Untitled Document
Twenty minutes to showtime and studio technicians are loading the tape for transmission
to Baghdad when mortars thud outside. Four hit the lawn, three hit the motorway,
carving craters but causing no casualties. The staff resume work, unfazed by the
latest assault on the televison station.
Aired twice a day, Terrorism in the Grip of Justice is a popular reality show
but those firing 62mm mortars do not like it and have made the Mosul headquarters
of the state channel Al-Iraqiya arguably the most dangerous posting in broadcasting.
With watchtowers at the gate, sandbags on the roof and American soldiers patrolling
the corridors, the two-storey building resembles a fortress, but that has not
stopped insurgents from bombing, kidnapping and murdering the Iraqis who work
inside.
"I don't think they like the programme very much," says the station's
director, Ghazi Faisal, 52, with monumental understatement. Most of the staff
have fled but their boss remains, a mix of resignation, defiance and pride.
He does not stop munching his kebab when the mortars land. "I'm the terrorists'
most wanted man in Mosul."
Launched in January, the one-hour programme features captured insurgents confessing
to a variety of alleged crimes and vices, including pornography and booze. Cowed
and crestfallen, they admit attacking the security forces and raping and beheading
civilians.
The impact has been electric. Al-Iraqiya was once widely scorned as a dull
Iraqi government mouthpiece; all that changed in January when Mosul started
feeding the confessions to the main studio in Baghdad, giving the network a
national primetime hit.
Iraqis switch on their televisions at midday and 9pm to catch the latest confessions,
which are then debated in homes, offices, taxis and cafes. Akin to Jerry Springer-meets-Newsnight,
it is the government's most effective propaganda against a rebellion still raging
two years after a US-led invasion toppled Saddam Hussein.
American officials say they have no involvement in making Terrorism in the
Grip of Justice but welcome its impact. President George Bush has ramped up
spending on "public diplomacy" to win foreign hearts and minds in
his war on terror.
The televised confessions are the brainchild of a commander of the Wolf brigade,
a branch of the Iraqi interior ministry. Known only by his nickname, Abul Waleed,
he phones Faisal at Al-Iraqiya to send a camera crew to his police station when
there is a fresh batch of prisoners ready to be filmed.
Visually, the result is often dull: a line of ordinary-looking men in chairs
taking turns to answer an unseen in quisitor. But the effect is utterly compelling.
Once insurgents were seen only masked, armed and standing before a trembling
hostage in videos they posted on the internet, holy warriors exuding power and
confidence.
Al-Iraqiya turns the tables, showing alleged rebels unmasked, twitchy and humiliated
as they detail grisly murders and, to widespread astonishment, tales of drunkeness,
gay orgies and pornography.
They took up arms not to fight the occupation, or for Islam, but because they
were common criminals who wanted money. Executing someone earned $100, says
one man. He practised decapitating chickens and sheep before moving on to policemen
and soldiers.
Critics say the programme violates the Geneva convention and question the veracity
of what are clearly intimidated prisoners. Sometimes the inquisitor confesses
on their behalf and they merely nod, eager to agree.
The interior ministry says the show was an emergency measure and hints that
it will soon be reviewed. Meanwhile, the security forces are delighted, crediting
the change in public mood with a flow of intelligence tips.
There tends to be an especially strong response after shows which confront
alleged killers with victims' relatives. "You burned my heart!" wailed
the mother of a murdered son, jabbing a large, unshaven man in the chest. "May
God burn your heart! What kind of religion do you have?" He stared at his
feet, avoiding her eyes.
Human rights activists worry that the programme marks a return to Saddam-style
public humiliations and coerced confessions, which undermine subsequent trials.
Others complain that a complex insurgency which includes Islamic radicals, former
regime loyalists and Arab Sunni nationalists is being depicted as nothing more
than a coalition of thieving scumbags, a caricature which could deepen religious
tensions.
Shias and Kurds tend to be fans. "Before these guys were like ghosts.
Now we see their faces and realise that they are criminals and drunkards from
our neighbourhoods. We want them hanged," says Ahmad, 29, a Kurdish interpreter
for US forces in Mosul.
There are no ratings figures to confirm the anecdotal evidence of popularity.
Nor is there independent confirmation that the men are and did what they say
they are and did. Some have the swollen and bruised faces and robotic manners
of those beaten and coached by police interrogators off-camera.
Without doubt, genuine rebels loathe the programme, as evinced by the mortar
attacks. "It is really scaring them, it opens up their security and takes
away their anonymity," says Capt Jason Hogan, an intelligence officer with
the US battalion tasked with protecting Al-Iraqiya's regional station in Mosul.
A maze of alleys bisected by the Tigris, Mosul is Iraq's third city and an
insurgency crucible; as the programme's popularity has grown, so have threats
against station employees. Warnings posted in mosques and distributed in pamphlets
have kept about 50 of the 60-strong staff at home. Last month, masked gunmen
kidnapped a newsreader, Raeda Wazzan; according to her husband, she was found
dead a week later with four bullets in her head. Gunmen also tried and failed
to snatch a producer.
Studios are dotted with mattresses for those who sleep at work rather than
risk the journey home. Three staff were slightly wounded when a mortar hit the
main entrance but the big fear is kidnapping. Most declined to be named or photographed.
Those who still turn up say they do so for the monthly salary - over $400 -
and to defy the insurgents. Khalid Abdulla, 42, is a comedian and scriptwriter
who now doubles up as a janitor, cleaner, tea-maker and electrician: "We
are five doing the job of 55."
In addition to acting, his colleague Mohammad Haddad, 32, produces and directs
their show, a mix of chat with sketches that are increasingly direct in lambasting
insurgents. Their shows have not criticised the occupation, even though a US
patrol mistakenly shot and killed Abdulla's brother last December.
It is no secret that the television station relies on Washington largesse.
Built in 1969 to broadcast light enter tainment and Ba'athist regime propaganda,
the Mosul network was bombed by coalition planes in the Gulf war and again in
1999.
In the chaos of the March 2003 invasion it was looted but re-opened months
later as part of the Iraqi Media Network, which is funded by the US and operates
from the heavily fortified Green Zone in Baghdad.
The few technicians and journalists who still come to work at Al-Iraqiya in
Mosul are greeted by similarly high security: coils of razor wire, concrete
barriers and 23-tonne armoured vehicles called Strykers parked on the lawn.
A garrison of 95 Iraqi soldiers is bolstered by a platoon of US infantrymen
who spend their free time in the canteen playing dominos and practising first
aid.
Last week, the Guardian met a Texas engineer, a small, wiry man in a big helmet,
who was plotting more elaborate defences against possible snipers and suicide
car bombers. An entire stretch of motorway may be sealed off. One technician
said: "We are embarrassed to have the Americans here but it does make us
feel safer."