Sitting here at a 24-hour Internet cafe in the relative calm of the Shmeisani district listening to Tracy Chapman ("Talkin' bout a Revolution"), it feels like we are now in a distinctly different time, as though the swirling, rushing madness of Baghdad existed hundreds of years ago and now the city of Baghdad, like Ur, Babylon, Nimrud and other great cities before it, has been reclaimed by the silent desert sands.
But the sounds of that city still echo in my head -- nontangible but compelling proof that we were indeed there. The mad honking in the street, the gunfire, the deep, friendly revving sound of generator engines rumbling to life, the faint chant of the muezzin drifting on the wind five times a day. The voices are there too. I can almost hear the chatter, the animated discussions that often sound like shouting, the alveloar snap of the tongue, kind of a Tsk sound, when we've said something stupid or wrong.
But mostly I remember the laughter, often tear-inducing laughter, with our guide and friend Abu Abdullah about the silliness of life in a city under occupation, about the wide culture gap between the Americans and their Iraqi wards. The fact that we always seemed to interupt ministry apparatchiks right in the middle of their doing nothing -- they were often found sitting smoking at their bare desks in empty rooms as though they were waiting for us to show up so they could declare they were unavailable.
We went looking for Dr. Kareem, the electricity commissioner, at the Ministry of Oil maybe eight times. We never got clearance to see him, probably because we were freelancers but we did get permission to visit a chief engineer by the name of Nahfa'a in the Baghdad electricity dispersement office, some five miles away. But when we go to the office looking for Nahfa'a, we are told by Muhendis Nabil, sitting in his bare office, that Nahfa'a is back at the electricty commission in a meeting with Dr. Kareem. Suddenly I was seized by the twisted idea of taking Muhendis Nabil and slapping him on his office chair-fattened ass with my legal pad until he screamed for mercy, or more likely, for more. As we were walking out, Abu Adullah said a very wise thing. We had pleaded to this man, this muhendis, for pity's sake, for the people's sake, tell us what is up with the power outages, man. He picked up an official-looking piece of paper from his desk and waived it in the air. I am not allowed to talk -- only Dr. Kareem can talk or give permission. "What would you do if you were in my shoes? I've been to see Dr. Kareem like 20 times?" OK, so I lied, but eight is bad enough. "It is not my responsibility," he said. As we were walking down the stairs, I could see the look of disgust on Abu Abdullah's face. "This man, he is the bitch of chaos." That means Muhendis Nabil will not combat the chaos that has gripped this city. He'll get into bed with it instead.
Many say that these do-little bureaucrats were mostly lower level Ba'athist functionaries under the old regime who got their big chance when Bremer fired their bosses under his deBa'athification scheme. Sabah, whose genetically modified dog Rocky is probably still out on the streets terrorizing the people of Baghdad (see "Sabah's Dog"), was angry. "They took away the top ones and moved the bottom ones to the top. But there is no change. Still they are the Ba'athies."
Our only consolation? After a series of rejections, after driving hither and yon in the 120 plus heat these half baked notions seemed like the funniest things.
Of course, in the end, it's not all that funny. Adam and I are just tourists here. We always had the option of cutting bait if things got too hairy. But the Iraqis, like Abu Abdullah, are stuck there forced to bear the Venusian heat without air conditioning, forced to eat semi-spoiled food because refrigeration is often unavailable, forced to risk daytime kidnapping and carjackings, which are a daily occurance in the capital. That's leaving out the fact that the CPA government has barred virtually itself inside Saddam's palaces, luxury hotels and ex-government offices and has in many ways mimicked the actions of the dictator himself.
So we've left it all behind. We leave wiser, but more frustrated, with a sense that things are far from being finished, especially in terms of our work.
We leave with the sounds of Baghdad still ringing discordantly in our head. So much so in fact that in our Amman hotel the night before we leave, we are certain we hear gunfire. We rush out to the balcony and see that it's only the Safeway across the street shooting off fireworks into the sky. Perhaps they are celebrating some new Western product launch or perhaps they are celebrating the fact that Diana Karzon, a Jordanian, has just won the pan-Arab version of American Idol on Mustaqbal or Future TV. Either way, Iraq feels like a million miles away, in a place where they don't have fireworks -- only real bullets.
Brandon, this is errific evocative writing!!
Thank you both for sharing your gifts and hard work with us stay-at-home types. Love, Malone