Although I considered that my writing for the magazines was going well, I never allowed myself to lose sight of the fact that my main aim was to publicise my books. At the end of each piece there would be a reference to either ‘Parkhurst Tales’ or another of my books.
Purely from a financial perspective, the way the assignments were presently panning out I couldn’t have earned enough money to make it worth-while anyway. Each assignment was taking anything up to two weeks to research, plan and arrange all the logistics for. The trip itself would take from seven to ten days. Then it would take me a couple of days to write the story up from my notes. So it was highly unlikely that I could do more than one assignment per month. And as each assignment paid only about £1,000, there was definitely no long-term future in it.
I had always been interested in politics and was an avid observer of the news. Looking around the world, there were literally scores, if not hundreds, of dangerous and interesting situations that would make for a good story. However, it was no use just going somewhere unless you had some kind of edge, some kind of contact. Furthermore, the magazine would want some evidence that you had a good chance of getting the story before they gave you a couple of thousand pounds in expenses.
Iraq was a place that definitely interested me. Apart from the fact that we and the yanks were still bombing sporadically, there was an ongoing tragedy caused by the sanctions. Horrendous numbers of Iraqi children were dying for lack of basic food and medicine. If anyone else had been causing it, we would have raised it in the international arena at every opportunity. As it was there was just be the occasional, small article, quoting some United Nations report saying just how many kids were dying.
Sanctions against Iraq, first by America and later by the United Nations, were imposed as early as May 1990. By August, the International Red Cross admitted that the sanctions, which prevented food and medicines from reaching the country, violated international law. In 1993, UNICEF estimated that between 80,000 and 100,000 children had died as a direct result of the sanctions. By 1997 the people of Iraq were poorer than those of Bangladesh. Presently, only the US and Britain were adamant that sanctions should still be applied.
I had observed in prison just how callous and cruel the authorities could be, even to conniving at outright criminality. I did all I could to expose it in prison, which was precisely why they labeled me a trouble-maker. Now I had the opportunity to do the same outside.
Further, a trip to Iraq would really put the cat amongst the pigeons regarding my right to travel abroad without Home Office permission. There was little doubt that they would notice I had been, probably long before I arrived too. I was sure the security services monitored all travel to and from Iraq. Bearing in mind I was doing an expose on the Government, it would be hypocritical in the extreme for them to pull me back into prison for breaching my life licence by traveling abroad without permission. But, as I was already well aware, the Home Office weren’t above hypocrisy.
Now I had decided where I wanted to go, the next part was to work out how to get there. Apart from the fact that it was very difficult to physically travel to Iraq, I was aware that any journalist, or probably any non-Iraqi for that matter, couldn’t just go to the country without permission from the Iraqi government.
I had read that George Galloway, MP, was one of the very few people who traveled regularly to Iraq. I spoke with his secretary and he gave me the telephone number of a Dr Amin, who was Head of the Iraqi Interests Section which was located in Kensington.
I wrote to Dr Amin explaining that I was an English journalist who wrote for men’s lifestyle magazines with circulations of anything up to one million. I pointed out that the British public were largely subjected to the ‘American’ view of Iraq which, more often than not, was erroneous. I emphasised that I did not subscribe to that view. I went on to say that I had considerable sympathy for the plight of Iraqi children who were dying as a result of the sanctions and that it would be the object of my trip to publicise this to the full.
I included my address, telephone number, passport number, National Union of Journalists card number and my e-mail address. I guessed they would do some checking. After all, being an Englishman whose Government was still in a virtual state of war with Iraq, I could well be a spy.
I was in no doubt what the Iraqis did with spies, either. I had been friends with Tom Mangold, the noted TV journalist and Panorama presenter, for many years. I had rung him at the BBC to ask him his advice about Iraq. It was he who told me about Farzad Bazoft.
On 17 August 1979, a huge explosion occurred 25 miles from Baghdad, which was clearly audible in the capital. For some, this confirmed that the Iraqi Government were carrying out nuclear research.
The Observer sent one of its reporters, Iranian-born British national Farzad Bazoft to investigate. Accounts differ as to his agenda, some say he was on an intelligence mission gathering soil samples for Britain and therefore working indirectly for Israel. Others insist he was simply checking out a newsworthy story.
Either way, after driving back from the scene of the explosion, Farzad was arrested on charges of spying and sentenced to death. Whilst in custody he confessed to spying for Israel, but the Iraqi security forces are well-known for torture. Everyone agrees that Farzad’s confession was forced out of him.
There was an international outcry at the sentence. Jordan’s King Hussein (one of Saddam’s best friends in the Arab world) sent a letter asking for clemency and our Foreign Secretary, Douglas Hurd, pleaded to come to Baghdad to discuss the matter.
Saddam, however, insisted that Farzad must die and he was hanged on the 15 March 1990. His body was unceremoniously dumped in front of the British Embassy and Iraq’s Information Minister crowed, “Mrs Thatcher wanted Bazoft alive. We gave her the body.”
The point wasn’t lost on me that pressure from a powerful newspaper like the Observer wasn’t enough to save Bazoft, neither was a letter from the King of Jordan. All I had on my side was ‘Front’ magazine, and perhaps a letter from the top-less model, Jordan.
Then there was the problem of my Jewishness. Well it wasn’t a problem for me, but it certainly could be for Saddam. Quite prominently at the front of ‘Parkhurst Tales’ it stated that both my parents were Jewish. Now that doesn’t necessarily make me a member of Mossad, but it is just the sort of thing that could make a man like Saddam suspicious. Clearly, I would have to tread very carefully.
Anyway, it was all largely academic at the moment. I sent the letter off, thinking that would probably be the last I heard of Iraq. You can imagine my surprise when, a couple of days later, I got a letter from Dr Amin inviting me for an interview at the Iraqi Bureau in Kensington.
The rest was remarkably straightforward. I talked with Dr Amin for about 20 minutes, then filled out several forms with a young lady in reception. I was told that I would be informed of their decision in due course. To be frank, I still thought that was the end of it, but, about a month later, I suddenly received a letter instructing me to come to the Bureau and pick up my visa.
I quickly found a travel agent in the Edgeware Road who arranged trips to Iraq. There were two ways to go. I could either fly to Jordan, then make a two day drive across the desert. Or I could fly to Damascus in neighbouring Syria and catch one of the two flights each week to Baghdad. This was the only plane that actually flew into Iraq and, as such, was highly symbolic. The Americans and the British were both imposing no-fly zones and cynics wouldn’t have put it past either of them to bring the plane down ‘by accident’. Then there were all Saddam’s internal and external dissidents, who would most certainly have liked to bring it down.
However, I really didn’t fancy the two-day drive across the desert. I guessed it would be arduous, quite expensive and rather hit and miss. I wanted to make sure that I got to Baghdad. With the Damascus plane, at least it was a direct flight.
I had a couple more vaccinations at BAs Regent Street clinic, against diseases even the Colombians hadn’t heard off. Then I went directly to ‘Front’s offices for a last minute briefing with Eoin.
We discussed what he should do in case I got into trouble out there. There was no conversation, just 30 seconds of dead silence. Neither of us could think of anything at all worthwhile. As an afterthought I asked that he keep Marsha informed.
Just as I was leaving he suddenly came over all thoughtful and looked slightly embarrassed. I had to drag it out of him. He confessed that whilst he thought it was a great assignment and highly dangerous to boot, the subject of thousands of dead kids was a bit dark for a lifestyle magazine. The upshot was a polite request for me to try to make it a bit funny!
Now I knew Saddam had been accused of many things, but I was sure he had never been accused of being funny. However, I did take the point. I would write the piece with a strong sense of the ironic, which is about as funny as it gets in Iraq. Here’s the piece:-
No one was more surprised than I, when I finally received my visa for Iraq. Except perhaps the lady at the Iraqi bureau who had taken my original application about a month previously.
“Have you been in touch with Baghdad”, she queried? Now how would I? It’s almost impossible to get through by phone and the only person I know there is Saddam, and we’re not speaking at the moment.
I had already read extensively about Iraq, but, in search of further information, I rang my old pal, Tom, at the BBC. Tom had been everywhere and seen virtually everything.
“Don’t drink the water, even the bottled stuff and be very careful”, Tom barked, “they’re a vicious bunch of bastards. Not the ordinary people. They’re nice, like ordinary people everywhere. But Saddam’s secret police are totally ruthless and quite evil.”
“But I’m a journalist, Tom”, I replied smugly. “So was Farzad Bazoft of the Observer”, retorted Tom, “ and they hanged him for spying.” Gee thanks, Tom , that’s really put my mind at rest.
While the Syrian Airlines plane was delayed for 90 minutes on the runway at Heathrow, the stewardesses brought round glasses of cool mineral water. It was only later that I saw the Arabic writing on the water bottles. Six hours later, whilst sitting in Damascus airport waiting for my connecting flight to Baghdad, I felt my stomach start to bubble.
Well aware of the British and US-enforced no-fly zones over most of Iraq, and conscious that this recently resumed flight was the only one operating in Iraqi airspace, I was already understandably concerned. The three very thorough baggage searches and my personal identification of my bag on the tarmac further alerted me to the very real possibility of a terrorist threat.
As the only European on board, I surreptitiously examined my fellow passengers. Wild-looking, hook-nosed Arabs in flowing robes sat cheek-by-jowl with old, female, Iranian pilgrims in black chadors, only their eyes visible. It did occur to me that I was the only one who didn’t look like a potential terrorist. I was sure that just one ‘Allah Akhbar’ out of any of them would be enough to ensure instant cardiac arrest.
It wasn’t long in coming. As we taxied for take-off a guttural voice called out from the rear. Immediately, the Iranian pilgrims answered in chorus. It was okay, they were only praying for a safe flight. But considering the dodgy state of my bowels, they might have warned me.
Saddam International Airport looked just as dilapidated as you would expect after standing idle for over ten years, all the clocks eternally frozen at 12.33. The arrivals board still bore legends of exotic destinations like Berlin and Bucharest, but now there were only these two flights a week from Damascus.
All the streets were deserted as we drove through the darkness to the hotel. To my enquiry about where all the people were, the taxi driver mimed that they were all asleep. How clever of Saddam to synchronise all Iraqi body-clocks so that everybody falls asleep at the same time!
The Melia-Mansur Hotel had once been five-star and the second best in Baghdad. It was still second best, but ‘second best’ is a comparative term. The expression ‘faded grandeur’ sprang to mind as I was shown to my room. Worn, holed carpets lined the corridor floors, stained wallpaper peeled from the walls, but I was past caring. My body longed for sleep, my bowels for a speedy encounter with a toilet.
In my room I triumphed in a brief skirmish with cockroaches, but baulked at washing my hands in the dark, brown water that ran from the taps. The final horror was soon to be revealed – no toilet roll!
That night I thrashed in the throes of fever. With my bed-sheets soaked in sweat I alternated between burning up and shivering with cold. I feared something serious. Could I have contracted one of those terrible tropical diseases you read about? I muttered a silent prayer, “please don’t let my dick shrivel and drop off”.
With Monday morning came my appointment with the Press Office. This would be crucial. They would decide what I could and could not do and I was determined to make a good impression on them. Not easy when half my concentration was on the whereabouts of the nearest toilet and how long it would take me to get there.
A five-minute walk took me to a shabby office block where the Press Office was located. I found my way to the director’s office, where he sat with several colleagues. Stern faces, beards, moustaches and designer stubble were much in evidence. Supremely conscious of the fact they probably viewed me as, at best, the enemy and, at worst, a spy, I launched into my carefully prepared speech.
“I know all about America’s role in undermining Iraq”, I thundered, leaning forward for effect. “How they built you up as a counterbalance to the Shah of Iran, then, when Ayatollah Khomeni came to power in 1979, encouraged you to attack. Then, quite cynically, the Americans armed both sides until eight years of war had ruined both countries. Finally, with Iraq in dire straits, they got Kuwait to increase its oil production, further damaging the Iraqi economy. That was why you had to attack Kuwait.”
I sat back quite pleased with myself and carefully examined their faces. It was hard to gauge their reactions, what with the cultural differences and all. However, I was sure I saw thougthfulness, grudging respect, admiration even. Not a bit of it. The director explained in fractured English that none of them spoke much English, so could I repeat myself to Mohammed, who was in the next office and was fluent.
Mohammed, another moustache-and-stubble guy, asked me for my proposed schedule. I listed:- an interview with Saddam’s sons, Uday and Qusay; a trip to Tikrit, Saddam’s birthplace; a tour of the bunker at Amirayah which was hit by US missiles in 1991 and evidence of the improved standing of Iraqi women, specifically, their fighting roles in the armed forces. A few photos of foreign women with guns always went down well in ‘Front’.
Mohammed said that he would forward my requests to a higher authority and told me to come back tomorrow.
As I left the Press Office I had my first real confrontation – with the weather. To say that it was like walking into an oven doesn’t do it justice. The heat was like a wall that slowed all movement to a crawl. When the wind blew it was worse, because the wind was hot as well. Our hottest days in England rarely reach 27 degrees Celsius; here the temperature gauge regularly showed above 50. I slow-walked to the sanctuary of my air-conditioned room.
part 2 will follow shortly