The new President Saddam Hussein has called a conference for his comrades.
He’s on a stage, sitting back, the table in front of him holds microphones.
He’s calm, smiling, smoking a Cuban cigar.
The video camera rolls. The audience claps and cheers for their new leader.

A cool demeanour as he starts to speak. He’s saddened.
He says there has been a tragedy within his beloved party.
He has uncovered a conspiracy. The collaborators sit amongst them
here in Al-Khuld Hall. The witness, the leading traitor, is Mashhadi,

a now broken man who confessed moments before
from behind closed doors and begged to be executed.
He stands at the podium. They have another job for him
and dangle his daughter’s honour in exchange for cooperation.

Prompted by the President to clarify the details,
Mashhadi tells the audience of the plot to depose him for Assad of Syria.
He glances to his left for approval. He’s ushered to continue
and reads out the names of his co-conspirators.

The VHS recorder keeps going recording the unravelling
of those unsuspecting Baathist souls. They had no clue, they did not know
they’d be accused of terrible plot to overthrow this leader
who assumed the presidency six days earlier. Saddam takes a drag on his cigar.

Names are called for their part in the betrayal. One by one, they’re ordered
to stand, say the party slogan and leave the hall accompanied by guards.
See him there, that most bewildered man, that one who meekly queries
But I haven’t done anything. His question mark hangs in the air as

he’s plucked from his seat and led out from the hall. Eternity Hall.
Frenzy courses through the audience. Terror’s grip. The camera still rolling
follows faces. Shaking men stand and scream pledges of fealty.
The President wipes his eyes with a handkerchief. He’s touched.

A choking fear of hearing their names next, men start to screech and weep
Long Live Our Sir The President! Long Live Saddam! Long Live The Cause!
One by one, ten by ten, until sixty-six senior party officials
have been taken. Mashhadi with them. Half the hall remains.

Those randomly left are congratulated and follow the guards
to the yard behind the hall. Each man must show his undying loyalty,
and execute their colleagues, their comrades.
Twenty-two of the traitors die by firing squad.

This young president, in his tailored suit
decides that he enjoys the theatre
and writes a romance novel
some years later.

*
From Magma 89, Performance

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