Baghdad Central (32 page)

On Tuesday morning, without notice or explanation, the foreign liaison officers do not come to the morning meetings. Nor do the Kurdish participants, and the Basran says he saw them leave early in the morning. After the first session passes, someone shows up to say that the Americans and British were called back to Baghdad temporarily. The man from Hilla puts a motley pile of newspapers on the table, and the workshop transforms into a tea-fueled reading session.
Al-Bashira. Al-Dawa. Al-Hawza. Al-Mutamar. Al-Sabaah. Azzaman. Sawtaliraq. Tareeq al-Shaab
. The Basran calls the group “The Central Coordination Committee for Information Gathering, Processing, and Recapitulation” and the name sticks. Everyone laughs at the acronym, the CCCIGPR, even though it's not that funny.

On the first day, Khafaji doesn't read a word of print. He paces down the corridors and smokes his Rothmans until they run out. When he rejoins the others in the conference room, he leans back and thinks. But on the second day, he relents. For the first time since 1968, Khafaji looks at a local newspaper. He looks at stacks of newspapers. He enters the world of print and begins to read the local opinions, as well as those appointed in Tehran and Washington and Riyadh. Each morning, the Basran gets a fresh stack from someone who got them in the city. An hour after breakfast, he comes in with a fat pile of the day's papers.

Khafaji is astounded by what he reads. Everybody – from the Communists to the Wahhabis – has a daily now. There are newspapers and magazines from all over the Arab world. Some have today's news. Some yesterday's. Some are a week old or older. The editorials are no more sincere than the ones that used to appear in
Babel
. After skimming the opinion pages for a day, Khafaji gives up on them and reads only news items. As he reads, it is easy to imagine that they all have something to do with him. Every day, the Resistance reports, more heroes are martyred. They report that another imperialist agent has died. Every day more puppet policemen are killed or kidnapped. Every day more disappear. Every day is one day closer to the end of the occupation.

Khafaji reads that a Resistance fighter sacrificed his life when he drove a car into the gates of the US barracks in Tala‘far, thirty miles west of Mosul. The blast injured fifty-nine American occupiers and six Iraqi agents. He reads that the attack occurred at 4.45 a.m. and that guards at the gate opened fire on the vehicle, which exploded instantly. He reads that an American military spokesman claimed that the injuries were not serious. Other sources said that there were many severe injuries, and that the foreign oppressors were forced to transport casualties out of the country for more serious medical attention. He reads the next item. It describes how, at 2.30 p.m., surface-to-air rockets brought down an OH-58 Kiowa surveillance helicopter.

In another newspaper, Khafaji reads that hundreds of Shiites demonstrated in Baghdad yesterday. They were protesting the death of a cleric at the hands of the Americans on Friday. The demonstrators gathered in front of the Palestine Hotel and waved black flags. They carried pictures of the Imam Shaykh Abd al-Razzaq al-Lami and pictures of the wreckage
of a car. Khafaji learns that the sixty-four-year-old cleric was inside when it was crushed under an American tank. He reads that on the same day in al-Khalidiyah, west of Falluja, three hundred people demonstrated against crusader provocations. They were demanding the release of their neighbors and relatives who had been taken into custody by the crusader army. Demonstrators marched from al-Khalidiyah mosque, waving Iraqi flags. Some carried placards denouncing the local municipal council as collaborators. They also demanded that the council be ousted. Demonstrators stopped at the crossroads leading to al-Habbaniyah airbase. Khafaji reads that the demonstrators sent a five-man delegation there that presented a petition of demands. These included the release of citizens held without charge, and a halt to American provocations. Khafaji reads a small item about the downing of an American military transport plane at Baghdad airport.

The next day, Khafaji keeps drinking tea and keeps reading. He reads that imperialist Department of Defense officials acknowledged a major disappointment on Wednesday in their plans to set up a puppet army in Iraq. He reads that Pentagon officials admitted that one-third of Iraqi trainees have quit the puppet army. “We are aware that a third have apparently resigned and we are looking into that in order to ensure that we can recruit and retain high-quality people for a new Iraqi army,” said Lieutenant Colonel James Cassella, a Pentagon spokesman. In the same report Khafaji reads that this battalion was highly celebrated when the newly retrained soldiers, marching to the beat of a US Army band, completed a nine-week basic training course in early October, and passed in review before America's Proconsul in occupied Iraq, L. Paul Bremer. He reads that officials worked for weeks to speed up the training of Iraqi puppet soldiers and police in
the face of the accelerating pace of Resistance attacks. He reads that the private American defense contractor Vinnell Corporation had done most of the training, using “civilian instructors”, mostly ex-US military. He reads about the Titan Corporation and another called CACI, and their ties to the corrupt puppet regime.

In a Jordanian newspaper from a few days ago, Khafaji reads about how the American army had delivered seven unidentified bodies to the puppet police of Fallujah. He reads that an American military spokesman in Baghdad promised to investigate the matter. He reads that Ahmad Alwan, a police officer in Fallujah, is quoted as saying, “The American forces contacted us and told us to pick up seven bodies left outside their base in Fallujah.” Khafaji reads that the corpses were wrapped in the plastic body bags regularly used by American forces. Khafaji reads that there was no explanation regarding the circumstances of the deaths of these persons, nor any information on their identity. He reads about Ali Khamis Sirhan, a physician in Fallujah Hospital where the bodies were taken, who explained that many residents of the city, including relatives of missing persons, have been prevented from identifying the bodies.

Khafaji puts the paper down and stops reading. He walks outside and wishes he had a cigarette.

These are the benchmarks Khafaji and his colleagues hit on Tuesday and then again on Wednesday. They spend the day together in the conference room, but say little to one another. They are friendly together. They eat together. Those who have cigarettes share them with the others. But they are not together.

When they talk it is only about news items. One man
finishes a newspaper, and folds it. The next man picks it up and reads it. When they discuss and argue, it is as if it were about fantastical stories from a distant planet. No one speaks of themselves. No one speaks of families. Or pasts. Khafaji does not wonder why.

The only break in the routine comes when an American officer enters the room on Tuesday and asks for Khafaji. He hands Khafaji a note: “Break in case. Need to talk re Zubeida Rashid. Call ASAP. Parodi.” It takes Khafaji some time to find a phone, and even more to dial the number, and then to be redirected, God willing, to the right extension. It rings and rings. No one answers. Khafaji waits by the phone, wondering what to do. He pulls out Karl Abdelghaffar's phone number and tries it. A young man answers in an anxious tone.

When Khafaji asks for Karl, he demands, “Who is this?”

“This is his friend Muhsin.”

“My father just got back from a trip, and he's very tired.”

“Did he say…?”

“Who's calling?”

“My name is Muhsin. I'm the one who hired him to —”

“He said to tell you everyone is safe.”

“Great. Thank you. Please thank your father for me. I'm away right now, but will call him when I get back to town.”

Khafaji tries to reach Parodi again. Once, he is redirected to another office in the American zone. The other times, the phone rings but no one answers. He dials Karl's number again, but hangs up before it begins to ring. Then he rings Ibn Sina Hospital. The nurse at the fourth floor reception promises to transfer his call, and he begins to lose hope. When Mrouj comes on the line, Khafaji apologizes. “I must have woken you up, Mrouji. I'm sorry.”

“Not at all, Baba. How are you?”

“It's you I'm worried about. How are you doing?”

“I'm sleeping a lot.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“They say I should sleep a lot, so I guess I'm doing something right.”

“Any improvement?”

“They changed the treatment a couple days ago. Since then the pain is less.”

“That's good.”

“Baba, do we have to talk about my kidneys all the time?”

“What else do you want to talk about?”

“How about those files you gave me?”

“I didn't give you…” Khafaji pauses. “I didn't mean to leave them there.”

Mrouj doesn't say anything.

“Did you read them?”

“What else am I going to do? You give me a bunch of files about brothels, of course I'm going to read them.”

Khafaji doesn't say anything.

“Baba, you still there?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Don't you want to know what I think?”

“I'm not sure, Mrouj.” Khafaji listens to the crackle on the phone line before he surrenders. “Fine. Tell me what you think, Mrouj.”

“It isn't about sex, Baba.”

“What are you saying?!” Khafaji cannot help shouting at the phone.

“Calm down and tell me who this woman is.”

“Which woman?”

“Zubeida Rashid. Why didn't you tell me about her before?”

Khafaji feels his cheeks begin to burn. He says nothing.

“Is she pretty?”

“That's irrelevant,” Khafaji says before he realizes his mistake.

“So she is pretty, Baba?”

Khafaji doesn't answer the question. “Let's talk about something else before we hang up, Mrouj.”

“OK. Here's a line for you then, Baba:
As we prepare sword and spike, death slays us without a fight / Tethering our steeds at hand but still, they cannot rescue us from…
”

Khafaji thinks for a moment, but says nothing.

“I stumped you? My God, that's a first!”

“No, you didn't, Mrouj. I'm just tired. Go to sleep, I'll call you again as soon as I can.”

On Tuesday and again on Wednesday everyone in the group decides to go to bed early. They also decide to sleep late. Khafaji sleeps so deeply, he does not even dream. He closes his eyes and then nothing. When each day comes to an end, it is over. It does not bleed into the next. Like a newspaper, he folds up each day and puts it aside for good. For the first time in weeks, Khafaji begins to rest. His breath becomes slow and measured and deep. On the third morning, he looks in the mirror and decides not to shave his upper lip.

On Thursday, Khafaji wakes up expecting another day of newspapers. When he sees the Kurds outside the conference room, he realizes the program has changed again. He steps inside and sees Olds and the other liaison officers have also come back. The meeting starts as if there had been no interruption. Khafaji sees the same look of surprise on the others as
they
come in late. During a coffee break, the Basran asks for the working group to be provided with newspapers
every day. The chief liaison officer asks for a list of titles, and hands them to an assistant. By the afternoon break, a stack of newspapers awaits each Iraqi.

The presentations today are different because now there is a concrete topic. Now there is a concrete task. They are told that tomorrow they will be attending the induction of new cadets in downtown Kirkuk. For the first time there are two police officers from Kirkuk in the room. They begin to lecture on the rule of law. As they speak, they look over at the British liaison officer sitting next to them. Even though they look like college students, they somehow hold the rank of superintendents. When they finish, the British officer shakes their hands and congratulates them. Then he begins to talk about the decapitation of the insurgent leadership and how legal modes of authority always triumph. He concludes by saying, “Among the most vexing aspects of counter-insurgency are the paradoxes involved in conducting war that is simultaneously political and military.” At lunch, this same officer tells Khafaji about his adventures trekking across Afghanistan the previous year. “Brilliant place. Generous people. Have you been?” In his smile, Khafaji begins to recognize that the man's confidence is ingenuously distilled from fear.

At one point Olds asks Khafaji if he's had a chance to speak to Parodi. Khafaji says, “I've tried calling, but…”

Olds doesn't say anything. The smokers step outside for a cigarette and Khafaji notices the front page of a newspaper on the table. What catches his attention is a picture of the Mosuli exile standing next to Abd al-Aziz al-Hakim. He picks up the paper and reads the caption: “Interim Governing Council Establishes War Crimes Tribunal”. The others walk ahead while he goes in the opposite direction, newspaper in hand. He begins to read: “Today is an important historic event
in the history of Iraq.” The article relates that the tribunal will begin by focusing on the murders of the Barzani clan in 1983. Then it will concentrate the prosecutions on Halabja. Then on the southern massacres after Kuwait.