The Day Before the War

Fourteen people live in Yasser's house in Saddam City:
his parents, his brothers and sisters, his aunt and
several cousins, nieces and nephews and his
grandmother. She is paralysed, and he gently lifted
her, sitting on her bed, propped her on pillows and
spoke with her. She says she's not scared of the war.

Yasser shares a room with his cousin Mustapha, a
student of physics at Baghdad University. The boys
have two posters on their wall: one of Manchester
United and one from the film Braveheart. "It's about
freedom," Mustapha explained. There is an easy
affection between them all: the younger children are
cuddled and stroked and there is pride in their voices
as they introduce one another. Yasser's mum says
they've been trying hard to make the kids feel safe
and to reassure them.

Zainab and the baby played in the car while Yasser
showed us the sacks of rice and flour they have stored
for the war: the food ration for March to July, and
the well at the front of the house in the chicken pen,
a walled enclosure with about eight birds who mainly
shuffle about in the hedges. They have a Kalashnikov
in the house for defence. I asked who they expected to
need to defend themselves against - Americans, the
Iraqi army or looters. A shrug. Anyone who threatens
their home.

The boys say they will carry on studying, though
Yasser's school and Mustapha's college are already
closed. Yasser's sister lives there with her husband,
who is studying translation, and her daughter Zainab.
The house is ramshackle from the outside, but within
it is spacious and comfortable - sofas occupy one
corner and two walls, while rugs and cushions frame
another wall. Filled with family members, it's the
warmest place I've ever seen. When we left they gave
us gifts - a handmade basket and a copper jug.

"Insha'Allah we will see you again soon, in a better
circumstance," Yasser's mother said, through Faadi
translating. They were gorgeous. I wanted to hold onto
every one of them, store up every minute in their home
and re run it a dozen times.

People living fourteen to a house in extended families
is common in Saddam City, which is why its population
is so dense. As well, Carel de Rooy from UNICEF said
that people have been moving into the district from
Shi'a villages all over the country, especially
throughout the duration of the sanctions, when the
rest of central and southern Iraq has been even poorer
than Baghdad. Consequently no one knows how many
people live here.

In Saddam City the shops were still open, unlike most
of Baghdad, and the market was busy with horses and
carts and people among the stalls with tattered raffia
shades over the goods. Traffic was light in Baghdad
and a 40-minute journey on an ordinary day took only
15 today.

Like Yasser, Thoraya wasn't at school today. She's 17,
born in 1985, during the war with Iran. She was five
years old in the last Gulf War. Her mum remembers both
her and her brother Usama being terrified and crying
during the bombing, and taking them into rooms with no
windows - sometimes sitting in the bathroom with them
- for fear of imploding glass. Thoraya's friend's
family's house collapsed in the bombing, killing
everyone except the father. The buildings now are in a
worse state than they were in 1991, Thoraya's dad
explained, because a lot have been weakened by
bombings and most people haven't had money to spare
for maintenance in twelve and a half years under
sanctions.

Thoraya loves Anthony Hopkins. Silence of the Lambs is
one of her favourite films and she likes Charlotte
Bronte as well, especially Jane Eyre. She writes poems
and has posters of Princess Di on her wall. Her dad
did a masters degree and PhD in chemistry at Essex
University and her mum lived there for two years after
marrying her dad, so the whole family speaks excellent
English, maintained by watching English language films
in the long years since they last met a native
speaker. "My Fair Lady" they know off by heart. Her
cousin is a translator at the airport, but as there
are no flights any more she wasn't at work.

Faroukh's school was open, but only the teachers were
inside, and Leila, the beautiful cleaner whose grey
hair shows just at the front beneath her scarf. A
crowd of his mates were at the gate clowning, hugging
each other, singing football chants and declaring AC
Milan to be the greatest. No, no, I assured them.
Brighton and Hove Albion were far better, if a little
less famous and wealthy. Then I stumbled over a mound
of sand in the road and gave them something to laugh
at.

"We don't know when we will see each other again or if
we will at all," said Faroukh with a shrug.

Drinking tea with a Lebanese photographer friend we
found ourselves the subject of attention from the
usual men in suits. He and Julia started discussing
the properties of his two cameras, the respective
merits of Lika and Nikon cameras, and our companions
got tired of us and went to look at the demonstration
passing the door - yet another on its way from the
coach drop off to the UN building. I long for the time
when the people can tear down those portraits, but my
soul aches with the bitter knowledge of all that the
US and UK have done to harm the people of Iraq over
twenty-odd years.

As if it was the city of Baghdad that was the problem.
As if it wasn't the idea that you can support and fund
and arm someone who you know minces his political
opponents and destroys whole towns of people and
that's OK because he's buying your weapons and selling
you oil and starting wars with your enemies, with your
help, not knowing you're helping the other side as
well, covertly. As if it wasn't the idea that once
that person is outside of your control you can besiege
the people of the entire country, denying them
adequate food, even despite a distribution system
"second to none" (UNOHCI) and after twelve and a half
years of suffering and death, because it didn't work,
you can flatten their country, "shock and awe" them
into surrendering with Cruise missiles.

Jeremy phoned and said the bombers were on their way.
It's tonight. Some people didn't believe it would be
tonight. The 48 hour deadline ends at 4am. Ahmed came
and knocked on the door of our apartment and told us
the same thing: the bombers are coming for us. He told
me he was sorry. He shook my hand, held my shoulder
and told me he was sorry.

A siren sounded and my heart flipped, but then
followed the familiar horn sound of a Red Crescent
ambulance. Going where, I wondered. What accident,
what illness could possibly befall you in the hour
before the war? It's 3:30 am.