Read A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal for Free Online Page B

find himself in the press centre when a conference is announced is squashed into the large hall. Kadim, Mohsen and engineer Walid, whose job it is to oversee our satellite telephones, wield invisible whips and herd us like cattle into the room. If they spot you it is too late to plead other engagements. Worst of all is when the Agricultural Minister, Trade Minister, Health Minister or any one of the others who do not speak English top the bill. They go on in Arabic, for an hour and a half, followed by questions from journalists from Arab-speaking countries. There is no translation. You can bring your interpreter with you, but having done that once you won’t do it again.
     
    The Agricultural Minister does not talk about agriculture but the strength of the Iraqi army. The Health Minister never mentions hospitals, but goes on about how wonderful Saddam Hussein is, and the Trade Minister has nothing to say about sanctions and their effect on the economy, but how the Americans will suffer should they attack Iraq. Regardless of content, the speeches all originate from the same floor - the eighth.
     
    The ground floor - the lowest and most pitiful - is ours. Here the gruff Uday al-Taiy rules. Not as awe-inspiring as his namesake, Saddam’s son, but scary enough. While the president’s monster of a son is corpulent and limps as the result of an assassination attempt seven years ago, our Uday is light of foot, thin and sinewy. His brows are always knit, his shoulders heavy, his nails manicured and his suits immaculate. A cold wind blows in his wake. Even though he never deigns to greet me, I stand to attention and lower my eyes. I am always scared stiff that he will catch me doing something; that I have misbehaved, said something unforgivable.
     
    Uday al-Taiy is one of those cold-blooded and effective pieces that every dictatorship needs. He is in charge of us; he advises the ministers as to who should stay and who must leave. This is what occupies us above all. To be allowed to stay. The rule is ten days. Only a few are smart, cunning, lucky, important or rich enough to stay beyond that period. And most of them are only granted an extra ten days. The visa and how to buy, trick or bribe to get it is the big topic of conversation among journalists. How many days have you got left? Do you think they’ll extend it? Who have you paid? Wow, you got the extension! How?
     
    These conversations are intertwined with topic number two: When do you think the war will start? At the beginning of February, at the end of February, at the beginning of March, the middle of March, after the summer? The visa has to last long enough to enable us to cover the war, and to that end we have to enter the lion’s den, Uday al-Taiy’s lair.
     
    Anyone wanting to talk to him is obliged to come between 9 and 10 in the evening. Any earlier and he will be with the minister. The result is a queue of journalists all glaring at each other. They want to be alone with the mighty man, to submit their case in secrecy. Just wait your turn to enter and listen to Uday’s monologues. It must give him perverse pleasure to hear our applauding and fawning. All because of the bloody visa. We sit on the perch until we fall off while we wait for the moment when we can submit our request.
     
    - We must combat America’s imperialism before they subdue the whole world, Uday says and draws heavily on a cigarette, while a Japanese from Asahi, a pale, freckled lady from the Guardian and a classy TV star from France 2 nod. The beautiful but slightly moth-eaten Parisienne bobs her sky-high heels up and down. It is her way of saying she isn’t getting the attention she deserves. The Japanese looks down, while the lady from London wraps a large necklace around her finger. An American TV producer sits in the corner, without applauding, without contradicting. My face is serious and humble and I wait politely for my allotted time. I am not high enough in the ranks to either