Mayada, Daughter of Iraq: One Woman's Survival Under Saddam Hussein Page 7

  Actually, the source of the hostility had begun when Mayada was only a child. At the time of Mayada’s youth, Khomeini was a cranky but unknown religious cleric. Believing that the secular government of the Shah of Iran was ruining the religious life of Iran’s Shiite society, Khomeini was blunt in his criticism of the Shah. An impatient Shah then exiled Khomeini, who fled across the border into Iraq, where he lived for fifteen years in An-Najaf, the Shiite holy city. Khomeini continued to stir up dissent against any ruler not faithfully following the tenets of Islam’s Shiite branch—including the regime of his host, Saddam Hussein. In the Middle East, dictators and kings tread softly around the words of religious clerics, for many Muslims are willing to die for such men.

  A year before that September bombing, Saddam received a request from the Shah to exile Khomeini from Iraq. In return, the Shah agreed to stop supplying Iraq’s Shiite population with weapons. Such a promise was welcome to the new Iraqi dictator, who was a member of the Sunni minority. He distrusted Iraq’s Shiite majority, and saw this simple request as an easy way to help solidify his rule. Besides, he was already seething with anger over Khomeini’s refusal to criticize the Shah on Saddam’s behalf. Saddam quickly moved to deport the disruptive cleric from Iraq. A year later, when Khomeini returned from exile in Paris and assumed control of the Iranian government, he proved that he was actually a devoted enemy of Saddam Hussein. Tensions continued to build, and when the Iraqi Shiites formed a group called “al-Da’wah al Islamiyah,” or the “Islamic Call,” which was designed to stage riots and call for a fundamentalist government based on the Iranian model, Saddam moved against his own Shiite population, making wholesale arrests in every Shiite village and ordering death sentences for prominent Shiite leaders. The al-Da’wah responded with the attempted assassination of Iraqi Foreign Minister Tariq Aziz.

  The long-ago rift between two obstinate opponents, Khomeini and the Shah, had hardened the animosity between the governments of Iran and Iraq. Feeling threatened by this new and increasingly cantankerous enemy at his border, Saddam justified a military attack by rejecting the 1975 Algiers agreement with Iran, which had given that country sovereignty over the Shatt-al-Arab, a narrow waterway that was Iraq’s only access to the Persian Gulf. For centuries the two countries had bickered over rights to this waterway, so the sore point was a familiar wound for Saddam to pick.

  The war was an eight-year nightmare. Like many Iraqis and Iranians, Mayada and her young children lived like frightened animals, hovering under the dining table or behind the sofa while Iranian bomber pilots broke through Iraqi clouds, eager to kill every living Iraqi. That terrifying time would never fade from her memory even if she lived to be a hundred years old. She would never forget the time the bombs and gunfire became so intense that word spread throughout Baghdad that the Iranians had overrun the city. She had screamed at her terrified babies to get down, to hide under their beds while she rushed through the house locking the doors and moving heavy furniture against the windows, believing that any moment she and the children would be murdered by the victorious Iranians.

  The war finally ground to a weary halt on August 20, 1988, when Iran and Iraq accepted U.N. Security Council Resolution No. 598, which called for a cease-fire. Iraqis were so relieved to see the end of the shockingly bloody war that they celebrated by dancing in the streets for more than thirty days.

  The Iraqis were still in the process of repairing their damaged infrastructure when a second black door opened and Saddam sent his troops on a desert hike from Baghdad, with orders to invade their tiny Kuwaiti neighbor. This invasion brought the fury of the allied Western nations upon their heads, deluging them with yet another war and leading Mayada to believe that Iraqis would soon swim in rivers of blood. But this second war came and went so rapidly, with the bulk of the Allied bombs precisely hitting their military targets and rarely straying into residential areas, that she felt it a mere skirmish in comparison to the Iranian war. But the moment the war ended, new trouble came from every quarter, with Shiite uprisings in the south and Kurdish uprisings in the north.

  Mayada didn’t know what would happen next. Her marriage had been a sham that finally ended in divorce, and now in the midst of war and mayhem she was the sole protector of two young children. She braced for street fighting in Baghdad and rushed to gather extra bread, eggs and water. But to her astonishment, the Allied soldiers quit and simply walked away from their victory without entering Baghdad. This was followed by a short period of idyllic calm, which seemed weird and wonderful after the horror of two wars in only ten years.

  The calm quickly gave way to desperation, because the U.N. sanctions lurked behind a third black door. For Mayada, the sanctions were more crippling than the wars. The daily grind of searching market stalls for reasonably priced sustenance to prepare for her two growing children was the most demoralizing task of her life. No pain is more tormenting than to stare into the face of your hungry child and have nothing to offer. She became so desperate that she even sold family heirlooms, such as the jewels in her Turkish grandmother’s medal, presented to Melek by the Sultan. Mayada took ancient maps and antique books to the sidewalk vendors and sold them for a pittance of their true value.

  There was yet a fourth black door waiting to open, one that Mayada had sensed as a growing shadow from the first moment of Saddam’s reign. Crouched ominously behind the seemingly endless cycle of wars and violence was the Iraqi Baath Socialist Party’s internal security apparatus, the secret police, which had been put in place by Saddam in 1968, when Mayada was only thirteen. The police state had grown along with her as she had matured into young adulthood, tormenting every Iraqi who passed by Baladiyat or other prisons, the sources of millions of Iraqi whispers such as, “Allah Yostur—God forbid and preserve us.”

  As she lay in the dark cell, Mayada cursed herself for her false sense of safety. Most Iraqis were terrified that they could be accused of false crimes at any time without the opportunity to offer an explanation of innocence.

  But that first night in Baladiyat cleared Mayada’s mind about Iraq, and she promised herself that if she got out of prison alive, she would pause no longer than it took her to pack a bag and grab her children. She would leave her home and her country and never return, even if she had to sit on the street corners of Amman and sell cigarettes, just as Samara had done.

  All the other women in the cell were sleeping. She began to hear steps outside the door, and other doors began to open and close. As the voices grew more urgent, Mayada wondered if the prison was on fire and expected to see smoke seeping through the small opening in their cell door. For the fourth time in only twelve hours, she feared that her time on earth was ending. But there was no sign of fire. Just as she relaxed, Mayada heard a scream that made the roots of her hair tingle. When the first scream was followed by a second and then by a third, she raised herself on her elbows.

  Samara rushed quickly to her side and whispered, “Do not worry. They bring in a fresh shift of torturers during the night.”

  At that moment a heart-wrenching screech was released throughout the prison. Samara pressed her hand upon Mayada’s face and told her, “I know it is difficult, but try to sleep if you can. You do not know what tomorrow might bring, and you will be better prepared if you are rested.”

  But Mayada could not sleep and lay awake the rest of the night.

  Even in prison they had a muezzin, and when dawn came she heard the familiar sing-song call to prayer, bringing comfort to her Muslim heart: “God is great, there are no other Gods, but God; and Mohammed was His Prophet. Come to prayer, come to prayer. God is great; there is no God, but God.”

  Mayada pulled up from her metal bunk and balanced on top, vainly trying to escape the aura of the toilet. She faced Mecca and prayed to Allah. Mayada asked God to solve her problem and to get her out of Baladiyat as quickly as possible.

  Just as she completed her prayers, breakfast was distributed. She watched closely as the women clambered to the do
or to receive small portions of lentils and bread, and small cups of tea and glasses of water. Samara said, “I will get you a plate.”

  Mayada said that she couldn’t eat, but asked Samara to save her one spoonful of sugar for energy. But she noticed that Samara set aside an extra plate of lentils topped by a slice of bread, obviously in the hope that she could convince her to sample a small portion.

  After breakfast, the seventeen women began to take turns using the single toilet. In her modesty, Mayada willed her body to shut down, and she decided that a good side effect of her self-imposed fast would be the lack of need for the toilet.

  She sat quietly on the edge of the bunk and watched the women milling about with haste as though they had a busy day ahead of them. A few women paused long enough to give her, their new cell-mate, small smiles of encouragement, and Mayada smiled back.

  Suddenly the small opening in the door was pushed from the other side and a raspy voice echoed throughout the cell. “Mayada Nizar Jafar Mustafa Al-Askari.”

  Fear made her knees so weak that she could not stand, but Samara rallied around her and whispered, “This is a miracle! They never ask for the prisoner the first day after they are imprisoned, but always make the person sweat out two or three weeks in this pit before the first interrogation.”

  Mayada did not feel it was a miracle but Samara tried to soothe her. “They do not torture in the early morning. Never! Never! You will be questioned minus the torture, you wait and see.”

  Mayada’s body felt so heavy that if she didn’t know better, she would have assumed lead had been poured into her bones during the night. It took a little pull and then a little push from behind for Samara to get her to the door.

  The man outside blindfolded her, which almost brought Mayada to hysterics, but she swallowed three or four times in quick succession and reminded herself of Samara’s words—that there were no torture sessions in the morning hours. A sleepless night combined with an empty stomach caused her legs to wobble. She continually crashed into the sides of the hallways. Someone from behind kept grabbing her by the shoulders to keep her pointed in the right direction, and even then it was impossible to walk steadily. Finally one of the men cursed loudly and yanked the blindfold off her eyes and gestured angrily for her to step forward into a room.

  One of the men was short and round, though his fingers did not match his torso. They were long and bony, and he snapped them loudly as he gestured for Mayada to enter. She followed his command.

  The room was the size of a small auditorium. Three men in security uniforms, all with mustaches, dark hair and bulldog-like features so indistinguishable that she had to hold her tongue to keep from asking if they were related, sat behind a long desk. She instantly sensed that the man in the middle, with his arrogant stare, was the leader, and she knew she had guessed correctly when he ordered the man sitting to his right to open a new page. He glared at her and told her to sit down. “What is your name?” he asked her, as though he didn’t know who he had summoned.

  Mayada panicked, thinking that she was about to undergo a trial without legal counsel, or even knowing the charges against her, but she told them that her name was Mayada Nizar Jafar Mustafa Al-Askari, and the designated writer wrote while the leader shouted, “She is known as Um Ali around the Mutanabi and Al-Battawiyeen areas,” which referred to the two quarters of Baghdad where the printing houses were located.

  She was not surprised that he knew she was the mother of Ali, but was troubled that the name of her son had passed over his tongue.

  He suddenly shouted so loudly that she winced. “Write that she is a Sunni who is highly supportive of the Shiite.” He continued to glare at her. “You were supposed to have come to us two years ago, but Dr. A. Al-Hadithi spared you, all because your great-grandfather was an honor to Iraq.”

  She knew that Dr. A. Al-Hadithi held an important post in the Iraqi government, and that his master’s thesis had discussed the educational methods used by her grandfather, Sati El-Husri.

  With a grin, the interrogator added, “Which, of course, was a pity, for we had looked forward to questioning the niece of that bastard Nouri Al-Said.”

  She took care not to move a muscle in her face. She was not surprised to hear him attack her father’s Uncle Nouri. She had been told by many others that while her grandfather Jafar was much loved by most Iraqis of his day—so fondly remembered, in fact, that it would be difficult to find anyone with even a harsh word to say about him—Nouri was a different story. He had been a tough, pragmatic leader who did what he felt he had to do to safeguard the newly formed country of Iraq. During the many years he had ruled as Prime Minister, he had created many enemies.

  The leader leaned over and whispered loudly into the writer’s ear, and Mayada took that moment to glance to her left and to her right. She was immediately sorry that she had. The walls around her were smeared with blood. She saw chairs with bindings, tables stacked high with various instruments of torture. She saw electrical cables for battery chargers and a contraption that looked like a bow without the arrows. But the most frightening pieces of torture equipment were the various hooks that dangled from the ceiling. When Mayada glanced to the floor beneath those hooks, she saw splashes of fresh blood, which she supposed were left over from the torture sessions she had heard during the night.

  The leader shouted one question after another. “Do you have any computers at home? Have you printed any leaflets calling for the overthrow of our President? Do you hire rebels to do your dirty work?”

  She breathlessly answered, “No, no,” over and over, telling him, “My shop is for commercial graphic designing and the people who work for me are computer engineers. They are highly educated, and they would never risk their lives through such illegal acts.”

  The leader threw her completely off balance when he abruptly changed the subject. His voice lowered dramatically and he began asking her questions about her mother. He wanted to know where Salwa was living and what was the last post she had held in the government, and did she plan on returning and using her skills to further the cause of Iraq, and had Mayada spoken with her mother recently and if so, how was the royal family of Jordan?

  Mayada sputtered as she answered. “While she was the Director General of Research and Studies in the Bureau of International Relations before she retired, it is common knowledge that my mother is living in Amman. I am not certain when she plans to visit me in Iraq, but I will be pleased to telephone her and ask her that question, if you wish.”

  The leader laughed loudly and told her, “I see that you are as clever as your father’s uncle, Nouri. That man outwitted every opponent until the last day of his life. But his cowardly disguise as a veiled woman couldn’t save him from death.” Without a pause, he asked her once again to reveal all the illegal information on her computers.

  Mayada replied, “I am telling you that there are no illegal documents on any of my computers.”

  He looked at her from under his heavy eyelids. “That is correct. We have already examined all your computer files and disks. We found nothing.”

  Mayada had been sitting there swollen with fear, even though she knew that there was nothing in her files but run-of-the-mill printing work, but with his words she deflated like a balloon stuck by a sharp needle. To hear her inquisitor admit such a thing was a relief, a gift as precious as the rarest diamond. For the first time, Mayada felt a small flicker of hope that she might live.

  With his statement she grew bold. “When will I be released?”

  He laughed, “Released? Who said you would be released?”

  Mayada was befuddled and stared at her interrogator in despair.

  He added, “But you can count your blessings that our beloved leader, Saddam, gave us orders not to use violent methods while talking to females. Those instructions arrived this morning, and they saved you.”

  The third man, who had not spoken until this moment, suddenly sat upright in his chair and his voice rang first with d
isappointment and then with indignation at this new information. Mayada saw that he was so irate that she could only guess he held the position of principal torturer and had sat through her interrogation eagerly envisioning the various methods that would make her shriek in pain and despair. Unable to control his frustration, he shouted at her, “I will cook you in a frying pan with grease very soon,” which is a common threat in Iraq when someone wishes to inform you that they are going to slowly put you to death.

  The leader glared at the third man, and she thought for a moment that the two men were going to clash over her fate, but the third man wilted under the leader’s direct gaze.

  The leader ordered, “Go back to your cell. We are not finished with you and will call you back tomorrow.”

  Now she felt brave enough to test his resolve. “If you have found nothing illegal, then why am I here?”

  “Perhaps something was missed.”

  She pushed. “I have children that I raise alone. They need their mother and I must go home to tend to them.”

  The leader twisted in his seat and looked directly at her. He replied in a spiteful tone, “Your family has lost their power. Jafar is dead. Nouri is dead. Sati is dead. Nizar is dead. Salwa has abandoned you. There is no one to defend you here.”

  She grew quiet in the knowledge that he was right. Since Saddam’s rise to power, Iraq had turned into such a place that her jailers could enter false information into her computers and take that information to their supervisors, and those men would slowly climb the ladder of command, convincing others that she was indeed guilty and worthy of their torture. And, truthfully, who was there to help her? No one—there was no one to turn to, she sadly admitted to herself.

  President Saddam’s face came to mind, and she speculated what his response would be if she telephoned his palace office and politely asked for his assistance in obtaining a release from Baladiyat prison. She had met Saddam five or six times, and had even had been honored and rewarded by him for her writings. She had been specially selected to translate Nostradamus’s writings for Saddam’s reading pleasure. He had a great interest in the book, since he believed he was a world figure mentioned in the astrologer’s predictions. Mayada had even saved other lives in the past by pleading for personal mercy from Saddam. But she quickly dismissed the idea of placing such a call, for the small pad where she kept his telephone number was hidden in a secret place in her home. Even if she had the number in her pocket and managed to reach his offices, she assumed Saddam would not take her call, for she had not spoken with him since Dr. Fadil had been convicted of treason and put to death.