US army secured. Big surprise, right? The last was the Baghdad National Library. The National Museum was looted. Thousands of antiquities vanished. Nobody cares. Apparently private collectors in the US are trying to persuade the Pentagon to relax legislation that prevents Iraqi heritage items being sold abroad. Can you believe that? They want less protection. Take my word, this is about erasing a people from history. Remove a nation’s literature and history and what have you got left? Nothing. A people you can control. Within a generation the memory is lost.’
Over the years Makana had grown used to the way Sami became passionate about particular subjects. Nothing would deflect him. The only thing to do was ride out the storm. He lit a cigarette and agreed to a cup of coffee that Sami managed to order without breaking off his running commentary.
‘The American soldiers built a camp on the site of the ancient city of Babylon. They actually filled their sandbags with fragments of priceless historical objects. Now it’s all mixed up with Coca-Cola tins. Beautiful, right? The palaces of Nebuchadnezzar turned into a helicopter base. Now, of course, there’s all this talk about recovery and prosecution of criminals, but we both know that’s not going to happen. Seventy per cent of the manuscripts in the National Library were burnt by looters. You know what they’ll do? They’ll use some of that oil money to build a fancy new museum, and you know what it’ll have in it? Nothing.’
As coffee arrived, Rania appeared, carrying breakfast: a handful of wrapped packages that turned out to be sandwiches. Her face broke into a broad smile.
‘Sit down, join us for breakfast.’
A space was made on the table and chairs were found. The promise of food brought some of the others wandering over to join in. They were all fairly young. A mixture of men and women who ranged from their twenties to their mid-thirties, all of them clearly sharp, well educated and talented. The talk while they sat around and ate was of stories they were working on. Most of the details went by Makana.
‘I saw you at Kasabian’s opening the other day,’ said one of the girls, a petite young woman with a mass of unruly black curls.
‘Kasabian?’ Sami frowned, his mouth full. ‘I didn’t know you’d taken an interest in art.’
‘I was doing a favour for a friend. Do you know much about him?’
‘Kasabian?’ The girl’s name was Nefissa. She wore a green canvas jacket, like the kind soldiers wore, and her fingernails were painted a matching colour. ‘Well, he’s pretty old school. Close to the big boys, ministers and so forth. A little out of touch. I mean, I wouldn’t go to him to find out what’s happening in the art world. Who’s your friend?’
‘Ali Shibaker. He had a couple of paintings exhibited there.’
‘Oh, yes. Kasabian’s very charitable in that way. Takes an interest in older struggling artists.’ Makana made a mental note not to mention this to Ali when he next saw him. ‘They’re old-fashioned, part of a dying breed.’
‘How so?’ Makana asked, helping himself to a taamiya sandwich.
Nefissa had a spiky, opinionated character and no hesitation about expressing herself. ‘They see themselves as some kind of elite and guard their space fiercely. Nobody new is allowed in.’
‘Cronyism, it’s called,’ Sami said. ‘It’s a national sport.’
‘Well, it’s going to become ancient history,’ Nefissa went on. ‘New art spaces are emerging. That’s why I was there. We’re distributing leaflets about an exhibition.’ Nefissa returned to her desk to fetch one. Sami took a look at it and handed it to Makana.
‘If you’re interested in art . . .’
‘Just a passing curiosity, I’m afraid,’ Makana smiled.
‘So you’re moving up in society,’ Rania grinned, teasingly.
‘I’m not sure they’ll let me play with them for too long. Have you heard of someone called Dalia
Over the years Makana had grown used to the way Sami became passionate about particular subjects. Nothing would deflect him. The only thing to do was ride out the storm. He lit a cigarette and agreed to a cup of coffee that Sami managed to order without breaking off his running commentary.
‘The American soldiers built a camp on the site of the ancient city of Babylon. They actually filled their sandbags with fragments of priceless historical objects. Now it’s all mixed up with Coca-Cola tins. Beautiful, right? The palaces of Nebuchadnezzar turned into a helicopter base. Now, of course, there’s all this talk about recovery and prosecution of criminals, but we both know that’s not going to happen. Seventy per cent of the manuscripts in the National Library were burnt by looters. You know what they’ll do? They’ll use some of that oil money to build a fancy new museum, and you know what it’ll have in it? Nothing.’
As coffee arrived, Rania appeared, carrying breakfast: a handful of wrapped packages that turned out to be sandwiches. Her face broke into a broad smile.
‘Sit down, join us for breakfast.’
A space was made on the table and chairs were found. The promise of food brought some of the others wandering over to join in. They were all fairly young. A mixture of men and women who ranged from their twenties to their mid-thirties, all of them clearly sharp, well educated and talented. The talk while they sat around and ate was of stories they were working on. Most of the details went by Makana.
‘I saw you at Kasabian’s opening the other day,’ said one of the girls, a petite young woman with a mass of unruly black curls.
‘Kasabian?’ Sami frowned, his mouth full. ‘I didn’t know you’d taken an interest in art.’
‘I was doing a favour for a friend. Do you know much about him?’
‘Kasabian?’ The girl’s name was Nefissa. She wore a green canvas jacket, like the kind soldiers wore, and her fingernails were painted a matching colour. ‘Well, he’s pretty old school. Close to the big boys, ministers and so forth. A little out of touch. I mean, I wouldn’t go to him to find out what’s happening in the art world. Who’s your friend?’
‘Ali Shibaker. He had a couple of paintings exhibited there.’
‘Oh, yes. Kasabian’s very charitable in that way. Takes an interest in older struggling artists.’ Makana made a mental note not to mention this to Ali when he next saw him. ‘They’re old-fashioned, part of a dying breed.’
‘How so?’ Makana asked, helping himself to a taamiya sandwich.
Nefissa had a spiky, opinionated character and no hesitation about expressing herself. ‘They see themselves as some kind of elite and guard their space fiercely. Nobody new is allowed in.’
‘Cronyism, it’s called,’ Sami said. ‘It’s a national sport.’
‘Well, it’s going to become ancient history,’ Nefissa went on. ‘New art spaces are emerging. That’s why I was there. We’re distributing leaflets about an exhibition.’ Nefissa returned to her desk to fetch one. Sami took a look at it and handed it to Makana.
‘If you’re interested in art . . .’
‘Just a passing curiosity, I’m afraid,’ Makana smiled.
‘So you’re moving up in society,’ Rania grinned, teasingly.
‘I’m not sure they’ll let me play with them for too long. Have you heard of someone called Dalia
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