Barefoot in Baghdad (10 page)

This nightmare was getting worse. There was no place to take her, and although Yusuf and Mais were willing to help me, they both refused my proposal to have Kalthoum stay with me. I knew it was impossible. I no longer lived at the hotel, and bringing Kalthoum home would compromise all my work with Women for Women International. Not knowing where else to go, we headed toward the convention center in the Green Zone. Ivana had already said that the U.S. military might be Kalthoum’s only viable option.

I had no clear plan, but I was not yet in despair…An hour ago I had a clear plan in my mind, and it proved to be the worst idea yet.

I went in search of Capt. Anne Murphy. Erik, a friend who worked with USAID, had connected me with Anne. He said it was a chemistry experiment. “I introduce chemical X to chemical Y and let the chemistry do its work,” he explained. Anne and I shared a passion for women’s issues, and neither of us knew how to say
no
or
can’t.
Erik believed we would make an ideal Baghdad dynamic duo. As I glanced over at a grateful Kalthoum, I could not think of a better situation in which to put his theory to the test.

It was difficult for me to turn to the U.S. military to help Kalthoum, but I had been slammed against a wall and given little space to maneuver. I needed to buy time.

With her quick, action-oriented response, Anne did not get caught up in the details. She understood I had a young woman who needed a place to stay, and she got to work to see where she could place her. Within an hour of our arrival at the convention center, Anne had convinced a female sergeant who had been assigned a trailer to take Kalthoum with her. It would be a temporary solution, no more than three days. But it just might buy me the time I needed to figure out what to do next.

***

That night Yusuf insisted I come home to meet his family. He argued that I had been breaking my fast on junk food for the past week, and I had earned a home-cooked Iraqi meal. With the sun setting and my stomach growling, I was in no condition to argue with him.

Yusuf boasted to his family how I had refused to give up on Kalthoum, which secretly pleased me. I was surprised, though, to see that he took pride in his work of helping women. His mother would gasp, “
Ya Allah,
” at his description of every turn of the day’s events and then wag her finger at me, telling me not to get her son into any trouble. She had been a school teacher, and she had a smile that reached her eyes. Her laugh seemed to come from deep within her body, and it carried a sense of compassion and tenderness. I liked her instantly.

I also met Yusuf’s older sister, Maysoon. In the beginning, I felt uncomfortable with the way she looked me over from top to bottom, as if she were doing a thorough psychological scan. But within the first hour we were chatting like high school friends, comparing our likes and dislikes. When Maysoon’s husband, Hussein, came to pick her up, I was disappointed that she had to leave. Hussein agreed to stay another hour, and he joined the family in outlining their personal history for me.

Hussein was a man of few words but enormous presence. Originally from the district of Khadamiyah, he belonged to a wealthy merchant family, and his family owned land all across southern Baghdad. I was impressed by his humble nature. He insisted on working his own land and managing his business firsthand. He had hundreds of employees, but from his deep five-o’clock shadow and the bags under his eyes, I was willing to bet none of them worked as hard as he did.

I had no idea then that Maysoon and Hussein would become dear friends, that I would visit them often in their home and became a de facto aunt to their two children.

After an amazing meal, Yusuf drove me home. We rode in silence, and I allowed myself to get lost in my thoughts about the day’s events. I was stuck on the phrase Asma, the director of the women’s orphanage, had used.
We are tired.
During my six months in Iraq I had met with women from a wide range of backgrounds. Although their circumstances were different, they all had in common the fact that they wanted to share their stories. And a common thread in those stories, a thread repeated in almost all my interviews with Iraqi women across the country, was that idea. They were the words that bridged the gap between rich and poor, literate and illiterate, and ethnic and religious:
ta’abna
(we are tired) and
malayna
(we have had enough).

In their hearts, these Iraqi women believed their pain and suffering were finally over. Perhaps they believed so strongly that, through a process of mental osmosis, I came to believe it too. I refused to see the dangerous scenarios I was entering and remained focused on the micro level. My strategy was to remain focused on the individuals in front of me. I convinced myself that if I could help one, two, perhaps even ten women, then I had fulfilled my role. I had become so focused on maintaining an optimistic viewpoint that perhaps I had lost perspective.

As I allowed myself to become more optimistic, I noticed a shift in attitude toward me from the Iraqi women. My pessimism had been creating a barrier between me and the very women I was trying to help. They had enough negativity in their lives. They were looking for someone to join in their dreams for a better future. Once I opened myself to their stories, I understood their desire to compartmentalize their traumas as a thing of the past.

I became convinced that the debates over weapons of mass destruction or the legalities of the war were irrelevant. The fact remained that the war had happened, and the ultimate price would be paid by the Iraqi women. They refused to be passive spectators. No matter what socioeconomic background the women were from, they were all struggling to survive and create a better future. I was determined to do everything I could to make their lives better, no matter what the cost.

But here I was, months past my arrival in Baghdad, chasing down deputy ministers and directors of orphanages, mediating between U.S. MPs and Iraqi police sergeants, and still failing to provide any real solutions. The rhetoric on helping women was abundant, but the reality was scarce. I realized I was attached to doing work through traditional humanitarian means. I was looking for local solutions, forgetting that for more than thirty years all local initiatives had been met with an iron fist. Any past efforts to organize had been thwarted by the Baathist regime. Anyone who demonstrated leadership in the community was killed, went missing, or was dropped off at the Iranian border.

I had been so reluctant to look at the U.S. military as a feasible option that I was willing to put a teenage girl’s life in danger.

Anne Murphy had proven she was a woman of action, and she helped me with little hesitation. I had heard of another woman of action who worked for the Coalition Provisional Authority in Hillah. Her name was Fern Holland, and I had met her briefly during my visits to Karbala and Hillah, the provinces south of Baghdad.

Fern impressed me. She was one of the few U.S. civilians who took the time to meet with the local authorities and who spent endless hours listening to women. Initially Fern was hired by USAID to run its programs supporting democracy in governance. By January 2004 she was hired by the CPA ’s office in Hillah to continue the programs with women’s groups. Fern convinced the CPA to provide a multimillion-dollar grant to open up women’s centers in the southern governorates.

She invited me to a conference in Hillah that would focus on the status of women in Iraq. The conference was already making waves across the women’s organizations, and there was a rumor that Condoleezza Rice was planning to attend. For most people that rumor was a huge incentive. For me, I was concerned that the Iraqi women’s movement would be linked with the American occupation. The conference’s close proximity with the military could have a strong backlash. Even as I explained to Fern that I would not attend the conference for fear of being associated with the military, I could feel my conviction beginning to dissipate. The word circulating among the Iraqi women was that Fern had the power to make big changes. They were eager to be by her side.

I knew the time had come to expand my comfort zone once more. I had been eager to delay the inevitable moment of having to turn to the U.S. military for assistance. With Kalthoum, that moment had come. Despite my good intentions, I had been just as helpless in aiding Kalthoum as I had been at providing support to the two sisters who had been abducted and raped. Perhaps the missing ingredient to finding more practical solutions was finding more action-oriented people who had the power to make decisions. I needed to expand my circle of allies…I knew then that I was willing to push my security limits in order to stay in Iraq. The international community had abandoned the people of Iraq many times before, and I could not bear to see it happen again.

***

Over the next few days I learned to navigate the Green Zone. Previously, my only entry had been for specific purposes: to visit the Fridge or attend women’s coordination meetings and meetings with Iraqi government officials. Now my visits were daily.

After a week of nonstop meetings inside the Green Zone, I began to refer to it as Disney World. It was a place of fantasies. The majority of people living inside the Green Zone did not travel outside except for brief missions. These missions often included military escorts or armed guards. Those who dared to venture for quick visits outside of the Green Zone were revered as experts on the country. The walls surrounding the Green Zone began to represent the metaphysical walls between the United States and the Iraqi population, and these walls were becoming more and more apparent every day.

Translators played a central part in maintaining the fantasy. They seemed to fall into three camps. First, there were the translators who were working because they desperately needed the income. They had no strong political affiliation and were there for a paycheck. Second, there were the idealists. Their desire to help form a new Iraq was naive yet inspiring.

Third, there were the opportunists.

Opportunistic translators were a nightmare for me every time I passed through a checkpoint. Over time I learned to spot these translators a mile away and would automatically prepare to present my U.S. passport. They were often seated in the midst of the soldiers, perched on the edge of their chairs, ready to pounce on the next person to cross over. They tried to imitate the accents of the soldiers, which often came out as a mix between a New York cab driver and a Texas rancher. Many times I had to bite my tongue whenever an Iraqi translator seemed to purposely stir up trouble. Often they would make inappropriate comments about the Iraqi women standing in line. Sometimes they shot off antagonizing questions to the Iraqi men, further reminding them of their weakness as they stood in line in their homeland at the mercy of the Americans.

During one of my visits to Kalthoum, I witnessed one of these incidents and could not keep my mouth shut.

“
Indaaree
(turn around),” one of the young soldiers instructed. This was during a time when U.S. soldiers believed that imitating local Iraqi slang was cute. Iraqis saw it as the soldiers’ attempt to be sensitive to the local language and culture. Very soon the same words were interpreted as mocking, and that infuriated the Iraqis who had to pass through the checkpoints. Indeed, the soldiers’ use of local words and phrases would change, but that hadn’t happened yet.

As I was being searched at a checkpoint, an older man cut through the line. He looked like he was in his late sixties, and he was sweating from having to wait in the heat. I smiled at him. He looked like a sweet old man, and his gray hairs and slight slouch reminded me of my grandfather.

He smiled back while quickly apologizing for cutting in line. He explained in Arabic, “My sons, I do not want entry. I am an army soldier and was told salaries are being distributed. I am just coming to ask where I need to go. Please, my family has no money except this salary.”

An Iraqi translator jumped up and started yelling at the man in Arabic to get back. The old man looked startled. The translator continued to scream and gesture dramatically, which made the American soldiers nervous.

The young soldier looking through my bag jumped up and pointed his rifle at the old man. “What is he saying? What is he saying?” he screamed to the translator.

“He say he military officer. He threaten me. I tell him stop,” the translator shot back. As soon as they heard the words
military officer
, the four American soldiers raised their rifles at the old man.

Likewise, the old man’s sweetness evaporated. He could not understand the translator’s English words, but from the guns being pointed at him, he knew the words were hostile. His body automatically straightened, and his voice hardened.

“I do not want trouble,” he said. “I am asking for my right. Can you help or not?”

The translator responded with outrage. “
Inta makhabal?
(Are you crazy?),” he asked and waved his arms frantically. “Do you know who you are speaking to?”

The heightened tension was unnerving. I noticed Yusuf step back and wave for me to do the same. I had plans of my own, however.

“Your translator is a liar, and you all need to chill,” I blurted out as I shot the translator the deadliest look I could manage. I was furious at the way he was trying to humiliate the Iraqi man. “This man is only asking about the military salaries. Ambassador Bremer mentioned it in one of his televised speeches. The old man is saying he does not want to enter the Green Zone. He just wants to know where he should go.”

“Who the fuck are you?” the Iraqi translator and one of the American soldiers shouted simultaneously.

“I am an aid worker,” I said as I displayed my badge. “I also speak fluent Arabic. The old man meant no harm. I can’t exactly say he is going to leave that way.”

“Ma’am, we don’t need a smartass in this heat,” said the soldier who had been searching through my bag. I noticed Yusuf was also shooting me a deathly stare.

But the soldier lowered his rifle.

“We get the picture,” he said. He smiled at the old man and put his hand to his chest, a gesture of apology. I resisted the urge to take off my shoe and beat the Iraqi translator, who now skulked into the background.

The soldiers waved me through, and I stormed across to the convention center. I had a scheduled meeting with Anne Murphy and Kalthoum, but I was so angry that I headed straight for Ivana’s desk. This had not been the first translation fiasco I had witnessed, and I wanted to make an official complaint. I knew it would be futile, but at least it would be in some file that historians a hundred years from now might review when trying to figure out how the fabulous plan of winning the hearts and minds of the Iraqi people had gone off the tracks.

Yusuf followed behind me, and I could see that he was fighting back an urge to say something.

“What?” I dared him. “Am I supposed to stay quiet as that idiot did all he could do to escalate the situation? The poor old man had no idea what was happening.”

“Manal, you just don’t get it. Yes, the translator is an idiot. Yes, he was on some power trip and looking for some drama. But the translators for the Americans are powerful. They are making a lot of money, and I am not talking about their salary. You embarrassed him in front of the soldiers. He will hold a grudge. If he memorized your face, or worse your name, you can bet he will come after you. You have so many enemies just by the nature of your work, do you really want to go out of your way to make new ones?”

He was right. But I also knew that if the cosmos were to rewind time, I would do the exact same thing again.

I felt much more relaxed after seeing Ivana. She walked with me to the room where the civil affairs unit had their main offices, and she introduced me to someone in charge. I was able to vent all my frustrations, and I tried my best not to sound like a school teacher as I explained that the Iraqis who were coming to the Green Zone were not the enemies. However, the humiliation they received just to get some basic questions answered might turn them into enemies, I warned. The soldier kindly listened to me, explaining that the biggest challenge for the U.S. Army was balancing security with the need to do more outreach to the local population.

When I walked out the room, I saw Yusuf sitting with a bunch of Iraqi translators and smoking a cigarette. He stood up when I walked out and all but rolled his eyes when he asked, “
Irtahatee?
(Feel better?)”

I knew he was being sarcastic, but I nodded emphatically. I did. Maybe I was delusional in believing my words would have any impact, but I was happy. At least I had remained true to myself by taking action.

I also remembered the real reason for my being here. Kalthoum.

***

As soon as I thought of Kalthoum, I realized how much I was dreading seeing her. We had hit a stone wall in trying to help her. Ironically, this time it was not for lack of solutions. It was just that none were acceptable to Kalthoum. She wanted to go back to her father.

Perhaps it was the fact that the drugs had worn off. Perhaps it was the pregnancy. I secretly believed her twenty minutes at the orphanage for disabled children had shocked her into the reality of her situation. For whatever reasons, we stood at a crossroads.

I called several Iraqi women’s organizations for information, as I knew they would be the only people to tell me the truth about her situation. They all confirmed my worse fears: her return to her family would be a death sentence.

Yet Kalthoum was fully aware of this. In her heart of hearts, she seemed to believe it to be a reasonable sentence. Over the span of a few days Kalthoum had developed a strong sense of the cosmic powers of karma, and she begged me to allow her to pay her dues to her family so that her suffering would end.

She explained to me repeatedly that her life was over and that the decisions she had made had left little room for her to start over. However, she had four unmarried sisters at home. Her scandal had reached the tribe. Before, she believed that people would think she had been kidnapped or killed, and there would be no way to confirm she had abandoned her husband and broken the family honor. Now it was confirmed. If she were to go back to her family and face her sentence, then honor would be restored. If she were to run away, then her four unmarried sisters would pay the price. They would be shunned by society and would never marry because of their sister’s tarnished reputation. Worse yet, she argued, they would be forced into unsuitable marriages as a third or fourth wife. Her mistakes were hers alone, and Kalthoum wanted to be able to face them directly. She smiled at me and explained that she had been given choices in her life, and she had made the wrong ones. Now it was time for her to pay for her poor choices.