operating have drawn down their staffs to a maximum of two. Reflecting his nation’s reputation for precision, a Swiss diplomat estimates it will take him exactly seven and a half hours to pack, shut up, and move out. He spends most of his time now conferring with other diplomats about the situation. He offers the last of the Swiss chocolate from his stores. He warns of a humanitarian disaster in the wake of war. He sees no evidence that the United States or humanitarian agencies have stockpiled sufficient food outside the country to prepare for the inevitable disruption. He points out that the United States will be responsible under the Geneva Conventions for protecting the civilian population.
The UN inspectors continue their work, but at tonight’s briefing it’s clear the results remain mixed. They are still waiting for Iraq’s documentation on the disposal of anthrax and VX poison. Iraq promised to produce a letter ten days ago but so far has sent nothing.
MARCH 12, 2003
Reports from the UN suggest the diplomatic wrangling might go on for a while, delaying war until the beginning of April. I don’t know how we are all going to last that long. Sanity and dollars are running low. As it stands now, I am positioned for a war to start on the 19th. After that I have to get a visa extension. I am already knackered from the logistics battle, let alone the real one. But I am in better shape than the poor souls who have been here without a break for the past couple of months. One journalist jokes that he’s going to start a protest movement for war just to get the waiting and the visa nightmare over with.