It is not so much the heat that can kill you out here, more the lack of awareness that the body is losing vast amounts of liquid. Before you realize how much you are sweating, everything dries, leaving nothing but streaks of white salt throughout your clothing. Beautiful and exotic it may be, but ruthless it most certainly is. The hot dry air consumes the place, creeping into your clothes and hair and under your skin like bugs. Sand fleas in fact, which I am sure the inhabitants of Al-Hatra knew all too well. This place was a cultural Mecca, a crossroads of trade, of endurance, ingenuity, improvisation and dedication. Now the desert simply disappears with endless monotony in nearly all directions, leading only to a sun-dazzled horizon that glows seductively like a ton of gold.
The abandoned Al-Hatra hotel is where it is rumored Saddam Hussein would bring his mistresses. Every day the convoy would pass the tan walls of the derelict-looking shell and abruptly leave the smooth flat surface of the paved road, spraying a thick but fine dusty mist into the air, as the tires sank into the uneven talcum powder soft sand. The route to our ultimate destination was changed slightly each day for security reasons but always would pass close by to the residence of the former rulers of this land.
Decaying and age ravaged, the brick fortifications of the ancient city of Al-Hatra trumpeted daring adventures, intrigue, ancient battles and a steady flow of historical imagination. Successive rulers of the region had continuously added their mark to the architecture, presumably as a legacy to their greatness. And so had Saddam Hussein, the last self-appointed ‘king’ to reconstruct sections of the city, placing his own signature mark into the bricks.
Our entourage was met by armed Iraqi guards, ever-present throughout the tour along with our own security detail. I was given permission to visit this ancient site along with my comrades, during a day off from regular activity. The massive enclosure blended easily into the dusty surroundings. Looming menacingly over the city was a giant construction crane. Saddam’s steel arm stood quiet and still now from writing his story into the pages of Mesopotamian history.
Reconstruction efforts had been on-going for years, creating a jigsaw puzzle of ancient and new. The walls forming the barrier between the settlement inside and the world out were weathered and crumbling. Sections appeared to have been saved from total collapse but much of the former security had withered into a pyramidal heap of crushed brick, exposing the vulnerabilities of the natural building materials to time.
Inside the walls, smashed masonry was scattered throughout a large open courtyard. A flat centralized stone avenue led through the cracked and broken columns, where sheep grazed on the dry brown grass, quite unfazed by our presence. Past the rubble, was a row of tall columns framing intricate craftsmanship and deep structures beckoning to be explored. Headless camels, ancient script and elegant frescoes were carved into the stone walls. Images of nameless gods and faces of long anonymous nobility protruded from one historical era into another. The mark of the kings in this ancient world really did echo their presence throughout the vast network before me.
The Saddam marks however, brought about a far more personal view. At the time, my perspective as a forensic anthropologist working on one of Saddam’s mass graves no doubt affected my judgment. I pressed my fingertip into the depression of Saddam’s mark, following the curve of the signature and over the rough gritty texture of the stone.
The beauty of the stone blocks and the artistic flow of the Arabic form carved into them, concealed the terrifying struggle of a people that at the very moment of this heavenly artistic creation, were being tortured and executed by the very same hand represented to them. The ancient kings of this cultural center may be looked upon with reverence and awe now, but how different from Saddam Hussein were they really? Was fear and brutality concealed in the marks in stone, then erased over time to eventually be retold as greatness centuries later?
High glorious archways, long narrow side streets and cool darkened rooms lit only by the sun flowing through a small low doorway and then into courtyards enclosed by columns 20 and 30 feet in height, captivated my imagination. If nothing else, Al-Hatra represents the highest ideals of culture in the architectural details and styles, the artwork, statues and designs and the resilience of its people. It also embraces and opens the gates to the deepest and darkest levels of human nature in the form of Saddam’s mark.
