A
Letter from Mayada Al-Askari
One Iraqi summer day in July 1998, I received an unexpected
call from the Ministry of Information. I was told that I was
needed to be a translator for an American woman who was
visiting Iraq. I was surprised at the call for two reasons:
That entire summer, President Saddam Hussein was in an
irritable mood against the Americans and the UN, and the Iraqi
President had said he would not allow anymore American
reporters to travel into Iraq. So, I wondered, who is this
woman and how did she get into my country? Secondly, despite
the fact I speak and write fluent English, I had not been
hired by the Ministry for the longest time. Since the wars and
the sanctions, my entire country was in a financial crisis,
and the ministry had an unwritten policy of hiring only male
translators, not caring if we women starved. The ministry
official actually told me that this American woman was
insisting upon a female translator and would not accept a
man. I was surprised to hear this information, as most
foreigners to Iraq were cautious of the Iraqi government. I
had never heard of a foreigner who said what or who they would
accept. But as a single mother with two children, I was eager
for the job, so I quickly agreed to go in the following
morning to meet this American.
The following day was another typical Iraqi summer day,
extremely hot and dry, and I took a taxi to the Ministry. On
the way, I was thinking of the American lady I was about to
meet. I hoped she would be nice and that I would enjoy my
time with her. Most of the American ladies I knew throughout
my life I still remembered fondly, from school and
University. I was not disappointed.
Jean Sasson was sitting in the Ministry of Information waiting
on me, a big smile on her face. I liked her on the spot.
I
quickly found Jean Sasson to be the kind of person that lights
up a room with her big smile, the kind that people try to be
on their best conduct around, and the kind that people open up
to, with their problems and feelings.
Even though she was an American, a nationality that we Iraqis
were taught were our enemies, everywhere we went, Iraqis
opened up to her. All through Jean’s stay in Baghdad, I saw
Iraqi officials that never smiled to anyone, turn into jolly
souls upon meeting her. She was invited into people’s homes,
acting as though it was a normal life to be so welcomed in
Iraq, not knowing how rare such invitations were in those
days. I could see that the personnel in Al-Rasheed hotel
liked her so much. They even presented her with gifts, a
thing that was a first timer in Iraq under sanctions. Most
people were so poor that they were hardly able to live by the
very harsh circumstances that enveloped the country, and there
they were, giving this American woman presents! I had never
seen that kind of an Iraqi reaction to a reporter, or a
writer, from any country. I think it was because they could
feel that Jean truly cared about them, and their personal
situations.
We went together to the children's hospital, and I watched as
Jean was moved to tears. Small children were dying
daily and in great pain
and this foreign lady was sick with grief. She passed around
gifts and sweets, and smiled her big smile, and tried to
entertain the children through her tears, and the little sick
kids and their parents loved her. I had seen the doctors in
those hospitals talk to foreigners accusingly, but not to
Jean, for Jean was a human being that was one of them. I was
truly shocked to hear them complain to her about the system,
and the lack of their ability to get certain drugs. They
complained to her and they felt that they could trust her with
their names, a thing, if revealed with the facts they told
her, could lead to a horror story in Saddam's Iraq. I could
see that even the doctors trusted this American woman with
their secret thoughts, thoughts that would land them in prison
in Iraq if known by the wrong person. Jean kept every secret
and as far as I know, never wrote a single word about those
people, even after she returned to the West, where she was
safe.
When Jean left Iraq, I came to Al-Rasheed hotel to bid her
farewell, and I saw that I was not the only one with tears in
my eyes .
The most strange thing of all happened after Jean left, a
thing that never happens with foreign correspondents and
writers that visit and leave Iraq. I was called at my home by
the Al-Rasheed people, and by the press center people and
officials at the ministries, asking me about Jean, and if she
made the trip safely back to America, and if she was well.
These people also asked me to send their love to her. I had
never had such an experience in Iraq.
Our friendship went on, and Jean used to call me over the
telephone, and we would write letters. Then one day I was
wrongly arrested by the Iraqi secret police, and while
imprisoned, I disappeared from Jean for a time.
Upon leaving the Al-Baladiyat prison complex, the first person
I called was Jean. I called her before calling my mother,
because I knew she was frantic with worry.
As soon as I could, I fled my country and went to my mother in
Amman.
Jean and I started writing each other on a daily basis, using
e-mail, sometimes just to say good morning. I knew she was
worried about the effect of prison on my life, but she never
pushed me to reveal the worst details. She allowed me to
slowly unwind. When she heard the stories of the women I
came to know while in prison, she was frantic with worry about
those women, insisting that we must return to Iraq to try and
track them down. I could not return to Iraq in those days,
and the fate of those wonderful women remained a painful
mystery to us both.
After the 11th of September events, I felt that
Jean and I were drawn even closer in our friendship, for grief
and sorrow does get people together, no matter if one is
Iraqi, and one is American.
My mother passed away in October 2001 after a painful breast
cancer experience. I was exhausted and devastated and didn’t
know what I might do next.
After talking to Jean, we both agreed that one day,
when I felt safe enough to talk, something should be written
to expose the savageness of the Iraqi government. I had told
Jean about the mass graves in Hilla and Basra, while most of
the world was unaware of them. We worried together about what
was happening to innocent Iraqi citizens. Jean often spoke of
the little children she had met, and I heard her voice tremble
as she remembered, although she could barely stand the idea
that most of the children she met were probably dead by that
time.
Then in November 2002, things started to escalate towards a
firm stance by the US Administration, that Saddam either
comply or go. I began to realize that Saddam would probably
not survive the determination of the West to see him go. That
is when I told Jean that I would agree for her to tell my
story.
Jean sent me lists of questions over the e-mail, and from the
facts of my life, began to write the story of my life, and the
story of other Iraqis, including stories about my wonderful
grandfathers, two men who loved Iraq with all their heart, two
men who helped form modern Iraq. You see, my father’s father,
Jafar Al-Askari, was an extraordinary man, a brave man who was
such a skilled soldier that he commanded Lawrence of Arabia’s
Arab troops, helping to lead them to victory against the
Turkish Armies. My mother’s father, Sati Al-Husri, was one of
the most honest man ever to live, one of the first Arab
Nationalists. This celebrated grandfather I knew. Even today
as I travel through Arab capitals, I see streets and schools
named after my grandfather, honoring his wonderful memory.
Jean wrote my story, the story of my grandfathers, and the
story of other innocent Iraqis. I admit I was amazed at how
she took the facts of my life and so perfectly captured the
emotion in my heart.
I
must say that it was both sad and frustrating when I had to
force myself to remember all the details Jean needed to write
my story. I had to remember all the criminal mistreatments
that Iraqis were exposed to by the Saddam clan. It was hard
to relive that horrifying life, but I knew that the world
needed to know these personal stories.
While Jean was in the middle of writing my story, President
Bush decided that Saddam had to go. But he was not final
about it, giving the dictator a chance to step down
peacefully. Watching from the sidelines, I was so jumpy that
the world would pressure Bush to leave Saddam in power that I
actually wrote an e-mail to the President of the United States
of America, asking him to please rescue 24 Million Iraqi
captives who were living under the tyranny and criminality of
Saddam Hussein. I pleaded for help in ridding Iraq of
Saddam. I have the right. I am an Iraqi.
The happiest day of my life was the 9th of April
2003. We Iraqis now call April 9th, our
"Liberation Day." I know that many Arabs do not understand
our Iraqi jubilations. Many have told me that we Iraqis are
foolish to accept foreign soldiers on our soil. But I look
those people straight in the eye and tell them if they had not
lived under the rule of Saddam Hussein, that they have no
right to speak for us, or to criticize jubilant Iraqis. We
know the terror of those years. No one else has the right to
speak for us.
As an Iraqi who lived under the rule of Saddam, I thank every
foreign soldier that came to Iraq and extended a precious
helping hand, or rather, liberating hand, and Allah Bless.
Despite the troubles and hardships Iraqis are still
undergoing, I believe that one day not far away, Iraq, the
cradle of civilization, will settle down to peace and become a
Democratic Arab State. Iraq will be the "example," that other
Arab nations will one day commend, and possibly follow into
democracy.
This was the dream and wish of my two grandfathers, and it is
my dream as well.
This I pray to Allah.
Mayada Al-Askari
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