Some days
ago I faced an interesting, and somewhat distressing, realisation.
I was looking for media – movies, novels,
graphic novels, anything at all – from the Iraqi perspective. And I found
nothing. Zero. Nothing at all.
The invasion of Iraq must rank as the
single greatest war crime of the entire post-Second World War era. It was an
incredibly cynical, evil aggression by the Imperialist States of Amerikastan
and its vassals on a totally defenceless and blameless country on the other
side of the world. It was worse than Vietnam or Korea, which at least had the
excuse of “great power politics”. Iraq was simply Amerikastani bullying, an
attempt to prove might was right, and the first step to rolling across all of
Asia, which was to become a source of raw materials and labour for, and a captive
market for the products of, the Amerikastani Empire.
Only, of course, it did not turn out that
way.
It did not turn out that way because of one
thing, and that was the ordinary Iraqi human, and his bloody-minded determination
not to give up.
If there is one person I could call the
Human of the 21st Century, it is the ordinary Iraqi resistance
fighter. With his government overthrown, his country occupied and in ruins,
barely armed, hardly trained, with little or no leadership, faced with the most
overarmed, overhyped, destructive military the world has ever seen, knowing
that he faced nothing but torture or death, he fought the Amerikastani Empire
to a standstill, and then forced it into defeat. But for him, after Iraq, Iran
would have been invaded, and then the triumphant Amerikastani Empire would have
marched on Syria. And then North Korea would have been the next country to be
attacked, before Pyongyang could acquire the nuclear arsenal that it now has to
protect itself. And once those had been colonised, China and Russia would have
been boxed in, and Amerikastan would have been in a position to demand they
surrender or be annihilated.
Armed with light mortars, RPG 7 rocket
launchers, and AK series rifles dating back to the Iran Iraq war, with cheap
improvised landmines and booby traps, hunted by planes and drones overhead,
threatened by traitors and collaborators in his own cities, faced with the
possibility that his wife or sweetheart, mother or children, would be arrested,
maimed, raped, or murdered by sadistic occupation troops, he fought on. His
blood and courage against their steel and electronics and concrete walls, their
money and propaganda services.
The Amerikastani invader had it all planned
out. Iraq was to be colonised. It was to be demilitarised, its army reduced to
a light border protection force. Its economy was to be handed over to Wall
Street. Even its black-white-red-green flag was to be replaced with one in blue
and white, deliberately designed to be similar to that of the illegitimate
zionazi pseudostate in Occupied Palestine. The invader was to permanently
garrison Iraq, its tanks crushing millennia-old temples to dust under their
tracks, its occupation troops guaranteed immunity from Iraqi law no matter what
crimes they might commit. And all this
was to be paid for by the Iraqis themselves.
It seemed hardly an equal match.
It was not an equal match. In one of the
most remarkable feats of arms ever, in the teeth of ridicule about being a “dead
ender” or a “terrorist”, or, most ironically, an “anti-Iraq force”, he won.
And I wanted his story.
I did not find it.
Oh, I found
films. I found reviews of novels. I found graphic novels aplenty. There was
only one problem with all of them.
Not one of them was from the Iraqi
perspective. All, without exception, existed to hammer home one single,
endlessly repeated message:
Iraq was an American Tragedy. The Iraqis, such as there were any, existed only for one single
purpose: to serve as the background for the American Hero/ine’s life. If they
had any kind of major role (as in the graphic novel Sheriff Of Babylon), they were on the “good” side – collaborators
and stooges of the Amerikastani occupation. Any Iraqi who fought that
occupation was obviously evil. There was no reason to ask why they were evil –
they so obviously were that there was
no need to prove it.
Obviously, this was the polar opposite of what I was looking for. This was a cultural as well as a literal imperialism, which denied the victimised the right to their own tragedy.
It was at that point that I was given a
link to David Rovic’s song Fallujah. One listen and I was in
love with it for life.
Here it is, and before you go further, you
should listen to it.
As I said, I fell in love with this song.
One listen and I knew immediately that this was what I’d been looking for, and
that I had to provide visual images to go with it.
My first idea was to draw cartoons to go
with the song, but that was not enough. A few seconds’ more thought and I knew
what I had to do.
I would paint scenes from the song. And all
at once I knew exactly what I would paint, and how.
Before I post the paintings themselves, let
me explain something about my self-imposed rules for painting, which are totally different from my rules for
cartooning.
In my cartoons, I draw first in pencil,
with reference photos, keeping in mind such things as perspective and a
semi-realistic style. I use pencil, rubber, then ink, rulers, and finally
software to correct, enhance, colour, and anything else I can think of. In
paintings, I do nothing like that.
My rules for painting are as follows:
First: Go for mood, not realism. Mood and emotion are what I’m looking for, not
the angle of a building or the relative size of a hand.
Second: Do not use any kind of pencil
outline or other aid. Paint directly on whatever you are using (in this case,
paper) with whatever medium you choose (in my case these days, acrylics). Your
only instrument is the brush. Any corrections you need to make will be achieved
by painting over, not by erasure or digital manipulation.
Third: The only kind of software
manipulation permissible is to crop out ragged margins of paper. That is all.
Yes, these rules make things a lot more
difficult, but they also impose a discipline that prevents me from wandering
off into frivolities like irrelevant background buildings or the details of
vehicles, foot positions, and so on, which is something I spend a lot of time
on in cartoons. I stick to my main point, which is transmitting emotions.
Whether I am painting a nude or a war scene makes no difference.
Also, it’s a good excuse, because I am not really a very good painter. I
find painting intellectually satisfying, emotionally relaxing, and validating
my creative instincts, but I am not going to fool myself: I am a pretty bad
painter.
At this point that does not matter at all.
So, before we get to the actual paintings,
they are all painted on plain white children’s art paper with acrylic paint. Instruments
used: cotton swabs and paintbrushes. Copyright B Purkayastha 2018, naturally.
Before each image, I will write the portion
of the lyrics of David Rovics’ Fallujah they represent (the images are not
necessarily from Fallujah; the first two are of Baghdad).
All I wanted were good things
Land and liberty
And all the sorts of things we learned
At the university
Land and liberty
And all the sorts of things we learned
At the university
I'm not a fan of dictatorships
I'd rather say live and let live
But for those who would threaten my family
There's nothing I won't give
When you break down the doors of my neighbours
When you say that might makes right
When you say you're looking for terrorists
In their bedroom late at night
When you say that might makes right
When you say you're looking for terrorists
In their bedroom late at night
When you torture my brother at gunpoint
On his head a canvas sack
All I can say to you, soldier
Is you'd best watch your back
On his head a canvas sack
All I can say to you, soldier
Is you'd best watch your back
When you come with your tanks on our city
streets
And you say these streets are yours
When you say you'll rebuild us with bombers
And oil tankers on our shores
And you say these streets are yours
When you say you'll rebuild us with bombers
And oil tankers on our shores
When you have gunned down my child in Fallujah
You needn't wonder why
I look at you through the blades of your 'copter and say...
You needn't wonder why
I look at you through the blades of your 'copter and say...
... It's a good day to die.
I will fight for my country
I'll defend this land
I will stare at the whites of your soldiers' eyes
With this Kalashnikov in my hand
With this Kalashnikov in my hand.
I'll defend this land
I will stare at the whites of your soldiers' eyes
With this Kalashnikov in my hand
With this Kalashnikov in my hand.
All thanks are, of course, owed to David
Rovics, not me.
This is what I wrote elsewhere:
This is what I wrote elsewhere:
“We’ll kill you if you raise your head,” these foreign ‘liberators’ said
“We’ll raise a firestorm if you dare strike a spark.
The smoke that’s carried on the breeze from the Tigris to the Euphrates
Will signal the final destruction of the cities of Iraq.”
And resistance was their answer.
It's as simple as that.