There were no cinemas in Iraq in the 1990s, when Hasan Hadi was growing up under Saddam Hussein’s regime. But he still managed to fall in love with films – after a family member roped him into helping her distribute VHS tapes of banned foreign movies. “I was a kid,” says the 37-year-old, “so no one would suspect me of smuggling. I’d put the tapes up my shirt or in my bag.”
Hadi started secretly watching the films, too, everything from Bruce Lee to Tarkovsky. At night, he crept into the living room after everyone had gone to bed, keeping the volume low in case his family woke up.
How, I ask, would the authorities have punished you if you’d been caught in possession of banned films? Hadi pauses. “It depends. There were no specific rules. But if it was a political film, or something really forbidden by the regime, it could go to execution.” They would execute a child? Hadi nods. “We’re talking about a period when childhood lost its innocence.”
Hadi’s own film, The President’s Cake, is about to be released. Warm, funny and sometimes heartbreakingly sad, it perfectly captures the innocence of childhood. The setting is early 1990s Iraq: Saddam’s brutal rule and the hardship of sanctions are seen through the eyes of a nine-year-old girl called Lamia, played by Baneen Ahmed Nayyef, with her pet cockerel. She is the unluckiest kid in class, her name having been picked out of a hat, meaning she has to make a cake for the president’s birthday – a compulsory national holiday in Iraq.
Everywhere in the film we see the personality cult Saddam built around him, his portrait hanging on every wall. Hadi says that when he was overthrown in 2003, the number of statues and portraits of him outnumbered people in Iraq. “He was obsessed,” says Hadi, sitting in the London office of his film’s production company. “It really did feel like he was watching you everywhere. You couldn’t go from home to school without seeing him.”
The President’s Cake is the first Iraqi movie ever to make the Oscars shortlist for best international feature, though it didn’t make the final cut. The film follows little Lamia as she tries to rustle up cake ingredients at the height of sanctions when food is scarce and prices exorbitant. But she is not alone. Her grandmother gathers up their most precious possessions – a radio and an old watch – to sell, and the two set out on a journey to Baghdad. Lamia brings along her pet cockerel Hindi, which almost steals the movie with his querulous squawking.
Hadi, who is due to fly back to Baghdad shortly, tells me that baking a cake for Saddam was obligatory in schools. The kids almost never got to eat them though. “The teacher would usually take it home for his family,” he says. “I didn’t taste cake until I was 13 or 14.” Never? “It sounds unbelievable, but no, not fancy cakes with cream. There were cakes, but they were depressing, just dates stuck together to trick kids.” He’s laughing now. “I’d spend hours sometimes looking at cakes in the window of bakeries.”
Like all Iraqi children, he was raised to fear Saddam. “No one ever told you, ‘Don’t talk bad about Saddam.’ They didn’t need to. You knew.” His father opposed the regime: “There was lots of hiding, lots of escaping, all of that.”
Hadi talks of being raised by strong women, although no one was immune to fear. He remembers one occasion when soldiers stormed their home. His father wasn’t around. “They asked my grandmother her name. In terror she forgot. She looked at her daughters and asked them, ‘What’s my name?’ The powerlessness, the hopelessness – these memories burn into your soul.”
One of the most upsetting scenes in the film shows Lamia’s teacher stealing an apple from her schoolbag. It feels like a terrible betrayal, and the apple is a special treat from Lamia’s grandma. These were the times, says Hadi. Corruption was rife. Before sanctions, a teacher might earn $800 a month; afterwards, it could be $5. “I believe sanctions are more violent than bombs,” he says. “The damage is not visible, but it’s deeper.” His cousin went deaf because, thanks to sanctions, there were no antibiotics to treat an ear infection.
Hadi studied film in New York. When he sat down to write The President’s Cake, he promised himself not to make a political film. “I don’t want to be political. I want to be loyal to what life was under those conditions. But I’m not coming with an agenda – I’m coming with stories. The real story is about these two kids.” He’s talking about Lamia and her best friend, Saeed, who tags along. Both were played by untrained actors. “There are no drama schools in Iraq.”
Hadi shot the opening scenes – of marshlands full of buzzing mosquitoes – by filming on water, a treacherous business it seems. “It was insane,” he says. “I have grey hair now.” Will he continue making films in Iraq? He nods, eyeing his suitcase. “I want to make films about Iraq. Yes.”
• The President’s Cake is in UK cinemas from 13 February, and Australian cinemas from 2 April
