He walks the stairs like so many other men I’ve seen.  When he reaches the top I can see him clearly.  An old man, feeble and pathetic stands before me.  He wears the black overcoat of a beggar and it looks like his hair would have been the same black as his coat years ago, but now it is stained with gray. Tick, 5: 47 am.

            At least 150 other men have been in the same spot as him, but their faces were frantic, agonized, and hungry.  Even in the darkly lit room, I can tell that he is calm.  I admire him for it.  I wonder what he has done. Tock, 5:49 am.

            Three men with black masks over their faces surround him and walk him to the center of the room where the floor turns from brown to red.  They put a cloth against his neck to prevent slipping.  He holds the fabric in place obediently.  He is stoic, beautiful even. Tick, 5:53 am.

            There are so many ropes and pulleys.  Like well-trained stagehands the three masked men slide the rope over his head and like any good performer, he trusts the men to complete the lift successfully. Tock, 5:55 am.

            They offer him a mask, a mask that will conceal his pain and emotion.  And more importantly, will keep others from feeling ashamed of this deed.  Again he surprises me, and refuses the mask.  Maybe he is intelligent enough to realize that if his face is hidden, his identity will be forgotten.  The 150 other men took the mask gratefully; I cannot remember what they looked like.  Tick, 5:57 am.

            “Long live Muqtada al-Sadr!”  This was shouted from one of the spectators.  The room joined in and I sat mounted to the wall quietly keeping time.  Tock, 5:58 am.

            Asked if he had any last words, the man went still with sincerity.  “Muqtada?” He spat at the people in a question of betrayal, disbelief, and sarcasm. Tick, 5:59 am.

            A lever is pulled, ropes gnaw against gears, and there is a slight creak before the floor gives out.  From the top floor I cannot see his face, but there are no signs of struggle.  I would bet his neck broke on impact. Someone has the audacity to yell, “Let him hang for another three minutes!”

One of the executioners stares at me intently then he pronounces the poor old man dead at 6:00 am, December 30, 2006.  He didn’t stand a chance. Tock, 6:01 am.

*****

            Although this nightstand holds little comfort, it gives me a premium view of the television.  The man that resides here is flipping through channels. Tick, 9:00 pm.

            Every channel is flooded with the same thing: Saddam Hussein pronounced dead at 6:00am, hung at the very place where he killed at least 148 of his own people, Camp Justice (formerly known as Camp Banzai)!  Tock, 9:15 pm.

            The news anchor says, “Today Iraq is an Iraq for all the Iraqis, and all the Iraqis are looking forward. The Hussein rule is gone forever.” Tick, 9:16 pm.

            The man claps and hollers at the television, then he turns it off, along with the light and falls asleep with a smile. 

Saddam is dead.  He didn’t stand a chance.  Tock, 9:18 pm.