Before I was due to leave Baghdad in the spring of 1988 to take up work in Boston I gave a party in the apartment that I shared with some nursing colleagues. Food was always a matter of inventiveness and using whatever could be found in the local shops and markets. I managed to secure some tins of salmon which I placed whole on a plate surrounding them with slices of lemon sprinkled with parsley. A variety of salads with ingredients I bought in the vegetable market at Kerada were accompanied by rounds of warm flat bread that I bought from local women who sold their homemade bread in the street. A platter of fresh fruit included apples, oranges, dates, figs and the succulent sweet lemons I had first tasted from Abdulahad’s garden in Mosul. As usual at such gatherings there was no shortage of alcoholic beverages which was available for us to buy in a few outlets including a duty-free shop in Baghdad. Colleagues from the hospital and a group of the archaeologist we had befriended chatted and danced into the early hours of the morning. As the last of our guests went home a friend stayed behind for what would be our last night together. I slept fitfully and arose the following morning to a living room in disarray. Just as we had returned it to some order other friends arrived along with Brenda, one of my Irish colleagues from the hospital. We gathered up the remaining food, selected a bottle of straw-colored wine and prepared a picnic for a trip into the desert.
I made a pot of the Earl Grey tea I had recently bought in Amman where I had gone to sit for some preliminary exams which would enable me to work in the United States. The tea was a welcomed treat for my English visitors. Feeling a little delicate and cold from lack of sleep, I warmed myself in a heavy sweater which had been hand- knitted by my mother, its sapphire blue background intricately woven with fair-isle patterns of red, yellow and green. Andrew, one of the young archaeologists in the group, had permission to excavate an old Khan and was making the trip to establish its exact location in the desert area west of Najaf. The remains of the Khan stood on what was once a desert crossing on the route from Kerbala to Mecca in Saudi Arabia. The draughtsman of the group, a tall good humored young man with a head of untamed blond hair which fell to his shoulders, was also named Andrew. They were accompanied by Heather, a quiet serious young woman with a friendly personality. The six of us just about managed to fit comfortably into the old blue and cream Land Rover that had been driven all the way from England for such expeditions.
The spring sunshine brightened our flagging spirits as we made our way out through busy morning traffic. Having negotiated his way onto the road leading south to Kerbala my companion handed over the wheel to Andrew who was do the excavation and then sat behind encouraging him as he made his way through the unruly traffic on this his first encounter with the hair-raising antics of Iraqi drivers. We passed miles of desert wasteland broken only by rundown country villages, whose main streets were lined with hucksters’ shops. Further from the city the monotonous landscape was alleviated by an occasional lush patch of green, where clumps of date-palms sheltered sheep and frolicking children who played close to their mud brick homes or outside the gates of flat roofed houses.
Just eighty kilometers from Baghdad, the gilded copper dome of Hussein’s Mosque rose towards the heavens like a golden globe. Kerbala was the site of the battle where Ali’s youngest son, born to Fatima daughter of the prophet Mohammad, was killed by Umayyad troops in 680AD. Each year Hussein’s martyrdom is re-enacted during the Ashura pageant that takes place on the 10th day of Muharram. In the early eighteenth-century during Ottoman Rule, Kerbala replaced the Persian city of Isfahan as the main center of Shia scholarship. Eighty kilometers further south was Najaf the burial place of Ali. Kerbala and Najaf are two of the most important centres of Shia pilgrimage.
Following the death of the Prophet Mohamad, Abu Bakr his closest companion was elected first Caliph or Khalifa. His role was to lead the Muslim community by the word of God as revealed to Mohammad. These revelations later formed the Koran and the Hadiths and Sunna, or words and doings of the Prophet. Abu Bakr accompanied Mohammad on the Hegira the flight from Mecca to Medina that resulted from the persecutions against early Muslims in Mecca. Abu Bakr, whose daughter Aisha became one of the Prophets wives in his later years, is known as the first of the four rightly guided Caliphs or Rashidun. His successors were Umar, Uthman and Ali. Following Mohamad’s example these four caliphs led simple lives and maintained the same emphasis on justice for all which was central to Mohamad’s philosophy. .
As we passed this holiest of Shia shrines, we caught tantalizing glimpses of its beautiful tiles whose colors derived from natural dyes. We drove on through busy streets, past the orange and palm groves on the outskirts of the town and continued down the road towards Najaf, the sacred site of Ali’s tomb. Our journey would not take us as far as Najaf, but I remember how close we had come to this place when I later learned of the burial there of a female Iraqi Obstetrician who was brutally murdered along with members of her staff by Saddam’s troops as they went about their work in a Baghdad Clinic. This woman who had delivered some of Saddam’s own children had proved too outspoken in her opposition of the Baathist government. Such bravery may not count with tyrants but she and the countless others who stood up to his regime must not be forgotten when the history books are written.
Between Kerbala and Najaf we took a right turn into the flat desert expanse. Somewhere in this area were the ruins of Ukhaidir an Abbasids palace, believed to have been built in the late 8th century. Gertrude Bell on first encountering, the ruins rising from the desert, thought it to be a work of nature. She considered its majestic walls and towers the most memorable sight she had ever seen. Its architecture was based on the fortified palaces of the Sassanians. Despite its splendor, it did not entirely replace traditional tents, which were still used in winter to protect the occupants from the cold desert winds that howled through the great rooms of the palace. Around the same time as the palace is thought to have been built by an Abbasid Prince, the Caliph Mansur sponsored the building of a round city in Baghdad which also reflected the Sassanian tradition, but unfortunately none of the round city has survived.
Much as I would love to have followed Gertrude’s trail, that was not the purpose of the day’s visit, and I turned my attention to looking for the outline of the ruins we had come to see. Eventually it emerged like a somber shadow in contrast to the brightness of the spring sunshine. Spurred on with the exhilaration of a pilgrim whose destination was in sight, Andrew rushed on to meet the object of his desire. Arriving at the ruin, we abandoned the jeep and strolled around the crumbling walls of the Khan. The interior rectangle was covered by a layer of downy grass dotted here and there with tiny orchid- like flowers. As Andrew set about measuring the enclosure, I wondered what secrets the impending dig might uncover.
I imagined the traffic of humans and pack animals that once gathered here on route across the desert. Zubaida, granddaughter of the Caliph Mansour and favored wife of Haroun al-Rashid, had provided resting places with watering wells for pilgrims along the hazardous route, thus reducing the ever-present likelihood of death by dehydration. Perhaps this Khan would prove to be one such establishment. I envisaged a courtyard with stables on all sides, where camels, horses and donkeys lay resting while pilgrims slept in the dormitories above, dreaming of the Kabbah and Mecca.
When the chilly desert air whetted our appetites, we spread a white cloth over the grass. I was reminded of Gertrude Bell who liked to dine in style no matter how remote her night camp. Unlike that late Victorian explorer, we had no silverware to grace our picnic table. Salmon and salads from the previous evening disappeared from plates like a passing summer breeze, washed down with plastic tumblers of straw-colored wine. Gertrude, I imagined would more likely have sat demurely on her woven rug nursing a crystal glass of fine vintage.
“The only thing missing is a cigarette,” said my companion bemoaning the fact that no one had thought to bring any.
Tired from a late night we stretched out, and as happy as well-fed nomads let the silence of the desert embrace us. Awakened later by a chill wind we gathered the remains of our picnic and started the journey home. On the way we passed a carpet of blue desert flowers that surrounding an abandoned building. Hoping to find our way back to the roadway before darkness fell, we drove back in the general direction we had taken on the inward journey. In the distance we spotted a large white building which we had not noticed previously and took a left turn which would lead us back to the main road. Just as we reached the roadway we were stopped at a checkpoint by a small group of rifle-wielding soldiers.
My companion communicated with the soldiers in Arabic while a thin faced man in his thirties, his mouth hidden behind a black Baathist style moustache, jumped into our jeep. Squashing the occupants of the front seat, he gave orders to drive back into the desert. A second jeep followed behind as we were escorted back into the darkening desert from where we had just come. Taking care not to agitate the new occupant we fell silent. Despite my fears, I knew that it was not the time to panic. Feeling disorientated in the darkness we arrived at a place where we were ordered to stop. Pushing open the door of the jeep, our unwelcome guest ordered our driver to get out and the two disappeared into the night.
Headlights from the jeep behind shone blindingly into the interior of the Land Rover where we waited motionless and silent. Through the silence I could heard Brenda in the seat beside me praying softly.
“I bet he’s in there drinking tea and smoking fags,” I mused, to the muffled sound of laughter from the back of the jeep.
“I don’t think it’s any laughing matter,” said Brenda, overcome with fear and losing all traces of her normal confidence and good humour.
Although my own fears lay lurking heavily, I suspected my companion was inside using his considerable charm to get us out of this dilemma. If he managed to enchant me, a few Iraqi military shouldn’t prove too difficult, I thought.
Eventually Saddam’s henchman returned and with slightly more deference ushered us inside a building, where a uniformed officer directed us into a pleasantly furnished room. There he sat at one side of a large highly polished table, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. We were all invited to sit as a more senior officer entered the room and placed himself at the head of the table.
A broad smile crept across his face as he surveyed the disheveled group of foreigners before him.
“Would you like some tea?” he asked in perfect English,
“Yes please,” we respond unanimously, delighted at this hospitable reception.
“I believe one of you speaks Arabic,” he said, getting down to business, and ordering one of his staff to organize tea.
Speaking in Arabic, my companion explained the purpose of our visit and to prove his bona fides Andrew produced from his pocket the letter of permission to excavate the site.
“You should have presented yourselves to the authorities at Najaf so that we could be made aware of your presence,” the officer scolded Andrew apologized profusely for this oversight and the apology gracefully accepted we were treated to a welcome cup of tea.
“Would you like to stay the night?” enquired the officer at the head of the table seemingly happy at the prospect of having some company in this deserted post.
“Unfortunately, one of us is flying out early tomorrow morning,” we explained thanking him for his kind invitation.
“Why not stay for dinner”, he enticed, but much as we would love to it was simply not possible.
Finishing the refreshing tea, we made our farewells and with our former captor settled in happily beside us, drove back to the checkpoint.
“Saddam Hussein good” he said, looking around the jeep with a sinister smile and nodding his head like a toy dog to elicit our agreement.
“Yes” we say half-heartedly, “Saddam Hussein good”.
“Ayatollah Khomeni bad”, he went on, determined to befriend us now that we had proved acceptable to his superiors.
“Ayatollah Khomeni bad,” we chant in unison, just to shut him up.
He reminds me now of the news coverage throughout the invasion of Iraq, George Bush “good”, Saddam Hussein “bad”. The only differences being that we were now listening to the words of a lowly army recruit who really didn’t know any different.
Safely delivered back to his checkpoint his duty now done, he wished us as-salam-u- alekum and waved us off like newfound friends.
“Officious little fucker”, I blurted with relief as our driver stepped on the accelerator and we hit the road for home. Glancing in the front mirror, I caught the twinkling of a smile at the corner of his eyes.
Back at my apartment I busied myself with packing as my companion made some tea. Only three week earlier I had been congratulating myself that I would be leaving with no regrets and my heart still intact. Now I felt fragile and confused, no longer sure of my plans. We sat locked in a long final embrace. And then like sleepwalkers we drifted out onto the balcony from where I waved goodbye and watched as he emerged from the lift and walked out of my life without a backward glance.
The hospital transport van picked me up at some ungodly hour next morning. Arriving at the airport I went through the usual long-drawn-out inspection of papers and baggage. Taken to one side by one of the women I was ushered into a curtained booth where her surly-faced colleague made a half-hearted attempt at a body search. Rifling through my hand luggage she looked at its prosaic contents. Nothing here worth taking her languid look implied, as she imperiously dismissed me from her domain. As we sat on the plane waiting for take-off, I heard the familiar thud of a missile falling somewhere off in the distance. For a moment time stood still as people prayed quietly for the safety of family and friends left behind. As we waited for the all clear, the Iraqi hostesses served breakfast of tea and roast-beef sandwiches. Never has a beef sandwich tasted so good.
