Saddam's have faded, but apparently just from age although he claims descent from the prophet Muhammad, he has never disguised his humble birth. For those who, like Saddam, move to the cities and come up in life, the tattoos are a sign of humble origin, and some later have them removed, or fade them with bleach until they almost disappear. Girls are often marked on their chins, forehead, or cheeks (as was Saddam's mother). These are given to village children when they are only five or six years old, a sign of their rural, tribal roots. He has a tattoo on his right hand, three dark-blue dots in a line near the wrist. Alcohol is forbidden by Islam, and in public Saddam is a dutiful son of the faith. But even though he indulges only in moderation, he is careful not to let anyone outside his most trusted circle of family and aides see him drinking. He likes wine with his meals, though he is hardly an oenophile his wine of choice is Mateus rosé. He prefers fish to meat, and eats a lot of fresh fruits and vegetables. Sometimes he eats dinner at restaurants in Baghdad, and when he does, his security staff invades the kitchen, demanding that the pots and pans, dishware, and utensils be well scrubbed, but otherwise interfering little. For a big man he usually eats little, picking at his meals, often leaving half the food on his plate. Saddam tries to regulate his diet, allotting servings and portions the way he counts out the laps in his pools. Each of his more than twenty palaces is fully staffed, and three meals a day are cooked for him at every one security demands that palaces from which he is absent perform an elaborate pantomime each day, as if he were in residence. The food is then prepared for him by European-trained chefs, who work under the supervision of al Himaya, Saddam's personal bodyguards. The shipments are sent first to his nuclear scientists, who x-ray them and test them for radiation and poison. Those who watch him carefully know he has a tendency to lose weight in times of crisis and to gain it rapidly when things are going well.įresh food is flown in for him twice a week-lobster, shrimp, and fish, lots of lean meat, plenty of dairy products. His paunch shows when he takes off his suit coat. His weight fluctuates between about 210 and 220 pounds, but in his custom-tailored suits the girth isn't always easy to see. He lacks natural grace but has acquired a certain elegance of manner, the way a country boy learns to match the right tie with the right suit. At six feet two he towers over his shorter, plumper aides. In Iraq the size of a man still matters, and Saddam is impressive. He is long-limbed, with big, strong hands. Because his back problem forces him to walk with a slight limp, he avoids being seen or filmed walking more than a few steps. When he is to give a speech, his aides print it out in huge letters, just a few lines per page. He dyes his gray hair black and avoids using his reading glasses in public. Death is an enemy he cannot defeat-only, perhaps, delay. One can imagine Saddam urging himself through a fixed number of laps each morning, pushing to exceed the number he swam the previous year, as if time could be undone by effort and will. The tyrant cannot afford to become stooped, frail, and gray. He is now sixty-five, an old man, but because his power is grounded in fear, not affection, he cannot be seen to age. This satisfies his vanity, which is epic, but fitness is critical for other reasons. He has a bad back, a slipped disk, and swimming helps. His pools are tended scrupulously and tested hourly, more to keep the temperature and the chlorine and pH levels comfortable than to detect some poison that might attack him through his pores, eyes, mouth, nose, ears, penis, or anus-although that worry is always there too. Water is a symbol of wealth and power in a desert country like Iraq, and Saddam splashes it everywhere-fountains and pools, indoor streams and waterfalls. He sleeps only four or five hours a night. Saddam Hussein, the Anointed One, Glorious Leader, Direct Descendant of the Prophet, President of Iraq, Chairman of its Revolutionary Command Council, field marshal of its armies, doctor of its laws, and Great Uncle to all its peoples, rises at about three in the morning. For those hours he must trust someone, and nothing is more dangerous to the tyrant than trust. It is too dangerous to be predictable, and whenever he shuts his eyes, the nation drifts. Sleep and a fixed routine are among the few luxuries denied him.
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