It is July 22, 1979, and the cameras are deliberately rolling. The people entering the hall, walking gingerly to pre-assigned seats – and confused as to why they have been summoned – know one clear thing: they are being recorded, in both voice and image.
The emergency meeting of the Ba’athist Party Central Committee begins with Saddam Hussein slouched casually back in his chair. Instead of rising to address his audience, he simply leans forward, searching for the best angle on the microphone:
“The dreams of the conspirators are many.”
“But be assured, I will pick up my gun and fight to the end.”
A beaten and broken man is then walked to the podium, the spectators recognise him as a senior member of the party. Shaking with fear, and blubbering through his words, the man begins his coached confession. He first admits his guilt, then begins listing names… his fellow conspirators.
As he reads, guards move quickly within the room, removing each person from their seats after they have been named. “Get out!” a now animated Saddam shouts from the podium, “get out!” One-by-one, the auditorium slowly empties.
Watching loyal friends and colleagues dragged away in cuffs, it begins to dawn on those people still seated what is happening. Suddenly a fear hits the room – a hard, infectious panic.
A man jumps to his feet – pumping his fists and verging on tears; he shouts:
“Long live the party! Long live Saddam Hussein!”
Soon everyone is on their feet applauding, and oaths of loyalty are echoing throughout the room. Everyone is praising Saddam and the Ba’ath Party, competing to be the loudest, the most grovelling – hoping that this might save their name being spoken.
None of it helps! The roll call goes on!
Saddam leans back in his chair again, and continues leisurely smoking his cigar.
Only when half of the room is empty – and sixty eight people have been arrested – does it end. Those left behind, those who have survived, visibly tremble with a mixture of fear and relief. Saddam congratulates them on their loyalty.
Then he tells them to pick up a gun and join him in the garden.
Outside they see their friends lined up for execution. They don’t need any more encouragement – everyone fires their weapon, and everyone is now implicated in the crime and tied forever to Saddam Hussein remaining in power… no matter what he does from there on out.
It now becomes impossible to be pro-Iraqi without also being pro-Saddam, you could no longer be a proud nationalist without being a proud Ba’athist. The blood on their hands, and fear in their hearts, takes away their options.
All limits, nuance, caution and criticism die in that garden – the only change now is the slow tightening of the line, and the growing list of people that fall outside of it – never realising until too late.
The terror inside these men soon spreads throughout the country – everyone hears the stories, and sees their neighbours being purged in the middle of the night. With each new arrest, the cheers grow louder and mob larger. To be silent is to draw suspicion, and a near-admission of guilt.
A young dissident, lucky enough to escape, describes the atmosphere as living in the Republic of Fear.