LONDON, 25 March 2003 — It starts when I wake up. Until recently, I would get up, put on some music and get ready for work. Now we are at war with Iraq, I get up much earlier, usually after a bad night’s sleep, switch on the television news right away and sit there trying to catch up with what has happened the night before. As a British citizen from Iraq, I consume news vociferously. The television is on the moment I get up, I check the Internet throughout the day and I watch the news when I come home, until eventually I force myself to go to bed.
You can be sure it’s pretty much the same for the thousands of Iraqis living in this country. We have to watch to know if our family and friends are safe, but we are terrified of what we might see. I sit there dreading the bulletin that will show they’ve bombed my aunt’s street. If the last Gulf War is anything to go by, soon it will be worse, soon there won’t be any communication at all, and it could be months before we know if they are alive.
The morning after the first strikes on Iraq was awful. Even though I’d known in my heart for weeks that it was going to happen, I still found it difficult to believe. The graphics are disturbingly reminiscent of the first Gulf War. During 1991, I was studying in Britain, but my parents were in Baghdad and I had no way of knowing if they were alive. Because they lived through it, and because I still have family there, I know how horrific the living conditions were: No infrastructure to speak of, no running water or electricity, people in daily fear of their lives.
And yet already this war has become a spectacle, a water cooler subject of conversation, something people watched on television the evening before. A quick flick through the newspapers and television channels and it’s painfully clear how much the graphic departments are enjoying the war. Bombing Iraq has become a game, one big competition to see who can come up with the best illustration of a Tomahawk. It’s easy to find war exciting when it has no impact on your life. A map of Baghdad doesn’t mean anything to most Brits. An impressive graphic showing where a cruise missile will target Rashid Street is completely abstract, but to me it’s like seeing a map of where bombs will land on Oxford Street.
If you catch yourself getting a bit of a kick out of seeing all the weaponry in action, try to remember that, contrary to the images on your television screens, people live in the building you’ve just seen annihilated, or in the suburb they’ve just announced is the next target. A missile that “accurately” hits the Ministry of Defense could well flatten a school next door, and on the pavement outside there will be people carrying on with their lives as best they can.
People in Iraq have to venture outside at some point if they are to survive the coming weeks. Many of my family are doctors and medics, so they have no choice but to be out on the streets of Baghdad. When I see reports of the latest attack, my first thought is not what amazing new technology America has, but which member of my family lives or works in that area.
When you’re watching this evening’s news, slightly frustrated that night vision isn’t as clear as it is on your Playstation 2, spare a moment for the people in their beds, in whose direction that red dot is heading. If you hear someone waxing lyrical about it being a “clean” war, gently remind them that just because you don’t see lost limbs on your TV screen doesn’t mean they aren’t there. If the thought of watching a snuff video disgusts you, then why not the aerial bombardment of Baghdad? Is war porn really any better than any other kind?
Like most Iraqis living in the West, I now think twice before telling strangers where I’m from. “My parents live in Jordan”, or “I’m from the Middle East,” is a much easier option. Patriotism, no matter how misplaced, is unpredictable, and you have no idea how someone will react when you tell them you’re Iraqi. I am not usually one to shy from political debate, but under the current circumstances, you can assume I’d rather not discuss it with you. It is just too painful, and while you may do your best to empathize, I have no desire to become your token Iraqi friend.
Thankfully, people have stopped asking my opinion. And yet when I hear someone pontificating about the war I want to interrupt and point out they haven’t got a clue what they are talking about. How can you sit there and discuss winning or losing like it’s the results of an election or a football match? How can someone sit there and say they are pro-war, when it doesn’t affect their lives?
Would they be so unambivalently pro-war if it was their family being bombed in their sleep? Thankfully, my parents are now living in Jordan. My mother rings me regularly in tears. Last week she managed to get through to her sister in Baghdad. At the end of the conversation, my aunt said to my mother: “Well this is probably the last time I’m ever going to speak to you.” Is that really so exciting?
(Aida Kaisy is an advertising executive working in London.)
