March 20th 2003 – Awaiting Invasion

Malik was proud of his mother. He guessed everyone was proud of who their mother was. But he was especially proud. Paula cut a glamorous figure in his neighbourhood. Her looks, even in her forties made her stand out from the crowd. Her skin was still white, despite years in the heat. And blonde hair! She looked like no one else he’d ever seen. There was a reason for that of course. She was the only European he’d ever seen. Man or woman.

Paula had been in Iraq a long time. Her early years had been spent in Oldham, a town in the north of England. She had met Malik’s father when he was at Manchester University, studying Ancient History. Even though she missed her home and family she was settled in Iraq, content. She’d had three strapping, clever sons, Gabir, Hussein and Malik.

Although she probably wouldn’t even admit it to herself, Malik was her favourite. He was the baby of the family, over ten years younger than his brothers. She was closest to him and loved his interest in her stories about her home country. She’d taught him English. Even though she said so herself, he was good. Fluent almost.

Malik had enjoyed, a happy, secure childhood. Like everyone in the city he was aware of Mosul’s great history. Their river, the Tigris, was the lifeblood that supported one of the great early empires. Their home was the site of the ancient city of Nineveh, two hundred and fifty miles north of Baghdad. Mosul was a key contributor to the cradle of civilisation.

It had become one of the most important cities in Mesopotamia. A vital stop on the caravan route between the Mediterranean sea and India. The city had been a key part of the Muslim empire during the crusades until it was captured from the great ruler Badr ad-Din Lu’lu’, by the Mongols.

In some of their rare moments together his father had taken him around Mosul’s historic mosques. The Umayyad mosque was the oldest in the city, dating from the seventh century. The only remaining structure was the fifty metre high minaret. And it was leaning markedly to one side. But still, his father’s enthusiasm brought the history of the ancient building to life. Hakim had a secure job at the great City Museum, which had artefacts revered and admired throughout the Arab world.

Malik saw a lot of his large, extended family. They all lived close. Most of them were intimately connected with the ruling Baath party. All of the men had jobs of various rank throughout the local civil service.

Saddam Hussein had been leader of the Baath Party and Iraq since 1979 when the president had resigned. His organisation had a highly developed, rigid hierarchical structure. The local cells ensured that services were provided and security was maintained. The Baath party promulgated the idea of Arab secularism and under Saddam, women had new freedoms, like the right to a decent education and the legal system did not follow strict, religious Sharia law. To Malik, Iraq seemed like a great place to live.

The only problem that appeared on Malik’s horizon was the vague, uncomfortable feeling that his secure way of life was vulnerable. Although he couldn’t remember the details, many stories had reached him of the casualties in the bloody war with neighbouring Iran. And he was distinctly aware that there had been some dispute concerning Kuwait, around the time of his birth.

Although only thirteen, Malik had become used to living with the signs of military might. Saddam’s fifth army was garrisoned in the city. One of Malik’s uncles had joined the officer corps at the base. Mosul was inside the US enforced no fly zone, the northern one, set at the 36th parallel. So he was accustomed to seeing US planes flying overhead. Occasionally, Malik would see one of the city’s anti-aircraft batteries on the street, and he would hear the deafening roar of the massive guns as they opened fire.

However, as 2003 had dawned, a more intense sense of trepidation had begun to creep over his home city. Indeed the entire country. Even at school, fear hung unspoken in the air. Everyone knew that something very bad was going to happen. It felt to Malik as though the whole of Iraq had received a diagnosis of a terminal illness. But none of his fellow students discussed their feelings on the subject. They were just too nervous and maybe a little afraid.

In many homes in Mosul, including his own, precautions were being taken in the case of an assault on the city itself. Malik’s house was piled high with bottled water, hoarded against the possibility of losing their regular supply. The bottles vying for space with the tables, books, chairs, and carpets that littered their living space. All the family spent many hours in the main room and it displayed more than a passing resemblance to a bazaar. A collection of old family boxes and trunks of all sizes had been moved and dumped in a corner.

The young boy had heard his parents on the phone to their friends. Not the detail of the conversation, just the tone. It was grave, serious and with a touch of desperation thrown in. Like they were commiserating about bad news. Filled with nerves about the dreadful events that were destined for all their futures.

The TV had been playing constantly for the last week. Tuned to the Syrian news channel. The noise had started to blend into the background. Suddenly at 8 am that morning, Hakim hushed the rest of the family and turned up the volume. The announcer gave the news that they all knew was coming. Operation Iraqi Freedom had begun.

The room fell silent, apart from the newsreader’s excitable tones on the TV. Everyone was locked away with their own worries, dealing with intense, disturbing feelings. Malik ran to his mother. She hugged him absentmindedly. Buried deep inside her thoughts. His older brothers remained aloof and silent. Their cigarette smoke hung stagnant in the room, shrouding them in hazy clouds. They were lying, still, solemn and quiet. Malik couldn’t fathom what was going through their minds at the best of times.

And through the last few tense weeks Gabir and Hussein had seemed especially distant. They were never exactly garrulous. But in normal times, they seemed to tolerate their younger sibling. However, they certainly didn’t shower him with affection. But he could have done with a bit more from them lately. As the storm clouds gathered around him, Malik had been desperate for some reassurance.

But he had got nothing from his brothers, and his father was more preoccupied than usual. His mother was the only one to whom he could turn. She discussed with him why she thought the Americans were coming. Tried to give him some insight into the background of what was happening to them. Described how Papa Saddam was viewed in America and across the western world. And she listened to his concerns.

He was grateful that he’d been able to confide his feelings to someone. Because there was no doubt at all that Malik was scared. Actually that wasn’t an adequate description. He was totally and utterly petrified. Were troops coming to Mosul? Were the Kurds? Would they get bombed from planes? Targeted by missiles? The fear of the unknown was both overwhelming and all consuming.

The first day of the American invasion, Malik heard the staccato bursts of the anti-aircraft fire. Malik didn’t go far from his house. There was something comforting in wrapping himself in familiar surroundings. The next day prayers were said in Mosul as usual. But nothing else happened. However, that changed. It changed a lot.

As night fell, there were reports on TV and the BBC radio of massive attacks on Baghdad. Something the Americans were calling shock and awe. Then four hours of bombs fell on Mosul. Malik was shocked and in awe.

The air raids continued day after day. The situation was deteriorating fast. Often there was no water or electricity, and reliable news was hard to find. Rumours were everywhere. Malik was too frightened to go out. His brothers weren’t. But when they returned, they were full of horror stories of looting and indiscriminate killings. Malik was not sure whether to believe them. It didn’t seem possible to anyone that was used to the vice like control of the Baath Party.