Reviewed: After Saddam by Radio 4

Water water everywhere.

After Saddam
Radio 4

A programme about the pitiful state of modern Basra ten years after the US-lead occupation of Iraq found fridges stacked up in shops, useless thanks to repeated electrical cuts. The drone of petrol generators filled the air, a deafening accompaniment to the 50-degree heat. The presenter, Hugh Sykes, had no trouble digging up horror stories. A bridge very recently built is already crumbling. “Even engineering has gone backwards,” someone wailed, cursing local corruption. Interviewees openly wept. This was a stunningly depressing vision.

But then he reunited with Hamid and Matrud, two farmers Sykes had already met a decade earlier growing cucumbers in the remains of the enormous marshlands 40 miles north-west of Basra, an area believed to be the original site of the Garden of Eden. Much of it was drained into a desert by Saddam in the 1990s as a punishment to the indigenous Marsh Arab tribes, who had risen against him in the aftermath of the first Gulf war. Although satellite photographs show that some marshland has recovered – there are patches of vivid green replacing the dead brown of Saddam’s deliberate desert – the water that has come back is salty because so many dams have been constructed upstream, mostly in Turkey, and there isn’t enough flow of fresh water from the Tigris and Euphrates to flush the natural salt from the marshes. No more cucumbers, no nothing. “Never again, here, the cathedral halls which were constructed with reeds celebrated by Wilfred Thesiger . . .” remarked Sykes, with such an intense wistfulness most of the words were made on one memorable extended out breath.

Thesiger’s The Marsh Arabs (1964) is more famous though less accomplished than Gavin Maxwell’s 1957 A Reed Shaken by the Wind (Maxwell obtained his first otter in these very marshes: a cub called Chahala, “the size of a kitten with a delightful malty smell”). Maxwell was Thesiger’s travelling companion but is not mentioned once by Thesiger in his account. Thesiger lamented for the rest of his life the suburbanisation of this untamed, 3,000-square-kilometre watery place. And here was Sykes doing precisely the same, using the same language, 50 years later. That’s an unusually long extended out breath –but it seems a place unwilling, despite all efforts, to capitulate fully to any destructive force.


Photograph: Getty Images

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The audacity of popes

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood