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A house hit by a US missile. Photograph by Alan Pogue
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Forgotten,
too, are the major bombing blitzes over the years. In 1993 there
were two
massive attacks on Baghdad: one a good-bye from outgoing George
Bush Senior and the other a hello from incoming William
Jefferson Clinton. The second one killed, among others, the
talented artist Laila Al-Attar. Days later I stood by the crater
that had been her home. “When they lifted her out, she looked
like a beautiful broken doll,” a friend said quietly. Al-Attar
ran the Museum of Modern Art. She was also the artist
responsible for the mosaic face of George Bush Senior on the
steps of the Al-Rashid Hotel. The death of her and her family by
a precision guided missile can, of course, only be a freak
coincidence.
The
year 1996 saw further bombings, as did 1998. All the planners
predicted the '98 bombing would begin on February 23, “the
darkest night”: maximum cloud cover for the planes. That day I
went to interview Leila, yet another of the embargo’s victims
with a tragic tale to tell. Her large front room was empty: she
had sold all her furniture to survive and provide. As we talked,
the room filled up with neighborhood children, creeping in,
quiet as proverbial mice, sitting on the floor, watching my
every move - a stranger and foreigner was a treat in isolated
Iraq.
When I left, dusk was falling, and they followed me out to the
battered car (spare parts vetoed), about 50 of them, between
maybe 3 and 13 years old.
In 1993 there were two massive attacks on Baghdad: one a good-bye from outgoing Bush Senior and the other a hello from incoming Clinton. |
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As
we pulled away, they ran beside the car in a joyous wave,
laughing, waving, and blowing kisses. When they could no longer
keep up, I looked back: they had formed a little group in the
center of the road, still laughing, waving, and blowing kisses.
Photographer Karen Robinson and I looked at each other,
stricken, and said in unison, “We are going to bomb them
tonight…” I went back to my hotel, lay on the bed, and wept.
In
the event, public protest halted a February blitz. In December,
Prime Minister Blair stood in front of a resplendent Christmas
tree outside 10 Downing Street and announced a seasonal gift for
Iraq: a four-day onslaught on a decimated country, where nearly
half the population were under 16 years and the average
nutritional values were below those of Eritrea.
February
2000 saw another attack, another hello, from another George
Bush. An elegant school principal broke down in front of me,
encapsulating the pain and desperation: “My son is a doctor in
Washington, why are they doing this to us?” She sobbed.
Earlier, a 10-year-old pupil had told me, poignantly, “When
there is a bombing, my father goes and stands outside the gate
to protect us and our home.”
“When there is a bombing, my father goes and stands outside the gate to protect us and our home.” |
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In
July 2001, a shameful admission was extracted from Benon Sevan,
head of the United Nations Iraq Program: the money allotted for
food for Iraqis was US$100 per capita per year, less than that
allotted for the United Nation’s sniffer dogs used in
de-mining in northern Iraq.
In
spite of the grinding misery for most of the embargo years, one
event changed the national psyche. In 1999, Baghdad
International Airport re-opened, with the those of Mosul and
Basra, rebuilt with creativity and inventiveness. The United
Nations, under pressure from the United States, did all it could
to prevent international flights. Lloyd's of London mysteriously
withdrew insurance; airlines were threatened that if they flew
to Baghdad, they would be denied landing rights in the United
States. In one case - a flight from Athens to Baghdad, arranged
by former Greek First Lady, Margarita Papandreou - the United
nations demanded the names and occupations of all passengers.
Assured by the United Nations that it was entirely confidential
to them, the passengers agreed. In less than three minutes,
Madam Papandreou's phone rang: It was the US Embassy complaining
about some names on the passenger list. Like others, though, the
flight finally arrived. “There are tears in our eyes, every
time a plane lands,” remarked an Iraqi friend. Isolation had
been as grinding as deprivation.
Iraqi
Airways was integral to the national psyche. Many of its offices
stayed open during the embargo years, even though its aircraft
were stranded throughout the Middle East. International flight
manuals, too, were vetoed, so courteous staff perused August
1990 schedules and then solemnly said it might be more accurate
to telephone Jordan. With the airports opening, and a single
proud Iraqi Airways plane again flying between Mosul, Baghdad,
and Basra, the collective consciousness visibly changed, pride
and hope returned. Shop windows began to sparkle again, traders
rose at dawn and hosed the pavements, stock was dusted and
rearranged, shutters, blinds, and buildings were repainted and
refurbished, and the arts again flourished.
Francois
Dubois, heading the UN Development Program, had a passion for
Iraq equaling that of Halliday and von Sponeck. A fluent Arabic
speaker, he had spent
the
years of the Lebanese civil war there, then headed for the
complexities of Iraq. Almost single-handed, he encouraged,
funded, and advised the restoration of art galleries, sculpture
exhibits, music, and theater. Where artistic life had sunk under
the weight of everyday living, it was rekindled and nourished,
and it flourished. Few could afford to buy exhibits, but the
spirit grew again and haunting beauty was born again. Creativity
flourished at every level - inventive architecture, superb
woodwork. Iraqis were looking forward and outward again.
A
week before last year's invasion, in Mosul, I watched the joyous
flocks of birds sweep and sing across the corniche in
peach-streaked dawns and dusks. As I left for Baghdad, I jumped
at the sound of a bird of a different kind, the roar of a
low-flying aircraft, having come within minutes of annihilation
from the US and UK bombings on several occasions. The driver and
translator laughed and pointed skywards with a tangible pride.
“It is ours, ours,” they said as the sun glinted on the
great white form with its green Iraqi Airways insignia.
Less
than a month later, I sat in London with a sociology professor
from Mosul University as she drew her breath in horror as
Saddam's statue toppled, his head pulled along the street. It
was not the destruction of Saddam's image, but of what - like
many statues and monuments built in the mists of time - made
Mesopotamia. It was destruction of future history. Flicking
channels, we watched as Mosul University, Museum, and Library
were looted, ransacked, burned. “No, no, not my university,
not my home…” She was inconsolable and incredulous. Then
came the scenes of Baghdad Airport: “secured,” destroyed,
with a great white broken bird, the green insignia just visible,
lying on the runway. The airport immediately became a symbol of
repression, not freedom, Iraq's own Guantanamo, with the
imprisoned largely unaccounted for. Reports are that 300 people
are also buried there, equally unaccounted for. The great,
regal, centuries- old palm groves that fringed the road and
perimeters have been bulldozed, like Palestine's olives.
There
is a memorial in Basra to Iraq Airways. It reads, “Iraqi
Airways - 1947-1990.” Iraqi Airways rose from the ashes, like
Iraq itself has done after so many invasions. Both surely will
again. In the phoenix year of Iraqi Airways, I gained an
interview with Tareq Aziz on behalf of Middle East
International. It included a modern history lesson:
“Iraqis are very quick to revolt, as they did in 1921, 1931,
1947, 1957 and 1968,” he said (neatly omitting the
US-encouraged uprising of 1991). Watching ominous recent
“liberation”-linked events, one is tempted to add “and
2004.”
Ironically,
it is the residents of Sadr City, who were bribed by the
Americans to fill the square as the statue fell, who are now
leading the uprising against them. Viceroy Bremer and the
planners of this dangerous, feckless oil grab would have done
well to have read up on Iraq's modern history.
Continue>>
Felicity
Arbuthnot is
a journalist and activist who has visited Iraq on numerous
occasions since the 1991Gulf War. She has written and broadcast
widely on Iraq, her coverage of which was nominated for several
awards. She was also Senior Researcher for John
Pilger's award-winning
documentary - Paying
the Price Killing the Children of Iraq
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