This Week’s Top Picks in Imperial & Global History   Leave a comment

Imperial & Global Forum

150 surviving prints of the anti-Vietnam war artworks made at University of California, Berkeley, are to be shown in a new exhibition at Shapero Modern, London, as featured on the Guardian One of 150 surviving prints of the anti-Vietnam war artworks made at University of California, Berkeley, are to be shown in a new exhibition at Shapero Modern, London, as featured on the Guardian.

Marc-William Palen
History Department, University of Exeter
Follow on Twitter @MWPalen

From militant Third World liberation to the fallacy of collective memory, here are this week’s top picks in imperial and global history.

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Posted February 6, 2016 by TeamBritanniaHu in Uncategorized

Catching up … sort of   Leave a comment

Nick Baines's Blog

I don’t have much time these days for doing the blog. All I manage to put up is scripts or journalism. I recently did a paper at a theological conference, but 5,000 words is too many for this medium.

Tomorrow I head off to Tanzania to visit one of our Anglican partnership links: three dioceses in the north. So, here’s a quick blast on a theme.

Most Church of England dioceses have links with dioceses around the world (or the Anglican Communion for these purposes). My diocese comprises three historic English dioceses and each had long-established links: Bradford with Sudan and Southwestern Virginia (USA), Wakefield with Tanzania and Skara (Sweden), Ripon & Leeds with Sri Lanka.

All the richness and complexity of the Anglican Communion is there. In Sudan the church faces dreadful pressure because African Christians (as opposed to Arabic Muslims) are being persecuted and squeezed. The reasons are…

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Posted January 31, 2016 by TeamBritanniaHu in Uncategorized

Day in the Life of a fledgling published Biographer   Leave a comment

Escaping Hitler: A Jewish Boy's Quest for Freedom and his Future

Today, Friday 29th January.  Started quite normally. Met with Mayor of Thorpe St Andrew (home suburb) to have photo taken with him for the town newsletter.  Went into City of Norwich to have an afternoon off at our favourite watering hole – they are holding their annual Winter Beer Festival (enough said!)  On passing City Bookshop I spotted Escaping Hitler in their front window display.  Photo opportunity!  We then went into Smiths to buy a copy of Suffolk and Norfolk Life – I knew that it was promoting the book.  Sure enough, two page spread complete with photos.  We buy three copies!  On to lunch and beer tastings.  Lovely two hours chatting to a couple from Sheringham.  On way back to bus stop at 5pm (we know how to live!) we took a detour through Waterstones, UK’s leading bookseller, just incase they were stocking my book, but I did not…

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Posted January 30, 2016 by TeamBritanniaHu in Uncategorized

HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL DAY 2016   Leave a comment

Escaping Hitler: A Jewish Boy's Quest for Freedom and his Future

Today is Holocaust Memorial Day.  This morning I attended the annual Civic Service at St Peter de Mancroft Church in Norwich.  The ancient church was full, with Joe Stirling as a special guest in the front pew.  The service, organised by the Council of Christians and Jews, took the traditional format and included the thought-provoking poem allegedly written by Pastor Martin Niemoller after WW2.

First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak…

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Posted January 27, 2016 by TeamBritanniaHu in Uncategorized

This Week in Hungarian History: 26th-31st January 1945   Leave a comment

hungarywolf

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On 27 January 1945, two days after KGB Deputy-Commissioner received a report that his orders for the arrest of Raoul Wallenberg had been carried out, a temporary executive committee made an announcement in Budapest on behalf of the Royal Swedish Embassy. It addressed all holders of Swedish passports: “Seeing that all persons of Jewish origin are now citizens enjoying equal rights, activity has come to a natural end.” It wished those previously protected much good fortune and success for the future. However, although the fifty-one day battle for Budapest was at an end, the SS had still not surrendered and Vilmos Bondor drew an accurate picture of the chaos which reigned in the capital:

In the capital chaos reigned. Russian deserters formed gangs of bandits and plundered. The pockets of SS did the same. The newly-appointed Hungarian authorities looked on helplessly. They lacked manpower and experience. Police appointments were made…

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Posted January 27, 2016 by TeamBritanniaHu in Uncategorized

The Blue Notebook (Holocaust Memorial Day 2016)   1 comment

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From Budapest to Bergen-Belsen: A Notebook from 1944

In 2012, Zsolt Zágoni edited and published a notebook written in 1944 by Rózsi Stern, a Jewish woman who escaped from Budapest. Written in Hungarian, it was translated into English by Gábor Bánfalvi, and edited by Carolyn Bánfalvi. The notebook is of primary historical significance because it summarises, in forty-four pages of handwriting (published in facsimile), the events beginning from the German occupation of Hungary on 19 March 1944 until the author’s arrival at Bergen-Belsen. It describes the general scene in Hungary, the looting of her family home, and the deportation of the Jews from Budapest.

Also, Rózsi Stern was the daughter of Samu Stern, one of the elected leaders of the Hungarian Jewish Council in Budapest during the latter stages of the war under German occupation. In March 1944 he was the leader of the group which was obliged to negotiate with Adolf Eichmann, the SS man in charge of the final solution in Hungary, about the fate of the Jewish community. Given the controversy surrounding these events, and Stern’s life, it could be seen as a controversial document. However, as Zágoni himself points out in his ‘Forword’,

… the importance of the notebook is that an everyday person – realizing the extraordinariness of the events – decides to tell her story, her fate, and the dramatic days of her family’s life and the black weeks and months of in Hungary … while she tries to understand the incomprehensible.

I have decided to draw attention to it here, not just because of Holocaust Memorial Day, but because it deserves to gain a wider readership outside Hungary, where it is published. Hopefully, the extracts I have chosen will demonstrate something of its importance:

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November 15 1944

Caille Inn, Geneva, Switzerland.

We, the Bamberger family and 318 other Jews, were granted a privileged fate by God’s will. After a terribly frightening, dangerous and adventurous five months, we can watch from Switzerland the collapse of the Germans and the Hitler regime at the end of the fifth year of the war. Although the lives of the three of us are safe now, we are dreadfully worried about my father, Irma (her sister), my husband’s entire family, and all of our relatives and friends at home. According to the radio, it is only a matter of days until Budapest will be taken by the Russians. But who knows what human evil can still do to the poor remaining Jews. We are totally cut off from them, but I still have firm faith in my good Lord that he will help our beloved ones along with the other long-suffering Jews. Therefore, I just keep praying to him and asking him to shelter and protect them from all harm, so soon we can meet again in happiness.

May it be like this! Amen.

March 19, 1944

The German Invasion of Budapest

On this Sunday, news that the Germans have occupied Budapest has spread like wildfire. People, especially Jews, are in unimaginable fear and shock. We have so far only heard from the radio and from stories of survivors about the brutalities of German terror and now we feel that the Jewish community in Hungary is facing the same fate. Unfortunately, our fears were justified. Already on the first day, some of the Jewish gentlemen holding the most prestigious positions were interned. They came twice to our house, and to the Community on Sip Street, looking for my father.

My father wanted to buy time, so our whole family spent the entire day and night with one of our doctor relatives. This is where we were notified that Krumey Obersturmbannfűhrer (lieutenant colonel) had ordered all the Community leaders – including priests, principals, and the president – to be present in the Sip Street office at 10 ‘o’ clock on Monday. We begged my father not to go, as we were afraid that he would be interned too. He said he would not hide and no matter what happens he would go to the indicated place. I cannot describe how nervous we were. Irma spent the whole morning walking up and down Sip Street, so at least she would see if my dad was being taken by the Germans. The Germans were negotiating with dad in a very polite way, and they assured him that nobody would get hurt and that they wanted to work with the Community.

They formed the Jewish Council with eight members, with my dad as the president. They were responsible for making sure that the regulations were carried out properly, and this was the prerequisite so that the Jewish community would be saved from the atrocities. Unfortunately, there was cruelty and lies behind the smooth manners. One of their first moves was to have all Jewish phones cut off, so that we couldn’t communicate with each other. Then radios had to be turned in. The Jewish Council had to make unimaginably great efforts to meet this incredible range of demands, which had to be taken care of within 24 hours. (We also had to turn in typewriters, paper goods, furniture, apartments, bicycles, gramophones with records, drinks, pictures, and much more). Whole warehouses and private properties had to be placed at their disposal within 24 hours. Jewish stores were closed and the goods were confiscated. The image of Budapest changed completely within the course of 48 hours. All business transactions were paralyzed and all you could see were worried, terrified people. Eskü Street 3 (dad’s house and also where Irma and her family live) turned int a scene reminiscent of the great migration. Relatives, friends, and acquaintances all turned to the president. What would happen now? What were we supposed to do? What fate is waiting for us? We always looked at my dad as a superior creature for his intelligence and kindness. Now I remember, with tears of emotion, how heroically he comforted and encouraged everybody and suppressed his anxiety and worries for his own children and grandchildren… even the Germans were impressed by his brave and calm behaviour…

…  People began to be collected from the streets. For example, if a married woman or a young girl went to the store or men left for work, you never knew if they would see their families again or would be captured on the street… At night men and women were taken from their homes… The yellow star had to be worn on your clothes or your coat on the left side above the heart, firmly sewn on. A lot of people were afraid to go out onto the street like this, branded, especially the Jews who… had denied a long time ago that they ever belonged to us. Amongst these – mainly the youth who didn’t know that they had Jewish backgrounds and now according to the German law they became Jewish again – many chose to commit suicide. 

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Above: Lídia Bamberger

Rózsi’s account goes on to describe what happened to close relatives and neighbours in Budapest, as well as to the Jews in the countryside and provincial towns, where the Jews were first of all forced into ghettos and then deported or sent to forced labour camps as part of the army (I have written about these events elsewhere). Ghettos were then made in Budapest as well, and designated buildings were marked with a yellow star hanging on the front gate. In the best cases, friends and relatives were able to move in together, five or six of people to one room. Rózsi’s family had to move because their house was designated as a yellow star building, and they occupied his apartment on the first floor, though all the other Jewish people staying there were soon moved on to another apartment house. Together with their father, there were nine of them living in the apartment by June 1944. Her husband, Gyuri, decided they should leave for Palestine, but her seventy-year-old father could not be persuaded to leave his responsibilities, and Rózsi could not imagine parting with him and her mother’s grave. She would also have to leave her husband’s family, including her eighty-year-old mother-in-law. In the end, she decided to leave with her husband and daughter. They were supposed to spend eight to ten days in a German camp outside Vienna and then travel through Germany and Spain to reach Palestine. The question was whether the Germans would keep their word and allow them to reach the Spanish border.

Departure and Transportation:

On 30 June, her father, accompanied by the German soldier who had been billeted with them, took them by taxi to the camp with their luggage. After two hours trying to ensure their safety, he left them at the internment camp, the synagogue on Aréna Street, which was already crowded with people, mostly those saved from the brick factories in the coutryside. Finally, after an anxious day standing in pouring rain, they boarded carriages ready to depart:

We sat lined around the sides, squeezed against each other, with our legs hanging down. Those who couldn’t fit like this were standing, leaning on each other, trying to balance… On both sides of the carriages there were German soldiers following the procession. All the way I was happy that my family didn’t see me in such miserable conditions. People on the street gathered in groups were wondering where all these yellow-starred Jews were being taken. Only on a few faces did I see compassion… After a two-hour carriage ride, we arrived at the Rákosrendező train station – on the outskirts of Budapest – totally soaking wet. It was starting to get dark by the time we occupied the wagon that was assigned to us.The suitcases were piled up against one of the walls of the wagon, and the backpacks were hanging on nails all around. In the meantime, people from other camps arrived, so by the time everyone got on there were seventy-two of us in our wagon… The wagon was only supposed to hold six horses or forty people…

We were sitting on our blankets, as tightly packed as we could be. There were twenty-six… children in our wagon, including sixteen orphans with one guardian lady… It was a miserable scene, especially seeing so many mentally worn-down people. Some people tried to stretch out, which was almost impossible, and others tried to make room for their legs while they were sitting.  Little children were crying from fear and because of the unusual environment; the bigger ones were fatigued, sleeping and leaning on one another. The adults, worn out from the stress they had gone through, were arguing or weeping in silence. Everybody was wondering how long we would be able to take this. And we took it, and even worse… The wagon had no toilet, of course, so our human needs could only be taken care of when the train stopped for awhile abnd we got permission to get off, which was not too easy either as the wagon was very high, so women and children could only get off and on with help and that could take some time… People jumped off the train like animals and shamelessly took care of their needs… because there wasn’t enough time to get farther away…

On Saturday July 1st at 10 a.m., we departed (from Ferencváros Station). We all rushed to the wagon’s only small window to wave a last goodbye to Budapest and everything and everyone that meant our life until now. Tears silently dripped down our faces and our hearts were broken from the pain. Maybe this was the last time we would ever see the Danube, the bridges, and the whole beautiful city where we were born and raised. The youth began to sing the “we’re going to find a new homeland” Hebrew song. Perhaps they will find it, but the older ones cannot be replanted.

The train moved at a quick pace to the border at Mosonmagyaróvár, arriving there at 6 p.m. During the night a baby girl was born, with the help of the doctors in the carriage. They stayed there for four days, built latrines, washed themselves fully as well as their clothes, and bought provisions from local villagers. Their German guards protected them from the cruelty of the Hungarian gendarmerie. On 6 July the train was directed to Komárom and rumours spread that they were being taken to Auschwitz. However, they arrived at the station in the Vienna suburbs in the evening of 7 July, and were then moved on to Linz by the next morning, having been told that the camps around Vienna were full. Here they were disembarked and disinfected, fearing that they were to be gassed. When they departed, having been thoroughly humiliated and terrorised by the guards, they had little idea where they were going or how many more nights they would spend on the wagon:

The train sped towards Hannover. We stopped one or two times because there were airstrikes., but this didn’t even affect us anymore. We had submitted to our fate and were totally indifferent.

We arrived on the 9th, a Sunday morning, at an improvised forest station near Hannover. It was a huge prison camp. We washed ourselves in big troughs and after an hour’s break, we sped further towards our destination, Bergen-Belsen.

Bergen-Belsen:

A whole bunch of German soldiers were waiting for the train, holding enormous bloodhounds on leashes… They yelled their orders harshly. They counted us by putting us in lines of five. This took about an hour and a half in the strong afternoon sun, and we almost collapsed from fatigue. After this, we walked nine kilometres. Sick and old people and our luggage were carried on trucks… We reached an immense camp. There were prisoners here of all types and nationalities: Russian, Polish, French, Dutch, Hungarian and Jewish. Each barrack block was separated with wire fencing. We got block 11. When we arrived, everyone was registered, and then they assigned our accommodation. Men and women were separated… Lydi and I got barrack F and Gyuri got a bed in barrack D. Our barracks were across from each other. The Tordas and a few other people were also assigned together with us.

About 160 of us were placed in one barrack, as an average. It was a dark wooden building with one small window (without lighting in the evening) and three-level wooden bunk beds above each other. Lydi and I got bottom beds so I wouldn’t have to climb ladders. Between the beds there was just enough room to turn around. It was very sad to move in here, but we were so tired that we were happy to have the possibility to finally stretch out. However, this only happened much later. Once everybody had a bed, we received an order to line up… Lining up took place in the yard, with people grouped by barracks. The first lineup took two hours in the pouring rain, with us wearing thin summer clothes without hats… The first dinner was next. They brought soup in pots. We stood in a line individually with the mess tins we were given. Unfortunately, no matter how hungry we were, we couldn’t swallow this slop. In the backpack we still had a little bit of food left from home, but we really had to be careful with that because our prospects were not very encouraging… we had to lie down wet, without blankets. It was a divine miracle that we didn’t catch pneumonia… It is hard to imagine sleeping in these physical and mental conditions. Sometimes a child would start crying, suppressed sobbing and deep sighs, for the old life and loved ones we left behind. You could hear other people snoring, and the different emotional and physical manifestations of 160 people. There was not a single minute of silence. Crowds of bedbugs and fleas rushed to welcome us. However, towards the morning, sleep still overcame me because I was greatly exhausted.

That is where the notebook ends. On 1 August, 1944, Lydia sent a postcard, which still exists, from Bergen-Belsen to her fiancée in the labour camp in Northern Transylvania. It told him that she and here parents were ‘doing well’ and had ‘the best prospects’ of continuing on their journey. Apparently, a ‘Collective Pass’ allowing group border crossing, stamped by the Swiss Embassy in Budapest and signed by its Consul, Carl Lutz, was what eventually secured their onward journey and border crossing. Rózsi’s father, Samu Stern, died on 9 June, 1946. There were many accusations made against him, and have been since, for the role he played. Krisztián Ungváry, in a historical tailpiece to the notebook, points out that the prominent members of the Jewish Community, like Stern (who had been one of its elected representatives before agreeing to become its president under Nazi rule), experienced within a few days of the occupation that their former social connections were worthless. Those who they could rely on before were either arrested or removed, and the Hungarian authority’s statements revolved around absolute obedience to German commands. Ungváry states clearly that

Eichmann and his colleagues systematically used the operation of the Jewish Council to calm the victims and make them carry out as many of the anti-Semitic measures as possible.  

I will be writing more about this, and the controversial rescue mission of Rudolf Kasztner in the near future. For now, it is enough to state that, contrary to popular mythology among many Hungarians, those who were at all interested in what was happening to the Jews in the March-October 1944 in Hungary had relatively broad access to information. Hungarian soldiers returning from the eastern front and refugees escaping from Galicia could provide accurate information about the details of the Nazi final solution. As the notebook extracts above show, Rozsi’s group certainly knew what Auschwitz meant at the beginning of July. The question remains as to why these pieces of information did not interest a significant part of both the Jewish and non-Jewish population. Stern himself had no illusions about Eichmann’s goal because he himself stated:

I knew about what they were doing in all the occupied countries of Central Europe and I knew that their operation was a long series of murders and robberies… I knew their habits, actions, and their terrible fame. 

Unlike his family, Samu Stern did not escape abroad where he would have been safe, and after the ‘Arrow Cross’ (Hungarian Fascist Party) gained power he managed to survive somehow in illegality until the Soviet troops arrived in the ghetto towards the end of January 1945. Thereafter, he was accused of collaboration, and even the police started a an investigation against him, but he was never sent to court. Before he died, he wrote a memoir, which was published in Hungarian in 2004.

Lídia Bamberger’s son, Péter Sas, gave his grandmother’s to the Zsolt Zágoni, in his apartment in Budapest. Zágoni read it all there and then, and realized that it had to be published. The notebook had been in the Sas family ever since it was was written, probably from notes Rózsi took on the deportation from Budapest to Bergen-Belsen. She probably wrote up her notes into prose in the blue-covered notebook in Geneva after their crossing from Germany (Belsen was not liberated by the British until April 1945). Besides the 15 November entry (above), the name of the hotel she was staying in, ‘Caille’ is printed on the back cover of the exercise book. Lídia married  Pál Sas in October 1945, after returning home with her mother to Budapest, though she remained ill for a long time, an illness which her mother nursed her through, saving her from becoming another victim of the Holocaust.

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The Jewish Cemetery, Budapest
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The original blue-covered notebook

 Source:

Zsolt Zágoni, ed. (2012), From Budapest to Bergen-Belsen: A Notebook from 1944. Budapest (published by the editor).

The Bombing of Baghdad, January 1991   1 comment

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In January 1991, John Simpson, BBC correspondent, found himself living and working from the Al-Rashid Hotel in Baghdad, just a hundred feet over Saddam Hussein’s bunker. Both he and the Coalition forces knew this: the European company which had built much of his bunker had handed over all the blueprints to them. The American embassy, before it had closed down, had warned everyone who stayed that they could expect to be killed by the bombing. Of the big American news corporations who had been present in Iraq’s capital, only CNN remained.

Simpson admitted that his reasons for remaining were complex. Certainly, there was a sense of duty and a commitment to the BBC’s role as a world-wide public service broadcaster. As its ‘Foreign Affairs’ editor, he wanted the Corporation to have proper news coverage of what was about to happen. He had not been ‘sent’ to Baghdad, but had chosen to go, and therefore didn’t feel it right to leave the city and leave the job to someone else. In addition, he was too interested to turn his back on what would be the greatest bombardment in human history. He had also undertaken to write a book on the crisis, and couldn’t therefore simply walk away from the final chapter. Although he enjoyed the sense of danger and excitement, he knew he would have to survive to be able to write the chapter. When he returned to London later the same year, he was interviewed on the popular radio programme, Desert Island Discs, admitting to its host Sue Lawley that he didn’t risk his life just to write the book, but because he was, indeed, a bit of a chancer. He thought he would probably survive, and then the benefits of seeing the war at first hand would be considerable in every way. Whatever his mix of motives for staying, the fact that he did has provided historians with a series of important eye-witness accounts of the Bombing of Baghdad, on radio, TV and in print.

Even on the eve of the day the bombing began, 16 January, ordinary Iraqis were sure that there would be no war. Nobody wants it, he was told. That night, Simpson produced what he considered to be the best report he had ever done. Despite what he had been told, it showed people taping up their windows and finished with the first air-raid sirens of the war. It was sent to London by satellite. The satellite revolution which had occurred over the previous decade had not simply speeded up the delivery of film reports for almost immediate broadcast, it had also meant that government control of what was shown on TV was almost impossible. Mrs Thatcher was unable, even had she wanted to, to control the images coming out of Baghdad as she had controlled those coming out of the South Atlantic in 1982.

That same evening, the French and American broadcasting organisations with teams in the Al-Rashid Hotel got in touch with them to tell them that the bombing would start that night. The BBC crew, which included two other hardened reporters, Eamonn Matthews and Bob Simpson, heard nothing from their bosses. They had apparently changed their minds and decided that the crew should leave Baghdad. Simpson’s orders came from one of the most senior figures in the Corporation, whom the journalist told that he would then need to get a new foreign affairs editor. They finally agreed that if Simpson chose to ignore the BBC instructions, he would not face disciplinary action on his return. However, the other members of the crew were told that if they stayed on in defiance of the instruction, they would be regarded as having resigned from the Corporation. The severance would be immediate, without payment to themselves or, should they be killed, to their widows. Four of the team, including the whole technical crew, decided they had to obey. Simpson, Matthews and Simpson were faced the prospect of staying on without a camera team and a picture mixer.

in the event, they soon found two cameramen, both of whom had been sacked for questioning their offices’ instructions to return home immediately. Anthony Wood had been working for TV-AM in the UK, and Nick Della Cassa for CBS. In addition to a hand-held video camera and Nick’s American NTSC equipment, the ‘new’ crew also had a satellite phone. It soon became obvious that CNN had done a separate deal with the Iraqis, who had agreed to let them have use of a government communications system, a two-way telephone line called a ‘four-wire’, which ran in a protected culvert to the Jordanian border. It was immune to the general telecommunications jamming which the Americans carried out. In return, anything Saddam Hussein wanted the world to know or see could be said or shown via CNN. Later, ex-President George Bush was deeply critical of CNN, the BBC and other broadcasters who worked in Baghdad during the war. As John Simpson himself pointed out, however…

even in wartime, broadcasters in a free society are not a co-opted branch of the military; their function is not and shouldn’t be to keep up morale at home, nor to spread deliberate propaganda abroad. In the Second World War the BBC, with Churchill’s full agreement, broadcast as much of the truth as the proper demands of national security would allow; so that often the first news of  British reverses was broadcast, not by Germans or Japanese or Italian radio, but by ourselves.

‘We always listened to the BBC,’ said one of the tens of thousands of letters the BBC received from its European well-wishers after the War was over, ‘because we knew that if you were honest about the bad things that happened to you, we could trust you to tell us about your victories.’

If you are fighting in a good cause against those who wish to suppress truth and honesty,  – whether they are Nazis or the Iraqi government – it is the worst thing possible to suppress truth and honesty yourself. The results of the BBC’s approach in the Second World War were of course remarkable. Not only did the civil population of Germany and the occupied countries listen to the BBC in preference to their own broadcasters, but the BBC’s international reputation for honesty and unbiased reporting was established for the rest of the twentieth century.

I doubt if CNN’s behaviour during the Gulf War will win it that kind of praise. Yet the Gulf War was the making of CNN… CNN denies strongly that it persuaded the Iraqis to throw everyone else out soon after the war began, and that it tried to stop them being invited back some time later… though CNN has also denied, rather unconvincingly, that it used the Iraqi four-wire communication system. What we do know is that by establishing its pre-eminence in Baghdad, CNN became the television news leader in America.   

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In the early hours of 17 January, soon after the BBC technical crew had told Simpson, Matthews and Simpson that they were leaving and the three ‘stayers’ had hired Antony Wood and Nick Della Casa, the bombing of the Iraqi capital began. The Americans started by jamming telecommunications. Remembering Saddam Hussein’s warning that there would be two enormously destructive waves of bombing, John Simpson felt distinctly nervous, but only the nervousness you feel before an important match, or a stage appearance. At 2.32 q.m, following his suggestion, he, Wood and Matthews headed out into the streets to film the start of the bombing. They ran across the lobby of the hotel into the silence of the cold night outside. Most of the city lights had been switched off. They had hired a driver for the night and they ran to his car, jumped in and slammed the doors:

‘Drive! Drive! Drive!’

But drive where? We hadn’t had time to work it out. Each of us shouted suggestions. I wanted to be in the heavily populated areas on the other side of the river, but I was afraid of crossing a bridge. All the bridges, we knew, would be bombed, and if we were stuck on the wrong side without any shelter we might well be lynched as spies.

We were still shouting when the darkness and silence exploded around us. There was an extraordinary racket, as the hidden guns and missile batteries started blasting off excitedly into the air. I remembered to look at my watch: 2.37. Red tracer flashed up in patterns beside us, lighting up the frightened, sweating face of our driver, and Eamonn peering through the window trying to see where we should go, and Anthony’s face screwed into the side of the camera. Sirens started up everywhere. Our ears were besieged with with waves of disorienting noise.

‘I’m getting this, I’m getting this,’ Anthony yelled.

The car took a sharp turn into an underpass, its wheels squealing, and came out on the other side just as a battery of rockets exploded beside us.

I’m glad you are, I thought. I could see what was happening: the driver was so frightened, he was heading straight back to the hotel. We were going on a mile-long circle, with nothing to show for it but a few flashing lights in the sky and some spectacular noise. As for the bombing, it hadn’t even started. This was just a display of nervousness by the Iraqi gunners… 

They tried to set up their camera in front of the main door of the hotel, just as the first rumblings of aircraft became audible over the anti-aircraft guns. However, the big security guards hauled them inside. They could hear that outside, the first bombs and missiles had begun falling. The whole building shook as they landed nearby, though nothing, as yet, had hit it. They were forced down into one of the vast underground rooms which were being used as shelters:

It smelled of fear. People were gathered all round the walls in little groups, lying or sitting, terrified or weeping or trying to come to terms with what had happened to them. The old rules that applied on the surface seemed not to work down here. I saw a young woman undressing in front of everyone, and neither she nor anyone else seemed to pay any attention. Children wept or defecated; old men and women sat looking at the floor, too frightened to do anything. And all the time, it seemed, the structure of hotel, fifty feet above our heads, shook and shivered with the bombing.

The crew couldn’t stand to be in this living tomb. They fought their way past a guard armed with a Kalashnikov in the dark and ran up five flights of stairs to the BBC office, catching glimpses on every landing of the extraordinary battle which was going on outside. They were unable to stop, since the guards were chasing them. In the office they found the other members of the crew, and John Simpson managed to record a piece to camera by torchlight, fearing that Iraqi soldiers outside might think they were signalling to the planes and put a heavy round through the window. Dodging past a security man on the corridor outside, and into an empty room, he locked the door and then found his way through several interconnecting doors until, in the light of the blasts outside, he found a bed. Beside it was a short-wave radio which he turned on and found it was tuned to the BBC. As if he didn’t know, the calm voice of the BBC announcer told him that the war had started, and President Bush told him why so much high explosive was being dropped on his head. As he was falling asleep, his watch told him it was 5.45.

He woke up three hours later and went out into the grounds of the hotel, where little groups of journalists were gathered around the white umbrella-like dishes of satellite phones. The skies were blue and empty except for the occasional puffs of smoke from ground-to-air missiles, and there was sporadic gunfire. The BBC journalist did a first telephone report about the night’s bombing, but couldn’t answer questions about what state Baghdad was in that morning. So he and Wood went out again, again dodging the exhausted guards. They found a driver and crossed a still undamaged bridge into the centre of the city which was eerily quiet and empty:

Our car was one of the very few on the streets, and there were scarcely any people to be seen: a woman trailing a weeping child, a few old men and women selling oranges. Here and there entire buildings had been snuffed out of existence – important government buildings, ‘Mukhabarat’ (security guard) centres or Ba’ath Party headquarters – and yet those on either side of them were mostly undamaged, and sometimes still had all their glass in the windows. A local telephone exchange, a smallish building opposite an hotel, was nothing more than a heap of rubble; the hotel was still completely usable.

A couple of hours later, a friend of mine who had been caught out in the darkness told me that she had seen strange red lights playing on the target buildings. British and perhaps American special forces had penetrated the city and were guiding the missiles with infra-red lamps; hence the extraordinary precision.

As we drove round, the driver spotted a ‘Mukhabarat’ car.

‘Allah! He see you take picture.’

The unmarked white car picked up speed, overtook us and forced us to stop. I got out.

 ‘Morning’, I said, ‘Just looking around. I’m sure you don’t mind.’

He did mind. He ordered us to follow him… We crossed the bridge as though we were going back to our hotel, but the police car signalled that it was going to take the right fork, to ‘Mukhabarat’ headquarters: not at all a good destination.

Now, though, the sirens were wailing again, and the Defence Ministry a quarter of a mile away along the river bank vanished in a pillar of brown smoke. You couldn’t hear the cruise missiles coming: you could only see the results.

‘Go straight on, Ali,’ I hissed at the driver. ‘Don’t turn. Go there.’

I tried to look ferocious: Ali had to be more frightened of me at that moment than he was of the secret police. It did the trick. The ‘Mukhabarat’ car turned right, and we sped straight ahead, the hotel only a few hundred yards away now. The missiles were falling again and the futile sound of anti-aircraft fire was everywhere. It must have taken the secret policeman a minute or so to realize what had happened and another minute to turn; but as we raced into the car park the white car was already entering the hotel gates. Ali was safe enough: he told the police I had threatened to cut his throat. Technically it was a lie: but he had interpreted me right.

Later that morning, John Simpson saw a cruise or ‘Tomahawk’ missile pass along the line of the road outside the hotel. It actually turned left at the traffic lights and followed the road which the white police car had wanted them to take. He thought it may have hit the ‘Mukhabarat’ headquarters itself, in which case he was even more relieved that they hadn’t gone there. Soon afterwards, he went down to the hotel gardens, where the satellite phone had been set up. It was around nine in the morning, London time, when he was interviewed by David Dimbleby on a special live programme, and reported the passing by of the missile, adding:

This is the first time anyone’s seen a war like this.  It wasn’t what we expected, to be honest. I’ve covered quite a lot of wars in my time, but I thought this was going to be horrendous: or at least I thought it was going to be last night. It’s turned out not to be so horrendous, and it’s the accuracy of the missiles which makes it less threatening than one thought.

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He didn’t want to become an apologist for any kind of war, but his words were taken as making the case for a new kind of warfare by many back home in the UK, myself included. Somehow, it was evident that war could now be more neat and tidy, without much bloodshed. Until the terrible bombing of the Amriyah shelter, in which hundreds of women and children died, ‘co-lateral’ civilian casualties were indeed minimal. Of course, had it not been for the greed and blinkered mentality of a number of countries, including Britain, in allowing Saddam Hussein to build up so large an arsenal of weapons during and after his war with Iran, it might not have been necessary for them to fight the Gulf War at all.

However, what he felt was incontrovertible was that, for the first time since 1918, this was a war in which killing ordinary people was not a main objective. Of course, those who were against the war didn’t want to hear this. When he went back to Baghdad after the war, he counted only twenty-nine buildings which had been completely destroyed, though those which had been targeted had been hit repeatedly.

Following the initial bombardments of 17 January, there were fewer than forty of the meia people left, including eleven British, eight French, three Italians, a Spaniard, an Australian, a New Zealander, a team of Canadians, five Americans, a Turk and a couple of Jordanians. On the second night, the Americans told the CNN team that they were going to hit the Al-Rashid Hotel, but that didn’t happen. After Iraq fired Scud missiles at Israel, there was a real fear that the Israelis might retaliate with nuclear weapons, but that didn’t happen either. The Al-Rashid had ceased to function as a hotel: there was no power, no water and no food. The raids went on day and night, but the missiles continued to loop around high buildings like the Al-Rashid.

The television crews rushed outside every time the sirens went off, meeting the embarrassed security men running for cover inside. On one occasion John Simpson collided with a desk in the hallway in the dark, cracking two of his ribs. Desperate to get on air, he struggled downstairs. Overhead a sensational battle was being fought between the Coalition planes and the Iraqi ground-to-air missiles. There were explosions all across the sky, but the BBC scheduling in London meant that he could only report on the battle after it was over and the skies had cleared. A wonderful broadcasting opportunity had been lost.

The Iraqi security men were only occasionally aggressive towards the camera crews. Besides being reluctant to be out in the open with them, most of them seemed to be praying that Saddam would be killed or overthrown. Certainly, if his army had fought in the way he had intended, there could have been large-scale losses for the Coalition forces. As it was, they only put up a token fight because they didn’t want to support him. On the afternoon the Information told them they would have to leave Iraq, their chief minder assured them that CNN would also be leaving. As it turned out, that was a lie. Before they left, the area around the hotel was attacked by cruise missiles:

Two of the missiles went round the hotel and hit the conference centre opposite, which was one of the entrances to Saddam Hussein’s bunker. Another was damaged by anti-aircraft fire and plunged into the hotel grounds. At the height of the action I recorded a quick piece to camera, with my back to the window. There was a terrible racket outside, but the people in the room were sitting there completely immobile and silent. Then Bob Simpson spoke.

‘It went right behind you while you were talking. It was a cruise.’

But there was no time to talk about it. Anthony and I went charging downstairs to film the damage done by the missile which had crashed. It had ploughed into the staff quarters, which were well ablaze by the time we got there. Fortunately no one had been in the huts at the time, and there were no casualties. As we were filming, we were jumped on by four security men. We fought them for a while, but in the end one of them got hold of the camera and took the cassette out… It didn’t just contain the pictures of the crashed missile; it also had my piece to camera with the cruise passing behind my head. I felt as though I had lost a picture of the Loch Ness Monster.

When they arrived at the Marriott Hotel in Amman, they were greeted, much to their surprise, by a reception committee from the BBC and various other television organisations. The BBC crew who had left Baghdad had managed to smuggle their pictures through, while ITN’s had been confiscated at the border. In addition, the satellite telephone broadcasts John Simpson had managed to make had been heard by immense audiences. After a quarter of a century in the trade, he could now feel that he had truly arrived as a reporter.

Source: John Simpson (1998), Strange Places, Questionable People. Basingstoke & Oxford: Pan Books.

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