Security, says the hospital director. At least under the old government we had security. Now we have nothing.
Abu Khaseeb, Basrah: The hospital director looks fatigued, as if he has
barely slept in months. He hasn't. As British troops moved into Basrah,
government services, including police protection, evaporated. I carry a
gun myself, he explains. Every night we must protect our hospital from
looters and thieves.
Aren't things better now? Basrah fell almost 3 months ago. No, he says,
there has been no change. But I've seen police on the streets. Yes,
some, he admits, but they are ineffectual. We must provide our own
security and protection. As if to punctuate his statement, a man walks
in carrying an AK47. After a brief conversation with the director he
leaves.
----------
Trebeel: My first visit to Iraq since the invasion. Crossing the border
from Jordan, there are no Iraqis in sight, only an 18 year old kid in
US military camouflage. He thumbs through our passports, trying to make
pleasant conversation. I don't trust myself to speak. I glance at
Amira. She's holding back tears.
The kid does a double take looking at Amira's Japanese passport, and
then glances at Yasuko sitting next to her. We all laugh, and that
breaks the ice. Amira who is native-born Iraqi married a Japanese.
Yasuko is native-born Japanese. She married an American shortly after
World War II and carries a US passport.
Open up the back please, the kid asks. The driver opens, and the kid
glances at the pile of luggage. Have a nice trip, he says pleasantly,
without so much as opening a bag or stamping a passport. I'm thinking
with this kind of border security, Iraq must be lousy with guns and
drugs. It is. A smugglers paradise.
I glance back at the kid. He's got the hood of a luxury car open. As we
drive off he stands there admiring the shiny new engine.
----------
Baghdad: On our arrival, we are greeted by Wadah who has been greeting
delegations from the US for years. I had been worried about Wadah and
was glad to see him again. We sit down and talk about our plans and
what we hope to accomplish.
Wadah, I ask, what can we do to help? Not just here, back home too.
Wadah explains, many government building were broken into. The only
security they have against further looting is what the government
workers can provide themselves. Because there is no functioning
government and no budget, they cannot even buy locks to secure the
buildings. Maybe you could bring us some locks.
I think of my baggage filled with over the counter medicines, pencils,
notebooks, crayons. As usual, I'm out of step with reality.
----------
Baghdad: I'm out for a morning walk. Surprise! There are two garbage
trucks loading up in front of our hotel. This is a good sign I think.
Then on to the intersection, traffic is snarled; but a man in the
middle of the street is directing traffic, trying to bring order out of
chaos.
Later I find out that many Iraqis are doing volunteer work trying to
keep social services running. Many continue to do their jobs even
though there is no government, and not even a promise of pay for their
efforts.
Again, I marvel at the spirit of the Iraqi people.
----------
Baghdad: Tell Mr. Bush that we love him for getting rid of Saddam
Hussein. Saddam was a bad man, says the head of the English Department
at Baghdad's School of Music and Ballet. But, he continues, you must
tell Mr. Bush that he must deal strictly with the thieves. They stole
our violins, and piccolos. They even stole our pianos and our electric
fans. In our country we deal strictly with thieves. Mr. Bush must deal
strictly with thieves. He looks at me pleadingly.
I nod thinking of all the unanswered letters I've written to Mr. Bush.
Then a vision pops into my mind of a bewildered Kenny Lay with a stump
where his right hand used to be.
----------
Baghdad: We stop in a market outside the city. In front of us is some
meat rotting in the intense heat. Garbage is strewn everywhere. There
is a tank not far from us. A lone US soldier sits astride the tank. Its
mid-morning, hot, and getting hotter. The mood is unsettled. These
people have been without electricity for four days, and they are angry.
Things could turn violent quickly. I glance at the lone soldier atop
the tank.
----------
Baghdad: I've spent a very pleasant evening with relatives of an Iraqi
friend in Missouri. Time passes quickly when you are enjoying yourself.
Its dark and way past time to return to my hotel. Bandits and snipers
take possession of the streets at dark. 11PM begins curfew. After
curfew soldiers will shoot at anything that moves.
The traffic is scarier than the soldiers. The roads are dark. No
electricity, no street lights. We dodge cars with no headlights driving
on the wrong side of the road. One lone traffic light, permanently red,
is ignored by the onslaught of cars, rushing home before curfew,
rushing home before the nightly violence begins.
We arrive at my hotel. I say goodbye, and a superfluous drive
carefully. I think, I will call in an hour and see that my friends got
home safely. Then, I remember. The telephones don't work.
----------
Baghdad: The real estate broker explains that Hilla is quiet, We're
cooperating with the Americans. We have electricity and water. Other
cities don't. The broker explains that the US has set up headquarters
in Hilla because it is cooperating. He is doing very well, renting
houses to military personnel. He's even talked with a US general who
has told him that he is the kind of Iraqi they want to work with.
The Americans are here so lets make the best of it, he advises. Enjoy
yourself in Iraq. Find something fun to do. He offers to sell me a
house in Hilla for $50,000 US - and to find me an Iraqi wife.
I think of the hundreds who died in the April cluster bombing of Hilla,
and wonder how quiet or well-off Hilla really is. I'm sure not having
much fun on this trip.
----------
There are problems in Hilla too. The electricity goes out. Different
then Baghdad, for sure. In Baghdad, when the electricity comes on, you
smile and say now we have electricity, and hope it will not go out
immediately. In Hilla when the electricity goes out, you shrug
and hope it will be back soon.
I also see heavily armed US military patrols on the street. I hear talk
of sniper attacks.
In the evening, Amira takes us to a neighborhood that was hit by US
cluster bombs in April. 350 died. Kelly wants to get out and interview
people. Amira says, No, we have to stay in the van. Kelly insists.
There is an edge on Amira's voice, I've not heard before. No. Its
dangerous. People here have lost family members. They are angry.
And then she adds, I brought you here. I am responsible for your safety.
A discussion ensues. The rest of us side with Amira. We stay in the van.
----------
Falujah: The Director of Water Services seems surprised when I tell
her I'm American. She looks me in the eye and says in a matter of fact
way, we will never accept your soldiers in our city. Later I find out
our host has been telling people we are European - for our own safety,
of course.
Falujah is lousy with soldiers, and military vehicles. One vehicle has
"War Pig" written prominently on it. I wonder if the soldiers know that
to Muslims, the pig is an unclean animal. Then I wonder if they would
care, if they knew. One more instance of cultural insensitivity to go
with the stories I've already heard: Male soldiers body searching Iraqi
women, US soldiers giving drugs and alcohol to young children.
I feel the tension, and stay close to my hosts. This is one place I do
not want to wonder off alone.
----------
Umm Qasr: We're driving around the port city, when we run into a
roadblock. Our driver starts to turn the van, when a jeep pulls in
front of us. Soldiers fan out in a circle around us, weapons drawn.
Our driver shouts in Arabic that he has Americans in the vehicle. Where
are you from? Kelly asks in a friendly voice. That's no concern of
yours, ma'am, glowers the sergeant, leaving Kelly speechless.
Slowly I get out of the van, hands in plain sight. What's the problem?
I ask. Stay right were you are, commands the sergeant. Our eyes meet
and lock. I saw two flashes, he continues. Who took pictures?
I took picture, says Yasuko, getting out of the van with her camera.
Yasuko's 75 years old and stands 5 foot 2. She hands over her camera,
and a soldier tries unsuccessfully to remove the film. Please don't
break my camera, she says. I won't break your camera, ma'am. The
soldier yanks harder on the film. Here, let me do it. Yasuko deftly
exposes the film, rewinds it, and hands the cartridge to the soldier.
I'll have to see your ID, the sergeant says to me. Slowly I reach into
my money belt, take out my passport and hand it to the sergeant. He
thumbs through it, looking at me. Born in New York City, he says. I
nod.
Outwardly, his demeanor is unchanged, yet I feel the tension evaporate.
He hands back my passport. I hope you understand why we are all a
little spooked, he says. Yes, of course. I'm thinking that its spooky
enough to have loaded weapons pointing at me, suppose they were
shooting at me from the shadows.
Hilla: We are visiting Amira's family in Hilla. They are wonderful,
gracious people. This is my third visit, and I feel very comfortable
here.