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CounterPunch
January
17, 2003
Inside
Saddam's War Diary
Hot Damn! It's
Showtime!
by BERNARD WEINER
The
Crisis Papers
Dear Diary: This is a tough one. If I
hang in there, I may just survive to carry out my plans. But
if I make a wrong move, or misinterpret the wide variety of signals
coming my way, I'm vaporized toast.
Oh, I know I could take the advice of
some Arab leaders and go into exile, in Lybia or Egypt or somewhere,
with tons of money made available to me. If I thought I could
do so by setting up a new Iraqi government that the Americans
would accept -- but which would welcome me back when the time
is right, or that I could control from outside the country --
I'd probably do it. I don't really want to be nuked in my bunker.
But, God help me, I do get off on this
cat-and-mouse game, I really do. It stirs my blood. Most of the
time, I'm bored, just raking in the loot, building more palaces,
wiping out another corps of officers, target-practicing on some
Kurds. It's when the West, and especially the U.S., comes after
me that I really enjoy. It's showtime!
It's scary, no doubt about it. No more
balancing me off against the Iranians; they want me out of here
this time, either by the exile route or by offing me with missiles,
incinerating me in my bunker, or an assassin's bullet, purchased
for millions of U.S. dollars. There are all too many who would
love to do the deed.
Heard this great joke: An American reporter
comes to Baghdad and asks people on the street what they think
of Saddam Hussein. They all rush away; nobody will talk to him.
Finally, one courageous fellow motions to the reporter to wait
for him in an alley. The guy looks left and right and, when he
sees that nobody is around to overhear, he slips into the alley.
"Well," says the reporter, "what do you think
of Saddam Hussein?" The man looks around nervously and whispers,
"I like him."
So I'm not loved by my citizens. I've
been in power this long because they fear me. I know that. They
know that if they don't demonstrate total loyalty, they'll be
fish bait. But they also see the handwriting on the wall: my
time may be running out, the American calvary is riding in, and
this time they may get me.
But maybe not. First, there is a worldwide
anti-war movement that has affected governments in Europe and
elsewhere -- even in England, the Americans' one ally. Next,
the inspectors aren't finding anything -- and they won't; I've
had four years to hide the stuff well, all over Iraq, in private
basements, mosques, gardens, underground caverns, in berms along
river banks, etc. They'd have to be here for a dozen years and,
unless someone were to blab -- that's why we've got to prevent
the inspectors from taking our scientists and their families
abroad -- they'd still find nothing.
But the U.N. inspectors are my human
shields. As long as they're here working -- thinking they'll
maybe find something -- the Americans and their lackeys can't
start the bombing campaign. So let the inspectors stay. We'll
dump another 12,000 documents on them; who cares if those pages
don't contain the full information they requested? It keeps them
busy and gains me more time to figure out what to do next.
My worry is that Bush is so frothing
at the mouth, like an enraged bull, that he'll do what his daddy
did: warn the inspectors to get out immediately and then start
the assault. And then it might be too late to arrange an escape.
My problem is that I've met someone bloodthirsty
and lunatic. He's willing to risk the well-being of his country
and countrymen. He doesn't care how many civilians and troops
die. He loves the oil under our land. He sees himself as a savior
of this part of the world -- hell, the whole world. He believes
he's doing God's will. Am I looking into a mirror, or does George
W. Bush bear a striking resemblance to me?
So, bring it on, Mr. Bush. I can take
it. Mess with me, and you'll live to regret the day you tried
to finish me off. The Muslim nation will rise up in righteousness
against you. You, the great Satan country, will find yourself
totally isolated in the world -- not even your puppet, England,
will back you any longer -- and suicide bombers, or agents carrying
biological timebombs, will enter your cities at will, wreaking
havoc worse than you can even imagine.
If I die, I die. I'll become a Muslim
martyr (even though I don't believe any of that stuff), and my
name will be honored throughout the nation of Islam forever.
Or, if it has to come to it, I'll live out my life in luxurious
exile somewhere, and re-emerge later. Either way, I can't lose.
Only America can lose.#
Inside Saddam Hussein's War Diary: Hot
Damn! It's Showtime!
By Bernard Weiner Co-Editor, The Crisis
Papers
Dear Diary: This is a tough one. If I
hang in there, I may just survive to carry out my plans. But
if I make a wrong move, or misinterpret the wide variety of signals
coming my way, I'm vaporized toast.
Oh, I know I could take the advice of
some Arab leaders and go into exile, in Lybia or Egypt or somewhere,
with tons of money made available to me. If I thought I could
do so by setting up a new Iraqi government that the Americans
would accept -- but which would welcome me back when the time
is right, or that I could control from outside the country --
I'd probably do it. I don't really want to be nuked in my bunker.
But, God help me, I do get off on this
cat-and-mouse game, I really do. It stirs my blood. Most of the
time, I'm bored, just raking in the loot, building more palaces,
wiping out another corps of officers, target-practicing on some
Kurds. It's when the West, and especially the U.S., comes after
me that I really enjoy. It's showtime!
It's scary, no doubt about it. No more
balancing me off against the Iranians; they want me out of here
this time, either by the exile route or by offing me with missiles,
incinerating me in my bunker, or an assassin's bullet, purchased
for millions of U.S. dollars. There are all too many who would
love to do the deed.
Heard this great joke: An American reporter
comes to Baghdad and asks people on the street what they think
of Saddam Hussein. They all rush away; nobody will talk to him.
Finally, one courageous fellow motions to the reporter to wait
for him in an alley. The guy looks left and right and, when he
sees that nobody is around to overhear, he slips into the alley.
"Well," says the reporter, "what do you think
of Saddam Hussein?" The man looks around nervously and whispers,
"I like him."
So I'm not loved by my citizens. I've
been in power this long because they fear me. I know that. They
know that if they don't demonstrate total loyalty, they'll be
fish bait. But they also see the handwriting on the wall: my
time may be running out, the American calvary is riding in, and
this time they may get me.
But maybe not. First, there is a worldwide
anti-war movement that has affected governments in Europe and
elsewhere -- even in England, the Americans' one ally. Next,
the inspectors aren't finding anything -- and they won't; I've
had four years to hide the stuff well, all over Iraq, in private
basements, mosques, gardens, underground caverns, in berms along
river banks, etc. They'd have to be here for a dozen years and,
unless someone were to blab -- that's why we've got to prevent
the inspectors from taking our scientists and their families
abroad -- they'd still find nothing.
But the U.N. inspectors are my human
shields. As long as they're here working -- thinking they'll
maybe find something -- the Americans and their lackeys can't
start the bombing campaign. So let the inspectors stay. We'll
dump another 12,000 documents on them; who cares if those pages
don't contain the full information they requested? It keeps them
busy and gains me more time to figure out what to do next.
My worry is that Bush is so frothing
at the mouth, like an enraged bull, that he'll do what his daddy
did: warn the inspectors to get out immediately and then start
the assault. And then it might be too late to arrange an escape.
My problem is that I've met someone bloodthirsty
and lunatic. He's willing to risk the well-being of his country
and countrymen. He doesn't care how many civilians and troops
die. He loves the oil under our land. He sees himself as a savior
of this part of the world -- hell, the whole world. He believes
he's doing God's will. Am I looking into a mirror, or does George
W. Bush bear a striking resemblance to me?
So, bring it on, Mr. Bush. I can take
it. Mess with me, and you'll live to regret the day you tried
to finish me off. The Muslim nation will rise up in righteousness
against you. You, the great Satan country, will find yourself
totally isolated in the world -- not even your puppet, England,
will back you any longer -- and suicide bombers, or agents carrying
biological timebombs, will enter your cities at will, wreaking
havoc worse than you can even imagine.
If I die, I die. I'll become a Muslim
martyr (even though I don't believe any of that stuff), and my
name will be honored throughout the nation of Islam forever.
Or, if it has to come to it, I'll live out my life in luxurious
exile somewhere, and re-emerge later. Either way, I can't lose.
Only America can lose.
Bernard Weiner,
a playwright and poet, authored Inside Saddam Hussein's Diary:
"I Don't Have to Show You No Stinkin' Anything!" last
August. He is co-editor of The
Crisis Papers, and was a writer/editor with the San Francisco
Chronicle for nearly 20 years.
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January 11
/ 12, 2003
Omar al-Qattan
How
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Saul Landau
"The Coup Lacked Professionalism"
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Read
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by Alexander
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and Jeffrey St. Clair
|