Barefoot in Baghdad (21 page)

Yusuf stood up and was pacing. Instead of being touched by his concern, I suddenly felt outraged at his sense of control.

“No, I don’t have to go,” I said. “I will stay. If it means a few weeks of house arrest, so be it. But I will not leave.”

“Something has happened to make them decide to leave,” Yusuf argued. “You are not only putting your life in danger, you are now putting all of our lives in danger. If I thought I could protect you, I would tell you to stay. But I know I can’t. None of us can. So you have to go.”

I could not begin to comprehend what he was saying. I started to shout, insisting that I would stay and that I could not leave. There was a part of me that recognized how immaturely I was behaving, but I could not stop myself. I felt a strong sense of self-loathing when I began to cry. Since when had I become an emotional fountain? I had never allowed myself to cry as much as I had these last few months. I saw it as a sign of weakness. At that moment I did not realize that Yusuf’s words had hurt me. I had not realized that my insistence on staying was not simply an act of solidarity but largely selfish. The only word I was hearing from Yusuf was
go,
and it caused far more pain than I was ready to admit.

Fadi intervened before the argument could escalate. He pointed out that my leaving was a temporary solution. The fact that I was leaving now did not mean I was not coming back. It would do everyone some good if I were able to get out and have some time off.

I knew that everything they were saying was logical, but somewhere along the line I had forfeited my trust of logic.

Somewhere along the line Iraq had become an emotional issue for me. Personal.

The idea that I was putting my four protectors in danger finally caused me to relent. Reluctantly, I agreed to leave. The challenge now was how. Salah started calling to see if I could book a flight to Amman, since there was no time to get to the DTI flight. It turned out that all flights were over booked until the end of May. He was told it would be nearly impossible to get me on a plane.

Yusuf insisted I call the U.S. Embassy to see if there was a citizen evacuation plan. So I called. I received a respectful lecture on current travel restrictions on American citizens living inside Iraq. Once the employee finished reading the travel advisory, she told me that a bus transported people from the Green Zone to the airport. Then the embassy staffer explained that it would probably be safer for me to take a taxi. The bus was a prime target.

“It might as well be driving with a big fat red X on its roof,” she said.

“Looks like we’re on our own,” Mais said after I told them this news.

Yusuf was pacing, repeatedly murmuring what a bastard Rayyan was for leaving me behind.

“I’m not his responsibility. When the shit hits the fan, everyone has to watch his own back,” I said, wondering if that would apply to me one day.

“You don’t believe that,” Yusuf said. “More important, you would never do that,” he added.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do now,” Fadi said. “So I suggest we get back to our game, and you all accept the fact that I’m about to kick your butt.”

We all knew Fadi was right. The sun had set and there was nothing more we could do tonight. It was amazing how quickly we were able to fall back into our bubble. Over the next hour we were deeply immersed into the game. Mais was yelling at Fadi and Yusuf for forging an alliance, and Salah was taking advantage of the opportunity to slip a few extra cannons into the countries he occupied.

But news travels fast, and before the game was over I had received six phone calls: four from my mother, one from my younger brother, and one from our headquarters. Headquarters ordered me out of Iraq immediately. As to how, they weren’t sure. They were irate with DTI’s action, but they had no solutions to offer. Lest I forget, my mother wanted to repeatedly remind me how bad an idea my going to Iraq had been, and if I were to die, she would never forgive me. Meanwhile, my younger brother called to make sure I was aware I was killing our mother.

For the next twenty-four hours all five of us called every connection we had to book a seat for me on one of the outgoing planes. We then heard a rumor about the brutal beheading of a twentysomething American citizen, and by the end of the next day I was offering to sit on any plane’s toilet seat if the airlines would just make an exception.

Finally, Lucie, a Lebanese friend who had strong connections with Royal Jordanian Airlines, negotiated a seat for me. I will always be indebted to her for getting me on that flight. Now the next task was finding a way to the airport.

The six miles between the Green Zone and the airport were probably the most dangerous strip of road in all of Baghdad. It was what the U.S. military called “target rich,” and many international and Iraqi citizens were killed along that thoroughfare.

“We will take you,” Yusuf said. His voice made it clear there was no room for negotiation. It didn’t mean I wouldn’t try. I insisted that I take a taxi because it would be less likely that anyone would attack an international in a local taxi. All four shook their heads. This was nonnegotiable. The next morning we would pack ourselves in a car and head for the airport road.

I broke the news to Maysoon later in the day. Although she agreed it was the best decision for me, she cried when I told her I was going to leave. I quickly added that I would be back, but I did not know when that would be or for how long I would be away.

I spent the early part of the evening praying in the corner of the dining room. Yusuf found me sitting there and reading verses from the Koran.

“It’s nice to see you afraid,” he said. “ I was beginning to think you were a woman made of steel.”

“I am not afraid,” I said. “I just want to make sure that if something happens tomorrow, I’m prepared to meet my Lord.” I did not mean for it to come out as cryptic as it sounded. I just needed to feel ready for whatever would face us in the morning. For some reason Yusuf found it funny and laughed. It was a kind laugh, and I was reminded of what a gentle person he was. A strong indescribable feeling tugged inside me, and I knew that, of all the people I was leaving behind, I would miss Yusuf the most.

“There is no cause for you to be dramatic yet. Things will calm down, and you will come back. You’d better—we have our birthday to celebrate.” Our birthdays were only a day apart, and we had been joking about having a joint celebration. “You have three weeks to get yourself back here.”

“Three weeks for what?” Mais walked in. Yusuf explained it would be our big birthday bash when I came back. Mais laughed and said there was no reason to wait for my return. We still had this evening. Despite having already passed the time for curfew, he planned to head out to Harthiya to get sandwiches from Time Out, the local hamburger joint. I shook my head with exasperation. Mais was willing to do anything for his stomach. I told him it was not worth it.

“There are some things worth risking your life for, and at the top of that list is a good sandwich,” he said.

I have to admit, they were damn good sandwiches.

***

We would pig out until the very last minute. When I finished my morning prayer the next morning, I walked into the kitchen to see a fresh pot of tea and
qahi wa qaymar
on the table. I could not imagine how early they must have awakened to fetch my farewell breakfast.

When I got in the car a few hours later, I found all kinds of chocolate, sour cream and onion Pringles, a bag of Diet Cokes, and bottles of water. And the ride to the airport was only fifteen minutes from my house in Mansour!

The food wasn’t enough to take the edge off. All of us were extremely nervous. Immediately we started debating as to which was the “least likely to get us killed” way to the airport.

The night before, we had run out to buy some Iraqi tapes—Fadi’s way of ensuring I would not go into Iraq withdrawal while I was away. And so we ended the debate by blasting some music and just driving.

After ten minutes of constantly looking left and right like chickens, we realized that playing music on the thirty-ninth day of Muharram (the Shia holy time of mourning when all music and television is strictly forbidden) was not a good idea. As if perfectly timed, the moment we turned off the music, we turned a corner and saw a large cloud of smoke near the airport: the civilian bus had been attacked on its way to the airport.

The car was silent for about a minute (a record for us), and then the guys desperately tried to make me feel better by sharing the latest Iraqi jokes.

I realized how much I cared for them and felt really scared for how the day would end for them. I wasn’t actually scared about getting blown up on the way to the airport. My worst fear was the guys’ return journey home—without me. I could not live with myself if we made it to the airport, and then something happened to them on the way out.

I could hear the U.S. Embassy staffer’s voice in my head, warning me that the civilian bus was a prime target. For the millionth time I realized how much I owed these guys for their selfless dedication to me.

As if God wanted to further remind me of the risks they were taking, up ahead two American tanks were responding to the attack on the bus. The tanks’ gun barrels were moving, and somewhere between panic and instinct, the huge vehicles sped forward while their turrets simultaneously rotated. It was a frightening sight, with mere inches and seconds sparing the cars near the tanks. The large gun barrels swerved over them and knocked down lampposts on the roadside. The lampposts crashed down into the street. The only thing that spared our lives was Yusuf’s driving skill.

When we got to the airport, I was told there was little or no chance of my getting on the plane. But somehow, armed with Lucie’s magical connections, I was able to get my ticket. My boys stayed with me until I was ready to board. I was very sad to go, and despite the danger, I still wished I could stay. I felt guilty, being able to leave, having that choice to escape.

When I arrived in Amman, I heard that shortly after we had made it to the airport, the Baghdad airport had been closed.

My Royal Jordanian flight to Amman was the last one to leave for the next three weeks.

I realized that I was slowly losing my mind the day I cornered a female Iraqi translator and began to grill her about her near-death experience. It was late May 2004, and I was back in Iraq after working from Amman for a few weeks. The situation was calmer, and I was even able to leave my house in Mansour to visit the women’s centers. We now had three operational centers, although we had vacated our main office in Shawaka months ago due to the mini-battles that took place on Haifa Street. Despite the country’s many setbacks, I was looking on the bright side, and I had hope that our programs would flourish again.

Our connections with the military still dogged us, to my annoyance, and every now and then a U.S. unit would stop in to check on one of the women’s center. During one of the visits, a young Iraqi woman accompanied the soldiers as their translator. I had seen many translators before, but something struck me about this woman. She had an aura of strength, and I was impressed by her confidence. She also had a slight limp, and instinct told me this was something new. I found myself staring at her with curiosity.

She caught my eye and smiled. “You are either wondering about my limp, or you are thinking I am some sort of traitor for working with the Americans.”

I was embarrassed at having been caught staring and openly confessed, “I am just thinking about how hard it is to be a female translator. I am an American, so I cannot say much to the traitor part.”

She laughed and introduced herself as Raghad. She began by telling me how her team had been caught in a roadside bomb on the airport road. I was stunned. She described in detail the events of that horrible day: the sound of the explosion, the eruption of fire, and her realization that she might not make it out alive. She explained to me how, in the last few seconds before she passed out from the pain, her only thoughts were for her twelve-year-old son. Similarly, in the first few minutes after she woke up after a four-month coma, her only desire was to see her son.

“Why are you back at work?” I asked, shocked that after a near-death experience she would tempt fate so soon.

“The same reason I took the job in the first place,” she answered. Raghad explained that she was a divorced mother, and her parents would not allow her to return to their home with her son. Raghad’s husband had been abusive, and she could not bear the idea of leaving her son with him. When she was able to earn a substantial income, her parents had allowed her back in the home. In return, her earnings were given to her father at the end of the month. Raghad was happy with the arrangements, and she was pleased that her mother was looking after her son while she worked.

She shared her story with me with openness and sincerity. There was no motive behind her description of the events, and I was touched by her sweet, firm nature. What troubled me more than the gruesome details she shared was my need to hear more from her. I was disturbed at my desire to get a sense of how much pain was involved in her injury and recovery. It was only then that I realized I had begun to accept a brutal death as my fate.

This was a different form of acceptance than when I had first entered Iraq. Back then I had simply been aware of it. I had depended on my spirituality for support. I had tried to be more observant of my prayers five times a day, and I had even developed a list of people to whom I needed to apologize. In the last few months, though, my awareness had heightened. The memory of Fern Holland’s death was still close to my heart. Whenever I left my house, I no longer simply say good-bye; I would ask people to forgive me for any misdeeds. At one point I even wrote a letter to my younger brother, Hani, with a deep sense of sorrow that I might not have a chance to know him better.

Yet these feelings were something different. While speaking with Raghad, death felt close. And I sensed an obsession within me to understand exactly what it entailed. Her answer, however, did not comfort me. Raghad described excruciating pain. I had always thought that the brain would protect itself and block the memory. But Raghad told me otherwise.

Three months later, Raghad’s captain told me that she had been killed by a sniper. My only prayer was that her pain this time was minimal.

***

My obsession with death did not go away. Months slipped away, and I felt as if I were living in my own purgatory. Still, I refused to leave Iraq. There was no logic to it. I knew that I would not accomplish anything comparable to my achievements during my first six months in the country. Presently, Iraq was slipping into oblivion, yet the threat of pervasive danger had not reached the level it eventually would a few years later. I still held on to a fragment of hope that things would turn in the right direction. I still wanted to believe that all the work of the Iraqi women had not been in vain. My hope was rooted in the fact that the women’s centers were operational again. Less than a month ago that would not have been possible. Yet we were still far from our destination, and I knew the road ahead was filled with many land mines.

I became more and more detached from the risks and occupational hazards. I mechanically followed our security procedures the day we found a small bomb outside the women’s center in Mansour. I instructed the staff to evacuate the premises immediately while Salah, the only military-trained staff member, waited for the arrival of the army bomb squad. I indefinitely closed the women’s center in Mustansiriya, across from Sadr City, when it was targeted by a drive-by shooting.

I obediently followed Yusuf’s instructions and taped up my bedroom windows for fear of shrapnel. It quickly became second nature for me to hit the ground for cover the moment I heard a bomb go off. I took these actions like a robot, convinced they were a temporary necessity before the Iraqis were able to set right all that had gone wrong.

By the end of the summer of 2004, the situation in the streets of Baghdad had deteriorated as much as I ever could imagine. At that point, a hundred international aid workers, contractors, and journalists had been kidnapped, and twenty-three had been killed. And countless Iraqis had died. It only went to prove how limited my imagination was. A couple of years later, 2004 would be labeled as a stable time, with the years between 2005 and 2007 deemed as Iraq’s dark ages. What I was witnessing was the onset of a major civil war; the nation was being torn apart in its infancy.

Part of my disillusionment came from the fact that Baghdad was now lost to me. I could no longer walk the store-lined streets of Mansour, eat at the restaurants in Arassat Al-Hindya Street, or take a boat trip across the Tigris to shop for antiques on Mutanabi Street. Loitering in Iraqi restaurants was a distant memory. The only place I risked going was Yusuf’s house, and even then only for a quick visit. I missed sitting on the Shawaka office’s balcony overlooking the Tigris River. The mayor in Shawaka who used to nag Fadi about his parking was now dead, along with his two sons. My dear friend Reema Khalaf endured the trauma of negotiating her teenage son’s ransom and had fled to Dubai the moment he was released. The neighbor across the street in my home in Hay Al Jammah who used to send me freshly baked pastries was now widowed. At every turn the Iraqi families I had become a part of were being ripped apart. It was arrogant to think that I would somehow be spared.

Yet deep down I continued to hope. During the summer of 2004 I was amazed by the stark difference between how a walk in the streets of Baghdad felt compared to only a year earlier. I was deeply depressed by how the situation had deteriorated, and I could not imagine it would get worse. Yet somehow, it always managed to do so.

During the weeks I was in Amman, Maysoon and Hussein visited me. It was the first time Maysoon had left Iraq, and the sight of progress around the small city of Amman made her realize how far behind her beloved Baghdad now lagged. I took the opportunity to play host and spent a lot of time with them. When Maysoon insisted on meeting my extended family in Jordan, I was happy to make the introductions. My parents were also arriving from the United States for a summer holiday, and I was eager to introduce them to the powerful Iraqi couple who had adopted me in Baghdad. Like many Iraqis, the more time Maysoon spent in Amman, the more she began to question the future of Iraq.

Then, in early September 2004, the kidnapping of two Italian aid workers made it clear that things could indeed get much worse. In this case, the difference was how the kidnapping unfolded. These aid workers weren’t killed by a roadside bomb or seized at a fake police checkpoint. Their kidnapping was much more brazen.

In broad daylight, twenty armed men in business suits parked their GMC trucks outside the Italian NGO, marched in, and took the two women and their two Iraqi colleagues without firing a shot. Thereafter, stories of one of the Iraqi workers being dragged by her head scarf from the building filled my every thought. These kidnappings were the pinnacle of audacity, and it finally registered in my mind as an undisputable sign that anarchy reigned in Iraq.

I agreed to leave the country the moment Yusuf suggested it. I decided that we had reached another low point in Iraqi security, and I would again travel to Jordan for a few weeks. I accepted the departure with much more grace than my last send-off in April. Because these Iraqi families had virtually adopted me, I was among the only internationals still in the country. The diminishing traffic in and out of Iraq meant there was no difficulty in arranging for flights this time. Once again, Mais, Fadi, and Yusuf drove me to the airport. Once again, I left Baghdad with the full intention of returning shortly. I did not even notice that I was traveling on the third anniversary of the September 11 attacks.

***

And return I did. Three weeks after their kidnappings, the Italian aid workers were released. I was able to return to Baghdad, but only with elaborate security plans, even more enhanced than before. That did not deter me. I simply could not accept the reality that I was utterly useless in Iraq. Even when I heard about the kidnapping of Margaret Hassan, the director of the aid agency CARE, I was convinced it would be handled the same way as that of the Italian aid workers.

I was worried about Margaret, though. We had often found ourselves on the same side during debates at the NGO Coordinating Council in Iraq, and I had a deep respect for her service in Iraq over the last three decades. Several local Iraqi organizations were holding vigils for her return. No other international kidnapping elicited the same amount of response from the local population. She had been taken in mid-October, and I was convinced she would be home by Halloween.

Looking back, my denial of any other outcome was a form of insanity. At this point, every American who worked or lived in Iraq had some form of professional security company that was responsible for their movements, or they never ventured outside of the Green Zone. My security operation was the same as the day I entered Iraq: Mais, Fadi, and Yusuf. I refused to organize long-term arrangements to live in the Green Zone. If that was my only option, it made more sense for me to live in Amman.

My breaking point manifested itself in the most selfish manner possible. It came during the holy month of Ramadan. This was my second Ramadan in Iraq, and although only a year had passed, it felt like a decade. I had plans to meet my parents for Eid—the celebration of the end of fasting—in Amman, and I was looking forward to the time off. A few days before Eid, however, the Iraqi government announced that the Baghdad airport would be closed indefinitely. The borders for people traveling by road would also be closed.

When I heard the news, I panicked. I had spent the last few months fighting to get in and stay in the country, and suddenly all I could think about was getting out.

Now!

With my dog.

There are moments when I feel ashamed of how I handled myself during those few days. I called Yusuf every hour, crying and begging him to find a way for me to get out of the country. In between sobs I would ask him how I could take my dog, Ishta, with me. I had never before thought of taking Ishta with me to Jordan. However, something deep inside knew I would not be coming back to Iraq anytime soon. I could not bear the idea of leaving her behind.

I nearly went into hysterics when Yusuf told me that Ishta would most likely not be able to travel with me to Jordan. We still had not even determined if there was a way to get me out of the country, he tried to remind me.

For the first few days I refused to leave without Ishta. Yusuf had to enlist Zainab, the president of Women for Women International, to find a safe place for her. Zainab offered her uncle’s farm in the southern governorate, a more secure area, as a new home. It was only weeks after I was safely in Jordan that I could remember with horror at how I extorted such a promise from Yusuf that he would personally deliver Ishta to the farm.

But my own problem was not as easily solved. There were absolutely no commercial flights out of the country. The only planes leaving Iraq were U.S. military flights to Kuwait City. Yet again I found myself forced to turn to Anne Murphy for help.