Babylon's Ark, page 8
They always did and I never had to fire even a warning shot, although I would have had no compunction shooting if any of our lives were at risk; such was the chaos in those dark days.
I like to think of myself as an easygoing guy, but something had to be done. We would lose the zoo if these thugs were not permanently routed. We had tried reasoning with them; we had tried everything. And there comes a time when words are no longer sufficient.
I know this too well, unfortunately. It was a lesson I had learned earlier in my life when I was shocked to discover that there was a price on my head in my native Zululand.
IT HAPPENED about seven years ago. I was at Thula Thula when my mother phoned, her voice scratchy with worry. She had just been given news that was enough to send any mother into a paroxysm of fear. There was a contract out on her son’s life.
The South African security police had told her the news. Their informers had penetrated the homestead of a powerful local induna (headman) and had firsthand information that assassins were hunting me.
The reason for the killing contract was depressingly similar to most disputes in rural South Africa: land. I was busy establishing the Royal Zulu Widelife Sanctuary, a massive conservancy trust area for the benefit of the local people, and had earmarked bushveld that was too wild for cattle grazing to set the project up. Apartheid was over and at last blacks could legally participate in conservation and tourism. I knew it was absolutely vital to start involving disadvantaged communities in protecting and reaping benefits from wildlife; otherwise our wilderness heritage was doomed.
My reserve, Thula Thula, was the key to getting this project up and running. The bush is thick, and in summer it’s a steaming kaleidoscope of different shades of green and gold. The river seldom runs dry even in arid years. The grasses that separate the woodlands are sweet and nutritious—and with that as a platform, I had no doubt the project would be a success.
But according to police information, some tribesmen had decided if I was bumped off, they would be able to seize the tribal trust land for themselves. Even though it legally belonged to five different clans and I was just the coordinator of the project, they believed that once it was consolidated and proclaimed as a game reserve, without me they could stake their own claim. The scenario was reminiscent of the circumstances that lead to the murder of lion conservationist George Adamson of Born Free fame in Kenya many years ago.
The police even had the names of the assassins after me. They weren’t, however, sure if the induna himself was involved.
I know Zulu culture well. I live with it daily. If one does not confront a problem instantly, it can balloon out of all proportion. Blood feuds today still flourish with fierce intensity for reasons no one remembers. There was no other way around it, so I decided I must pay the induna an early visit.
A good friend and extremely courageous old man, Obie Mthethwa, said it was too dangerous for a white person to go to the induna’s kraal—homestead—alone and volunteered to come with me. As Obie was a senior counselor to the chief and well respected in the area, his presence would be invaluable.
Obie also knew who the assassins were by reputation. “Tsotsis ,” he told me, using the Zulu pejorative for thugs. “These are bad men.”
That afternoon we drove deep into rural Zululand on rutted four-wheel-drive tracks to the headman’s home.
In Zulu tradition you never enter a kraal unless invited. You stand at the gate near the isibaya, cattle enclosure, and shout your name and the nature of your business. Then the host will invite you in at his leisure.
It was a picturesque village with traditional round thatched huts neatly set out on top of a hill. People were finishing their day, herd boys bringing in cattle, mothers calling in children, everyone preparing to retire for the night. The smell of the evening meals wafted across the village.
Obie and I were made to wait almost an hour and it was dark before we were allowed into the kraal. That was an ominous sign.
We were then escorted to the isishayamthetho, the largest thatch-and-clay hut, traditionally used for important business.
Shadows danced on the walls from a single candle flame that illuminated the simple furnishings, a table and flimsy wooden chairs. I noticed immediately the induna was alone. This was extremely unusual, as advisers or counselors always accompany an induna. We had seen some of them outside while we waited.
Where were they now? What was it he didn’t want them to hear?
Then, as is Zulu protocol, we started a lengthy greeting process asking about each other ’s health, the health of immediate families, and the weather. Only after that is it deemed polite to state the actual nature of your business.
While all this was going on, I maneuvered the back of my chair firmly against the wall so no one could sneak behind me. I had no illusions about what was going to happen and I wanted to face whatever danger came at me headfirst.
Speaking in Zulu, I explained that the police had told me there was a contract on my life and the hit men hired to do the killing came from the induna’s tribe.
“Hau!” exclaimed the induna loudly, the Zulu expression of surprise. It couldn’t be his people, he said. They held me in esteem. Was I not the man who was going to bring work for rural people with the Royal Zulu project? Wasn’t I myself a white Zulu? Weren’t we old neighbors?
I agreed but said my information was impeccable, coming from top policemen who said the people wanting to kill me believed by so doing they could grab the Royal Zulu land themselves. This would not be the case, I stressed, as the trust land belonged to several other tribes as well.
Again the induna expressed astonishment and I was starting to wonder if perhaps the police’s information had been wrong. The induna was either innocent or a virtuoso liar.
At that moment we heard a car pull up outside, followed by the traditional shout of identification. About ten minutes later four men walked in. They had come to report to their induna.
The induna told them to sit and they squatted on the floor on their haunches, keeping their heads lower than their boss’s as a Zulu token of respect.
As they settled down Obie grabbed my arm and urgently whispered into my ear in English, “These are the tsotsis, the killers—these are the men whose names the police gave us.”
At first they did not recognize Obie and me in the murky candlelight. But as their eyes grew accustomed to the dim shadows the startled looks on their faces betrayed them.
I was wearing a bulky bush jacket and in my pocket was a cocked 9mm pistol. My hand slid around the butt. I gently eased off the safety catch and pointed the pistol through the jacket straight at the closest killer ’s belly.
Obie was now understandably alarmed. Again he whispered in my ear: “This situation is very dangerous. We have to get out.”
But there was no way out. I continued speaking, looking directly at the induna, hand on my gun. I said the police had given me names of the would-be assassins and the names were the same as those of the four men who had just walked in. Did this mean the induna was in cahoots with the killers?
The accusation was purposefully blunt and sparked an instant heated reaction. The contract killers sprang up and started shouting at me.
I jumped up to face them. Obie also quickly stood up, squared his shoulders, and glared at the assassins.
“Thula msindu—stop this noise,” he commanded loudly with firm authority. “This is the induna’s house. He must speak. You must show respect.”
The induna slowly stood up and then vehemently denied I was on any hit list, but there was no doubting his attitude had radically changed. He was now petulantly on the back foot, accusing me of calling him a liar—a heinous slur in Zulu culture.
“Why is it that these men who the police know want to kill me walk so easily into your house?” I persisted. “Does this not seem suspicious?
“And what’s more,” I added, “the police know I have come to talk to you. My visit here has been fully reported to them and they await our return. If Obie Mthethwa or I do not get back home this night, they will know what happened here. They will find you and you will suffer the full consequences of your actions.”
I knew it was unlikely I would be able to shoot my way out, but I certainly would take a couple of these cutthroats with me. Perhaps that would also give Obie a chance to make a break for it.
I focused on the candle, just a stride away on the floor. If anything started I planned to kick it over and plunge the room into darkness. The induna was also looking at the candle, no doubt harboring the exact same thoughts. He then looked at me.
We both knew why.
The induna broke his stare first. I could see he was now unnerved—particularly as he believed the police knew we were at his kraal. He had been completely caught out by the arrival of the assassins and the fact that we knew who they were; all his denials before were obvious lies.
The contract killers looked at their boss, unsure of what to do. The four of them could easily overpower Obie and me by weight of numbers, but as experienced gunmen they also knew I had a primed pistol underneath my jacket. If they went for their guns, I would get the first shot off, straight at the first killer. It was now up to their boss what he wanted to do.
The standoff was tense and silent. Nobody moved.
A minute ticked by. Then another.
I finally provided the induna with a way out. Looking him straight in the eye, I demanded he give his word of honor that I was in no danger from any members of the tribe. I emphasized that there was confusion and I was not necessarily accusing him of anything, but I wanted a solemn declaration that I remained under the protection of both him and his tribal chief, as was the civic right of any resident in the area.
The induna quickly agreed, grabbing the escape route with both hands. He continued to protest his innocence but gave his assurance I would not be harmed by any of his tribesmen.
That was all I needed. The main aim of the meeting had been achieved. The induna knew his plan was blown and he would be a fool to go back on his word of honor. He also knew he would be the prime suspect if anything ever happened to me—whether he was guilty or not.
As a parting shot I said our discussion would be reported to his chief at the next council meeting.
We then left. As we got into the car, Obie let out a large whoosh of air from deep in his belly. We had just stared death in the face, and I looked at the old man with absolute gratitude. He had the courage of a lion and had put his life on the line for the purest motive of all; friendship.
Driving home through the dark African bush, Obie—a natural actor—recounted the story over and again in the minutest detail, mimicking accents and actions with deadly accuracy. I laughed delightedly, adrenaline still fizzing with the manic relief of survival. I knew Obie would memorize the story with meticulous precision and it would be told and retold around the night fires of his homestead, woven into the rich fabric of his tribe’s folklore: of how he and his white friend had called the bluff of one of the most powerful headmen in the area—and lived to tell the tale.
Fortunately, the problem with the induna resolved itself permanently a year or so later when his own tribe removed him for incompetence. His replacement today is fully supportive of the Royal Zulu project.
But what that brush with death did teach me was that the best way to deal with any threat was to face it down directly.
It was a lesson that would serve me well in Baghdad.
IN IRAQ, the tidal wave of looting would eventually kick-start Baghdad’s post-Saddam economy in a quirky new direction. For amid all the anarchy, booming businesses soon started flourishing in the form of pavement “loot” shops. Goods previously out of reach to all but the wealthiest were now on sale at ludicrously discounted prices.
From a city in which before you could get nothing there suddenly was a plethora. At markets such as those on Ramadan Street, looted food, medical equipment, sportswear, and other miscellany changed hands for a fraction of even production cost. The mind boggled at the variety of the display; from top-range Nike sneakers selling for twelve thousand dinars, or about four dollars, to stainless-steel surgical tools costing just five hundred dinars, or sixteen cents.
More ominously, the going rate for Kalashnikov assault rifle magazines filled with thirty bullets was thirty-five thousand dinars, about twelve dollars. There was no shortage of AKs now, but I had become comfortable with my 9mm.
You could even pick up passbooks looted from the Defense Ministry showing that you had completed your compulsory military service, something not to be sneezed at if you didn’t want to spend several years of your life marching in the desert sun. A passbook would set you back seventeen cents.
Unfortunately, included in the bargain-buying spree were wild animals. Several hundred had been taken from the Baghdad Zoo alone, while the figure stolen from underground menageries that proliferated in some of the less savory city suburbs will never be known.
Black-market trade in exotic creatures has always been a problem in the Middle East. Sadly, in the squalid pavement stalls you could purchase, for a pittance, an emaciated, terrified bear cub or a pelican so weak it could not lift its beak.
I knew one day we would have to find those animals. Once we had the zoo up and running, I vowed, we would go for the private menageries where cruelty and barbarism was a way of life.
But this next step happened sooner than I ever expected. The next day soldiers at the hotel told me they had more animals for me. Saddam and his son Uday had been avid wildlife collectors, and their “pets” had been found starving in the palaces.
That the animals—including lions—were still alive was great news. But again the awful mental balance sheet flashed in my mind. The debits and credits of the project were frighteningly mismatched; I had only just arrived, and we were struggling to feed and water the few animals we had in the main zoo.
How the hell were we going to cope with more?
SIX
UDAY HUSSEIN was nicknamed the “Lion Cub” by his sycophantic followers, which is a grievous slur on lions. No wild beast would demean itself by killing as casually as Uday did.
He was Saddam’s eldest son and originally groomed to take over from his father. If possible, Uday was even more feared than Saddam himself, secretly loathed for his uncontrollably savage temper. His aptitude for gratuitous violence was the stuff of legends, repeated only in whispers by a brutalized people.
His mother, Sajida, who was also Saddam’s first cousin, was head of Baghdad’s elite private school Al Kharkh Al Namouthajiya, which Uday naturally attended. His classmates recall that although he rarely—if ever—did any work, he always came first. What a surprise.
After he left school, he graduated from the University of Baghdad’s College of Engineering with an average mark of 98.5 percent, despite barely opening a book. But one may be forgiven for thinking this was not in any measure due to an abnormally high IQ. Instead, top marks were attained by the simple expedient of assaulting tutors who failed to rig results.
His sterling grades then paved the way for his appointment as minister of youth, which he used as a springboard to interfere in any facet of Iraqi life that took his fancy, particularly soccer, Iraq’s national sport. Players who did not score or prevent goals being scored against them were regularly jailed on Uday’s whim. When they returned, their heads were shaved as a mark of their “national disgrace.” In 1999 one of Iraq’s terrified soccer stars, Sharar Haydar Mohammad al-Hadithi, managed to flee the country and told how he had often been vigorously tortured if Uday considered his game to be below par.
The next year, after Iraq’s 4—1defeat in the quarterfinals of the Asia Cup, goalkeeper Hashim Hassan and defender Abdul Jaber and striker Qathan Chither were beaten and whipped for three days by Uday’s bodyguards. On the fourth day they saw the error of their ways and promised not to let in so many goals in future.
When Uday was not inspiring his soccer players, his favorite pastime was trawling discotheques in Baghdad’s elite hotels, where his bodyguards would seize women for him. They were taken either to a hotel room or to his riverside “love nest” and raped.
On one occasion Uday walked into a wedding ceremony, grabbed the bride, and raped her in a side room. The groom later committed suicide.
Uday also often was seen strolling around the Baghdad University campus “inviting” attractive female students to his parties. They, too, would often be abused.
Then there’s the story of the time Uday and his friends were at the Jadriyah Hunting Club in Baghdad, where the country’s most popular singer, Kathem Saher, was performing. Uday was enraged when he saw women queuing up to ask for autographs and fawning over the handsome entertainer instead of himself. So he called Saher to his table, put his foot up, and told the singer to autograph the sole of his shoe. This presented Saher with a chilling dilemma, one that could cost him his life. He either insulted Uday by signing a lowly thing such as a shoe or insulted him by not signing it.
Saher signed the shoe, silently praying that would be considered the lesser insult. That night he fled into exile.
Uday’s domestic life was equally unsavory. His wife, Saja, who was his first cousin, left him after six months, fleeing to Switzerland when he viciously beat her up one time too many.
His father regarded these excesses as boyish high jinks until Uday killed Hanna Jajjou, Saddam’s personal valet and food taster. Uday was blind drunk at the time and accused Jajjou of procuring women for his father, breaking up the marriage to Uday’s mother. He then proceeded to bludgeon Jajjou to death.
This tested even Saddam’s patience to its edge. Uday was sentenced to a year in jail and afterward sent into exile in Geneva. That didn’t last long, as the Swiss authorities soon expelled him for laundering money. He returned to Baghdad, and although it appeared his father had forgiven him, it was now apparent Qusay, his younger brother by two years, was the anointed one.
