(pages 13-16)
Baghdad Museum, Iraq, Friday, April 11th, 2003
Ahmed Sadoun wasn't used to getting his hands dirty. He had long fingers and well-cared-for nails in spite of the fact that Baghdad was burning and the bombs never stopped falling around around him. It had been two days since the Americans had starting attacking the capital and the war-torn city was engulfed by fire. The murmur of its ancient street markets had given way to the thunder of explosions, but the Iraqi swept the streets with the hem of his jellabah as though he were above all this chaos.
He had waited almost two days since the war had started before going to the National Archaeology Museum, believing that by now the looters would have already taken anything of value. He would never have been able to face up to the organised foreign gangs, nor did he want to tackle the hoards of dispossessed people who came in their wake. The foreigners came in trucks and vans, equipped with the most advanced break-in materials, packing everything up to send to the clients in New York, London and Switzerland who had hired them. The latter were armed with knives and axes, ready to fill their pockets with the remains, which they would sell to local dealers. He didn’t care about either group. “What I have come to collect”, he thought, stroking his thick moustache, “will not have been taken. It is of no importance to anybody but to my client." Or at least that’s what he thought.
His family had found it very difficult to get regular meals during those years and Ahmed had learned to get hold of food by ingratiating himself with powerful people, who could give him all he needed. There were only two requirements for being successful at this, which were a lack of morals and the ability to obey orders. The problem started at the beginning of 2003 with the news of the imminent war with the United States. He was about to lose control of the situation, and started looking for new "protectors", who he called "clients". He found them abroad, in university circles in England, one of the countries that would eventually attack his own. His new clients wanted "pieces" and it was easy work. All he needed to do was to give them what they wanted.
He looked behind him again to make sure he was alone in the spacious open grounds of the museum, adjusting his weapon beneath the jellabah. “I might have to use it”, he thought. When he reached the façade of the building, he started walking slowly, tapping his sword against the brick wall, constantly peering beyond the most distant shadows. He was defenceless, and he knew it. Around him were the gardens at the entrance to the Archaeological Museum, which had not so long ago been the scene of a genuine battle. His Iraqi compatriots had dug trenches to defend themselves against the Americans. Some of these might still be occupied, and he needed to move cautiously. He wouldn’t be surprised if a soldier from either side tried to stop him in his tracks.
He was not surprised by the mess of overturned tables, or that the floor was covered with a carpet of paper, nor by the chaos he could make out in the offices he passed as he ventured further into the building. The looters had smashed the doors with axes, leaving man-sized gaps in them. They had made off with the computers and anything of value they thought would be able to sell easily on the black market. Everything they didn’t think useful had been scattered all over the floor or piled up in the corners. He could make out a faint odour of petrol and noticed some torches they had used to illuminate their pillaging activities. As he crept along the corridors, it became darker still and his torch did no more than light up the small circle he followed. He turned the corner, and his steps took him to a staircase leading to the storerooms in the basement, where uncatalogued pieces and those for which there was no room in the public displays were kept. Before he descended, he stopped, startled. He thought he had heard a faint scraping sound. He scanned the stairs with his torch and saw they were covered in cataloguing records, index sheets and official documents, all strewn over the steps and handrail. He saw nobody. However, his face lit up. Beyond the last step, at the end of a short corridor, he saw the enormous ironclad doors that gave access to the basement. He smiled a threatening smile, his thick moustache hiding his lips. As he had expected, the doors had been forced open. All he needed to do was go through them and collect what he had come for.
Ahmed Sadoun wasn't used to getting his hands dirty. He had long fingers and well-cared-for nails in spite of the fact that Baghdad was burning and the bombs never stopped falling around around him. It had been two days since the Americans had starting attacking the capital and the war-torn city was engulfed by fire. The murmur of its ancient street markets had given way to the thunder of explosions, but the Iraqi swept the streets with the hem of his jellabah as though he were above all this chaos.
He heard a bomb whistle as it fell too close to him, and he instinctively pulled his head down below his shoulders. It was impossible to tell whether the Americans or the Iraqi forces had fired, but in any case, the damage to the city would be the same. Ahmed glanced quickly behind him at the buildings he had just left, but he couldn't see them for the damage. It was night and Baghdad was in darkness except for the occasional fires that lit up the ruined buildings and released their inevitable plumes of smoke into the air. He lived in a land without law and order, which was also losing its history; and he was one of those responsible for that loss.
He had waited almost two days since the war had started before going to the National Archaeology Museum, believing that by now the looters would have already taken anything of value. He would never have been able to face up to the organised foreign gangs, nor did he want to tackle the hoards of dispossessed people who came in their wake. The foreigners came in trucks and vans, equipped with the most advanced break-in materials, packing everything up to send to the clients in New York, London and Switzerland who had hired them. The latter were armed with knives and axes, ready to fill their pockets with the remains, which they would sell to local dealers. He didn’t care about either group. “What I have come to collect”, he thought, stroking his thick moustache, “will not have been taken. It is of no importance to anybody but to my client." Or at least that’s what he thought.Ahmed had been born in Baghdad, and his early years had been easier than those that followed them. When he was still a teenager, his country had gone to war with Iran, and after this conflict the United States had imposed a long embargo against his country for having tried to invade Kuwait. Although everything seemed to have finished with the enormous Operation Desert Storm, all that it had achieved was to further ruin and demoralise the already depressed civil population.
His family had found it very difficult to get regular meals during those years and Ahmed had learned to get hold of food by ingratiating himself with powerful people, who could give him all he needed. There were only two requirements for being successful at this, which were a lack of morals and the ability to obey orders. The problem started at the beginning of 2003 with the news of the imminent war with the United States. He was about to lose control of the situation, and started looking for new "protectors", who he called "clients". He found them abroad, in university circles in England, one of the countries that would eventually attack his own. His new clients wanted "pieces" and it was easy work. All he needed to do was to give them what they wanted.The Iraqi was a dark man with tanned skin and hard features. He had black hair and a thick, moustache that arched downwards across his face, giving him a perpetual expression of distrust. He was middle aged, although his slight build and dark penetrating stare made it difficult to determine his exact age. He had had a hard life; always entering and leaving by the back door, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to snatch everything his established customers ordered from him. Now he was finding it very easy to give his new customers what they wanted.
He looked behind him again to make sure he was alone in the spacious open grounds of the museum, adjusting his weapon beneath the jellabah. “I might have to use it”, he thought. When he reached the façade of the building, he started walking slowly, tapping his sword against the brick wall, constantly peering beyond the most distant shadows. He was defenceless, and he knew it. Around him were the gardens at the entrance to the Archaeological Museum, which had not so long ago been the scene of a genuine battle. His Iraqi compatriots had dug trenches to defend themselves against the Americans. Some of these might still be occupied, and he needed to move cautiously. He wouldn’t be surprised if a soldier from either side tried to stop him in his tracks.He kept moving, as quiet as a mouse, skirting the façade until he reached the entrance usually used by staff. He decided to shelter and wait in the little hut that gave access to the interior. Other than the echo of the far away bombs and the noise of the planes circling in the black sky, there was not a sound to be heard. He could not hear anything from inside the museum, nor could he make out any light. Believing he was safe and alone, he switched on his torch and went to the entrance hall.
He was not surprised by the mess of overturned tables, or that the floor was covered with a carpet of paper, nor by the chaos he could make out in the offices he passed as he ventured further into the building. The looters had smashed the doors with axes, leaving man-sized gaps in them. They had made off with the computers and anything of value they thought would be able to sell easily on the black market. Everything they didn’t think useful had been scattered all over the floor or piled up in the corners. He could make out a faint odour of petrol and noticed some torches they had used to illuminate their pillaging activities. As he crept along the corridors, it became darker still and his torch did no more than light up the small circle he followed. He turned the corner, and his steps took him to a staircase leading to the storerooms in the basement, where uncatalogued pieces and those for which there was no room in the public displays were kept. Before he descended, he stopped, startled. He thought he had heard a faint scraping sound. He scanned the stairs with his torch and saw they were covered in cataloguing records, index sheets and official documents, all strewn over the steps and handrail. He saw nobody. However, his face lit up. Beyond the last step, at the end of a short corridor, he saw the enormous ironclad doors that gave access to the basement. He smiled a threatening smile, his thick moustache hiding his lips. As he had expected, the doors had been forced open. All he needed to do was go through them and collect what he had come for.
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