The prisoner of Baghdad

I WAS born in a forgettable village, to a very poor family. All but one of the streets was unnamed. The one named street was called Brick Street.

My father died when I was two years old, leaving my mother with four young children. It was under these difficult circumstances that I grew up.

I finished my primary schooling in the one mud school in the village. For my secondary education I travelled to the city and it was during this period that my interest in art and politics developed. I began to paint in a simple way and became more aware of what was going on around me in my country.

It was my wish to study art at college. This was impossible for me, as I did not agree with the politics of the Ba’ath Party. To be accepted, I needed a reference from the Students’ Union, who worked under the direction of the government - an example of the corruption the Ba’ath Party imposed on daily life. I began to make relationships and take an interest in people who were in opposition to Iraq’s government.

On finishing secondary school I was accepted for agricultural college. This was an open college and references were not needed. I passed my first year of the course with good marks but by the second year I lost my interest and enthusiasm, for I knew in the future I would not be able to study further than the degree simply because I would not join the Ba’ath Party.

Throughout this period in my life, my interest in art had not been lost. It had increased. I had many artist friends; I visited many exhibitions and studied from art books myself. I believe, though, that life has been the best teacher of art for me.

In my third year I left the college of agriculture. The government’s pressure on students to join the party had reached its peak and there were heavy demands on us to sign official papers stating we would never join another political party.

I could take no more of this, so decided to return to my own village far from all these problems. It was an unsuccessful move. Security police were sent - they found me - and I was arrested. My hands were tied and I was blindfolded and placed in a terrible prison where they tortured me day and night with electric shocks all over my body. They wanted information from me about friends - where they were hiding, their addresses etc. I did not give them any information, as these people were also innocent of any crime. I eventually left the prison after signing a paper stating I would never join any other political party in opposition to the Ba’ath Party.

I then tried to go back to college to finish my education, but they told me I had failed that year because of bad attendance. It was impossible to get any proof stating that I had been in prison.

After all this, I spent some time in my village with my family and worked in the building trade. I decided to burn all my religious and political books, as having these things was very dangerous for me. Most of my friends had been forced from their homes and towns because of their beliefs and because they were in political parties opposed to the Ba’ath Party. All this happened in the year 1979, a very cruel time in which all forms of art were dying.

In 1980 I returned to college to continue my course. I had decided to stay away from people and situations that could cause more trouble for me. In 1981 I started my final year, and at this time I met some old friends who were anti-government. They believed in independent thought and were trying to bring the students together to establish their own union, letting them voice their opinions and apply their own religious teachings freely.

In Iraq all power was concentrated on the president. This was called Act No 42 Part A. It gave him the freedom to do anything, and killed the freedom of the people.

An even darker period was to follow - the outbreak of war between Iraq and Iran. For the humane person it was too difficult to stay silent and not speak out against it.

When the war started thousands of people in the country were killed in many different ways, or imprisoned for speaking out against the president, for criticising the war, or for being a member of a political party opposed to the government. Even the families of people imprisoned or executed would suffer. Their ages did not matter when it came to terms of punishment.

All these executions and injustices made me very bitter and pushed me to join the opposition. I started to paint, expressing my feelings about my people, and put posters on the walls of government buildings in the city.

I then decided to hide for a while. When I was in hiding I heard that a lot of friends had been caught and imprisoned. This frightened me and I escaped to Baghdad to stay with one of my relatives who would keep me safe until conditions improved.

I then realised that the only way to safety was to escape once and for all from Iraq. I attempted this with one of my friends who was a soldier in the army. On October 31, 1981, we managed to reach a place called Al-kaim near the Syrian and Iraqi border. We were unlucky: at the checkpoint it was discovered my friend had false permission of leave from the army.

Two armed security guards took us to the headquarters at Kaim where we were held for a while. They then contacted the security police in my town - who told them we were wanted. A very dark and painful period of my life was to follow.

I spent 12 days in my own lonely cell, on a naked floor. There was torture daily and my feet swelled to twice their size from beatings on the soles of my feet.

We were then moved to another prison at the headquarters in Ramadi. We arrived at about 12am - the torture started again. I was blindfolded, hung by my hands from the roof of a toilet and continuously hit. At about 7pm they let me down and gave me a roll with egg. I was using my right hand, and the guard watched me. He said "Your hand looks fine after the torture." So next, he proceeded to beat my right hand with a thick stick until it swelled up, and then told me to go on with my food.

My blindfold was taken off. I opened my eyes and saw my friend sitting in pain in the other corner of the toilet. The floor was very cold and we stayed there in that toilet for over three days, our hands tied and eyes blindfolded all that time. Every five minutes we would hear a guard coming to urinate. The more humane of them would not beat us but clean their shoes on our bodies.

We were then moved to the ground floor where we saw different sights of horror - some people hanging from the walls, others tied to pipes and more lying on the floor moaning in pain. Everyone was handcuffed. They were told not to talk to us at all but they soon began to ask us questions about why we were here, about the outside world and the situation in the war. We asked them questions too, about how long they had been there and when they would be getting out. Some of them had been in this hole for 90 days, some 60 days and others had managed to get out in less than 40 days. I thought of 40 days in this place like 40 years. It was so small and dirty; you could go to the toilet only at certain times, faced continuous torture and were fed very little.

After about two hours somebody came in and called our names, and we were taken outside. The breeze on our faces felt like something from heaven.

Next, we were pushed into a car. Some two hours later, we arrived in Baghdad. We could not see anything during the journey, only hear noises. As my nose is big, I was lucky in that if I looked down, I could see my shoes and some slight light. I was thankful to my nose!

Here we were asked general questions - names, addresses etc. Then we were handed to different guards and moved to a different part of the headquarters by an electric lift. Somebody told the guard to put us in room number two. The door was slammed and we remained there for a while.

Our hands were still tied but we could now see. I opened my eyes and saw the most miserable and sad looking people around me. The only smell in the room was from their bodies.

I was soon called for interrogation and the Baghdad secret police asked many questions: why had I gone to Al-kaim; had I had planned to go to Syria; what was my relationship with the religious group Alda’awa and the Communist Party in Iraq; did I have friends or family in Syria; was I still painting and reading books against the government; why did I always speak badly of the president; was I in love with the Iranian government because I was a Shia Muslim? (What were all these charges against me? I could be executed a hundred times over. These thoughts tortured me.)

The next day I was called again for another interrogation. (My hands were still in handcuffs and I thought of them now as my hated lover). Somebody came in to question me more and see if I would admit to anything yet, and once more torture followed. I will call these periods of torture my "parties". They could not get me to admit to anything and a guard was finally ordered to take me to another place.

I was taken to a store underground - looking down my blindfold I was able to observe some things. I could see the bottom of shelves containing files, which I presumed contained details and information about prisoners and people in Iraq. I could also see the bottom of a large trolley and the legs of men around it. I thought to myself: this is my end, I will be killed. In spite of the horrifying feeling of fear, I felt proud compared to these cowardly guards. I was only one very weak and tired man and it took six or more of these guards, who I could tell from the size of their legs were twice the size of me, to do this to me.

Next, someone with a strong voice told me if I did not admit to anything I would not like what happened to me. He said he would make me copy "all the voices of the animals", and then struck me with his huge hand. My left ear rang with the force, and I remembered my mother used to tell me that when your left ear rang like this it meant good luck would come. At this moment I found that difficult to believe.

From the way this man spoke to the other guards I knew he was the boss. He ordered them to lift me onto the trolley, and at first I thought that they were going to butcher me on it. Then two guards lifted me up, one undid my handcuffs then pulled my hands behind my back. He then put the handcuffs back on tightly to make sure my hands would not come free. I was then carried to hell - yes, it was hell. I was hung from the roof by my hands, which were now at my back. My head and legs fell towards the floor and two men came towards me, saying, "You still won’t admit to anything?" The trolley was pulled from beneath me and an agonising pain shot through my body.

I could feel the pain inside me and could hear the sound of my muscles stretching. My arms felt like they were being slowly pulled from their sockets. (I thought hanging was more merciful than this. At least it was quick, without screams and this horrendous pain.) My reaction to all this pain was loud screams and I then realised what the boss had meant when he said I would copy "all the voices of the animals".

I lost consciousness. At least in this state there were no screams but the pain was still in my body. I was not aware of time.

The trolley was pushed back under my body and I was splashed with water. They then continued with the same questioning. I still gave them the same answer and the trolley was pulled away again. The party started once more with the same questions, answers and screams.

Suddenly someone came running towards us and told the guards that a visitor had arrived at the headquarters. They stopped then, as they did not want this person to hear my screams. The table was put back beneath me. (At that moment, I remembered again what my mother told me about my ear ringing. I had been brought luck after all.) I could rest a little bit now. I began to think of my mother, who was nearest to my heart. I remembered her sad tired face and all its lines caused by her hard life bringing me up all those years into manhood and now these dogs were trying to destroy all her great work of love. I also remembered the beautiful smell of the country from her coat. I thought, what crime have I committed? Is it my desire for a humane and peaceful life? How did my mother remember me now? It would be beautiful if she could not think of me in these terrible circumstances, which no man would be envious of, even a man going to be hanged.

Later I heard the sound of shoes approaching. My heart began to beat more rapidly, I think, than a bird’s heart in high flight. The guard said to me, "So you still won’t confess?" They pulled the trolley away and the party was repeated yet again. They then placed it back under me and left. I was later released from this torture, but where were my hands? (I had lost all feeling from them and thought they were still hanging up there).

The man I thought of as the boss asked the others how my hands were and he was told they were fine! I could only feel something on my back. The handcuffs were then unlocked, and my hands put in front of my body and once again the handcuffs locked. I could feel the weight of them on my body, they were heavy and my arms just lay limp. I had no control over them. The dogs then led me away.

I was then taken back upstairs, but not to room number two - they placed me in the corridor. I fell down on the ground and supported my back on the wall. There was somebody beside me and the guard told him to take my blindfold off. I opened my eyes and the first things I looked at were my hands. They looked the same but felt apart from my body. The happiness I felt was great because I could actually see my hands. I would still be able to use them for drawing and that was enough for me.

The man beside me reassured me that I would be fine and a few minutes later the dinner was given out. I realised then how long I had been tortured and then unconscious, as I had been called at breakfast. The food they gave us was two eggs and a roll. The guard put it in front of me and the others finished their food. I could not move to eat my food even though I was hungry. In this moment sleep was a beautiful thing to me, and I also wished I had a pen and paper to record the terrifying and horrific moments I had suffered while they were still raw in my mind.

Next, the guard returned and asked why I had not eaten my food, then answered for himself, saying "Are you on hunger strike?" He then proceeded to kick me with his boots. This was nothing to me now, after the great party they had given me that day - this was like a snowball fight. Glaring at him, I told him I could not use my hands. I thought this man to be the smallest and cheapest thing - I had just come from this great party designed for a king and here this small man was trying to touch me!

The man beside me told the guard I had just come from interrogation. He was told to feed me, which he did. He was a small and very appealing looking man. He was from Twereej and he had been imprisoned for speaking out against the government.

On finishing my food, toilet time started. My friend told me to get up; I could not manage this myself so he helped me, telling me I must go, as there would not be another chance until morning. (What will I do?, I thought, I can’t use my hands for anything. I can’t even move my fingers slightly so how will I manage the toilet)? I was too shy to ask him to help me to do the toilet but he helped me anyway.

I was in this same corridor for three days. I spent most of this time observing my surroundings and the people around me. Thinking, thinking, thinking. One afternoon they called me again for another interrogation. When I arrived at the stairs, blindfolded again, I was not taken down to that hellhole where I had been before. This time I was taken up the stairs where I faced the same questions and where I gave them yet again the same answers. (I was very fortunate that none of my friends in this place had given any information about me.)

There followed a lot of questions about my life from childhood up to that moment. After this, the boss asked the guard to raise my blindfold a little. He then stood up so that I would not see his face and gave me a pen to sign a paper which had a lot of writing on it - I did not know what it said or what I was charged with, I was just told to sign.

I was struck on the face because I could not use the pen and he imagined I was trying to read what was written, but in fact, my hands felt crippled and it was impossible for me to sign anything. He then took my hand and my fingerprint was used for my signature on many papers. He told the guard to take me away. I felt so happy - maybe all these interrogations had come to an end.

In November 1981, on a rainy day, we were blindfolded and moved to the department of the secret police within the army.

After lunch (a little rice mixed with water from tomatoes) a soldier came in with a list of eight names on which my friend and I were included. We were all taken out of the room and stood behind a van that was used to move prisoners. It had a very small slatted window on it and was disguised as an ice-cream van from the outside!

We were told to blindfold our eyes with something and I told my friend to take some of a filthy black cloth from the floor of the van and use this. I could still not use my hands properly, only being able to move my right hand slightly, so my friend tied mine for me. We were then ordered into the van and after perhaps 20 minutes we came to a stop. The door was opened and we were ordered to get out.

I was told my jail cell would be number 27. I was led along a corridor and told to stand facing the wall. I heard the sound of keys in a guard’s hand. I was then told to take my blindfold off but keep my eyes shut. The door was opened and I was ordered to jump. (Where am I jumping to? Is this a bottomless pit and the end for me?)

I landed on a group of people. I looked at these people and their faces were so miserable and sad I find it difficult to find the words to describe it. There were 18 of them in total in a tiny cell.

We were allowed to go to the toilet once a day. There were three blankets to cover us, all covered with fleas, nits and insects. Soon, if I ran my hands through my hair or moustache, I could feel them. We turned our clothes inside out because there would be more in the seams where they would lay their eggs. Altogether I got three big "parties" in that place and spent 40 days in that cell.

On January 9, 1982, in the afternoon, I was called by a guard and told to collect my things. That meant I would leave this hell. He called my friend also and told us both to take a pair of shoes and then close our eyes.

We were taken to another place - from the small slatted window we could see we were being taken to a prison called Number One. It had two blankets and, comparing it to the last, was very clean.

At dinner time I saw somebody who had been with me in Room 27 and he knew what we needed at that point. He kindly gave us bread, beans and some meat. After the dinner my friend and I talked about the old days and our future. We saw on the walls the names of lots of people, most of whom had been going for execution, according to the writing.

We spent the next months being moved from prison to prison, until on November 3, 1982, we finally were called to court.

Our court case was like a comical play. It did not take more than five minutes and we were then taken back through the door we had entered - if you were taken out the other door this meant you were going for execution. We were called after about half an hour and the judge sentenced us - five years imprisonment for both my friend and I. Our reaction to this whole farce and sentencing was great laughter! Many things happened in those years and I was given several big "parties".

On finally leaving the prison I had to sign papers stating I would never do anything against the government. I was still watched by them when I got out and pressure was still put on me to join their party. I was also still not able to finish my studies. There was no choice left for me - either join them or they would eventually kill me.

On September 13, 1986, my long journey to leave Iraq started and with the help of a friend I went to Kurdistan. I spent 14 days travelling in the mountains and crossing checkpoints and managed to succeed in this dangerous journey - I was extremely careful, as I knew I would lose my life if any mistakes were made.

I reached the opposition who were based in these mountains but had to leave - there was blood in this area too - and I just wanted peace so could not stay. Then, on September 25, 1986, I arrived at the border between Iraq and Iran.

At this point Saad Hirri entered Iran. Following a long and arduous journey which took him through Syria, Cyprus and Turkey, he made it to Britain. He was eventually granted political asylum and is now a British citizen.

Saad's experiences are the standard Arab stuff. The Spanish bastinado (beating the soles of the feet until the feet swell to the size of a football - and doing it again after a day or two, when the feet are exquisitely tender - and then again and again over a period of weeks or months) was learned from their Arab conquerors. Remember it took hundreds of years of fighting to force the Arab aggressors out of Spain.

The hands fastened together behind the back, then the body hoisted into the air by the bound hands, goes back before antiquity. Hanging from the hands from the front is also very old, and leads to death usually in a few hours.

Please be aware that many people living in the United States support the Saddam Hussain government, torture and all. Opposition to our invasion of Iraq means you are in favor of government as the Ba'athists practice it. When their time comes, these people here in the United States will torture you and yours as willingly as Saddam's henchmen torture Iraqis.

"Opposition to our invasion of Iraq means you are in favor of government as the Ba'athists practice it."

That may be true of some people but not all; opposition may be upon many grounds, some well thought out and some not.

If the current torture scale was the measure of invasion as the cure, we'd direct our efforts immediately upon liberating North Korea and Zimbabwe.

The supporters of Iraq, Zimbabwe, and North Korea, all have one thing in common: their pursuit of socialism as an end and varying degrees of torture and terrorism as the means to get there; and very few of them actually do believe in the "non-violent" approach. They do not respect your rights, they do not respect your property, they do not respect "the sanctity of human life," and whatever one may regard as their spirit, it is the essence of the current "religion" which does not believe in a loving God, nor in a loving Allah, but in self-indulgent adventures of the mind-less.

Careful examination of the surroundings still produces this result: War? OK, if we're going after the bad guys, and that means dropping the "diplomatic immunity" which President Bush as afforded others he said he would not tolerate.

Our Allies see a lack of committment, there, and our Allies moms and fathers of those who we wish would fight alongside us, do not have as close a connection with G. W. as do we --- it is more difficult for them to justify sending off their sons to fight with Americans who turn a blind eye to the immediate necessities of defending our borders and our property.

To wit: this is not a fight for lawyers and lawyering, but that is what it seems to be.

Americans will fight and win when our hearts are in it, but the foe must be evident enough for enough of us and the committment against the foe un-conditional.

At the moment, the path to war as a cure, is strewn with qualifications unfortunately administered, still, by the Clinton Legacy and certain holdovers of it by the White House.

If we're going to go to war, we're going to win --- and that means against the supporters of terrorism; and, well, that includes quite a lot of world-wide socialistas.

Chemicals and biology were not used in the above story. That torture is visited upon the victims of socialism around the world; Fidel Castro, for example, having been a chief practioner.

If we learn, upon arrival in Baghdad, that Cuba distributed some sampling of Anthrax, from Iraq, to "operatives" within the U.S., and it is they who mailed it in the fall of 2001, will we go to war against Cuba?

Until we are committed to tracking down enough of the sub-systems of torture and terror pertaining to Sept. 11th, and destroying them, it is not all that wise to start something we do not mean to finish.

We've tried that before, both against North Korea and North Vietnam, to our dissatisfaction.

What will we do if North Vietnam is found to have nuclear plants in development, well below the surface --- they are infamous for their tunnels --- though on the surface they seem to have a mind which is not as self-destructive as the North Koreans?

"We'll deal with that when it comes to it," some may say. And then suddenly, it comes to that, tomorrow, Monday, Feb. 17, 2003, that nuclear fuel, which gives off neutrons, is traced through North Vietnamese ports.

Well, it turns out that the North Vietnamese are not to blame; rather, it's a ploy of the Red Chinese, who are behind both the North Korea and the Iraqi nuclear weapons program.

What then will be our response to Red China? The country which has suddenly put out a world-wide recall for all its scientists abroad.

Now there, in the trade, is what we call a "red rocket."

And again, I understate.

What we need most now is buildup of our logistics and personnel, and lots and lots of training.

Because Iraq is merely the lid of a box; and instead of thinking inside the box, we must also think outside the box.

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