Arabian Autographs: Iraq Reminiscences
Explosions in Iraq. American and British troops patrolling the streets... To most of the world, Iraq is another grim news bulletin, one more dire headline. But real people are involved in the present sad imbroglio. Our columnist Angela Townsend knows some of them. Knows their kindness, their generosity. And she worries about what might be happening to them.
This straight-from-the-heart account of her visit to Baghdad should be read by all those politicians who are never likely to visit the country, yet they are making decisions that affect the lives of ordinary Iraqis.
Prior to the current imbroglio that grips Iraq in its strangled embrace, I visited this historic land, once considered the world’s centre for scholars and knowledge.
It was July 2002 and my husband and I were about to return to Australia after six months working in Bahrain. Amer had not been back to his homeland since leaving in 1992 and could not go home without seeing his family in Baghdad.
When he left, he didn’t know he would never see his father again - he died six years later – and it is now just his mother, older sister, younger brother and their families who live in western Baghdad.
We chose to make the journey by taxi from Amman, Jordan, which turned out to be an interesting, if slightly terrifying, experience.
Our driver was an antiquated Jordanian whom we later discovered was smuggling cartons of cigarettes into Iraq, tucked neatly beneath a panel in the boot. This was not something I had expected and I worried that if he was caught, he would accuse us of being the ‘importers’.
However, after going through formalities at the border, including the mandatory Aids test, we were once again on our way.
Our exhausteddriver kept dropping off to sleep at the wheel and, after a particularly hair raising encounter with a huge truck, my husband, rather firmly, ‘offered’ to drive.
A warm welcome awaited us at dawn when we arrived on Amer’s mother’s doorstep and the next two weeks saw relatives flock from around the country to see us for a few short hours. Rather embarrassingly, we were showered with gifts and treated like royalty. Invitations for dinner or coffee were overwhelming. Iraqis are renowned for their generosity.
We visited an immaculately presented aunt who lived in an upmarket area near one of Saddam’s palaces. She told me of the time during the first Gulf War when a wayward American missile landed in her street, exploding and killing an entire family.
After copious amounts of tea we bought tickets for the ‘Saddam Tower’ nearby – a slightly smaller version of the Sydney tower – and, after my camera was temporarily impounded at the front desk, enjoyed panoramic views of the city from the top.
Thousands of pale, flat-topped houses speckled with satellite dishes faded into the distance while the ancient Tigris wound its way through the centre. Patches of palms dotted the burnt landscape, tiny oases amongst the sprawling network of roads.
At the base of the tower stood an unexploded American missile with a plaque attached extolling the virtues of Iraq’s ruler.
One place I am glad I got to experience was the Baghdad Museum. Amer and I spent half a day wandering through some of the oldest exhibits in the world; early coins, potteries, colourful mosaics, gold statues, tools and figurines. While some of the items were replicated after being ‘removed’ by the English and Europeans years earlier, many items were the real thing.
When I saw the looting and destruction of the museum on the news the following year I couldn’t contain my sadness and anger – the Americans had the oil offices well protected but simply didn’t care about the priceless and irreplaceable artefacts of the museum.
The hospitals fared as badly, with many doctors unable to help men, women and children who may have survived with access to medications that were looted or destroyed.
I went on a day trip to Kerbala with the family and wandered through the cool, peaceful interior of the mosque that would later see so much death and destruction. A party of men carried a mock coffin in procession, mourning the death of a famous Islamic figure killed there so many centuries ago. The very spot where he died was marked, sending cold shivers down my spine.
On to the ruins of Babylon, the site of the Jewish prisoners who were later released by the Persians of Iran. I was impressed with the entrance gate with its bas relief animal figures, which turned out to be a smaller-scale replica of the original.
The site was undergoing massive rebuilding which disappointed me. The walls were newly plastered and stood tall and strong, but my interests lay in momentary glimpses through the fenced-off areas of the original, ancient crumbling walls.
My most poignant memory belongs to 13-year-old Sara, a distant relative of the family who lived outside Baghdad. Sara visited us with her parents and two younger brothers and was shy at first but eventually spoke in faltering English, her big brown eyes showing an inner maturity beyond her young age. She told me she was going to be a doctor - her mother was justifiably proud – all her school marks were in the 90s.
She kissed me on both cheeks when it was time to go and we said goodbye. Once everyone was outside, she reappeared beside me and silently pressed something into my hand. It was the small ring she had been wearing, with a shiny red stone.
“Shukrun, Sara,” I whispered.
But she was already gone.
It was obviously all she had and her generosity moved me more than anything else during my stay.
I have not heard from her since that day and can only hope Sara and her family have remained in safe hands and not become part of the invading forces’ growing list of ‘collateral damage’.
