Barefoot in Baghdad (7 page)

I laughed again and assured them that I could understand why they were disappointed. I also told them there were more where I came from. There were many Muslim American women who were veiled, gregarious professionals. They were excited to hear about my experiences growing up and pleased to see that I had liberal views despite my conservative dress.

Just as I was heading out the door my CPA phone rang. It was Reema Khalaf, the chairperson of the Independent Nahrain Women’s Association. She explained she had received my number from Rayyan and wanted to invite me to a meeting at the Hunting Club.

“I just wanted to tell you I really admired your courage in the meeting,” Reema said. “Some of the ladies and I were discussing your points, and we realized, despite your age, you actually have experiences we would like to hear more about.”

I put down the phone and smiled. I was growing used to the Iraqi style of throwing out a compliment wrapped in an insult. I had managed to jump over the first hurdle—my age. I looked over at the three men who would help me build the program. The dinner at Fadi’s home had been a good idea. I felt closer to them already. And now the phone call from Reema. It looked like things were finally on track.

I had been in Iraq for less than a month, and all my nonnegotiables had somehow found their way to the negotiating table. That is, I had mentally drafted absolute truths that were to be held sacred. I had drawn theoretical boundaries that were not to be crossed. Yet day after day they were shot down like members of the opposition in front of one of Saddam’s firing squads.

I entered Iraq confident that I had my finger on the pulse of the majority Arab and Muslim viewpoint. I could not have been further from the truth. The more I interacted with Iraqis, I saw my crystal clear absolute truths morph into ambiguous disfigured shapes.

In my opinion, Bush’s war could bring nothing but death and destruction. Yet instead of despair, the Iraqis with whom I interacted were filled with hopes and dreams for a better future. I had been outraged by the subjugation Iraqis had endured for the past three decades at the hand of Western nations. Yet Iraqis were pointing their finger elsewhere. They openly blamed the Saddam regime for the state of their country. They also blamed their Arab neighbors for having consented through silence to Saddam’s tyranny. Many Iraqis went so far as to see the Americans as liberators and defenders of freedom.

My first instinct was that the Iraqis had it all wrong. I cringed with disbelief when I forced myself to watch scenes such as I witnessed in Karbala. I was awed at the sight of the residents of the holy city of Karbala rushing into the streets and ululating with joy as U.S. soldiers passed by. Some of the people held trays of tea cups, offering refreshment to the troops. It was still early in the war, and U.S. soldiers took great pride in stopping to greet the locals and basking in the warmth of a hero’s welcome. Something about the picture seemed intrinsically wrong to me. The women were dressed in long-flowing abayas as they, crowded around the soldiers and yelled, “Down, down Saddam! Now Iraq will live!” I forced myself to simply observe and fought off a thousand judgmental thoughts that threatened to flood my mind. Yet the whispers of doubt remained.

What were these women thinking? How could these adolescent boys dressed in desert fatigues, helmets, and bulletproof vests be seen as the heralds of peace? Surely the M16s slung over their shoulders and the pistols bulging at their hips were signs of aggression. How could the Iraqis see the U.S. troops as anything other than occupiers?

But guns had become second nature to Iraqis. There was nothing alarming about them. In fact, they represented the power and strength that was needed. Time and time again Iraqis explained to me that the only way to bring peace was by force.

I refused to be won over. There was nothing good that could ever come as a result of war and aggression. But somehow the Iraqi women convinced me to see the situation through their looking glass. Slowly I began to accept the idea that there might be a successful scenario on the horizon.

***

I knew I had taken a dive into the rabbit hole the day I agreed to meet with Joumana. Her story was not unique.

She was one of the thousands of women who had been imprisoned and tortured by the Baathist regime. Joumana stepped forward with a detailed account of her experience. Her story wasn’t so much who she was as where she was.

I was called to a meeting at the Al Rasheed Hotel in the Green Zone. The last time I had entered the elite hotel in 1997, I had needed to step over the mosaic tiles that formed George H. W. Bush’s face with the caption “Bush Is Criminal.” The scene five years later was straight out of Bollywood: the hotel now crawled with U.S. soldiers with George W. Bush as their commander in chief.

My meeting was with Judge Donald Campbell. I came armed with some background information on him courtesy of Google. He was a decorated Vietnam veteran and a retired judge from the Superior Court in New Jersey. Currently, he was a senior advisor to the Ministry of Justice and fortified with the prior experience of reforming a dilapidated judicial system in Haiti under the iron fist of a dictator.

Judge Campbell would be interviewing me to see if I could be trusted to meet Joumana. I was immediately impressed by the man’s humble nature. He expressed concern for Joumana and her children, and he was eager to hear my recommendations. My first response was to offer ways to reintegrate her into Iraqi society, mainly through income generation and women’s support groups. Judge Campbell shook his head and explained that her situation was beyond reintegration. This wasn’t just another woman who had been tortured by the Baathists. This was a woman willing to go on the record. She represented the most sought-after commodity in a country scavenging for evidence of war crimes: intelligence. Joumana was providing names, locations, and details.

The CPA had stumbled upon her courtesy of good old investigative reporting: an article on the front page of the
Washington Post
. The headline
A Lone Woman Testifies to Iraq’s Order of Terror
had caught the attention of top-level government officials from the Potomac to the Tigris. I was told that her stories of torture were verified after a medical examination revealed circular scars resembling the diameter of a cigarette. Other scars indicated she had been tied and even bitten by dogs. The
Post
article had been picked up by a local Iraqi magazine and translated into Arabic. The journalist from the
Post
had used her real name, and the Iraqi magazine had drawn a caricature to accompany the story.

It would not be hard for anyone to find her. Thus it was clear that Joumana was in grave danger.

Apparently, I was not the only one to draw this conclusion. Joumana had friends in high places in the U.S. government as a result of the
Post
article, and an impromptu witness protection program had been formed to protect her.

This included moving Joumana, her mother, and her two children into a trailer behind one of Saddam’s palaces inside the Green Zone.

Judge Campbell was concerned for Joumana’s psychological well-being, and when rumors that an Arab American aid worker with a women’s NGO was in Baghdad, he was eager to make a connection on her behalf. Now that he had met me, he asked if I would like to meet her. Curious, I agreed.

The only person who accompanied me was Yusuf, who was waiting for me at the convention center. This provided great comfort for me because he had proven repeatedly that he was the most reliable of my three staffers. Yusuf was extremely cautious, and he always encouraged me to plan ahead. He was impeccably on time and always completed his tasks right away. Being that caution was contrary to my nature, I found it simpler to have him do that kind of planning for me.

I had assumed the meeting with Judge Campbell would be brief and had set up meetings directly afterward. Yusuf had warned me to block off a few hours since meetings in the Green Zone always ran long. I had scheduled the other meetings anyway, and I didn’t have any of the attendees’ phone numbers to call should I need to cancel or reschedule a meeting. So I sheepishly called Yusuf and told him I would be another few hours. Naturally, he had all the necessary numbers for my other meetings. He agreed to call and postpone these meetings to the next day. He also reassured me that he would wait for me until I returned.

This was my first tour inside the Green Zone beyond the convention center. I was escorted on a shuttle bus, which was predominately used for the Iraqi staffers who worked in the Green Zone. The workers shuffled onto the shuttle, each one trying to keep some distance from the others lest they be recognized outside the security of the Green Zone.

My escort walked me through the security check point and into the palace that housed the office of Ambassador Paul Bremer. She stopped by the ambassador’s office to introduce me to his assistant and some members of his staff. They all expressed personal concerns for Joumana’s safety. Judge Campbell’s words were still spinning in my head, and I could not shake off a surreal feeling. The view of Saddam’s palace and a sea of U.S. Army uniforms was overwhelming. I simply was not able to absorb my surroundings. It was a far cry from the streets of Baghdad, the local restaurants I now frequented, and my tattered hotel on the outskirts of Karrada. This place belonged to a different era. The marble floors were pristine, the gold finishing shouted opulence, and the massive halls represented prosperity. Saddam and his cronies had magically been removed from the stage and replaced by a new set of actors.

Reality only set in after I found myself inside the trailer that housed Joumana. I found her lying on a bed positioned parallel to a side wall. Instantly Joumana pounced off the bed and into my arms.

I was taken aback by her embrace, and she exclaimed in Arabic, “Manal Omar. They told me you would come, but I did not believe them. I did not believe an Arab sister would come to see me. I cannot tell you how happy I am you did.”

I was so shocked I could not find any words to respond. I had never met Joumana or even heard of her until an hour ago. Lucky for me a response wasn’t needed. Joumana instantly launched into her story.

She was the only daughter of a prominent Assyrian Christian family. They lived in one of the most affluent Baghdad neighborhoods, near Arassat al-Hindya Street. She was spoiled by her parents and was considered one of the most beautiful women in the city. This was not hard to imagine after taking in Joumana’s blondish hair and blue green eyes. An Iraqi woman could possess the physique of an ogre and the face of a wicked stepsister out of a Brothers Grimm story but still be considered beautiful simply for her pale skin and fair features. Joumana proudly declared that despite the many men who had courted her, she decided to marry for love.

Joumana turned toward a box that contained her belongings. She pulled out a picture. It was a young and indeed very beautiful Joumana dressed in a red
salwar kameez
draped in gold. In the middle of her forehead was the traditional red dot that symbolized an Indian woman.

“
Naseebi kan Hindi
(My destiny was an Indian),” she sighed. The love of her life was a poor Indian man, and she explained the photo had been taken on her wedding night. Another photo showed her next to a tall, dark, handsome man. She smiled at the photo, and for a moment I thought she forgot I was there.

“I loved him. Although our love destroyed both our lives.”

Joumana told me that she had married the Indian man against her parents’ wishes and had two children. She smiled as she explained the significance of the names of her children: Saber and Ayoub. She explained that Saber meant patience in Arabic, and Ayoub was named for the prophet Ayoub (Job) who has throughout time represented patience and steadfastness.

“See, from the first day I knew God would test my patience. I knew it because he sent me the hardest man to love in all of Iraq.”

Indeed, according to Joumana’s story, her marriage brought only heartache, torture, and eventually death for her husband. She explained that their marriage was considered illegal since her husband, despite being born in Iraq, was not an Iraqi. When Joumana tried to use her family connections to get state permission from the presidential family, they were both imprisoned. Joumana was sent to Loose Dogs Prison in Baghdad for two and a half years. Her husband was later released and then imprisoned again and killed.

Joumana was now sitting back on the bed. I was overwhelmed—by the environment, by the story, but most of all by being treated like I was one of Joumana’s long-lost kindergarten buddies. No wonder everyone in the CPA felt so protective of her. She spoke with an innocence that made it hard to believe she was a forty-year-old mother of two. She only paused for a few seconds before launching into the story of her own imprisonment. She explained how they raped, sodomized, and tortured her and the other women. She shared the stories of the other women, many of whom were merely teenagers.

“Manal,” she said, using my name with such familiarity, “they would tie me to a tree trunk. Rub meat all over my body, and then let loose the damned dogs of that damned Uday. I have marks on my body to prove it,” she said and made a motion to take off her shirt. I quickly moved to stop her. There was no need for her to be more intimate than necessary.

I probably would have been in the trailer for hours, listening to Joumana’s horrific stories, but we were interrupted by a couple of young soldiers who were bringing Joumana’s two children back from swimming in Saddam’s Olympic-size pool. Seven-year-old Saber and five-year-old Ayoub noisily jumped into the trailer and ran to hug their mother. They were beautiful children. Their naturally brown skin had taken on an even deeper shade, most likely as a result of hanging out at the pool since moving into the Green Zone.

I watched as the children turned to greet their grandmother. She had been sitting so silently in the corner of the trailer that I hadn’t even realized she was there. The grandmother took the pause in conversation as an opportunity to interject her own thoughts on her daughter’s situation.

“Binti, my daughter,” she said to me. “Please do not repeat my daughter’s words. They come at a grave price. Already we are imprisoned in this trailer, and I can only imagine it will get worse. I have begged her to remain silent. But she has never listened to me and insists on dragging all of us to hell.”