The Prisoner in His Palace

by Will Bardenwerper

  While that assessment was generally true, it did overlook some of Saddam’s pickier habits, such as refusing to eat “torn omelets” or, out of a fear of germs, his insistence that the guards get up and close his cell door for him. As junior enlisted soldiers—many from working-class backgrounds—most of the Super Twelve appreciated a former head of state showing them a respect that they sometimes didn’t get from their own superior officers. For this, they’d indulge the former president some of his eccentricities.

  The Super Twelve had never gotten to know Saddam the dictator, only Saddam the imprisoned old man. They believed they were doing the right thing in bringing some dignity to his existence. The Saddam they went out of their way to accommodate was a man that Iraqis like Shameem Rassam, who’d sat across from him in different circumstances back when his power was absolute, couldn’t imagine.

  Baghdad, Iraq—late 1970s

  “It’s the palace calling,” said the maid.

  Shameem Rassam was a popular female news anchor in Baghdad. Since there were only two television channels, she was a recognizable figure around the city. Her status wasn’t unique for a woman at the time, since Saddam prided himself on progressive policies with regard to women in the workforce, and even in his military, where they could rise to positions of some prominence. In fact, he was even reported to have commented that he preferred the insights of women, which he felt were characterized by more candor.

  None of that reassured Shameem, though, when she picked up the phone and immediately recognized the unmistakable, deep voice of “Our Uncle.” It was late in the afternoon, and the sunlight streaming into Shameem’s comfortable, well-appointed living room was beginning to soften. Shameem had just gotten home from work when she fielded the call, still wearing the fashionable outfit she’d worn on air.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, working hard to make sure her voice didn’t betray fear.

  “Can you come and see me now?” Saddam asked.

  Confused but careful to sound as calm as possible, she managed to utter a hesitant “What?”

  After all, despite her job as a prominent TV anchor, it was still exceedingly odd for Saddam—or the Anointed One, as he was sometimes called—to call her at home.

  In his deep monotone, revealing nothing of his intentions by the intonation of his voice, Saddam said, “This is Saddam. You are coming now.”

  Before she left, Shameem made sure to tell her husband about the bizarre summons. He was upset at the news but recognized there was nothing they could do. As she eased her Toyota sedan into Baghdad’s busy rush-hour traffic for the short fifteen-minute drive, her mind began to race. What could it be? She couldn’t help but remember the people she’d worked with over the years who’d been “sent away with no explanation and for no reason.” In this she was similar to so many others who’d received summonses from Saddam over the years, minds furiously churning to divine why the dictator wanted to see them. Trying to anticipate the nature of his interest, and strategize on how to respond, was like preparing for a job interview where the result of a poor performance could be death.

  As Shameem drove, she reassured herself that Saddam, who sometimes took a keen interest in what was being broadcast, probably just wanted to discuss the programming at her station. She couldn’t imagine that it had anything to do with her brother and father, who’d been detained by Saddam’s security forces a few years prior—but one never knew. Following their release, the two had rarely spoken of their captivity in the nightmarish Abu Ghraib prison, their silence leaving little doubt that whatever had happened had left an indelible scar.

  At the Parliament building men ushered Shameem into a visitors’ center, where she was searched and forced to surrender her belongings. Saddam was extremely paranoid, so anyone invited to an audience with him could expect elaborate and invasive security protocols.

  She was then led into a reception area outside Saddam’s private office. It was a nice waiting room, with comfortable couches surrounding a coffee table in the middle. A handful of others were waiting there. No one said a word.

  After a short wait, a guard beckoned, and Shameem got up to approach Saddam’s office. The guard told her he’d watch her purse while she met the president, and he provided one instruction: Do not shake the president’s hand.

  Shameem didn’t need to ask why. She was aware of Saddam’s fear of germs.

  It was around 6:00 p.m. Late meetings like this weren’t uncommon for Saddam. He possessed impressive stamina and a strong work ethic and, at this point in his rule, still often worked fourteen to sixteen hours a day.

  Taking a deep breath, and willing her heart to stop racing, Shameem entered the president’s office, trailed by the security guard. Saddam slowly rose and seemed to wince from what appeared to be a recent back injury. Almost reflexively, Shameem offered a traditional Arabic expression, roughly translated as “Thank God for your health.”

  Saddam replied, “The curse of being tall.” At roughly six foot one, and with a ramrod posture in public, he looked down on most Iraqis. This counted for something in a tribal culture in which size was sometimes still equated with masculinity and power.

  He then walked around from behind his desk and extended his hand. Shameem felt a surge of panic. She’d just been instructed not to shake his hand, and now here he was inviting her to. Seeing her hesitate, he asked, “Aren’t you going to shake my hand?”

  She managed a confused smile and gestured to the guard who was still hovering behind her. “He told me not to.” Seeing Saddam’s hand still extended, she shook it with as much confidence as she could muster. It was a cold handshake, and surprisingly limp for such a big man.

  The door behind Saddam’s desk opened, and a uniformed aide delivered a tray with two cups of tea. Saddam gestured for Shameem to take a seat, and returned to his chair behind the desk. The aide who’d delivered the tea also had a file for Saddam to sign, which he quickly did.

  Shameem was too nervous and self-conscious to take anything more than furtive glances at her surroundings, but she couldn’t miss the stately floor-to-ceiling cabinet behind Saddam, lined with ornaments and books, and an Iraqi flag hanging beside it. Some Arabic magazines rested on the president’s desk, not far from the tea that sat in front of her. She was afraid to take the first sip, so it remained untouched.

  Perhaps noticing her discomfort, Saddam looked up and said, Please, help yourself.

  Still nervous, she responded: After you.

  Saddam took a sip, and smiled. It was an odd smile, lacking in warmth. His mouth muscles had moved, but the rest of his countenance remained blank. He began the conversation with her matter-of-factly: Your father has a property in Mosul. We want it. He explained that the need to expand a government facility in Mosul made it imperative her family’s adjacent land be seized.

  How is your dad, by the way? Saddam asked almost offhandedly.

  The question sounded innocent enough, but Shameem knew that answering it could lead her into a potential minefield, as there was a chance he was aware of her father’s detention a few years ago. She searched for a response, but before she could say anything, Saddam preempted her. Tell him we’re going to take the land, he said. As was often the case, his expression didn’t betray what he was thinking. While studying her carefully, he didn’t quite look her in the eye.

  Shameem nodded, knowing that with Saddam there was no debate. All she could think about was getting out of there as quickly as possible. Then, without another word, he began rifling through some files and paperwork on his desk, as if she were no longer there. She had no idea what to do. After what felt like an eternity but was probably less than a minute, a security guard came in and ushered her out of the president’s office. She breathed a sigh of relief as she made her exit.

  As soon as she arrived home, she told her husband about the meeting, relaying the news about her family’s property in Mosul. His expression showed anger, but such was life in Saddam’s Iraq—where saying anything
critical of the president was punishable by death—that he smartly bit his tongue, and simply said, “Thank God everyone is alive.”

  Shameem wasn’t yet ready to tell her father the bad news about his property. He was still weak from a recent heart attack, and in some ways had never been the same since his release from Abu Ghraib. It was as if he were somehow still “stuck in the trauma of detention, still stuck in a different world,” she would say later. She didn’t want to add to his stress. Still, she knew she had to eventually tell him. When she did, he quietly cursed the unfair confiscation, but assured her that more than anything he was just relieved to see her back unharmed.

  Shameem was home, and that was what was important.

  CHAPTER 31

  Baghdad, Iraq—November 5, 2006

  The streets of Baghdad were even more tense than usual as Saddam’s verdict drew near. It was November 5, 2006, nearly three years since Saddam had been captured. Baghdad was hazy and humid as temperatures reached the mid-eighties. Passing storm clouds seemed an augury for what was about to happen below. The prime minister, Nouri al-Maliki, had imposed an around-the-clock curfew in the city, as well as other areas where the government feared unrest. Both Iraqi and American troops were on high alert. American fighter jets streaked overhead at low altitude, just about disappearing across the horizon by the time their sonic booms shocked those on the streets below. Their presence was a show-of-force gesture meant to dissuade anyone who might be inclined toward violent protest. The Iraqi High Tribunal, always well defended, was protected on this day by an even more stifling security cordon. In armored vehicles guarding approaches to the building, soldiers alertly manned turrets, anxiously fingering the safeties on their weapons.

  Saddam Hussein entered the courtroom that day with his trademark strut, like a prizefighter entering the ring. His still imposing aura, not easily described but immediately evident to onlookers, was on full display. Ushered to his leather chair in the defendants’ dock, he sat down, clad in a dark suit and white shirt, his jet-black hair and eyebrows standing in sharp contrast to his salt-and-pepper beard. Only the bags under his eyes betrayed the fact that, at age sixty-nine and facing a severe sentence, he was nearing the end of what had been an exhausting life’s journey.

  Anxious to get started, Judge Rauf peered through large glasses perched on his hawklike nose and commanded Saddam to “stand up.”

  “No, I want to sit down,” Saddam replied.

  The judge again demanded that Saddam rise, this time gesturing for security to force the former president to his feet.

  It was about 12:30 p.m. when Judge Rauf delivered the verdict. “The court hereby sentences the defendant, Saddam Hussein al-Majid, to death by hanging.”

  As soon as the words began escaping Rauf’s mouth, Saddam jabbed his right hand in the air and launched into a fierce denunciation: “Long live the people. Long live the nation. Down with the traitors. Down with the invaders. God is great. God is great. God is great. Long live the people. Long live the nation. Down with the traitors. Down with the invaders.” The hate in his eyes recalled a description of him once offered by a former prime minister of Jordan. Said the Jordanian, while “Saddam was often charming and humorous, cordial and friendly,” there were other times when one felt one was “looking into the eyes of the devil.”

  Judge Rauf continued to recite the specific charges and verdicts as Saddam plowed ahead with his vehement protestations, the two men trying to out-shout each other. Saddam held aloft the ever-present large green Koran and gesticulated wildly with it. He almost appeared to be enjoying the raucous spectacle, at one point even showing a trace of an amused smirk. He’d again hijacked the proceedings and ensured that he, and not the judge, would be the one the TV cameras focused on. The English-language interpreter for the broadcast chose to translate nearly every word of Saddam’s angry monologue, allowing much of Rauf’s verdict to go untranslated.

  It almost looked as if Saddam had begun losing interest as the judge continued reading the lengthy sentence, but, unwilling to cede the limelight, the former president continued dutifully with his tirade: “Down with those of base blood. We do not fear death. We are the cradle of humanity while the invaders are the criminals. They are the enemy of humanity. The traitors are the enemy of humanity. God is great. Long live the great Iraqi people. You cannot make decisions. You are tyrants. You are the servants of the occupation. Long live the noble nation and death betides the enemy.”

  Finally done with reading the verdict, Rauf instructed the security guards to “take him out.” As the guards approached Saddam to lead him from the courtroom, he could be heard hissing to one, “Don’t push me, boy.”

  Saddam had been found guilty of willful killing, deportation or forcible transfer, torture, and other inhumane acts, according to the Iraqi Penal Code and Iraqi High Tribunal statutes. The charge of willful killing was the one for which he’d been sentenced to death by hanging. His defense team would have thirty days to file an appeal, though there was little reason for optimism, given that the government was dominated by Shia who hadn’t hidden their desire to exact retribution on Saddam for his crimes.

  As soon as Saddam’s day in court had ended, he was returned to the Super Twelve. The handoff occurred at the door of the elevator that would deliver him back to his cell in the bowels of the Iraqi High Tribunal, where he’d await a trip in a Black Hawk back to the Rock.

  As they rode down in the elevator following the verdict, Private Dawson noticed no change in Saddam’s demeanor. It is God’s will, Saddam said matter-of-factly. I’m a soldier, and what God wants, God does.

  It was almost as if he was going out of his way to project an attitude of cocky disdain, brushing aside the verdict as a nonevent. I’ve been sentenced to death before and it never happened, Saddam said.

  Adam Rogerson later recalled that even with his death looking like a near certainty, Saddam remained convinced that “he was going to get out, get married again, and this was going to be put behind him. He was one hundred percent sure.”

  Hardened as many of the Super Twelve were by tough upbringings and—in all cases—by military training, and admiring of such virtues as strength and courage, they couldn’t help but be impressed by Saddam’s stoicism. Private Jeff Price, who had not grown as close to Saddam as some of the others, would, in looking back, nonetheless still accord him grudging respect: “He deserves credit for taking it like a man—you’ve got to be pretty doggone strong to do that.”

  The local and international response to the verdict was revealing. President Bush would say, “Saddam Hussein’s trial is a milestone in the Iraqi people’s efforts to replace the rule of a tyrant with the rule of law. History will record today’s judgment as an important achievement on the path to a free and just and unified society.” The headline of the independent Iraqi paper Azzaman read, “Iraqis Divided over Saddam Death Sentence.” Regional coverage tended to predictably break along Sunni-Shia lines, with the Qatari paper Al-Sharq denouncing the verdict as a “death sentence for Sunni Arabs, shattering all hope of a dialogue between the various sections of the Iraqi people.” Most prescient may have been the Palestinian Al-Quds daily, which predicted that the death sentence would “aggravate confessional divisions instead of ushering in a new era of entente between Iraqis.”

  As soon as the verdict was announced, Shiite neighborhoods such as Baghdad’s Sadr City rang out with celebratory gunfire, dancing, and the giddy honking of car horns. Meanwhile, Sunni demonstrators in Saddam’s adopted hometown of Tikrit took to the streets, proudly holding aloft pictures of the former leader and fellow tribesman, angrily vowing to exact revenge for what they saw as his unjust sentence.

  The man who was at the center of this maelstrom remained serene as he was returned to his cell at the Rock. He soon resumed his comfortable routine of puffing on his cigars, watering his plants, writing his poems, and chatting amiably with his interpreter, Joseph, and the Super Twelve. He didn’t appear to be burdened by guilt
. In his mind, everything he’d done had been consistent with the code he articulated in his novel Zabiba and the King: “Any means are justified if they achieve the goals dictated by the interests of power and security.”

  For now, Saddam could again retreat to the cocoon of his prison cell, insulated from the madness he’d helped spawn. Whether his calm bravado was a true stance or something manufactured—a great piece of performance art—he gave every impression that if death did come for him he’d be ready.

  CHAPTER 32

  Baghdad, Iraq—fall of 2006

  Hutch was leafing through a People magazine while guarding Saddam in his cell at the Rock. Much had changed since those awkward first encounters when they’d feared the man inside the cell—the dictator whose sinister visage had become synonymous with evil. Now guard duty sometimes felt like waiting for a haircut at the barbershop and skimming magazines to pass the time. If anyone had an excuse to be anxious it was Saddam. Though his lawyers would scramble to appeal his sentence, he knew his country well enough to recognize that his deliverance wouldn’t come from the Shia-dominated government appreciating the force of his lawyers’ arguments.

  As Hutch sat watching Saddam, his mind drifted to the days he’d spent with another old man approaching his death—his grandfather, a Navy veteran. Hutch had been struck by the fact that his grandpa and Saddam shared the same birthday, April 28. Thinking back, Hutch remembered the living room in which he’d kept his grandfather company those final months—before he succumbed to the cancer he’d likely picked up from cleaning asbestos-lined insulation in submarines. Hutch had always made time to visit his grandfather as the old man’s health deteriorated, even when he was in a tough place himself, partying too hard and on an uncertain career path.