Manaf Al-Saadi writes about the Iraqi journalists suffering from Tammuz god The cars are not soothing in the throes of traffic as they wait for their passage in front of a military checkpoint in the center of Baghdad. The car is moving very slowly towards the checkpoint, which is still far away on
The cars are not soothing in the throes of traffic as they wait for their passage in front of a military checkpoint in the center of Baghdad. The car is moving very slowly towards the checkpoint, which is still far away on this day when the sun is barely touching the ground. The car’s air conditioner tries hardly to soften the atmosphere inside it; from the radio music is emitted, and the voice of the announcer breaks through, offering advice to citizens in order to maintain their health. The people, who have been forced to come out in this heaty day, are rushing by as they chase a shadow from one building to another.
The heat that accompanied this month forced me to change my entire program. After nights of burning with the remnants of the summer sun of Iraq, I began to get up late, carrying out the journalistic issues and investigations. I come to bed when the summer heat has subsided, to leave at 11 am, to find that the flame of July has returned to achieve a new record, in addition to its other cruel numbers, affirming the nature of tyranny does not stand before the will of many people and does not remain before them only a small margin of maneuver, and ultimately they are forced to conform and comply with a change in their way of life and behavior. Having realized the fact that the continuity of life other ways – may be unusual in some cases perhaps – I found myself forced to abandon some of the functions of the journalist, who is chasing events in the street , places of occurrence and inspire hours roaming the markets and roads to topics, Without any significant importance.
After desperate attempts to combine the fieldwork with the flames of July in this rage, I began conducting the necessary interviews to complete my subjects, relying on telephone calls that may not result every time in reaching the desired person, delaying work under the pressure of the dreaded time, and sometimes the fate decided out into the hell of July to obtain a permit or opinion on the phenomenon of what has escalated in Iraq, and I want to see people in other countries and raised their interest in their follow-up and repercussions. Many times this spatial dimension filled me with what I write here, published in Germany for example and read by someone sitting behind computer in an air-conditioned room in a country I had never seen before. Let them know what we, the journalists, are here to accomplish. One thing have to wait for – and have your idea and experienced – for long hours before the power goes back to running your computer! The subjects that I write are born here in my dark room, and once you see the author’s face, he receives in this vast Atlantic sea from a variety of subjects the diversity of human interest and problems. There is a place on his face that is not linked to place or time, but I do not think the Internet is memorable, but sometimes I forget when someone takes my subject from the page he wrote and publishes it on another page after my name is removed. I imagine the subjects that were stolen from the author’s name, orphaned without affiliation, indicating the suffering writer perhaps, as my suffering here.
The minutes of waiting in this day, which almost dissolves the head who dares to go out into the street, pass as long hours of sweat, thinking with each drop of sweat flowing on your forehead that your body of fluid began to penetrate, to be then a detested land , quickly invaded by a headache, It leaves you alone only after you restore fluid balance to your body, but it is still far from here, the fractions of China.
The taxi is passing now in front of the checkpoint. The soldier looks at us, the driver and me greet the policeman and with his tired face he passes through the explosives detector with his hand on the car. A process that seems to bless it during it journey beyond this checkpoint to the next checkpoint. It seems that the soldier who has been tortured by the army has also repeated it thousands of times this day.
The car starts to rush again in this concrete forest, which is hidden under the ” the deserted land ” as painted by the English poet “T. S. “I think if he were sent back and was here now, he would not have added to the July’s scenario. Why do July die every year? Do not you know that when you die, Ishtar loves you in her fertility in search of you in the world of the dead? You know that when you are absent in the world of the dead in search of you dries the planting , the supplication and the drought, until the God of death releases you, July, and Ashtar returns to the year of life, to rekindle life. It is a fertile imagination that created the myth of Tammuz and Ishtar here thousands of years ago. The absence of July represents the old man of the East, while his return to life is spring. But in the absence of long July!
The car stops in the Bab Al-Sharqi area. I was asked to prepare a story about summer and Ramadan in Iraq and how Iraqis live. It does not take long to search for the scenes of the ways of confronting the July’s sons during the absence of their father: July. One of the streets became an open-air bathroom, and the water faucets, which pour water on the passersby, were spread out on both sides to cool their bodies. Juice vendors are busy providing cold juices to those who succumbed to the summer heat and did not fast Ramadan. Others scatter the shadow of a building and chat with each other. I heard one of them say, “This temperature is necessary for dates to ripen,” one of them laughs. “If this price is, we do not want dates.” I asked them to take a photo to complete my story, and I took a taxi back to my house to complete the texts, through the checkpoint. Perhaps I will order the soldier with his tired face, contemplating the return of Tammuz God and whether Ishtar had found him.