Through Saddam’s Looking Glass

BAGHDAD — In Iraq, execution is often enough the punishment for those who are heard speaking ill of Saddam Hussein. That certainly makes it tough for a stranger, especially one who does not speak Arabic, to find out what the Iraqi elites are thinking. My recent trip to Baghdad thus began as what seemed like a hopeless mission. But after a couple of days here, I realized that I had a common political language with most of the Iraqis I met. Indeed, my firsthand experience of 25 years in a communist totalitarian state (my native Poland) proved to be a great prep school for understanding the situation of Saddam Hussein’s subjects.

The Polish dictators and most of their East European peers are gone, swept away in revolutions and elections, while Saddam is here, defiant as ever, the undisputed, despotic leader of Iraq.

But just how undisputed is he? That was the question that intrigued me as I set out on a trip that coincided with Saddam’s 60th birthday. I looked for answers among the intelligentsia, the same sort of people who had been in the forefront of East European troublemaking.

My modus operandi was simple. Those I met would say, “Oh, you’re from Poland? How is Poland?”

“Now fine,” I would say. “But the last 40 years of totalitarian regime . . . “ and I would tell my newfound friends about this or that craziness in our spook-infected life. If there ever was an icebreaker, this was it. My companions felt that since I had experienced hell--a lesser version than theirs, but hell all the same--they could expect from me understanding and compassion with their situation and their fate. I was a soulmate in the business of comparative studies, not a visitor on a political safari.

Iraq offers a lot of material for comparative despotism studies. Take the Writer, whom I met on a Friday in Saray Souk, embarrassed to be a sidewalk merchant. There, in front of him on the plastic sheet, was his entire personal library, all for sale. He said that he was offered a job at a government newspaper but turned it down: “One has to maintain some dignity, right?”

On top of the embarrassment comes the pain of having to sell parts of himself. “This morning someone wanted my ‘Divine Comedy’ and offered me a lot for it. I just could not see it go, although it was a very good price and I need money to feed my two children.”

How much was the offer? “A lot: 10,000 Iraqi dinars.” I made a quick calculation: $10.

We were having tea at an outdoor stand near Saray Street and the Poet, a friend of the Writer and also a seller of his own collection, joined us. We discussed the forbidden books--here, “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” and “The Tropic of Cancer.” I told the Poet how our censors used to look at sentences like “The fault is of this old fart” and assume they were references to the communist leader. He laughed wholeheartedly, then looked around as if remembering which country we were in.

I found this overwhelming fear common and recalled that the title of Kannan Makiya’s book on Iraq was exactly that: “Republic of Fear.”

Investigating any story in Iraq or finding out what is really going on in Iraqi politics is extremely difficult. Local journalists don’t dare look for facts and foreigners have no access, so a lot that is reported about what is happening inside Iraq is pure speculation.

Indeed, every foreign journalist in Iraq is supposed to check in with the Ministry of Information and is assigned a translator/escort for $75 daily. I argued against the escort, not on the grounds that I minded having a minder, but that I could not afford it. Better they think that I am cheap than paranoid.

I was not paranoid, but I was careful. I did not poke my nose too much around the Ministry of Information. I was put on a schedule to visit a children’s hospital (with a minder who spoke English and French) to hear the classic line about the U.S. being responsible for the genocide of Iraqi children because the embargo hits the import of medicines. Then I was generously authorized to go to Karbala, a town 100 kilometers south of Baghdad (with a different minder, Mohammed, who spoke English and Spanish).

The trip to Karbala was a real eye-opener. For starters, I was occasionally allowed to take photos. Snapshots of the omnipresent portraits of Saddam Hussein were all right, but when I tried to photograph a palace under construction, my minder went ballistic in the back seat.

“Forbidden! Forbidden!” he shouted and I gave up, but I asked what it was. “The People’s Palace,” said my minder. I asked who were the people allowed into that palace, and he said foreign visitors. I asked whether the funds going for the construction couldn’t be used for curing the children I saw the previous day, but I was told that no funds from oil-for-food were used for the palace. My minder was getting really annoyed.

No sooner had we arrived in Karbala than we had to pick up an additional, local minder at the province’s government house. Mohammed explained in total seriousness that the local minder would know what was forbidden to photograph in his town. I asked for directions to the lavatory in the government house. Mohammed informed the local minder of my request. The local minder found the superintendent of the building and I was asked why I had made such a request. I explained my purpose, the explanation was translated and the three men escorted me to the lavatory. There, in the privacy of the ladies’ room, I wished I could write in Arabic to express a few thoughts about a regime that can spare three men to take a lady to a toilet, can afford a palace-building hobby for the leader but cannot assure its children’s survival.