"Americans are paying for it. Saddam is no pushover," said the newspaper boy, as he threw the Malayala Manorama. He looked so happy, so proud, as if it was he who was winning a war against the US. I shared his happiness, his pride. We felt we were all part of one army of humanity, waging a war against the USA, the tyrant superpower.
The newspaper said the same, well almost. It said how Saddam and his Republican Guards were winning one battle after another. The previous day another Scud had hit Kuwait. A few others had hit Israel.
After finishing with Manorama, I ran to my neighbour's house, where I got hold of the Mathrubhumi and the Deshabhimani, the CPM mouthpiece. The details were different, but the news was same. Despite hours of mindless, nonstop bombing, Americans were causing no problems for the Iraqis. It was news we all wanted to hear. Iraq was winning indeed.
The war was the talk of the town. At the teashop, people gathered for a quick cup of tea, as they waited for the bus to come. They read newspapers aloud. In one of the border outposts, a group of Iraqi soldiers had sought to surrender, and as the Americans lowered guard, held them hostage. We marvelled at Saddam's cunning.
"The question is what will the Russians do," said a retired government officer said.
"Will they let the US have a free run in the Gulf. And will China stay silent."
"One can't write off Saddam. He has chemical weapons and biological weapons. What if he uses them?"
Thoughts went along that line. In the bus, in the classroom, at the barbershop, on the dinner table, everywhere Saddam was being discussed, and hailed. The Youth Congress organized a blood donation camp, and students lined up in large numbers. They were all eager to shed some blood for Saddam's cause.
*****************
The same summer I reached Delhi for further studies by the GT Express from Madras, it was not Chennai then. Saddam was discussed on the train too. But the enthusiasm we had in Kerala was missing. I sensed something was wrong.
On my first day in Delhi, I woke up early, in time for the newspaper boy. I asked him how the war was going. He stared at me, he couldn't care less.
The newspaper gave bad news, lots of them. The Allies were pounding Iraq. Iraq was losing, losing very badly. Saddam was prolonging a war, which he knew he couldn't win and wouldn't win. He was hiding in bunkers, while exposing his loyal subjects to attacks. That was the truth about Gulf War, which regional newspapers hid from its readers, and continues to hide. For my friends in Kerala, Saddam is still a hero. I wish I could say the same.first published:November 07, 2006, 17:31 ISTlast updated:November 07, 2006, 17:31 IST
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I woke up quite early, at about 5.30 am, just in time for the newspaper boy, about whom I have written earlier. He is my age, and has been delivering newspapers since I was in Class VII, or maybe even earlier. He is still our source for news back home. These many years, and I still don't know his name and he doesn't know mine too. That day there was a reason for me to get up that early. The Gulf War was on, and I wanted to know how Saddam Hussein, our hero, was faring.
"Americans are paying for it. Saddam is no pushover," said the newspaper boy, as he threw the Malayala Manorama. He looked so happy, so proud, as if it was he who was winning a war against the US. I shared his happiness, his pride. We felt we were all part of one army of humanity, waging a war against the USA, the tyrant superpower.
The newspaper said the same, well almost. It said how Saddam and his Republican Guards were winning one battle after another. The previous day another Scud had hit Kuwait. A few others had hit Israel.
After finishing with Manorama, I ran to my neighbour's house, where I got hold of the Mathrubhumi and the Deshabhimani, the CPM mouthpiece. The details were different, but the news was same. Despite hours of mindless, nonstop bombing, Americans were causing no problems for the Iraqis. It was news we all wanted to hear. Iraq was winning indeed.
The war was the talk of the town. At the teashop, people gathered for a quick cup of tea, as they waited for the bus to come. They read newspapers aloud. In one of the border outposts, a group of Iraqi soldiers had sought to surrender, and as the Americans lowered guard, held them hostage. We marvelled at Saddam's cunning.
"The question is what will the Russians do," said a retired government officer said.
"Will they let the US have a free run in the Gulf. And will China stay silent."
"One can't write off Saddam. He has chemical weapons and biological weapons. What if he uses them?"
Thoughts went along that line. In the bus, in the classroom, at the barbershop, on the dinner table, everywhere Saddam was being discussed, and hailed. The Youth Congress organized a blood donation camp, and students lined up in large numbers. They were all eager to shed some blood for Saddam's cause.
*****************
The same summer I reached Delhi for further studies by the GT Express from Madras, it was not Chennai then. Saddam was discussed on the train too. But the enthusiasm we had in Kerala was missing. I sensed something was wrong.
On my first day in Delhi, I woke up early, in time for the newspaper boy. I asked him how the war was going. He stared at me, he couldn't care less.
The newspaper gave bad news, lots of them. The Allies were pounding Iraq. Iraq was losing, losing very badly. Saddam was prolonging a war, which he knew he couldn't win and wouldn't win. He was hiding in bunkers, while exposing his loyal subjects to attacks. That was the truth about Gulf War, which regional newspapers hid from its readers, and continues to hide. For my friends in Kerala, Saddam is still a hero. I wish I could say the same.
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