Many Islamist journalists and intellectuals also arrived from Baghdad. Some of them rapidly became caught up in pop music, mixed society, strange clothing and accessories of every kind. Before long they would shave their beards and let their hair grow, dazzled by the freedom of life in the West and embracing Western values. Others did not. They stayed true to their principles but learned a new type of collective rejection of bourgeois ethics. But this was a peaceful tendency that inclined towards sensual gratification, a domesticated anarchy that loved nature and animals and rejected conventional morality.
Almost every day witnessed endless cultural discussions. You would find Arabic novels in people’s bags. On their beds and on their bedside tables you’d find music by Léo Ferré or Georges Brassens. You would sometimes find them going to elegant movie houses to attend French or American film week. They were no different from rebellious youths throughout history. They stayed up late in bars and parks and read Tariq Ali’s books against war and terrorism. They attended cultural events and, in the midst of crowds, danced to the music of well-known cult figures. Or they went to discos where their mere presence represented a rejection of traditional culture. You might also find them in theatres, captivated by the words of the Iraqi playwright Jawad al-Asadi or Salah al-Qasab, whose great plays challenged their minds and whose latest stage productions became engraved in their memories.
III Journalists at the tobacconist’s
One lively summer evening, I was at Jacqueline and her husband’s apartment. It was noisy and animated. There were discussions of every type, loud laughter and the clinking of glasses. The place was so enchanting that it made me feel more preoccupied with others than with myself. Suddenly Jacqueline’s voice rose above the din, telling me that Nancy was on the phone for me. I took the receiver and spoke as loudly as I could, while motioning at everyone to keep quiet. The noise was truly deafening, so I screamed into the receiver, ‘Nancy, how are you?’
Her voice sounded calm as she said, ‘I called Jacqueline to ask for you. I’ve got some work for you. Come quickly to Amman. I’ve got an important job. I have to see you.’
‘Now?’ I said in astonishment, while trying to silence the noise around me.
‘Yes, now,’ she said in her gentle voice.
‘Can’t it wait till the morning?’ I asked.
‘No, now.’ Her voice was confident and enthusiastic. ‘Now means right now.’
I went back to Katania House. It was as rowdy as ever and the music was very loud. I knocked hard on the door, which was opened by a drunken girl. I went quickly upstairs and into my room. I took my photographs out of their frames and put them in my bag. I also took some of the books I always have with me, and a few films. I placed the camera in a leather bag and packed a few of my favourite possessions, insignificant objects that were worthless but which brought me good luck, or so I believed. These included a cup made of sandalwood, an empty ink bottle that smelt of cheap ink, and a very old silver ring with a stone that twinkled in the dark. I felt that at the end of a hard day’s work, one needed the soothing warmth of concrete objects, even when they were silly and insignificant. Because I was heartened by its blue colour, I then bought a blue shawl and put it in the bag. I carried the laptop over my shoulder, hung the camera round my neck, put the small recorder in the side pocket of my trousers and rushed to the garage. At the border, I had to wait for hours and endure the cross-examination of the border guards in order to reach Amman where Nancy Awdeh was expecting me.
When I arrived in Amman, I took a cab and went straight to a lovely small hotel, the Select, a three-storey stone building with a glass door. Above the door was a sign where ‘Select’ was written in both Arabic and English. The hotel was located on Jabal al-Weibdeh. I dropped off my bags and went directly to a nearby bar, the Negresco. It was a small bar in a quiet, exclusive suburb, close to Amman’s lively and noisy main square. This bar was a favourite spot for foreign journalists, correspondents and commentators. It was, in fact, the meeting point of foreign correspondents working for the international press, television, radio and news agencies. All of them had been stationed in Iraq during the outbreak of the war, before and after the early months of 2003. The bar was not distinctive, but with its wooden tables, paintings that reflected a taste for the primitive, its loud jazz, smell of alcohol and dim lights, it had a definite American character.
When I entered the bar, it was swarming with drunken, unruly journalists, and filled with the sounds of laughter, the chinking of glasses, shouting and discussions. The lights were dim and the place reeked of cigarette smoke and odd smells from the ashtrays that were full of butts and burnt matchsticks. Food and plates of mezzas littered the place, telling the story of what was going on. Waiters rushed from one side to another. There was nowhere to sit, but when I looked around, I saw Nancy sitting with a group of Arab correspondents who worked, I believed, for a foreign station. Next to her sat an Iraqi journalist called Faris Hassan, a man whom I totally detested. He was talking in a very loud voice and the sound of his laughter was deafening.
My very first impressions of this journalist had been negative and I never wished to have any dealings with him. He was a big mouth and always spoke as though he were an expert on Middle Eastern affairs. His reports on Iraq, which he sold to foreign newspapers, were mostly fabricated and exaggerated. We had no work connections and I couldn’t bear the sight of him. The only time I’d talked to him in a friendly manner had been at Jacqueline Mugharib’s apartment, where he’d gone in the company of Salina Quraishi, the Afghan journalist who wrote a famous report on the Taliban after the US invasion. At a later date, about two years previously, he’d said hello to me at the Box Café in downtown Amman.
Before Faris or Nancy could spot me, I made an exit by ducking behind the screen and heading out of the door. I stood in the street for a minute before deciding to go to the Piccadilly Restaurant. This was a small, English-style place located a short distance from the Negresco. It was also a minor meeting point for journalists and correspondents who couldn’t find room at the Negresco. I pushed the door and went in. Two foreign correspondents I knew well were inside: a tall American journalist with blond hair, who worked for the Christian Science Monitor, and a German woman journalist, whom I believed to be of Syrian origin and who worked for Swiss television.
I sat with them as they spoke about the very same thing. They couldn’t go to Baghdad because of the many risks involved, particularly after the spate of kidnappings and murders of foreign journalists since 2004. When the waiter began to remove the empty plates and glasses from the tables, they reordered. I had nothing to say, so I gazed instead at the evening outside, charmed by the mysterious view from the restaurant onto the wide street. As I sat there, I could see the light of the moon on the craggy hills that ran parallel to the great houses and buildings. The horizon was obscured by the fog while the lamps lit up the amazing tenderness of the night.