I had one moment on my tour of Baghdad today, one jolt from the past that I hadn't expected. In all my previous visits, I had to work out of the Ministry of Information Foreign Press Office. It was one of the most despicable aspects of working in what can be (or once was) such a lovely city.
We had to go the ministry offices and register every request for an interview. We paid bribes to the top man there for everything you can imagine (the right to use a sat phone, the right to drive out of the city, etcetera...). Attendance at all Iraqi news conferences was pretty well obligatory (for fear of losing what little access we had) and it was an all around unpleasant place. You'd have to spend, literally hours waiting for an "audience" with the top man. He'd heap scorn on the West and expect you to agree, and then you'd have to give him money, for the right to report. I always left feeling soiled by the experience.
So today we were driving south across the Tigris, and I was in one of those daydreaming dazes that are caused by the tenseness of a war zone, and too little sleep, and not a lot of food, and then bang -- there it was -- the Ministry of Information Foreign Press Office, with all its windows blown out, black streaks sweeping up the sandstone brick above the empty window frames, and not a soul to be seen. It had been looted and forgotten. I should have felt this swell of satisfaction, but I didn't. I felt sad. I felt sad because the one feature of that office that was tolerable, even fun sometimes, were the "minders" -- those men (always men) who were assigned to shadow you every time you ventured out, so you wouldn't ask any questions that might compromise the government image or insult the "great leader."
To my delight, I almost always discovered that the people were stand-offish at first, not eager to chat, but after you'd spent days together, you'd end up as friends. They'd trade their own honest assessments of Iraq for news from the West, and after 10 days together, often you'd be chattering away like you'd known each other for years. There were always the rules. Everyone knew the rules. No going "unilateral" in Iraq. But beyond that, we'd end up trading family stories and looking at photos, and drinking endless cups of tea together. So the one thing that always gave me faith that there'd be "life after Saddam" was the knowledge that even 30 years of authoritarian rule couldn't hammer the humanity, the simple decency out of his people.
So today when I saw the wreck of the ministry building I thought of a young man called Ali. He was my last minder, back in 2001. We became close friends in the 2 weeks I was here. I wonder where he is. He, like so many others, is now out of work, and I sincerely hope that he won't be condemned by people in whatever the "new" Iraq becomes. I don't think that will happen. That would sentence millions of civil servants to purgatory for the sins of a few nasty leaders.
Maybe Ali will get the wish he whispered to me when we said goodbye over two years ago: a chance to leave Iraq; a chance to see Europe; a chance to see North America. Ali, if you ever get a chance to read this, I'm in Boston working at WBUR, The Connection. Call me.
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