A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal Read Online Free Page B
Author: Åsne Seierstad, Ingrid Christophersen
Tags: General, Social Science, History, Biography & Autobiography, Editors; Journalists; Publishers, Sociology, Military, Language Arts & Disciplines, Customs & Traditions, Iraq War (2003-2011), Journalism
broad-shouldered and well-built. His eyes shine, his teeth glow; his cheeks are ruddy and healthy, the posture proud. Below him are the people, the various ethnic and religious groups represented by national costumes, the workers in Soviet-style poses by weapons-filled conveyor belts. The American threat is indicated by bombers, but there is still room for roses, palms, mountains and wild animals. Every living thing is included in Saddam’s ark.
Khalid tells me how he became one of Saddam’s official artists. - While I was a student at the Academy a competition was announced to paint the president from a photograph, but to use your own artistic ideas. I won, he says. - Our president is very interested in art and often announces competitions to decide who can produce the best portrait.
- Don’t you get fed up with painting the same subject all the time?
- Oh no. Our president is a source of continuous inspiration.
- Wouldn’t you like to paint something else?
- If I were asked to paint divine women, angels or the most beautiful roses, I would decline, because I paint the greatest of all.
- Have you met him?
- Yes, I was awarded a distinction five years ago. A great honour to my art, the greatest day in my life, Khalid assures me.
My favourite painting shows Saddam Hussein wearing Mafioso sunglasses against the backdrop of a setting sun. I feel like asking whether anyone has specialised in presidential caricatures, but I resist the temptation. My residence permit has not yet been granted.
Khalid represents one part of the complex system which feeds the personality cult of the president. The forever-appearing grotesque Saddam frescos are supposed to demonstrate his closeness to the people; several of the paintings show him kissing children or clasping the worn hands of a soldier’s mother. But the portraits, both the small and the ostentatious, underline the leader’s elevation - he is almost deific, and in pure goodness now and again descends to the level of the people.
Khalid no longer needs a photograph to paint from. He knows the face by heart.
The tour around Saddam’s many faces continues after we leave the Art Centre. We encounter him on street corners, in restaurants, on public buildings and in squares.
- It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Takhlef asks.
Saddam is everywhere. On every single piece of construction, on posters, in shop windows. He makes an appearance on each of the ministry buildings. Outside the Ministry of Justice he is holding up scales. By the Ministry of Defence he sits on a tank. He stands in a field by the Ministry of Agriculture and wields a hammer and anvil by the Ministry of Industry. Outside the Ministry of Communications a large poster shows him talking on a telephone. In front of the mosques he is praying and near a teahouse he is drinking tea. The different costumes and poses accentuate the conviction that he is omnipresent. He is the descendant of the Kings of Babylon - and the man of the moment.
- Saddam Hussein has elevated Iraq to a shining world star. The Americans try to wear us down with bombs and sanctions. But we will prevail, come what may.
Takhlef does not wait for me to respond. Others might draw breath or cough; my guide proclaims, at suitable intervals, clichés about the President.
- Everything he did in the past was good and everything he will do in the future is good.
- How can you be so sure about that?
- I know it as a result of my belief in the party and his leadership.
Takhlef glares at me; he suggests we finish the tour. I am frustrated. What sort of a game is this? How long will it continue? How much longer must I praise Saddam’s shining hair? How often will Takhlef boast about the victories of the revolution and how wonderful everything would be in Iraq but for sanctions? He knows he is lying, he knows I know he is lying, he knows I am lying, he knows that I know that
Khalid tells me how he became one of Saddam’s official artists. - While I was a student at the Academy a competition was announced to paint the president from a photograph, but to use your own artistic ideas. I won, he says. - Our president is very interested in art and often announces competitions to decide who can produce the best portrait.
- Don’t you get fed up with painting the same subject all the time?
- Oh no. Our president is a source of continuous inspiration.
- Wouldn’t you like to paint something else?
- If I were asked to paint divine women, angels or the most beautiful roses, I would decline, because I paint the greatest of all.
- Have you met him?
- Yes, I was awarded a distinction five years ago. A great honour to my art, the greatest day in my life, Khalid assures me.
My favourite painting shows Saddam Hussein wearing Mafioso sunglasses against the backdrop of a setting sun. I feel like asking whether anyone has specialised in presidential caricatures, but I resist the temptation. My residence permit has not yet been granted.
Khalid represents one part of the complex system which feeds the personality cult of the president. The forever-appearing grotesque Saddam frescos are supposed to demonstrate his closeness to the people; several of the paintings show him kissing children or clasping the worn hands of a soldier’s mother. But the portraits, both the small and the ostentatious, underline the leader’s elevation - he is almost deific, and in pure goodness now and again descends to the level of the people.
Khalid no longer needs a photograph to paint from. He knows the face by heart.
The tour around Saddam’s many faces continues after we leave the Art Centre. We encounter him on street corners, in restaurants, on public buildings and in squares.
- It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Takhlef asks.
Saddam is everywhere. On every single piece of construction, on posters, in shop windows. He makes an appearance on each of the ministry buildings. Outside the Ministry of Justice he is holding up scales. By the Ministry of Defence he sits on a tank. He stands in a field by the Ministry of Agriculture and wields a hammer and anvil by the Ministry of Industry. Outside the Ministry of Communications a large poster shows him talking on a telephone. In front of the mosques he is praying and near a teahouse he is drinking tea. The different costumes and poses accentuate the conviction that he is omnipresent. He is the descendant of the Kings of Babylon - and the man of the moment.
- Saddam Hussein has elevated Iraq to a shining world star. The Americans try to wear us down with bombs and sanctions. But we will prevail, come what may.
Takhlef does not wait for me to respond. Others might draw breath or cough; my guide proclaims, at suitable intervals, clichés about the President.
- Everything he did in the past was good and everything he will do in the future is good.
- How can you be so sure about that?
- I know it as a result of my belief in the party and his leadership.
Takhlef glares at me; he suggests we finish the tour. I am frustrated. What sort of a game is this? How long will it continue? How much longer must I praise Saddam’s shining hair? How often will Takhlef boast about the victories of the revolution and how wonderful everything would be in Iraq but for sanctions? He knows he is lying, he knows I know he is lying, he knows I am lying, he knows that I know that
Readers choose
Richard Preston
Claire C. Riley
A Place to Belong
Ellen Miles
Delaney Diamond
Peter W. Singer Allan Friedman, Allan Friedman
Kerry Barrett
Kelseyleigh Reber
Ruby Laska