At the end of 1983, Maestro Walid Gholmieh would lead the National Symphony Orchestra in playing his Martyr Symphony. Among the musicians were Kamal, Amjad and Widad. More than anyone else, Kamal was aware of the noble and pure spirit of the martyr within him. But for him, this martyr was every martyr to war everywhere. Once, at the end of a practice session, the three of them, Kamal, Widad and Amjad, went to a restaurant near Al-Maghreb Street. As soon as they settled at a table, Amjad Mustafa began his talk about martyrdom, pointing out that the Iraqi dead were martyrs while the Iranian dead were no more than harmful insects. Amjad’s talk reminded Kamal Medhat of his time in Iran, when the Iranians believed that the Iraqi dead would go straight to hell, while Iranians would be rewarded with heaven. Amjad Mustafa, however, added a philosophical twist by pointing out that the Iraqi martyr had achieved harmony between life and death. Kamal Medhat felt then that discussions with Amjad were utterly fruitless. So he stopped talking and contented himself with drinking his beer. From time to time, he joked and laughed with Widad. Amjad, in contrast, became very tense as he elaborated on his views. Banging the table with his hand, he told them that the Iraqi martyr had became one with the tragedy of Iraq itself, for the country was in an isolation imposed on it by Arabs. So the Iraqi martyr was a kind of tragic hero whose sacrifice was an expression of the national character.
Kamal Medhat wasn’t capable of making fun of these ideas because he was scared. But he realized clearly that the nationalist ideology in Baghdad gave the oppressed people a sense of false grandeur and led them to believe that Iraq stood alone and isolated. Of all its neighbours, it was the only country without a coast. It was also the least dependent on commerce, travel and collaboration. Martyrdom therefore was a necessity. The symphony composed by Walid Gholmieh would, therefore, be played by the Iraqi orchestra and broadcast everywhere on the last day of December. Cars and people would stop in their tracks and car horns would blow continuously. Church bells would ring and mosques would praise God as the Martyr Symphony was played.
Were Iraqis the only martyrs? This was undoubtedly a revolting question for Kamal. After all, what was the difference between being martyred and being killed? But it was Amjad Mustafa’s opinions that forced the question on him. Amjad used specific epithets in his description of Iranian soldiers: they were mercenaries and harmful insects that deserved to die. The discourse was no different from that of the Iranians, who described the Iraqi dead as apostates. On both sides, there were sadistic, political speeches that concentrated on crushed bodies, broken necks and severed heads. In both Iraq and Iran there was a kind of pathological morbidity that revelled in people’s destruction. Kamal realized that discussions and debates about these matters were utterly futile.
There was another factor in all this: Widad was more attracted to Kamal Medhat’s views than she was to her husband’s. She pushed Kamal Medhat into a brand new area, for she not only introduced him to the National Symphony Orchestra in Baghdad, where he soon became the lead soloist, but she also introduced him to the political elite. Using her wide connections and her wealthy family’s contacts in high places, she put him in touch with influential politicians, who encouraged a limited kind of social and cultural modernity in literature and art. They used modernity as a double-edged sword: on the one hand to mobilize people, and on the other as a movement to counter the medieval political power in Iran.
Widad greatly admired Kamal Medhat. A great intellectual and a peerless musician, this affectionate man in his fifties was a mass of feelings and sensations. Soft-spoken, handsome and impressively tall, with delicate features and attractive, dandyish gestures, he may have inspired more than admiration. She took special care of him and was particularly interested in his welfare. For his part, he was aware of her feelings and had no wish to stop her. This became known to everyone, even his wife, Nadia al-Amiry, who became suspicious when she saw Widad’s excessive concern. But who was it that introduced Kamal Medhat to Saddam Hussein at that time? All the evidence suggests that he was invited to the presidential palace through Widad Ahmed’s highly connected brothers. It was also through Widad’s good offices that he performed several times in front of Saddam Hussein.
Groups of intellectuals were transported in large coaches to the great presidential palace, which wasn’t easy to reach. With their tinted glass windows, the coaches passed through thick wooded gardens and stopped in front of a towering palace. There were flowerbeds, small artificial ponds, swimming pools and bright green grass. At the various entrances there were armoured vehicles and tanks. In the watchtower were special guards dressed in their uniforms and helmets, holding machine guns. At the entrance to the grand hall there were the latest models of cars, with guards armed to the teeth.
They entered the palace and waited for a very long time until the president appeared. Once he’d arrived, Saddam was received with cheers. He was in his khaki military uniform made of high-quality broadcloth and wore no beret. He advanced cautiously, smiling and waving with his right hand to the people standing around. The artists clapped rhythmically and chanted slogans. The waiters in white jackets served glasses of juice from large trays. Saddam gave a long speech on art and its political function. Kamal Medhat, who wasn’t listening to the speech, was awoken from his reveries by the sound of the clapping. At last, everybody stood up and the president shook the hands of each and every guest. Kamal Medhat saw the president at close quarters when he approached, accompanied by his secretary, Abd Hamoud, who noted down everything that happened in a little notebook.
It was the first time that Kamal had seen Saddam in person, after having seen his photographs everywhere on the streets. He felt that Saddam exercised his power through those photographs, which deputized in his absence. The photographs filled the spaces and absences with images of Saddam smoking, eating watermelon, mending his daughter’s dress, hunting gazelles or eating grilled meat. He was photographed parading in a military uniform, wearing an American cowboy outfit or dressed as an Arab and riding a horse. Now here was Saddam standing in front of him, placing his hand on Kamal Medhat’s shoulder and bursting out laughing, revealing his white teeth and gold crowns. He ordered his secretary to arrange a special meeting with him.
After the reception, Kamal was called by a man with marked peasant features and a thick Bedouin dialect. The man’s hair fell onto his forehead and his moustache covered his mouth. His head was twice the size of a normal head and he had the profile of a bird of prey. His large, dark eyes looked like two smudges beneath his eyelashes. He spoke slowly, but his hard, stern gaze provoked fear even when he smiled.
The man was sitting in a strange-looking office. Near the door were large rolled-up maps and in the corner stood a stuffed fox, all covered with dust. The place looked more like a shop than an office, for the shelves reached the ceiling and were filled with mysterious boxes. There were also boxes containing foreign books and three cupboards that were filled with archives, records and files. On the wall were paintings by well-known Iraqi artists such as Jawad Selim, Faïq Hassan and Atta Sabri. There were also original statues and cheap copies as well as an elephant’s tusk and African masks.