thedrifter
04-10-03, 07:55 PM
In abandoned homes, insight into Iraqi leaders' private lives
By Evan Osnos, Chicago Tribune
European edition, Friday, April 11, 2003
BAGHDAD, Iraq — Deputy Prime Minister Tariq Aziz, the stern public voice of the Iraqi regime, is fond of ballroom dancing with his wife, as the many snapshots tucked along the frame of his bedroom mirror suggest.
Somewhere in Saddam Hussein's family is a fan of Britney Spears. Or so it seems, based on the magazine clippings of the teen pop star taped to the wall in one of the Iraqi president's palaces.
When Iraq's top leaders vanished in the face of a U.S. invasion, they left behind palaces and homes that are being searched by U.S. forces. A walk through the ransacked remains of two such compounds is a window into the lives of two men who dominated life in Iraq for a generation.
The Aziz home, in contrast with Saddam's austerely formal palaces, has the look of a suburban trophy house, tucked behind a sculptured hedge in a nice neighborhood on Baghdad's east side.
The heavy, carved-wood double doors open onto a dining room with cases of fine tea sets and silverware. On the dining room table, as if set aside for hanging, are two large photographs of Aziz and his wife dancing cheek to cheek.
The kitchen is spacious and looks lived-in. Appliances sit out on the counters beside several Christian icons and Virgin Mary figurines, totems of the faith that always set Aziz apart from his overwhelmingly Muslim country. A bulletin board is layered with snapshots from Aziz family life: celebrating Christmas, playing in a snowstorm, visiting the seashore. And of course, Aziz beaming beside his friend and mentor, Saddam.
In the back corner of the home is Aziz's refuge, a study full of books, movies and personal items from a lifetime of travel and politics. For a man who has voiced some of Iraq's sharpest denunciations of the U.S., his library shows a remarkable appetite for the words and images of the adversary.
Fresh stacks of carefully set-aside Vanity Fair magazines, with Sean Penn, Jude Law and other stars on the covers. Old issues of Foreign Affairs, the journal of New York's Council on Foreign Relations, dating back to 1981.
He has volumes by statesmen — Henry Kissinger on diplomacy — and by dictators — Mao Tse-tung on revolution. He has a well-turned copy of Bob Woodward's "Veil," an investigation of the CIA, and a seemingly new edition of Judith Miller's book on militant Islam, "God has Ninety-Nine Names."
He has biographies of his enemies — George H.W. Bush, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini and former Israeli Foreign Minister Moshe Dayan. And he has the pronouncements of his oldest partner, Saddam.
He has books about himself; a collection of newspaper articles from the 1991 Gulf War; an investigation by former United Nations weapons inspector Richard Butler of Iraq's weapons programs.
His taste in movies is equally eclectic, with hundreds of DVDs ranging from "Josie and the Pussycats" to the "Godfather" series.
The room has been turned upside down by Marines as they search for any documents that might pry a lid off another dark vault of Iraqi history. On the floor lies a mound of old matchbooks, carefully gathered from restaurants around the world — Paris, Amsterdam, Damascus.
Up the stairs in the modest master bedroom, a queen-sized bed sits across from a lady's dresser, with a small sitting area nearby. The dancing pictures have curled out from the edge of the mirror frame, as if they had been there for years. In the bathroom, unopened boxes of Calvin Klein cologne sit beside Old Spice shaving cream. On the dresser are two seemingly prized photos in fine gold frames: one of Saddam Hussein alone, and the other of Aziz and Saddam together, the raven-haired president kissing his silver-haired spokesman on the cheek.
Overall, the house seems hurriedly abandoned. Some rooms are empty, as if a moving job was only half completed. Other rooms hold furniture draped with bed sheets, as if it were the home of a vacationer who intended to return. There are no cars in the garage.
Where Aziz's home is adorned with personal effects, Saddam's palace is trimmed with sober emblems of power. Only a five-minute drive from Aziz's house, the palace is a complex of five houses overlooking the Tigris, each house grander than the next. A satellite-guided bomb destroyed part of the compound, but left much intact. The lawn is freshly trimmed, and the flowers are in bloom.
The architecture is a motley mix of neo-classical columns and Muslim mushroom-shaped roofs.
Past the engraved-relief bust of Saddam on the front wall of one home is a ground floor that houses a vast sitting room of blue velvet couches and chairs. A grand double-barreled marble staircase is complemented by a two-story marble mural of Saddam and his family, a full-color stone mosaic of a casual family pose: smiling father in the middle, his hands on the shoulder of a young girl; wife by his side; sons as matching bookends, one in a business suit, the other in short sleeves, each standing beside a young woman.
Across the vast hall is a dental office, fully appointed with reclining chair, spotlight and spitting sink. Down the hall is an optician's studio, the eye chart in English letters still mounted on the wall. Past that is the salon, with a trio of beautician's chairs and magazine covers of pop star Britney pasted beside the mirror.
At the rear of the house, another vast, empty room faces the sweeping lawn overlooking the river. The furniture, it seems, has been removed, but the mirrors have not, and they gaze back from virtually every wall.
By appearances, this house seems to have been the province mostly of women and children. Plastic trucks, play telephones and other toys can be found in nearly every room. In the master bedroom hang a series of baby photos, leading past a treadmill, a walk-in safe, into a walk-in closet filled floor-to-ceiling with designer women's clothes and scores of shoes. A television set sits across from the gilded king-sized bed, with a 10-minute exercise tape waiting to be played.
Next door is the study, where a bookcase of Arabic titles sits across from a simple desk. A tape deck lies empty beside a cassette of "The Sound of Music." On a shelf near the door is an empty cardboard box for a digital handheld copy of the Koran.
Hedges carved with spirals and other designs lead to the house that bore the brunt of the bomb's blast. The explosives reduced much of its facade to rubble, yet they could not destroy the white marble bust of Saddam that still sits atop a pedestal in the living room.
Also undamaged are more children's rooms upstairs. One room is overflowing with stuffed toys — the Tasmanian Devil, Popeye, Snoopy. On the wall are half a dozen stock photos of Disney World and a brand-new Christmas advent calendar.
The Marines have taken over this compound now. They have found children's scooters in the garage and they ride them blithely around, laden with ammunition and weapons. At night, they lie on the roof and sleep under the stars.
Sempers,
Roger
By Evan Osnos, Chicago Tribune
European edition, Friday, April 11, 2003
BAGHDAD, Iraq — Deputy Prime Minister Tariq Aziz, the stern public voice of the Iraqi regime, is fond of ballroom dancing with his wife, as the many snapshots tucked along the frame of his bedroom mirror suggest.
Somewhere in Saddam Hussein's family is a fan of Britney Spears. Or so it seems, based on the magazine clippings of the teen pop star taped to the wall in one of the Iraqi president's palaces.
When Iraq's top leaders vanished in the face of a U.S. invasion, they left behind palaces and homes that are being searched by U.S. forces. A walk through the ransacked remains of two such compounds is a window into the lives of two men who dominated life in Iraq for a generation.
The Aziz home, in contrast with Saddam's austerely formal palaces, has the look of a suburban trophy house, tucked behind a sculptured hedge in a nice neighborhood on Baghdad's east side.
The heavy, carved-wood double doors open onto a dining room with cases of fine tea sets and silverware. On the dining room table, as if set aside for hanging, are two large photographs of Aziz and his wife dancing cheek to cheek.
The kitchen is spacious and looks lived-in. Appliances sit out on the counters beside several Christian icons and Virgin Mary figurines, totems of the faith that always set Aziz apart from his overwhelmingly Muslim country. A bulletin board is layered with snapshots from Aziz family life: celebrating Christmas, playing in a snowstorm, visiting the seashore. And of course, Aziz beaming beside his friend and mentor, Saddam.
In the back corner of the home is Aziz's refuge, a study full of books, movies and personal items from a lifetime of travel and politics. For a man who has voiced some of Iraq's sharpest denunciations of the U.S., his library shows a remarkable appetite for the words and images of the adversary.
Fresh stacks of carefully set-aside Vanity Fair magazines, with Sean Penn, Jude Law and other stars on the covers. Old issues of Foreign Affairs, the journal of New York's Council on Foreign Relations, dating back to 1981.
He has volumes by statesmen — Henry Kissinger on diplomacy — and by dictators — Mao Tse-tung on revolution. He has a well-turned copy of Bob Woodward's "Veil," an investigation of the CIA, and a seemingly new edition of Judith Miller's book on militant Islam, "God has Ninety-Nine Names."
He has biographies of his enemies — George H.W. Bush, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini and former Israeli Foreign Minister Moshe Dayan. And he has the pronouncements of his oldest partner, Saddam.
He has books about himself; a collection of newspaper articles from the 1991 Gulf War; an investigation by former United Nations weapons inspector Richard Butler of Iraq's weapons programs.
His taste in movies is equally eclectic, with hundreds of DVDs ranging from "Josie and the Pussycats" to the "Godfather" series.
The room has been turned upside down by Marines as they search for any documents that might pry a lid off another dark vault of Iraqi history. On the floor lies a mound of old matchbooks, carefully gathered from restaurants around the world — Paris, Amsterdam, Damascus.
Up the stairs in the modest master bedroom, a queen-sized bed sits across from a lady's dresser, with a small sitting area nearby. The dancing pictures have curled out from the edge of the mirror frame, as if they had been there for years. In the bathroom, unopened boxes of Calvin Klein cologne sit beside Old Spice shaving cream. On the dresser are two seemingly prized photos in fine gold frames: one of Saddam Hussein alone, and the other of Aziz and Saddam together, the raven-haired president kissing his silver-haired spokesman on the cheek.
Overall, the house seems hurriedly abandoned. Some rooms are empty, as if a moving job was only half completed. Other rooms hold furniture draped with bed sheets, as if it were the home of a vacationer who intended to return. There are no cars in the garage.
Where Aziz's home is adorned with personal effects, Saddam's palace is trimmed with sober emblems of power. Only a five-minute drive from Aziz's house, the palace is a complex of five houses overlooking the Tigris, each house grander than the next. A satellite-guided bomb destroyed part of the compound, but left much intact. The lawn is freshly trimmed, and the flowers are in bloom.
The architecture is a motley mix of neo-classical columns and Muslim mushroom-shaped roofs.
Past the engraved-relief bust of Saddam on the front wall of one home is a ground floor that houses a vast sitting room of blue velvet couches and chairs. A grand double-barreled marble staircase is complemented by a two-story marble mural of Saddam and his family, a full-color stone mosaic of a casual family pose: smiling father in the middle, his hands on the shoulder of a young girl; wife by his side; sons as matching bookends, one in a business suit, the other in short sleeves, each standing beside a young woman.
Across the vast hall is a dental office, fully appointed with reclining chair, spotlight and spitting sink. Down the hall is an optician's studio, the eye chart in English letters still mounted on the wall. Past that is the salon, with a trio of beautician's chairs and magazine covers of pop star Britney pasted beside the mirror.
At the rear of the house, another vast, empty room faces the sweeping lawn overlooking the river. The furniture, it seems, has been removed, but the mirrors have not, and they gaze back from virtually every wall.
By appearances, this house seems to have been the province mostly of women and children. Plastic trucks, play telephones and other toys can be found in nearly every room. In the master bedroom hang a series of baby photos, leading past a treadmill, a walk-in safe, into a walk-in closet filled floor-to-ceiling with designer women's clothes and scores of shoes. A television set sits across from the gilded king-sized bed, with a 10-minute exercise tape waiting to be played.
Next door is the study, where a bookcase of Arabic titles sits across from a simple desk. A tape deck lies empty beside a cassette of "The Sound of Music." On a shelf near the door is an empty cardboard box for a digital handheld copy of the Koran.
Hedges carved with spirals and other designs lead to the house that bore the brunt of the bomb's blast. The explosives reduced much of its facade to rubble, yet they could not destroy the white marble bust of Saddam that still sits atop a pedestal in the living room.
Also undamaged are more children's rooms upstairs. One room is overflowing with stuffed toys — the Tasmanian Devil, Popeye, Snoopy. On the wall are half a dozen stock photos of Disney World and a brand-new Christmas advent calendar.
The Marines have taken over this compound now. They have found children's scooters in the garage and they ride them blithely around, laden with ammunition and weapons. At night, they lie on the roof and sleep under the stars.
Sempers,
Roger