Ed Kinane
Voices in The Wilderness
Baghdad
October 18, Saturday

SAMARRA

Driven and guided by our friend Ghareeb, Neville and I go north for the weekend. G. drives unusually fast, so we cover a lot of ground. First we go to Samarra, 160 kilometers north of Baghdad. There we view a huge ancient now-roofless mosque. Reconstruction work began here a couple years ago. It was interrupted by the war.

Next door is the ‘Spiral’ — a winding outside staircase about four feet wide and about seven stories high. It’s conical: broad at the bottom, narrow at the top. It’s what I, but not people here, would call a ziggurat. Nev and I climb to the top. Unlike most monuments or public works projects anywhere, the steps are spaced comfortably for walking. Far views of the flat landscape in all directions.

A few minutes drive away are the ‘Baths’–a large ancient circular swimming pool eight or ten feet deep. Empty now, but formerly supplied by an aqueduct from river, It’s set below ground level, invisible from the outside. A honeycomb of chambers of one sort or another surrounds the terrace around the pool. Kind of like a Roman amphitheater. G. says this edifice is linked by a tunnel now blocked — to the Lovers’ Palace several miles away across the river. Like many historical sites in Iraq, the Baths has no flyer or other written commentary on site for the curious.

Next we visit the imposing ‘Lovers’ Palace.–G. says, shaking his head, it was built by some ancient caliph for his wife. Ramps for horseback riders lead from the outside up two or three stories to a broad field within. At one end of the field are the remains of what may have been apartments (for servants or concubines?). G. shows us the remains of the ventilation system for the caliph’s dungeons and the blocked-up opening of the tunnel over to the Baths.

Hearing explosions in the distance, G. decides to avoid the main road as we head for Tikrit. All morning long we have been passing US military convoys–as always each vehicle is manned by soldiers with guns at the ready. Out of their compounds these soldiers never can forget that, altho they are the conquerors, they are the ones under siege. G. says the stretch of road between Baghdad and Samarra is particularly known for attacks on US forces. He wants to keep as much distance between them and us as possible.

TIKRIT
Tikrit is about 70 kilometers north of Samarra. It was outside Tikrit that Saddam spent his fatherless hardscrabble childhood. Saddam distributed much patronage to this area–especially to members of his tribe. For all we know, he’s probably still distributing patronage here. In Tikrit Saddam is family. These days the area, the apex of the ‘Sunni triangle’ vigorously resists the Occupation.

Several miles out of Tikrit there’s a gate to the city–a grandiose ‘m’-shaped rectilinear double arch spanning both sides of the divided highway. We pull over to the shoulder. G. translates the prominent calligraphy running along the top: “The people of Tikrit are proud that Saddam is their leader.” Below, near street level, there is various anti-US graffiti in Arabic.

I climb the spiral staircase arising out of the median. About three stories high, it leads to a small chamber at the center of the arch. I walk around in it, viewing the landscape. Iraq has lots of boring landscape.

We drive into the center of town, park on the main street, and enter a restaurant. Folks immediately gather around us. It’s not every day that a yank enters this lion’s den! We eat in a side dining room. On the wall is a photo portrait of Saddam-as-Bedouin. In dark glasses, he cuts a dashing figure.

The manager takes pride in this hallowed photo. He tells us that if the Americans try to remove it, they’ll have a fight on their hands. He says, if one day Iraq got a leader chosen by Iraqis, that leader’s photo might be placed along side Saddam’s.

During the few minutes while we are left to ourselves to eat, I ask G. if it is possible here to speak frankly about Saddam. Drily, he says, “Not if you want to leave alive.”

So when our host returns, I’m ready for the inevitable, What do you think about Saddam? I reply, “In our country, we hear nothing good about Saddam. But I think he is much cleverer than the Americans.”

One of the men mentions Saddam coming to his house about three weeks ago with just a single bodyguard. He autographs one of the new 250 dinar notes (ironically, the ones without Saddam’s image on them) and gives it to me.

MOSUL
Two hundred fifty kilometers further north is Mosul, Iraq’s second city [2003 est. pop. 1,790,000]. We go to the house of G’s long-time friends, Sami and Shirene. In their front room, casually propped up against the wall amid some potted plants, is their kaleshnikov.

When I ask Shirene if she knows how to use it, she picks it up and shows how very familiar she is with it. Shirene, 30, is Kurdish; Sami, 27, is Palestinian. They are a handsome couple, childless (except for a Yorkshire terrier). To get married they had to overcome many barriers put by both her family and by the Iraqi state.

Sami has the haircut, demeanor, and physique of a US Marine. The haircut style goes back to when he was imprisoned for six months by the Israelis about six years ago. He has just finished a course in accounting at Mosul University. They are moving soon, but not sure where: it’s hard for Palestinians get jobs in Iraq. Saddam made it seem that he favored Palestinians. Many Iraqis resented this and now have little use for them.

I had met Sami before in Baghdad with G. He is as reticent and unexpressive as Shirene is exuberant and bright-eyed. Sami joins us now for a ride. We visit Jonah’s Tomb in a temple on top of a hill in town. Since it was just before prayer time we didn’t get to linger there long. As Jonah is also part of the Judeo-Christian tradition, there is a Christian section to the temple (which it was too late to visit).

In the West these days there’s little to remind us of it, but much of the Old Testament took place in ancient Iraq. The ruins of Nineveh dominate one edge of Mosul. We drive around the walls, mostly just featureless mounds of earth. But for short stretches they’ve been reconstructed. When we pull up in front of the lit-up main gate, men with automatic weapons wave us away.

Not to be brushed off, we drive down the road, and return in the other lane, parking across the boulevard. When we approach on foot, the armed men let us come closer. But some higher-up comes out and tells us we can come no further. So we didn’t get to view the famous six-foot high winged horse, with the king’s head, guarding the entrance. It’s night and the humans are guarding against the looting of antiquities.

When we get back to Sami and Shirene’s, Shirene says a few minutes before she heard the US forces coming under attack nearby on the same road we had just come over. After a late spaghetti dinner, we drive to an old part of town. We get a couple of hotel rooms ($3 each) with private shower and porcelain hole in the floor for toileting. Our balcony overlooks a park.

October 19, Sunday
KURDISTAN

First thing in the morning we drive north to the community of Bashiqua in the Kurdish autonomous region. We visit the compound of Khether, one of G.s trading partners. Khether is the patriarch of a household that as is typical of this very traditional community — includes over 20 relatives (and some chickens). We meet a son and his several children. The daughter-in-law, unintroduced, is busy working in the background. Khether’s mother, 96, is blind and sitting out by the street in the sun.

Khether, who acknowledges a resemblance to Anthony Quinn, manages the family’s olive groves. G. uses the occasion to buy a ton of olive oil for shipment tomorrow to another partner in Baghdad. Before parting Khether takes us by a place where for $2 I buy a liter of pure green olive oil.

Having escaped from Saddam’s military after four years, Khether lost his ration card. He is a member of the Al Amamousa tribe and of the Alyzidia sect. The Alyzidia’s, neither Muslim nor Christian, have three prophets: Towsy Maleck, Cheyk Shemp and Sheik Adi. Khether says there are 900,000 in the sect. “We were not Saddam’s equation for Iraq. Now for the first time we are free to do our prayers.”

Although it is morning Khether pours me a glass of arak and water. He gives me half a pint for the road. Arak is Iraq’s national alcohol drink. It derives from dates and tastes like anise. He tells us we are the first foreigners to come to the community. The US military has yet to appear.

Later I ask G. if it is likely that the villagers in this area would each have their kaleshnikov. He says, “kaleshnikovs aren’t even the beginning of it, and reels off different types of weapons including grenade launchers. After our visit, not too far out of town, we pass a lone US military vehicle coming in the other direction.

Once we get up into the mountains today we leave the US convoys behind. There is the occasional Peshmerga Kurdish soldier at a checkpoint or intersection. But these are lightly armed and more like police. Only once during the weekend, despite the many checkpoints, are we pulled over to have our trunk inspected. G. says Kurds are suspicious of all outsiders. When I ask, he says our gringo presence doesn’t account for our being pulled over only once.

SHEIK ADI SHRINE
On the road to Zaweita we pass the burial place of the Alyzidia prophet, Sheik Adi. There is a bi-lingual road sign saying “Lalish Temple” but I don’t hear that phrase used. We drive up a side road that ends in a cluster of stone buildings forming an elongated courtyard. At the end of the courtyard we can see people around what might have been an elevated well or a pool.

We park and are met by a man who instructs us to take off our shoes. In this holy place no shoes are worn even in the road. Our guide doesn’t take us to the pool, but leads us thru a series of smaller courtyards to a building and into a kind of semi-dark cellar. Carefully watched, we have to step over (not on!) the thresholds leading into each chamber.

Entering a cave-like room we unceremoniously pass the burial crypt of the prophet. A bevy of young women are engaged in tossing one by one a rolled up piece of cloth up on to a small platform. Success in this exercise is said to improve marriage prospects. Along the side of the room are a dozen or so large jars of olive oil. Under our bare feet the floor is hard and oily.

Our guide is taciturn; we don’t get to speak to anyone else. While we are courteously tolerated, I wonder if there isn’t a collective sigh of relief when we leave. Why on earth are these strangers, these foreigners, coming to this remote and seldom-disturbed grotto? It isn’t exactly tourist season.

ASHEWAH CAVE and SAJITA’S PALACE

Scene from the Arabian Nights: We drive a couple of miles along a tall wall with no opening. Then we turn right, up a steep road thru a village and end up in a parking lot with some out buildings. We climb a flight of outside stairs and in the hillside before us, see an opening just large enough for a couple of us to enter.

Within is Ashewah Cave. Water is dripping down out of a hole in the ceiling into a pool in the center. The entrance and ceiling hole admit a bit of light. Ashewah was once a secret hospital for Kurdish rebels. As our eyes adjust to the dark, we can see tables and chairs. The cave is now a restaurant and bar.

It’s early afternoon and we’ve had no breakfast. G. doesn’t seem to believe in that quaint custom. He has brought us here for lunch, but the only food being served now is small bags of spicy potato chips. We each buy one for 50 cents US.

“Everything’s expensive in the north,” G. explains.

From the mouth of the cave, way across the valley on a hilltop, we can see a cluster of buildings. They are surrounded at a far distance by the wall we partially drove around. This is Sajitta’s palace. Sajitta is Saddam’s cousin and eldest wife. The palace must have been her refuge from Baghdad’s steamy summers. And, who knows, maybe from her husband.

AMADIYA
Here’s how our Lonely Planet Middle East guidebook situates Amadiya: “Amadiya is 90km northeast of Dohuk [the regional capital]. The road passes through scenery that, as the road unfolds, becomes more and more spectacular. It winds through several villages, first Zawila, then Suara Tuga, which has a wonderful view of the plain of Sarsang, then through Anshki to Sulaf, a village with waterfalls and lots of cafes where you can sit and enjoy the views. The road finally ends at Amadiya, an extremely picturesque village on a plateau 1985m above sea level, surrounded by magnificent mountains and endless green valleys.” [4th edition, 1/03, p.288]

We can see the Amadiya plateau miles away across the valley. Atop tall cliffs, it looks like an enormous castle or fortress. A steep road leads up to it. Up on the plateau the road circles around the densely settled top. We get out to scramble down to the ancient gate of the village, inaccessible by motor vehicle. Just outside the gate is a worn down bigger-than-life, now headless, statue carved into a stone niche. A passerby on the footpath identifies it as Tamerlane, the ancient Mogul conqueror.

In the early afternoon we stop at Saluf. We hike several hundred yards upstream from the road along a broad stone footpath with various food concessions along it. The concessions are closed. Numerous springs feed along stone channels into the brook. The footpath culminates in a stream-fed swimming pool. On Fridays this must be a buzzing place.

We get lunch at the restaurant by the road. On one of the tables back in the shadows, a falcon is tethered. When I discover it, the waiter comes over and feeds it chunks of raw meat. The falcon barely endures the waiter’s fond petting. So far in Iraq I’ve yet to see anyone mistreat an animal. Or, for that matter, a child. (Although, last February, I saw a cop cuff an obstreperous teenager.)

October 20, Monday
Late Sunday afternoon we pass thru the city of Dohuk. It sprawls along the foot of the mountains. Ghareeb’s car has been acting up. We change course and head back to Mosul for repairs. At Sami and Shirene’s we hear that earlier in the day five US soldiers are killed in Baghdad in one battle and three more in another. We call Voices to let them know we’re not getting back till tomorrow. After dinner, we head back to our al cheapo hotel.

In the morning we make a beeline to Baghdad. En route we see lots of US military hardware on the move. In the strip mall town of Bellad, we stop for tea. We talk to a schoolteacher there whom G. knows from his days working in this area. The schoolteacher asserts that US casualties are underreported. He says the US authorities dump the bodies of those dead US soldiers who have no relatives in the US in the Dijila (Tigris) River. Sometimes, he says, these are retrieved by Iraqis who bury them. (This isn’t the first time I’ve heard such stories.)

The teacher tells us about a US soldier knocking down a 70-year-old imam locally. Within hours, he says, eight US soldiers were killed in retaliation. He says the imams are helping to lead the resistance. He says that come Ramadan the imams will stir up more resistance. He also tells us that in this area it’s a common business to smuggle US soldiers north to Turkey to escape military service.

We get back to Baghdad in the early afternoon.