Baghdad: The Final Gathering

by Ahmad Ardalan

  I tell the housekeeper to go home, since she’s already had a long day. I bring out a table, chairs, cutlery, and a blanket for later. I set everything up at the end of the garden, near the fire pit, for when temperatures cool, just a few yards from the river. The lighting is low, but we don’t need anything more than the moon.

  Around eight thirty p.m., everyone is back. Emad and Essam won’t be drinking alcohol, so they just enjoy soda, while Aws and I share the strong arak.

  “I wonder how things will change. What will happen to Baghdad? How will we be?” Aws asks.

  “Guys, we need change. Saddam is a burned card, good or bad. We’re losing years and years of our lives because of him being in power,” Emad says.

  “I don’t think anything will happen. It will be just like 1991. There will be a war, and then they’ll find a way to work things out. We’ll continue living, just as we always have,” Essam chimes in, just as he’s about to fire up the grill.

  “Omar, you seem quiet. What do you think?” Aws asks.

  “Leave him alone. He’s thinking of Fatima.” Emad says with a laugh.

  “Fatima, Fatima, Fatima,” all of them chant.

  “Shut up, idiots. I’m just looking ahead, and it doesn’t look good to me. I’m no fan of Saddam’s, but I think he knows us best. I’m not optimistic. I wish I was wrong, but I can’t be optimistic. I’d love to see this place get better.”

  “We will be better, at least the economy. That can’t get any worse,” Aws offers.

  “I don’t trust the Americans. They haven’t exactly done well. Remember ’91?” Essam says from his place at the slowly starting fire.

  “Well, no matter what, guys, we will always be together, always one. Let me play something while Essam tingles our taste buds with his good meat,” Emad says, then takes some time to adjust the strings before playing his beautiful, soothing music.

  Emad is talented and knows exactly what to play. Within minutes, we are all singing along, with one song after another, laughing all the while. Throughout the years, we’ve dedicated songs to each other, songs that came out at just the right time, whether it was for my first love story, Emad seeing a girl, Aws breaking up, or Essam being in a bad mood. For every occasion, we have a song, and Emad knows how to play each and every one of them. We sometimes change the original lyrics to words of our own, to make it more personal.

  An hour and a half of singing, eating, and drinking passes, and Emad says, “Enough, guys. This one is for Baghdad.”

  We grow silent, with nothing to be heard other than the sound of the river and Emad’s song. We all love Baghdad. At the moment, everything seems fine, but none of us knows what lies ahead Baghdad and the whole of Iraq will suffer. War always hurts, and many innocent lives will be lost.

  The song goes on for twenty minutes, Emad playing while Essam sings the words in his nice voice. Aws and I join in by humming, still having one drink after the other, while we all stare out at the river. By the time the song finishes, the emotions are at an all-time high.

  “This land has given us so much. We have to give back. Remember that, guys. No matter what and where, we have to give back,” I say, looking at my friends, who all have tears in their eyes. “Get your jackets. Let us take a ride on the river the world has talked about for thousands of years.” This great land of Mesopotamia… When will it have peace? I ask myself as we make our way to the boat.

  Aws is our captain today, and Baghdad is so beautiful, an old city with its two sides connected by bridges. It is stunning, fully of mosques, farms, and palm trees. The Tigris is flanked by new and old villas and restaurants on its bank as it curves right and left, narrowing and widening at various place on its course.

  Halfway through our ride, we lay anchor.

  “Remember twelve years ago, when we wore Arabic tribesmen clothes when we finished midyear exams, when we walked into the Al Mansoor area, where all the elite of Baghdad dress in their fancy clothes and ride their best cars?” Emad asks.

  “Ha! Crazy. Everyone talked about us for days!” I remember.

  “The girls could not stop laughing. We even got a few of their numbers,” Aws says.

  “That taxi driver was the best! We shouted at each other in those tribal accents, all the way back to Essam’s house. We almost deafened him,” Emad continues.

  We laugh and laugh at the memory, and then I stop and look at them. “I’m going for a swim,” I say, peeling off everything except my underwear. “I dare you, cowards!”

  “It’s freezing. We’ll all be sick tomorrow,” Aws says. “You’re crazy, Omar, but what the hell? I’m jumping first.”

  A minute later, we are all in. Five minutes later, Aws is driving the boat at full speed, escorting us to the warm fire at my place.

  Wrapped in blankets, we continue basking in our nostalgia, telling one story after another for hours. We are all aware that change is coming, and our gatherings won’t happen as often and as easily as before.

  A few weeks later, the war begins, a war that will change everything.

  Chapter 8: The Fall of Baghdad

  On March, 17, 2003, President George W. Bush gave Saddam and his sons forty-eight hours to leave Iraq or face the consequences of The Coalition led by the United States of America. The Coalition would include forces from Great Britain, Australia, and Poland. People familiar with Saddam knew he would never accept those terms. Like him or not, Saddam loved his country, in his own way, and there was no way he would leave it, even if it cost him his life. So strong was his love for the country that it selfishly cost the lives of many in Iraq.

  The weeks prior to the invasion, I took the best measures I could for the worst possible outcome. I managed to get a new landline phone installed for both my parents and for Fatima. That way, they would be connected to different phone operators, in case the normal ones were bombed by the Americans. It was an extra measure that I hoped would prove useful, as long as both operators weren’t hit. I also arranged for 40 square meters of my garden to be dug up, so I could bury 350 liters of petrol. I remembered that all of Iraq suffered from a severe petrol shortage after the previous war, and my stash would be enough to get me around for some time in Baghdad, or, worst-case scenario, to allow me to cross the border into Jordan. A week before the war, the gardener brought some of his relatives, and within ten hours, they had the area dug up. I also stored ample medicine and water, and our money and jewelry were stored in a buried safe, a secret hole my brother and I dug. All the windows were taped up to help prevent shattered glass from spreading around and causing death or injury. Years and years of previous wars had taught us much, and all Iraqis took similar measures. We were as ready as we could be for whatever came next.

  Soon, the streets were filled with people in khaki uniforms, armed with rifles. Some were army troops, some were Baathists, and others were just volunteers, between 480,000 and 525,000 of them in all. Every area seemed to house anti-aircraft missile systems or surface-to-air missiles. Bridges were barricaded, and people were anxiously waiting glued to their televisions and radios in anticipation of the turmoil.

  On March, 19, 2013, sirens were heard in Baghdad.

  “It has started,” I said to myself, then quickly ran outside to have a look. It wasn’t a smart move, but I was curious.

  Minutes later, the sky illuminated, and loud explosions ensued, dozens of them a minute, just east of our home. Billows of smoke wafted through the sky. I quickly ran to Sarah’s room and found her asleep, with her earphones still lullabying her with quiet songs I had chosen for her earlier. A minute later, the sirens wailed again, longer ones this time, signaling the end of the attack, and that was that for the night.

  It turned out that the missiles were targeted on one of Saddam’s palaces. American intelligence had information that Saddam and his sons were there. Rumors spread as I bought groceries that morning; no one knew for sure whether his sons had been hit or not, but the people who passed by the area said the palace looked to have t
aken 50 percent damage.

  I made calls to my friends and loved ones, and I was relieved to discover that they were all fine. Essam, his family, and his mother went to the city of Kut, some ninety miles south of Baghdad, as they had a big home there. There were no army targets close to that area, and they felt it was safer. The rest of us remained in Baghdad.

  Fatima and her kids were all fine and had all they needed. They had a quiet night, and none of them woke up. She heard something, but as the sound didn’t last, she went back to sleep. Unfortunately, the second day was quite different.

  At around five thirty a.m. local time, explosions were heard all over Baghdad. I woke up first, and within minutes, Sarah, who was sleeping beside me, woke up in terrified tears. The explosions went on for hours, though they did stop for fifteen minutes at a time every once in a while. Just like that, the war had really begun.

  President Bush gave a speech signaling the beginning of the war and mentioned that the goals of the war included removing the alleged weapons of mass destruction and the regime in Iraq, thus ensuring the freedom of the people. On the contrary, the tears I saw in my daughter’s eyes that day, the same tears I guessed were staining the cheeks of thousands all over the country, were in no way a sign of freedom.

  Coalition forces crossed the borders in the south at the commencement of the war, and they were met with fierce fighting from different pockets. From north to south, Iraq was under attack. I doubt that any person in Baghdad managed to sleep that night or during the nights that followed. The Americans called it shock-and-awe, but that was an understatement. The sky was as red as fire, and the explosions could have knocked a deaf person to the ground. Electricity became a rare service, only functioning sporadically, for a few hours a day. Sarah was constantly glued to me, and I felt her little heart nearly bursting out of her chest. Our house was rocked as missile after missile fell on Baghdad, and many of our windows broke and shattered. People caught what little sleep they could only when the sun came out and the bombing stopped; those on the frontlines barely slept at all.

  News from different international broadcast mentioned that Coalition forces would reach Baghdad within a week, but official local news contradicted that, stating that the Coalition forces were facing many losses. They even showed footage of American prisoners on TV. Nobody knew what was going on until the battle at Saddam International Airport, aka Baghdad International Airport.

  April 3 was the darkest night I’d ever seen in my life. All of Baghdad was black, with the electricity out. We didn’t know whether it was because the energy plants were destroyed in the previous days of bombing or if it was a tactical move from the Iraqi government, but it didn’t matter. Baghdad was black as the word itself, and stars were our only source of light outdoors. Candles and awful-smelling oil lanterns dimly lit the indoors. A few people, including us, had small generators to power small lights and maybe a refrigerator, but no sane person would dare to turn them on. In the previous war in 1991, illuminated houses were mistaken as targets by the Americans, and no one wanted to take that risk.

  Our ears were blasted with continuous sirens and explosions. From our rooftop, I saw things I could not even explain. The sky was lit like never before. Baghdad was burning. I don’t reckon freedom should come at that cost. The fire on the west side of Baghdad was like hell itself, and I could not hold back my tears as I stared out at the mayhem. Baghdad was being hammered, and the main battle for the airport had begun, the Coalition being eager to overtake the main Iraqi defensive stronghold. Hours of fierce fighting took place. Rockets and bombs, legal or not, were used, and by the morning, Voice of America, BBC, and Monte Carlo radio reported that Coalition forces had taken control of the airport. Iraq news admitted partial loss of the airport but promised that it would retaliate within twenty-four hours. Trucks upon trucks of Iraqi soldiers were seen heading to the area, men of all ages, encumbered by heavy artillery and waving to the people in the street. They all bravely headed to that fateful battle, knowing that day might very well be their last.

  From night till the wee hours of the morning, the airport was a bloody battleground. The Iraqi army, along with a large group of volunteers, managed to take back most of the airport. Dozens of Americans were killed that night, and hundreds were wounded as the Iraqi Army claimed victory. It was the last win for Saddam’s men, as they were pummeled over the next few days by all kinds of weapons. With the backbone of the army destroyed, it was only a matter of time for the Iraqis.

  Day after day, fewer and fewer Iraqi troops could be seen in the streets. Everyone except for the Iraqi information minister knew the end was near. The Iraqi spokesman did a great job of keeping the morale of the army high, till the very last day, on April 9, 2013, when Baghdad fell.

  Images of people toppling Saddam’s statue were broadcasted on every television station. Some celebrated in the streets, calling the Coalition liberators, screaming “Down with the tyrant.” Others had a different opinion, and they were ready for street war. The majority were home, where they felt safe, just anticipating what was going to happen next.

  My parents moved in with me the night before, as they lived very close to two ministries and were bombarded. My family’s home had been rocked relentlessly for six straight hours, and every window was shattered.

  Fatima, who lived ten minutes away, was terrified. On one side, looting had begun, and on the other, pockets of resistance were still fighting. They had set up a base several blocks from her home, and she called me in tears. As soon as I hung up, I drove to her place like a maniac, only to be stopped by our neighbor, Mrs. Samiya, who lived two houses away.

  The small family of four consisted of only the mother and her three children, two daughters and a son, because her husband had died several years earlier. Mrs. Samiya told me that her son, only 19, had taken a rifle and gone with a group of men to fight the invaders a few kilometers from our place. She begged me to go talk some sense into him, as she was worried about the safety of her firstborn, and I couldn’t refuse. I knew it would only take a few moments, and I could stop on my way to get Fatima.

  A few minutes later, I saw him, even though his face was half-covered. I pulled over and forced him over to my car. “Shakir, it’s over,” I said. “The army has fallen, and Saddam is gone. Do you really think you can change that? What will your rifle do against those American tanks? Go home. Your mother and sisters need you.”

  He smiled at me and said, “So what if Saddam fell? You think I’m fighting for him, that I care about him? I’m fighting for Iraq, for Baghdad. Do you think these are liberators? Mr. Omar, you, of all people, should know from history that invaders are never liberators. I love Iraq, and I’m ready to die for my country if need be.”

  I tried to tell him that he could serve his country otherwise, first by protecting his family and then by helping to rebuild Iraq once all was calm and settled, but my words had no effect on him. His views were different, maybe because at his young, naïve age, his blood was boiling. I tried my best to convince him, but in the end, I couldn’t do it.

  I drove toward Fatima, making my way through the many blocked streets. I was only a few minutes away when my car started making odd noises and suddenly stopped. I got out and saw smoke pouring out from under the hood. When I popped it, I saw that my radiator was leaking; there was a big hole in it, and the car was dead. A few people helped me park it on the sidewalk, and I had to continue on foot. I ran as fast as I could, knowing Fatima was probably expecting me and wondering where I was. I ran like it was the last day of my life, and I didn’t stop once. I had to make good use of my adrenaline, because if I stopped I would not be able to continue. By the time I got there, I was breathless. I kicked their front door open, and Fatima came running. Her girls were crying, and I couldn’t blame them. The gunfire was deafening and terrifying, even for me.

  “Grab your most important stuff. We have to leave now!” I said.

  I carried two handbags while she held her kids. We mo
ved carefully down the streets, knowing any wrong turn might be our last. It was madness. People were running in all directions, some screaming and others crying in the chaos. An hour later, we reached one of the bridges that would take us to my home. A few cars passed by, but one old man and his wife stopped and offered us a ride to the other side of the bridge. From there, it was only a ten-minute walk to my place, and we made it safely.

  My mother came running and hugged me first.

  I looked at Fatima. “Take care of them,” I said to my mother, “and please don’t say anything now. We’ll talk later.”

  My mother hugged the twins, and they all went inside.

  Fatima managed to get in contact with someone who lived near Ibrahim’s house. She told them to send word to him that they were all fine and were staying with a friend. Her ex was staying on the outskirts of Baghdad. He called later and promised to come within a few days, once the roads were open and safer.

  Apart from all the looting, everything was as normal as could be expected for a country that had just lost a war and was without a formal government in place. Saddam’s palaces were left empty, and even the tiles were stolen or damaged. Banks were robbed, right down to the last dinar, and ministries were burned to the ground. Our historical remnants and museums were robbed, and over 3,000 irreplaceable pieces were missing. To hell with the money lost; what saddened me the most was the damage to those historical artifacts and landmarks. Things that had belonged to our great ancestors were gone, maybe forever. Saddam was part of Iraq for over three decades, and what was left of his regime should have been preserved. Even though many did not share my mindset, I felt our history should not have been tampered with, war or not.

  Within weeks after the fall, a U.S.-supervised, transitional government was formed. Unfamiliar faces now ruled the people, and exiles who had been away from Iraq for decades now controlled the fate of the country. That was the first postwar mistake. The second was the dissolution of the Iraqi Army and anything related to the Baath Party. Within weeks, millions of Iraqis from all paths of life were seen as outsiders, including doctors, engineers, teachers, and men and women who held various degrees. Not every Baathist was a criminal, and not every person associated with the army was bad. Nevertheless, in the end, they all shared the same fate.