Friday January 31
Baghdad, Iraq
By Manmohan (Mick) Panesar

For Iraqi intellectuals and artists, Fridays are unique in Baghdad. Bookseller¹s Lane, as it¹s called, has become an institution. For as long as most people can remember thousands upon thousands of used books are put on display along a long narrow lane in downtown Baghdad. I walk along the lane, not sure of which side to look. On either side of the lane one can find textbooks, novels, biographies, journals and magazines in both English and Arabic with wide-ranging topics. At one point I stop and observe a biography of Stalin placed next to several Agatha Christie novels and works by Heidegger, which stand against a pile of outdated medical journals. The variety of literature speaks to the richness of intellectual activity in Baghdad. The vast majority of books I am perusing are pre-1980, indicative of the effects of two decades of war and a dozen years of sanctions on intellectual life in Iraq.

From some reading before coming to the booksellers venue, I know that most of these books are personal collections that have been put up for sale. The middle class of Iraq has been devastated by sanctions and war and many Iraqis formerly living confortably are now put into the position of having to sell their possessions ­ in this case books - in order to live.

The lane is cramped as hundreds of people crowd together browsing, conversing and bargaining. It is a beehive of activity. But the books are expensive, $5 U.S. for an English language novel we inquired about. This is the monthly salary for an average Iraqi worker. I think about the hundreds of books I have in my personal collection and the endless access I have to other books in Canada. I feel sad that these people have so little access to the literature that many of them clearly love. My fellow IPT member Mary meets a couple of students whose intensity and energy remind her of activists with whome she works with back home. They express deep frustration and despair. ³Yesterday I told my friend that I wanted to kill myself,²

At one end of the lane is the Shah-Bender Café, a magical institution that is transformed every Friday to a meeting place for intellectuals and artists who gather, smoke and sip tea. Here in the café women are few and far between. Artists, writers, poets and academics mingle, discussing topics ranging from American cinema to Russian literature to the plight of the Marsh Arabs in the south of Iraq. Everything except for war.

For non-Arabic speakers like me, the café provides an opportunity to engage in rich discussions with english-speaking Iraqis. I am introduced to Abu-Raafit, an engaging and talkative middle-aged man with a graying moustache and beard. He works as a translator and when I asked him if he comes here every Friday, he responds with a smile, in near-perfect English, ³No, I am here every day.² ³Many artists and teachers now work as translators or taxi drivers to survive. Salaries are low. I work as a translator and this is where I work.²

Our discussion focussed on his love of American culture. Nothing is surprising here in Iraq, I think to myself. He and some of his close knit circle adore American literature and cinema. He described a recent incident involving one of his close friends and his favourite American writer ­ ³We were having our tea in the café and we mentioned to Ibrahim that there was a copy of a new Sidney Sheldon novel on display. He ran out the door and spent the next half an hour looking for it in the area in which we had pointed, harrassing the bookseller. His search was in vain as there was no new Sheldon novel. We were playing a practical joke,² he tells me laughing. I laugh too but more because of his good-natured laugh than his story. I imagine his frustration. New literature is almost completely absent in present day Iraq, and as I look around the café gazing at well-dressed men excitedly clutching, leafing through and reading at their new purchases, I think of the teachers, artists, etc. back home. I think many of us from the north often take books for granted.

Abu-Raafit and I continue our discussion about American cinema. He names a few of his favourites, ³The Last of the Dogmen² starring Tom Bellinger, ³Bound² starring Jennifer Tilley, ³To Conquer a City² with Anthony Quinn, and ³The Night of the Hunter² starring Robert Mitchum. Sheepishly, I admit to my new friend that I haven¹t seen any of them.

I try to steer the conversation in the direction of the war and the sanctions but he doesn¹t seem to be interested in moving in that direction. ³Whatever happens will happen. As Iraqi people we have no say in the matter,² he tells me with a shrug of his shoulder.

When asked about whether he also loves Arab cinema, he says, ³No, I can¹t stand it.² Why I ask, chuckling at his response. I follow up, ³But Egypt has the third largest film industry in the world?why do you have such a strong response²?

³Arab films have no lessons to tell. American films do,² he states as if it¹s a fact.

If those old American classics do indeed have lessons to tell, who in the United States is listening?