While the rest of the world seemed to be thinking about war, Shehab and Rasmiya were planning for their wedding. When they finally got hitched, the night after I arrived in Baghdad last February, they cruised the city in an old but decorated Toyota sedan accompanied by another car, ferrying rented musicians trumpeting their union to a night filled with passersby accustomed to the Iraqi tradition of noisy, public wedding celebrations.
The mini-motorcade stopped at a parking lot outside the hotel where they would formally host their reception. There at the parking lot, in the nippy late-winter air, their sedan was surrounded by both their clans, dancing and singing and greeting the bride and groom for a full half hour before the couple got out to walk slowly into the hotel. But not before Rasmiya's mother let out one last startlingly shrill "lililililil," like a war cry but actually a happy gesture for the couple, something akin to clapping.
Not yet accustomed to Iraqi hospitality, I was surprised to be invited by relatives into the hotel so I could continue pointing my camera at the smiling couple. Once inside, I couldn't resist also pointing my microphone at them and asking, "Is this a good time to get married?"
The couple didn't seem to know what I meant. "You know, the war," I explained. "What kind of future do you think you will have if there is a war?"
"We are not worried or afraid," Shehab the groom replied matter-of- factly. "If the Americans come, we will fight." The men of the clans nodded their heads. Then someone said something funny in Arabic that was not translated (perhaps making fun of the foreigner's question), which brought everyone's attention back to the festivities.
I often got answers like that in Baghdad, on the eve of what could be a devastating war on Iraq. Answers full of bravado, even reckless disregard for personal safety. For all the brave talk I heard, I never learned whether the typical Iraqi really knew what was probably coming-not just the kind of relentless bombing they suffered in 1991 but an invasion by the strongest military the world has ever seen, maybe even bloody fighting in these same streets. I knew that Iraqis didn't get a lot of information beyond the nightly TV broadcast of Saddam Hussein bombast.
Ali the Minder
But it could also have been because many Iraqis were plainly afraid of saying the wrong thing. Perhaps Shehab that night really didn't know who was listening to his answer and who might rat on him to Saddam's vast security apparatus. The safe thing to say was that he would fight to the death, something their mustachioed supremo himself likes to say. One person who was nearly always listening to our interactions with Iraqis was Ali, the government minder (the Ministry of Information officially calls him a "guide") who had to approve almost everything we did related to our work ("Mr. Ali, may we shoot these used clothes for sale? My countrymen call this ukay-ukay.").
We paid the Iraqi government over US$450 a day for the privilege of covering their country and for the curse of being covered by Ali, who spoke little English. Since he was new on his lucrative job, he had a naturally conservative attitude toward his work. So his reflex was to say no. We couldn't shoot bridges, mosques, monuments, even the great Tigris River and the ubiquitous portraits of the Great Leader. We even had to ask permission to interview market vendors. It was not even worth asking about military camps and government buildings. Much of whatever we did shoot we got on the sly.
Once, when we decided to escape from Ali and shoot an ordinary scene in a Baghdad side street, we were approached almost immediately by undercover intelligence agents. But they ignored us and talked to our young driver. Ashen-faced, our driver reported to the information ministry; we thought his family car that we were renting was going to be confiscated or he was going to be arrested. So my cameraman Bodgie Sonza and I accompanied him to the ministry; after scolding the driver, the ministry official told him not to do it again and let him go, but not before casting a glance at us to make sure we witnessed this act of goodwill.
Despite the fear and the restrictions, we did learn enough about the typical Iraqi to conclude that he was much like the typical Filipino: fatalistic, friendly, family-oriented, and hospitable to a fault. And he loved to be in our video, posing, smiling, playfully getting in front of our lenses, often holding up his baby or grabbing a friend to get them into our shots. In some ways, ordinary Iraqis were the opposite of their government. They were as exuberant and open as the Saddam regime- personified by the information ministry bureaucrats-was grim and closed.
Gracious Encounters
Many had warm impressions of Filipinos. Since over 30,000 overseas Filipino workers had fled Iraq because of the Gulf War, and almost none returned, Filipinos now exist in Iraq only in people's memories. "I almost married a Filipina," said one man who approached me and my team as we ate their equivalent of lechong manok in an outdoor restaurant. "But I had to join the Army during our last war against America. When I came back, she was gone and I never saw her again." "Oh, Lorna, she was like a daughter to me," recalled an elderly nurse in a hospital that used to have dozens of Filipino nurses. "She sent me these shoes," pointing to her white-shod feet. Gracious encounters like these were both wonderful and strange.
After all, our government had thrown its support behind George Bush and had recently kicked out an Iraqi diplomat from Manila. My team and I had been a bit apprehensive about how we would be welcomed by the typical Iraqi. After just a couple of hours in Baghdad, when we were treated before dawn to fresh bread and to some clowning around by young men working in a bakery near our hotel, we knew we would have no problem.
The Americans we met in Baghdad had even more reason to be surprised, their leader just as demonized in Iraq as Saddam was in the US. They were so-called human shields that were there to help prevent the war and protect Iraqi civilians. But still, they didn't know they would be frequently invited into private homes for tea by common folk.
Faith in the Future
"It's a sign of a mature civilization," said Hannah, a 60-something human shield from New Mexico who couldn't recall a single act of hostility. "They know the difference between a people and their government. In America, many people equate all Arabs with Saddam or Bin Laden."
I was walking the streets of Baghdad as UN weapons inspectors did their work in the vicinity, as the wrangling continued at the UN Security Council, and as tension enveloped the world. As one of the foreign correspondents based there told me, he felt like a passenger on a bus that was headed for a crash; we just didn't know when and just how bad it would be.
That's why I was constantly amazed at the normalcy this ancient city and its residents projected. While world leaders debated a war in which the people of Baghdad could be the most numerous victims, families still loved to eat out. I even accompanied one clan on a picnic where they played badminton. Nearly every night, I would see boisterous wedding motorcades cruise the main avenues, the riders celebrating an undying faith in the future.
As diplomatic efforts break down, and the countdown to war is no longer weeks but days, I see smiling Iraqi faces in my head. They gave me good reasons to share warm memories of them too.
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Howie Severino was in Iraq for two weeks to help produce two special reports for GMA7, "Sa Pusod ng Iraq" on March 16 and "From Iraq with Love" on March 24.
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