We Are Iraqis: Aesthetics and Politics in a Time of War

10. Iraq: A Long Phantasmagorical Dream for Those Who Are Not Part of the New Capitalism or Retired Communism

103 10 Iraq A Long Phantasmagorical Dream for Those Who Are Not Part of the New Capitalism or Retired Communism Ali Bader The Image At first, the image was still hard to make out, a little bit blurry, and somewhat difficult to discern: a conference for Iraqi intellectuals, both those returning from overseas and those still residing in Iraq, was scheduled for that coming spring in Iraqi Kurdistan. It was to be held over the course of one week. This was the press release circulated in the newspapers and literary magazines and on television screens and Arabic websites: “Six hundred Iraqi intellectuals are to meet in Erbil under the sponsorship of the Al-Mada Cultural Institution.”1 Poets, journalists, novelists, critics, painters, actors, cinema directors, philosophers, politicians, and public intellectuals were all to attend their first conference that 1. Al-Mada Cultural Institution refers to an Iraqi institution that was founded in the 1980s in Damascus by a group of Iraqi communists who had fled from the tyranny of the previous regime. After the fall of Saddam Hussein, the institution was moved to Baghdad, upholding its independence. It encompasses a publishing house, a daily newspaper, and a cultural magazine, and the establishment of a satellite channel is also planned. 104  Ali Bader coming spring in Erbil. “Four hundred Iraqi intellectuals will depart from the capital city of Baghdad to meet with two hundred of their overseas counterparts for the first time ever in Erbil, while attending the ‘Al-Mada Cultural Week.’” The image began to come into sharper focus: “Three generations of exiled Iraqi intellectuals will be meeting for the first time in one place with intellectuals from within Iraq.” Three generations separated by exile, politics, migration, and ideology were to present themselves, not through books and articles, but through personal contact. “Two hundred Iraqi intellectuals from the United States and Europe are meeting at the Sand Rock Hotel in Amman, Jordan. At dawn, a special Iraqi plane will be taking them to Erbil, in Iraqi Kurdistan, where they will attend the Al-Mada Cultural Week. There, they will be meeting four hundred other intellectuals coming from Baghdad and other Iraqi provinces.” The Return of the Citizen A refreshing gust of cool air wafted through the April spring evening. Carrying a small leather bag on my shoulder, I made my way toward the Sand Rock Hotel. A yellow taxi drove me to this elegant hotel, which had been built by the Hashemites in the 1920s in the western part of the Jordanian capital. I had now become one of the overseas intellectuals: I, who had been recognized just two years before as being one of the “inside intellectuals.” It all seemed to be part of an absurd game of place—nothing more than that—a game that marginalized people by using the idea of place, temporarily dislodging them from their positions, and labeling them as insiders or outsiders. Thus, this game being a result of war, it is the war to which I owe my endless skepticism; it has cured me of blind faith and endowed me with an obsession for clarity in a world created through illogical violence, characterized by chaos and ambiguity. I got out of the taxi and headed toward the glass doors of the hotel. The porter jumped up from his seat to lift my belongings onto a cart, but then he realized that I was holding nothing more than a small book and a digital camera in my hand. He pushed the cart ahead of Iraq  105 him with a resigned air, and I followed him to the center of the lobby. It was opulent and empty, with the exception of the staff: bartenders in uniform, smiling Egyptian waiters, and the elegant receptionists at the front desk. Aside from them, I was the only person there. I, therefore, assumed that the conference would not be taking place as scheduled, due to the absence of any other participants. I went up to my room to go to bed and fell asleep in my clothes. Several times throughout the night, the shouts of men and women in the corridors, Iraqi accents mixed with well-spoken English, as well as the sounds of carts moving luggage and keys opening doors, woke me up. The attendees must have been arriving at night from all over the world. When I got up in the morning, I discovered this...