Jailed again!

Iraqi nick this time. Was trying to spray a lifesize image (of 2 kids selling cigarettes on the street from a stall) onto the old communications tower, which is rent with bomb-holes and charred and blackened.writes AROFISH.

Anyway, there I was in central Baghdad in the middle of the night with Tom, a young journalist flat mate who came along perceiving some story value in the expedition, all ready to go with stencil, spray cans and duct tape, when I see a silhouetted figure on the roof of a nearby building, which also hosts a sangar (improvised guard post/ shelter fortified with sandbags). It occurs to me that my rolled up, metre long stencil card might look like a rocket launcher so I walk behind a building to unroll it. Approaching the "canvas" afresh with a huge bit of card which looks pretty innocuous to me (here, one learns, EVERYTHING unusual is suspicious), I see that now there are at least 2 guys on the roof, and they are shouting to me. I turn and walk casually back the way I've come, cursing the wasted time, the bad luck, (they weren't there the night before when I came to recce the area) and calling on every ounce of discipline not to just burst into a sprint until round the corner where Tom is waiting.

When the first couple of shots come down there is nothing to lose by running so we bolt like 2 scalded cats. The road takes us round another building between us an the firing, screaming, God-knows-who's and straight back into their line of fire again. More shots and we do an S-bend down an alley. Now, the armed idiots in Baghdad are a bit like the stray dogs - both lurk in the shadows in packs after dark and as soon as one starts barking the rest of them chime in from all directions until there's the most god-awful cacophony. Unfortunately these are 7.62 long rounds we're hearing, from weapons in the hands of jittery, trigger happy Joes who handle their firearms with about as much skill, training and professionalism as a monkey might.

My hope is to weave back up onto the square where we started, get into the first cab and begone, when three nervous shouting goons head us off in the alley, and are rapidly joined by more and more. The confusion and panic on their part increases in step with the swelling numbers. I rip my Arab headscarf off to show my pony-tail but I'm in 2 minds about whether to shout "Brittani" yet as I don't know if it's police, resistance fighters or "Ali Baba" (umbrella term for thief, ranging from the taxi guy who over-charges to the murderous kidnappers and looters taking advantage of the new system, and who number among the few who are really "liberated" nowadays.)

I turn around, spread my arms out (dropping my poor crumpled stencil) and walk slowly backwards towards them, attempting to satisfy contradictory orders of "come here" and "don't move". Tom does the same and when we're quite close we start to sink to the ground, slowly. One of the brighter sparks gets the idea and shouts "get down, get down" (There are others who obviously can't afford T.V. sets who get nervous by even this amount of movement and start yelling to us to get up, jabbing away with their weapons, but they're outvoted and retreat to the shadows to sulk and let the pros who've seen the movies show how it's done. I end up lying face down in the shit-stinking alley with some hairy-arsed Iraqi's foot on my back and the muzzle of his Kalashnikov nuzzling snugly in my ear hole. (I say, old fellow, do you mind...) I manage to squeak out a quiet "sorry Tom."

Before long we're hauled up again as someone with a blue shirt and a laminated card (i.e. elite commando-cop, full DVD collection, every episode of Hill Street Blues) has arrived and decided to take the initiative. A dim semblance of order eventually rises through the mud; it turns out he's a security guard of a local bank, part of a team who do shifts there round the clock, and this is where they take us.

More confusion, what are we doing in the city at this hour, where are we from, etc. He speaks quite a bit of English and Thomas is a student of Arabic. The long and short, after the hue and cry dies down, is that we have to stay the night as "guests" as the head of security won't be in till the morning and no one else is confident about making a decision. (my suggestion that we are in fact prisoners draws offended protestations and offers of food and tea.) The guard room’s pretty shabby but there are 2 beds and typical of Arab hospitality they offer us the best of what they have (including a cornucopia of the most entry-level, nickel plate bullshit as to why we're there: "For your own safety...there are no taxis now...")

Next morning the hogwash continues, and we're still in the hands of the bank and their private security, but they've got a proper translator now, so we're able to argue the toss. This, though effectively useless, gets us an invitation to the manager's plush office where we are given tea and chocolates as a consolation prize for our lost freedom and a substitute for an explanation as to what the fuck exactly is going on. We're promised that it's just a matter of a few formalities; the authorities will be along shortly to ask a few questions and wish us safely on our way.

The days of wine and roses are but fleeting; eventually the grizzled cops arrive and we're off to jail. The hundred Israeli shekels found in my wallet produces a paranoia and suspicion that Ariel Sharon himself would consider worth exploring for it's potential. Every time one ignorant, know-nothing bunch of fucks hands us over to another, the transference of our passports and other bits and pieces invariably concludes with the infamous banknote, produced with a flourish, replete with the image of Ben Gurion which sets the stamp on my unfathomable guilt. ("And Look...He had THIS!!!" cue music.)

"I worked in Gaza, Palestine for a human rights group a year ago, and shall be returning to-"

"NO, FILASTEEN!! NO, FILASTEEN!! ISRA’-EEEL!!!!!! ISRA’-EEEL!!!!!!!!!" (Pointing to the note frantically, one lazy eye wandering over the room and the other drilling into you to ream out your soul and expose the hidden GUILT buried therein).

"Yes, but the currency's the same in both and -”

How do you explain yourself to people who know nothing about the world outside Iraq apart from whatever fantasy folklore they may have learned in Mosque about Palestine, can't understand your explanation for want of enough common words in any language between you, but won't let the matter slide for their own manic paranoia, confusion, anger, suspicion, delusions and backwards sense of duty and obligation.

Eventually, after lots and lots of this, we bed down in a filthy cell which we actually insist on cleaning ourselves. The cell has been cleared of it's previous occupants and I have the sense that as foreigners we are being offered the guest suite. The food we are given is quite good and the guys generally treat us very well; much better than the Americans in the jail I visited a few days ago (see "Carpet Bombing") who reacted to everything with threats, foul language and petty physical assaults. After my arrest, the Iraqis never shouted, swore or abused me in any way. Who is it who said you can judge a nation by the way it treats its prisoners? (I'm not suggesting that Iraqis get the same deal, but the comparison is mine to make by rights, based on experience).

The Police captain asks for the key to our hotel to go and pick up Tom's passport for the court the next day. We insist Tom goes with him and after several refusals he assents. I ask Tom to pick me up a book and manage to get to sleep amidst all the banging shouting racket.

I am woken at about half past midnight to about 20 minutes of utter lunacy. The Circus To Iraq group, with whom we share an apartment building, were having a leaving party for one of their number when Tom arrived there under police escort. They followed him back to the jail and have blagged their way in, with several journalists, TV cameras et al, to interview us through the bars, as the troop of fools dance, blow bubbles, juggle and smuggle in beer. Surreal.

Court the next day, as promised. The only promise that's actually come true out of several hundred in the past few days; perhaps something to do with the fact that since last night, people now know where we are. Just like court anywhere, there's a bit of flummery and hokum, but eventually it's all in one man's mind what you are and what you deserve. Referred to throughout as the accused, we are finally told that there is no actual accusation made out and that we can go. The police kindly oblige to take me back to the station to give me back my paint and stencil. Karim the captain has invited himself round to our apartment tomorrow (presumably under the misapprehension that every night is party night in the debauched loony westerners block) and has offered to give me a police escort next time I go out to graffiti a wall.

Rainbows and teddy bears,

Jim.

P.S. There's an adjunct to my jail-tale of the other day, with a moral. Karim the cop, surprise of all surprises, just wants to get pissed with me in his car, talk shit about his job and hang around our place leching at the western females. He's not gonna help me, so, wanting to round the story off, Tom and me went back to the same spot yesterday, and bold as brass sallied up to 2 loitering "guards" and told them we were going to paint on the wall. They ended up cajoling us to come speak with their boss, in the same building that we were shot at from on the night of all the trouble. In we go, and out of a small room, with 2 little kiddies at his feet, appears a guy who is apparently in charge of the riflemen although there is little about him to suggest it and he doesn't carry a weapon. He likes the idea of the painting so much that he (with a couple of the others) ends up coming over the road with us and even helps me to hold the stencil in position as I spray when my duct tape won't stay stuck! These are the same guys that were firing at us the other night! There's a lesson in this, somewhere...

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