Chapter 31 27 Baghdad after the catastrophe

Patience is the most powerful weapon in the vanquished arsenal. — Adenauer March 18, our third day back in Baghdad. Early in the morning, I sat on the curb in front of the Chinese embassy in Baghdad and waited for a taxi like a hungry wolf with red eyes.But all the taxis in Baghdad seemed to have gone to Java. After waiting for more than two hours, there was no sign of a car. Until 11:00 noon, I finally arrived at the famous Rashid Hotel.An iron gate at the entrance of the hotel was closed, and the glass automatic door of the guest room building was replaced by a three-ply wooden door that only one person could pass through.All the glass is pasted with "meter" shaped anti-aircraft adhesive strips.There is no electricity in the hotel and of course there is no elevator. The NBC stickers in Room 312 are still colorful, but the room has changed owners, and several Iraqi officials are sitting in it drinking tea. In Room 216, there was actually a Pakistani reporter living there who was eating lunch. The tables and floors were covered with various convenience foods, and I was amazed at the richness of them.

The "Mustache" from the Iraqi Ministry of Information saw me bumping in, and couldn't help being surprised: "Don, why are you here again? Didn't all the foreign journalists leave the country?" Japan) returned to Baghdad with the Chinese ambassador, this guy was a little awed.I said that as a photojournalist of People's China "Xinhua", I have the obligation to photograph the sufferings brought by the war to the Iraqi people and show them to the people of the world. "Mustache" waved his hand: "I understand, you have to wait for me to ask for instructions. You know, there are no phones in the whole city right now."

I was "baked" sitting and waiting in the hall alone, cold, hungry and suffocating, I pushed several toilets and all locked the doors, and finally found the toilet near the restaurant, and finally there was an unlocked one. Strolling out of the lobby, a reporter from the Associated Press was writing a story on a satellite phone with his legs crossed like a dog peeing.I asked the "Midland" quite skillfully, how much is it per minute?He rolled his eyes: "At least $150, but you can't send pictures." I snapped the shutter at him and took a picture of this kid's face.

Returning to the hall, "Mustache" has not come back yet.I half-lyed on the big leather sofa to recuperate, counting the chandelier on the ceiling with my face up, trying to remind myself to wait patiently.Suddenly there was a gust of fragrant wind, and at some point, two Arab girls sat across from each other. We were silent to each other, each thinking about our own thoughts.At this time, another young man came over, with an ignorant face but wearing a pair of brand-name Roddensted glasses. He sat next to me and couldn't help but put on magnets with the two girls.Probably wanting to show off, he actually asked me in English: "Japanese?" I shook my head. "North Korean?" I shook my head again. "Taiwanese?" I yelled at him: "Why didn't you see the five-star red flag on my body?!" The young man said sorry, it turned out to be from Russia.Although I ignored him, the young man was not angry and asked me what I was doing here with a smile on his face.I said I was waiting for an official from the Ministry of Information. The official promised to take me to film the scene where the Americans bombed civilian houses and asked me to wait for "Shiway-Shiway" (Arabic: for a while), but I had already sat there for two hours.As soon as the young man heard, "there is the chief in charge of Arab affairs over there, why don't you go directly to ask the big man for instructions."

Wearing a sharp gray suit, this big man is about 50 years old, wearing an Arabic pattern headscarf, and has a mustache that looks like Arafat.I repeat what I just said in English.He yelled. "Mustache" jumped out like a magic trick, and even said "Nam Nam" (yes, yes). "Mustache" handed me over to a tall, elegant man with glasses and gray hair. As soon as "Mustache" left, the gentle man asked me if I was hungry. Even though I was so hungry that I saw double shadows, I said I was not hungry with my grumbling stomach.He patted his stomach: "But I'm hungry." I said: "Oh." He asked again: "Aren't you going to have lunch with me?" I said firmly: "I have eaten, I can wait for you here." Because I don't have enough money in my pocket to have a meal out alone.Standing alone in the lobby filled with the smell of food with a hungry stomach, although the fishy smell is not to the taste, it is still full of temptation, reminding me of my hungry university days.It turns out that anyone may become a beggar in the face of hunger.

After another half an hour, the gentle man finally came back and told me 100 Iraqi dinars per hour (332 U.S. dollars), and I said yes.He stabbed me in the chest: "Exchange dollars?" I said, "Sorry, my dollars have already been exchanged to Rafidan Bank. But I can help you find a way tomorrow." We hired a red "Crown", and the driver seemed to be a friend of the gentle man.We first arrived at the Republic Bridge, which was blown into four pieces.The gentle man took out a small notebook from his suit pocket and shook it. The Republican Guard guarding the bridge stepped aside and told me where to stand and which direction to take pictures.After the photo was taken, I climbed onto the broken bridge, and the two Republican Guard soldiers were still following me. I walked on the soles of my feet, leaned back, and walked down the broken asphalt bridge that fell to the Tigris River until it was too steep. When it slipped, it came back rolling and crawling.Seeing this, the soldiers laughed, told me to stand still, surrounded me and read the words "People's China Xinhua News Agency" written on my camera vest, and gave me a thumbs up: "China, good."

The Ministry of Local Government and the Ministry of Justice, located on the same street, have been completely blown up. Soldiers with guns and militiamen are checking passing vehicles, and a group of children are picking up wood from the rubble.Dirty and heartrending.There is a ten-meter-high portrait of Saddam at the door of the seemingly intact ruins of the Ministry of Justice. Unfortunately, it is too sideways for a 24mm lens to fit in. I changed the angle and tried to photograph it together with the bombed-out building.At this time, a few ordinary people with high revolutionary consciousness came and grabbed my arm and refused to take pictures.Fortunately, the gentle man came over, took out a small white card and waved it at them.The people immediately dispersed.

A department store near the long-distance bus station in the city center was blown apart, and the steel bars pointed straight into the clear sky.With a gentle man escorting me, I climbed onto the blasted concrete blocks to have a bird's-eye view of the bulldozers cleaning up the miscellaneous soil under my feet.When I was proud, I only heard a "beep" sound, no, the pants were torn.My first pair of jeans tore a trouser leg when I climbed a tank during an exercise in the Negev desert in Israel; the second pair got pus all over my body when I helped the embassy clean up the rotten meat in the freezer last night, and threw it at the branch office without washing it; the third pair The bar is too thin, so that now I climb up and show my eyes, making the Arabs watching the fun laugh, and I am suddenly short of breath because of embarrassment.

In the Gulf War, the United States and its allies used laser-guided "smart bombs", which could accurately hit the target, penetrate into the belly of the building and explode, causing a jaw-dropping spectacle. The inside was blown to pieces.An instructor at the British Sanchester Military Academy once compared the Falklands War in the early 1980s to yesterday's war, and the Lebanon War in which Israel attacked Beirut as tomorrow's war.Back then, Israel had used similar bombs to blow the PLO out of Beirut.Two "smart bombs" were drilled into an "Amelia" underground shelter near the Chinese embassy, ​​killing 1,500 people (according to Yitong News Agency figures, Western media reported 400).The doors of the houses near the shelters were all hung with black banners and written with white characters.The gentle man said that these people hid in the nearest shelter, and the whole family suffered as a result.Seeing me, a foreigner, taking pictures here, a group of family members of the victims who lined up impassionedly accused me of the crimes of US imperialism, as if I was George Bush.The Rashid Hotel, where foreign journalists lived, was safe and sound, but the roof of the Iraqi parliament building, which was just across the road from it, was blown off.Many buildings appear to be intact on the surface, but the windows have traces of smoke and fire, but the insides have been blasted empty.It is rumored that Baghdad's energy base, the Dula Oil Refinery and the Dula Power Plant, were all blown up in this way, but it is a pity that visitors are not allowed to visit these two places.

On IBN-SALM Street, Bishir Peter's family was razed to the ground, and he was the only one who survived, limping on crutches.The gentle man who accompanied me showed pity on my face.Filled with righteous indignation, he pointed at the opposite AHRRAA church: "They also bombed the church." Iraqi children collecting firewood among the ruins saw me taking pictures, and they surrounded me, holding up the broken pieces of wood in their hands, and happily shouted "Sola, Sola" (photo, photo).Looking at their innocent and beautiful big eyes, I couldn't help but burst into tears, heartbroken.