Roy Scranton - War Porn

“The curse of oil?”

“No. By having a strong leader. A strong leader who believes in unity, who believes in a powerful, secular state—a nation—that can stand up to the Zionists and lead the Arabs into the future. We’re an Islamic civilization, not merely a people or a religion, and it takes a strong leader to keep us moving together. Without Saddam, Iraq will shatter into a thousand pieces.”

“I read Aflaq too, my educated friend.” Othman perched his wide rump on the edge of Mohammed’s desk, offered Mohammed a cigarette from his pack of Miamis, then lit one himself. “Of course we must put sectarian squabbling behind us. On that, I walk with you today and tomorrow and the day after. But for our Father Leader and Daring and Aggressive Knight, the Hero of National Liberation, unity was always only a word. Four thousand times, he played the Kurds against the Sunnis and the Fivers against the Twelvers. He doesn’t heal the rifts between Muslims—he manipulates them. Whereas in a democratic Iraq, an Iraq where every voice can be heard, with the Americans here to help…”

“To take our oil, you mean. What does your Al-Bayati write? ‘The hourglass restarts, counting the breaths of the new dictator…’”

“They want us to modernize. You see how they are with the Persians. With the Wahhabiyya.”

“Speaking evil from the left side of their mouth while flattering out of the right. Denouncing the mujahedeen with one hand and shoveling cash at them with the other. Yes, I see. The Zionists and the Persians have always conspired together.”

“You’re too cynical. You always have been. You’ve always been too willing to accommodate yourself to power.”

“You didn’t seem to mind much when I used my ‘accommodation’ to get you out of jail.”

“For which I am forever grateful, my friend,” said Othman. “You saved me.”

“And I would do it a thousand times. But to save you, I had to have power. Brother Othman, listen: power must be held. It must be used. Listen: this has nothing to do with democracy. We’re under attack from the Zionist crusaders because we stood up against them—because bin Laden stood up against them. It’s the same as it was with Kuwait. Someone dares to stand up to America, and they’re going to punish whoever they can put their hands on. Listen: Saddam is the only thing that has kept our nation together for the last thirty years. When the Kurds took up arms against us, who stood against them? When the ayatollahs started rioting and rebelling even here in Baghdad, who stood against them? When the Persians bombed our cities and cut us off from the Shatt al-Arab, who stood against them? And when the Kuwaitis started murdering innocent Iraqis and then that snake George Bush, who I spit on, invaded our lands and butchered our brothers, when the entire world lined up to see us broken—who stood against them?”

“‘Carpenters and ironsmiths, hungry and burned under the autumn sky, all forcibly led to slaughter, killed by invaders, alien and homegrown…’ My friend, the same man who runs Abu Ghraib, who gassed the Kurds, who disappeared your own brother-in-law. How can you stand by this dictator as if he stood by you? He cares only about al-Tikriti. He cares only about Hussein. For all his strength, he has no more honor than a dog. And his sons! Think of them. You know the stories.”

“Rumors. Your tribe sit around the Writers Union like Scheherazade, making up gruesome fables to shock each other.”

“Not fables. You see the disco boats. You know what happens to the women—the daughters they take. Scheherazade’s not far off.”

“Listen, Othman, sometimes the powerful must be cruel. If we have to torture people to save lives, so be it. If we have to spy on people, so be it. If my grandsons are to know a peaceful and democratic Iraq, unified not by force but by law and honor, it will only be because we built strong foundations to secure that future. Is Hussein perfect? No. Is the party perfect? No. There are excesses. There are lies and evils. But the choice, Othman, is not between perfection and imperfection. We must choose, as always, between the lesser of two evils: a powerful leader or anarchy. And if you choose the Americans, you choose anarchy.”

“Maybe Bush will be strong,” Qasim said from his bricked-up window.

“What?” Mohammed turned, incredulous.

“Maybe Bush will be a strong leader. Maybe he will keep Iraq strong.”

Othman chuckled. “Your nephew sees things differently, brother.”

Mohammed stood up, spitting and stomping his foot. “Fuck Bush,” he said.

“But if Bush can beat Saddam, doesn’t that mean he is stronger? And maybe he’ll make Iraq strong again. Then we can build our democracy.”

“You see, Mohammed,” Othman said. “The young have hope. They’re not frightened of the future like you are.”

“Bush—strong! You heard about the protests. Against Bush. In his own country. He can’t even unify his own nation, and they have it easy. They’re rich. Fat. Decadent. Not only that, their women… You see how it was with this Hillary Clinton and now that Condoleezza Rice… Their women practically run the country.”

“Mohammed, surely you wouldn’t oppose a woman’s rule…” Othman said with a grin.

“At home. At home. There is a very strict line.”

“I see. So because Thurayya hasn’t yet made an assault on your office, you consider it well defended,” Othman said.

“True enough,” Mohammed said, wiping his hands and holding up his palms. “And she won’t ever try, God willing. Now, if you two are done vexing me with your daydreams, let’s finish up and get out of here.”

Qasim wiped his trowel on a brick and dropped it in his tool bucket. Mohammed tied up the last pile of contracts and set them on a corner of the desk. Othman closed up the last empty cabinets. Mohammed sent Othman to check on the other workers, then turned to Qasim. “Nephew, a word.”

Qasim faced Mohammed. His bad hand ached, and he felt feverish and dizzy. “Uncle, I know I was short with Aunt Thurayya.”

“Yes.”

“It’s just that… It’s not just her. I can’t take all this feminine meddling. My mother, Lateefah, Aunt Thurayya… I have to make important decisions, and all their fussing is… they don’t understand. They have no right to question me. They’re just women.”

Mohammed rubbed his mustache. “It’s true, nephew, that women are women. And it’s true that you must be firm with them. You can’t let them treat you like a boy. But a man’s wife… Well, things aren’t always so simple.”

“My wife is my Fatimah, Uncle. She’s my servant.”

“No, Nephew, you are hers. Lateefah is the one who will bear your children. She’s the one who carries your family in her hands. In her belly. You must protect and cherish her. You must stand by her.”

Qasim winced. “Now you are meddling!” he shouted.

Mohammed stepped across the room and slapped Qasim hard, knocking him back against the bricks, sending his glasses clattering to the floor. Qasim cried out, tears leaping to his eyes.

Mohammed exhaled through his nose with a snort. “I’ve nearly had my patience with you, boy,” he said. “Indeed, were it not for my obligation to your father, I’d have sent you from my house a long time ago. You blacken your father’s face. If you want to stay, if you want to curl your tail and hide in my home, then I will suffer it because your father was my brother. But don’t think you get to call yourself a man in my home. I know what you are, and I know a man who abandons his wife out of fear and pride is nothing but a dog. When we get back home, you’ll beg your aunt’s forgiveness, or you’ll leave. Now clean yourself up and meet me outside.”