When Saddam calls: A birthday tradition showcases an act of familial love

Editor's note: Tony Dahlman first told this story on stage at the Des Moines Storytellers Project's "Growing Up: Celebrating family and culture." The Des Moines Storytellers Project is a series of storytelling events in which community members work with Register journalists to tell true, first-person stories live on stage. An edited version appears below.

I looked down at the caller ID on my cell phone and I immediately knew it was Saddam Hussein.

I was walking down the street with my cousin Beth and her cousin Dan in Washington, D.C. They had just taken me out for supper where our trivia team “Happy 27th Birthday Tony” won second place.

Normally my wife Karla would be taking me out for my birthday, but she was overseas for work in Afghanistan and the rest of my family was back home in Minnesota, so Beth and Dan stepped up to the plate, because that is just the way our family is.

I looked down at my buzzing cell phone and said, “Oh that must be Saddam Hussein.”

Dan had a really confused look on his face, so I clarified, “Yeah, every year Saddam Hussein calls me on my birthday.”

That explanation did nothing to alleviate the confused look on Dan’s face so I attempted to explain further.

It all goes back to my seventh birthday. I was sitting at the kitchen table of my home in central Minnesota reading the newspaper because I was one of those nerdy kids who like to follow government and politics. I saw a news story that reminded me about a conversation I had a couple weeks earlier with my uncle Mark.

I grew up with a really close family. My dad had eight siblings, and four of those eight siblings lived within a five mile radius of the farm that I grew up on in central Minnesota. My uncle Mark was the only one of those siblings who didn’t get married and have kids of his own, but he made up for it by paying lot of attention to his nieces and nephews.

Uncle Mark and I would talk about the news of the day, and in early 1991 the biggest news story was the Persian Gulf War in Iraq. My uncle Mark told me that the United States and Iraq had come to a peace agreement. In exchange for disarmament and peace in the Middle East, U.S. President George H.W. Bush agreed to give Iraqi President Saddam Hussein the calendar date of March 13.

Nevermind the logistics of the international transfer of a calendar date, I was more concerned for another reason: March 13 is my birthday, and there is nothing more important to a 7-year-old boy than his birthday.

So naturally, I was worried.

Then, my mom told me I had a phone call. I heard a deep booming voice on the other line:

"HELLOO ANTONIO, THIS IS SADDAM HUSSEIN."

Now to this day, I have no idea what an Iraqi accent sounds like, but the half-Italian, half-Scandinavian voice continued.

"ANTONIO, I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW THAT I AM GOING TO TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOUR BIRTHDAY AND I HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD YEAR."

I got another call on my 8th birthday. I got another call on my 9th birthday. These calls continued through middle school. These calls continued through high school. These calls continued well after we all got caller ID and we were well aware of the 320 area code that the phone calls were coming from.

On my 19th birthday, I got a call from Saddam who was concerned about this new Bush in the White House and asked if I would go to Washington, D.C. to try to convince George W. Bush to not invade his country.

On my 20th birthday, I was told not to be concerned that even though Saddam was captured in an Iraqi foxhole by American forces, that he would still take good care of March 13.

It was my 23rd birthday, and I was sitting at my kitchen table in my apartment in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, reading the newspaper thinking about the events of the past year.

In December, Saddam Hussein was tried by an Iraqi war tribunal for crimes against humanity. He was found guilty and sentenced to death. Within a few hours pictures had leaked to the American media of a hanging. Saddam Hussein was dead.

That is when I saw a 320 area code phone number on my cell phone.

"Hello?"

"This is special agent Jones. Is this Anthony Dahlman?"

"Yes."

"I have a call for you from an undisclosed location from an S. Hussein. Do you accept the call?"

"Of course I do."

"Mr. Hussein, you have 60 seconds."

"HELLO ANTONIO!"

"Saddam I can’t believe it is you. I hate to ask this, but where are you?"

"OH ANTONIO, I AM ON A SECRET ISLAND WITH JIMMY HOFFA AND JACK KENNEDY."

"Wow Saddam, that is really interesting."

"OH ANTONIO, I DON’T HAVE A LOT OF TIME, I JUST WANTED TO THANK YOU FOR BEING MY DEAR AND ONLY FRIEND AND I WANTED TO CALL YOU AND WISH YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY."

"Mr. Hussein, your time has expired." Click.

So there I was standing on the sidewalk of Washington, D.C., explaining to Dan that every year since I was 7 I received a phone call from Saddam Hussein on my birthday.

Dan’s look of confusion turned to something else. Dan only had one reaction. “That is really weird.”

And for the first time in my life. I realized, this is really weird. Saddam Hussein was an awful man. He invaded another country. He gassed his own people. And my uncle has spent the better part of a quarter century pretending to be him to wish me a happy birthday.

But my cousin Beth, well aware of the antics of the Dahlman uncles, just shrugged her shoulders and said, “That’s just the way our family is.”

And for the first time, I realized what isn’t weird is growing up having a family that cares about you.

My uncle Mark always made time for his nieces and nephews. And while to this day he has denied any knowledge of the phone calls that I receive from dead Iraqi dictators, he was the type of guy when I was in high school he would come and watch me at my football games.

And even when I moved away for my job he would always make time to talk when I come back to visit Minnesota. And when I was 7 years old he paid close attention to my interests, he made up a story that made me feel special on his birthday.

About two and a half years ago my sister had her first child, a girl named Hannah. About six weeks ago, my sister had her second child, a boy named Zach.

I try to pay a lot of attention to my nieces and nephews. I have this game that I play with Hannah that I call “Jump." I put my hands around her waist, and I say, “Hannah, it’s time to jump. We have to count to three. One, two, three!” and then we fly across the living room while Hannah laughs and giggles.

I am going to pay close attention to the interests of Hannah and Zach, because I know that one day they are going to find their Saddam Hussein.

Because that’s just the way our family is.

ABOUT THE STORYTELLER: Tony Dahlman is a statistician for the U.S. Department of Agriculture. He grew up in Minnesota where he told too many Iowa jokes as a child. He thought his punishment was that God made him fall in love with an Iowa girl. It turns out the punishment was much more severe — God made him an Iowan. He lives in Des Moines with his wife, Karla.

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This article originally appeared on Des Moines Register: Des Moines storyteller's uncle acts as Saddam Hussein on birthday call