Out of official earshot, words of dissent

Iraq's Ministry of Information requires foreign journalists to do their work with "guides" who are assigned to assist them. The result is that reporters rarely see or hear any criticism of President Saddam Hussein.

But as hundreds of journalists thronged this city to cover an Oct. 15 referendum on Mr. Hussein's rule, the ministry appeared stretched too thin to keep an eye on everyone.

This reporter took the opportunity to travel the streets of Baghdad without a minder, meeting a barber, a novelist, and other Iraqis – those who support the regime as well as those who despise it.

During the Gulf War, allied forces destroyed a communications tower that rose over central Baghdad. The Iraqis quickly rebuilt it – three times as tall as before – as a gesture of defiance. It is named for Saddam Hussein.

The tower's guides and attendants say it is not used for telecommunications, antennae notwithstanding, but for tourism. If they are worried about becoming an early target in an American attack, they do not admit to it.

An observation deck and restaurant offer panoramic views of the city's nearly endless expanse of low, dun-colored buildings, few of them taller than Baghdad's many palm trees.

Private cameras are forbidden. It's easy to understand why. One of the president's palatial compounds stretches out directly below the tower. Inside the vast circumference of its high walls one can see impressive buildings, expansive gardens, man-made lakes. The last is a particular luxury in Iraq's parched climate.

At the exit, two security guards and a ticket-taker engage an American visitor in conversation. They ask if the American people truly support their government's apparent intention to attack Iraq.

"Americans should support peace," says one of the guards, a lean young man with a narrow, sharp-edged face.

Then he trots out an old line, one that Americans hear time and again, not just in Baghdad but throughout the Middle East: "I like American people, but I hate the government."

Partly to provoke, the American responds: "I feel the same way. I like the Iraqi people, but I believe the government is repressive and undemocratic."

The security guard bristles, and cites the recent referendum as proof of Iraq's fully functioning democracy. He says that if a majority of people had voted 'no,' rejecting another term for Hussein, the president would have stepped down.

"Do you really think so?" the American asks. The guard insists he does.

Over his shoulder, a many-times-life-size portrait of Hussein, wearing a dark beret and aviator sunglasses, gazes out from the side of a building.

The ticket-taker is a middle-aged woman in a white blouse and a dark skirt. She is a fading beauty, her reddish-brown hair brightened with blond highlights, her makeup carefully applied.

Early in the conversation she professes her love for Hussein. Then she goes quiet. She listens as the discussion turns to the nature of the Iraqi state, with its near-total absence of political freedom. She shakes her hair forward and looks down slightly, perhaps so the expression on her face cannot be seen by her colleagues, who are on either side of her.

As the American voices incredulity at the prospect of Hussein voluntarily stepping down, she looks straight at him through her bangs. Her eyes twinkle. She smiles.

One of the freest public spaces in Baghdad must surely be the Shabundar Café, on the ground floor of a decrepit, dust-lacquered building on Mutanabi Street. On Fridays, men come from the city and beyond to greet friends, sip sweet tea, and, amid the din of everyone else's conversations, say what they like.

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