Home at Last - a reporter's life

I’m starting to get emails from people wondering where I am, so it must be time for my quarterly update.

I’ve arrived back in Santa Fe after one of the more amazing summers of my life. I still haven’t finished my book, but there’s more time for that later. So now I’m replanting myself back at home – at least until springtime when the winds will carry me… well, somewhere else.

This summer and since I’ve returned home I’ve been in contact with several friends I met in Iraq. Some of them have since finished their tours; some are on their way out. All are alive and doing well. I was so happy to get notes and calls and perhaps wasn’t aware of the weight I carried knowing they were still in a dangerous place, while I was able to fly away.

The most exciting updates are about my dear, wonderful Iraqi friends:
First, babe squad member and translator NADEEM finally made it to England!!!! Yes, he and the band are practicing daily and getting used to a Western lifestyle they’ve been dreaming of for years.

HUSSEIN was released from his Iraqi kidnappers after 157 days in captivity. I met him and his family in a Paris suburb where we shared food, stories and tears. He was a shell of his strong, former self. “They beat me and wouldn’t even let me pray,” he said of his captors. “They are not Muslim, they are criminals,” he said. Hussein was fortunate to get amnesty and a job, but he still yearned for Iraq. Sura, my Iraqi sister and Hussein’s wife, was thrilled. “I never want to go back. Never.” The family is doing well in their new western home. Much love to you all.

So now for a little story about life as a journalist.

During my goodbye party on the Pont des Arts on the Seine I got a call from one of my bosses in the US: would I be willing to go directly to Texas, instead of New Mexico, to help report on Hurricane Rita which was destined to come ashore within two days?
Er, suuurre, I’d love to. I spent the rest of the evening and well into the early hours of the morning trying by phone to divert my flight home, but to no avail. I’d try again in the morning, I told myself.
In Chicago I learned the Houston airport had already closed down but managed to cram myself onto a San Antonio flight I’d learned about from a French hand surgeon I sat next to on the flight out of Paris. San Antonio was overwhelmed with evacuees from Houston and at 11 pm I was assured there was nowhere to stay – “not even one of those rooms you rent by the hour,” one woman cackled to me.
My new French friend came to my rescue and, in exchange for my help on the speech he was to give the next day on some obscure surgical procedure, he offered me half his hotel room. I had little choice but to sheepishly agree. Merci, Stephane!

The next day I waited far too long in my San Antonio hotel room, hoping, somehow, to find a means of venturing into the eye of the storm under some military or otherwise protection. But by 1pm with little response and a boss wanting me at the eye of the storm, I knew I had to move. I had the state of Texas to cross to get to Beaumont and a hurricane scheduled to come ashore around midnight. Oh my. I swung up to Austin to get a satellite phone (my French line was dead) and tore across Texas to meet my fate. The freeway to Houston and then the city itself was completely empty. It was abandoned. There was nothing. No gas, no food, no cute coffee stops. As night fell and the winds began picking up in earnest I took a deep breath and followed the signs east for Beaumont. Watching Houston disappear in my rear view mirror, I wondered if this would be one of the worst decisions I ever made, irreversible and soon to be out of my control. We journalists are so stupid sometimes, I said to myself slamming my hand into the steering wheel. We’re so driven by sensationalism – and, ok, adventure. I had joked with my boss that I wasn’t going to strap myself to a tree but suddenly this seemed a close second.

The rains began pouring down and my small Nissan swept from one side of the highway to the other as I raced toward the storm. I looked for any possible spots to take shelter in the event I could not, or would not, go on. Minutes later with my heart racing I pulled my car over and took some deep breaths. I could barely see anything through the windshield and I wondered just how bad this was about to get. By now I couldn’t really turn around because I knew Houston even less than Beaumont and at least in Beaumont I had a hotel room reserved. Then I saw a cop car pass me. Followed by a coast guard truck pulling a rescue boat. Without thinking I pounded the gas and raced after them. I flashed my lights and made the cop pull over. “Are you going to Beaumont?” I screamed through the wind and rain. “Yup.” “Can I follow you? And will you make sure you don’t lose me?” “Sure, lets go.”
Suddenly everything was ok. Even if all three cars were swept up into a tornado I felt better about it, less alone. I hate working alone, I decided that night. It’s really old. So we caravanned into the town of Beaumont, occasionally stopping to wait for the boat that was practically blown off the highway. My Nissan was amazing. Just get me to shelter and I’ll do an advertisement for the company, I said.
Thank God I followed these two. I had no idea where I would have pulled off, my sat phone didn’t work and the wind was getting dangerously strong. They led me to a towering white building and told me to run inside. I staggered through the wind and just barely made it into the shelter --tho didn’t have enough time to get my round of Camembert and the bottle of wine I had been trailing since Paris. It turns out the central information center was where - shock and awe - every other journalist was staying, including several I had met in Baghdad. Ah, the reunion. Did I mention my Camembert was still fermenting in the trunk of my car. Very sad.
After making the rounds and planning the morning attack with the photographer I was to meet up somewhere, somehow, I made myself a bed from a pile of donated clothes for hurricane victims and tried to go to sleep. At 3 am someone was yelling for us to move toward the center of the building. The windows of the supposedly hurricane-proof building were snapping in and shattering onto the ground below. I made my way to the window to see that my car was still in the parking lot – and thankfully it still was, waving in the wind between two big SUVs. It was the best I could do, having missed all the high ground parking spaces.

I met the photographer the next day and we set to work looking for barricaded civilians and stories of rescue. We toured various sites, always aware of the lack of gas, the lack of food and the warnings of danger. He was careful to hide his extra gas tanks: they can be confiscated in the name of a national emergency, he told me ominously.

Hurricane Rita was considered a non-event to most media, despite the fact that entire towns, such as Cameron, LA, were essentially wiped off the map. Still, I pushed, spending my days interviewing survivors, including one amazing couple that had also survived Hurricane Audrey in 1957 (They also put me up and fed me! because there were no hotels. Thank you both). If for no other reason, Rita, like Katrina, was an eye opener of what it feels like to run out of resources in a country that thinks the well will never run dry. It was terrifying. But also a reminder of the kindness of strangers.

Then I made my way to New Orleans where I would take a day to assess the situation before flying home. One month after Katrina – I repeat: 30 days later – I couldn’t believe my eyes. And the smell… That’s what doesn’t come across in photos or on TV. I joined an EMT squad, which joined a humane society caravan, which called on an FBI team, and together we spent our day tearing down doors and breaking windows to save terrified and starving dogs left by their owners to die. We saw the animals by chance – a face peering through a window in an upper level apartment, bark, a neighbor. The animals were then taken to a huge compound overflowing with more than 2500 animals. But I couldn’t go there. It would make me cry – or worse, I’d go home with four dogs.

I drove into the French Quarter, which was eerily like the Green Zone, packed with contractors and soldiers marauding around like gangs, frequenting the few bars and strip joints that had just opened. The Quarter was generally off limits to citizens, even those willing to pay the exorbitant $300 hotel fees (how do you sayyy price gauging?). One of my interviewees said I could stay in an extra condo he had nearby. Being me, I agreed. He led me to a beautiful, furnished apartment, pointed out the TV, washing machine and fluffy linens, then gave me the key and left. This time, in this setting, it was too odd. I was so paranoid, I couldn’t sleep a wink. Good going, Z. The next day I left.

By the time I got on the plane I had already heard the hurricane story was killed. It wasn’t big enough, devastating enough, Katrina-like enough. And plus, Demi Moore had just gotten married.

Speaking of things that make you crazy, there’s one more thing I have to add:

There have been so many people who helped me and Laurent with the Baghdad Project. And there are a few I never sufficiently recognized. It was a stress thing. It happened at one of the Baghdad Project readings. The lights switched on and I began to speak to a crowded auditorium, and suddenly I went blank. I looked at my wonderful friends and volunteer readers for the night and I felt myself getting nervous. Then I was so terrified of forgetting a name – a friend’s name, due to my shameful alzheimers – that I didn’t mention a single one. I regret it to this day. I’m so sorry. And while it’s quite late I want to thank you all now.

Thank you Bill Depuy from KSFR radio, Santa Fe’s independent radio station for your fabulous support and stellar, booming voice. www.ksfr.org

Thank you Jenny and Matt Laessig from El Paradero Bed and Breakfast. Jen is an actress in her own right and one of my long time friends. www.elparadero.com

Thank you Max Friedenberg of High Mayhem Emerging Arts, a not-for-profit emerging arts facility, record label and multimedia production collective based in Santa Fe. www.highmayhem.org

And thanks to Tomas Rivera, a local artist who didn’t even know me but came and participated on short notice because he believed in what I was doing and wanted The Baghdad Project to succeed.

THANK YOU ALL!!

Sri Lanka and Paris

Where to begin? Since I left Iraq I’ve been back to Turkey, to Sri Lanka twice and am now residing in Paris until the end of the summer. Pas mal, eh?

At the risk of turning into a spokesperson for the Paris tourist bureau, this place is simply amazing in August. I really never knew. There is live music all the time. They’ve even turned the banks of the Seine into a carnivalesque beach scene, complete with beach chairs, sand, dance lessons, rock climbing and more. In front of the historic Hotel de Ville is a full-on four court beach volleyball championship going on every night. And across the banks are groups of revelers dancing salsa, tango and folkloric until midnight every night. C’est fou!!! I could go on…
And amid all the madness, and sometimes drunk with fatigue, I am managing to write almost daily. In fact, I try not to let myself out of my room until late afternoon otherwise I’ll never come back in. Plus, I’ll spend too much money. Paris is crazy expensive. But my Lord it’s fun!!! And many thanks to my generous cousin and family who have given me a room for the summer. Surely I couldn’t do it without them.

But before Paris there was another trip to Sri Lanka. One of these days I will upload photos - and I really thought today would be the day - but technology is always working against me (sorry, carol). So there’s the rough 101 text on Sri Lanka, as I see it:

My first trip to Sri Lanka was spent entirely on the western and southern coasts, primarily in a vegetative state as I recovered from Iraq. I wasn’t at that moment ready to engage the post tsunami society head on. My second trip was meant to be a bit more directed. The month and a half stay this summer was spent almost entirely in Arugam Bay on the eastern coast, a surfer’s paradise that was devastated by last December’s tidal wave. Six months later, I was hoping to find a reconstruction effort in full swing, with hardly a remnant of the wave’s destruction visible from the road. Nothing could be further from the truth. Sri Lanka is still in a state of stasis while officials from various agencies and NGOs decide how to rebuild the island. Much of the confusion comes from a law the government now threatens to enforce, that forbids people from building within 100 meters of the shoreline on the west coast and 200 meters on the east coast. As the government negotiates alternative plots of land, either buying from farmers or using land already in government hands, people wait for something permanent. And they wait for handouts.

“It’s a wound they don’t want to heal; if it did the handouts would stop,” said one cynical Colombo native. It is obvious that the landslide of handouts directly following the tsunami has greatly impacted the island. It’s The Golden Wave, as many islanders call it, as it has brought untold riches to some, nothing to others. A man who had no boat now has three. A man who lived in a shack now has two homes. Indeed the uneven dispersal of funds has created not just enmity, but all out fighting between communities and within communities. And all this before international aid money or government help has even reached the people in any substantial way. The Sinhalese government claims it hasn’t received the promised funds. It is possible they’ve only received a portion, as aid should be doled out slowly, generally over two years and only as it pertains to an established plan of action, to avoid graft and corruption. Yet the funds it has received can hardly be located. Though there are hundreds of brand new luxury vehicles touring Sri Lanka that never before existed. None of this is lost on the Sinhalese people.

The added delicacy of the situation on the eastern coast, particularly in the north, is that it is home to the island’s roughly 30% Tamil population, and its armed resistance faction, the LTTE. The LTTE has been fighting for equal access to jobs, education and the legal system, among other things, since 1956 when the then prime minister declared the official language of Sri Lanka to be Sinhala; those speaking only Tamil would have to adapt. The declaration took what was by most accounts an equal society and overnight divided it into first and second-class citizens. There was a ceasefire declared between the government and the LTTE in 2002, but many Tamils and Sinhalese feel it was a contract between two factions of government officials against armed conflict, with little resonance for the rest of the population. Injustices and inequality still exist today, they say. The idea of separate but equal had its lifespan in the US, in the end prompting the notion that separate was in fact not equal. In Sri Lanka it’s a concept whose time has not yet come. Armed conflict is certainly not the answer (and the LTTE have certainly used their share of car bombings, shootings, etc) but the two sides have yet to find a common ground. In the meantime, aid becomes a political tool.

As the east coast sits among its post tsunami rubble, often lacking even for food and fresh water, the government fears that any funds given will go into buying arms. One of the few NGOs I encountered that got the thumbs up from every person I spoke to was the Tamil Rehabilitation Organization (TRO), funded in large part by international donors through the LTTE. TRO are careful to distance themselves from the LTTE saying their funding may have come in some part from the rebels but the aid organization is certainly not filled with rebel members. But the possibility of an LTTE aid organization has kept most larger and international NGOs from officially recognizing the TRO. At the time I was there the Sinhalese government was supposed to recognize them as part of a joint mechanism strengthening the ceasefire. Many citizens care little about the politics of it all. “If the LTTE are the only people who support us now, then we will have no problem supporting them later,” said a man of the TRO, as he stood in the rubble of his home, which was finished just 58 days before the tsunami brought it crashing to the ground.

Regardless of who the TRO members actually are or where funding might eventually go if it were ever given out, the truth is that tensions are mounting on the east cost of Sri Lanka and any ceasefire seems in name only. There were 61 deaths in 32 days the month I was there, almost six times the average. I asked the 28-year old head of an LTTE office if he thought it was a sign of things to come. He and the men seated around him nodded in unison. “Things will certainly get worse before they get better.” Their take is that the government is creating the violence and is the only one to benefit at this point in time from an ongoing war. The government claims the lack of stability from terrorism is preventing proper reconstruction of the area, despite their best efforts.

And I haven’t even begun to describe the mess of aid workers, volunteers and locals. Stay tuned for a much longer piece soon. And of course, photos…

The View From Iraq in Photos

Please be forewarned that some of the photos at the end of this posting might be difficult but I was told by many veterans that what they wanted was a more honest view of what Iraqis were living. So I've posted a few shots just to give you all an idea.

In Iraq the lines for gas go for blocks. Many wait up to 16 hours and still leave empty handed.


So many prefer not to wait at all. Instead, they head to a black market vendor generally located nearby the gas station. US soldiers warned me not to head back to do interviews, but I wanted to see for myself.

They were wise to warn me considering the terrorists I found lurking there.


In Khadamiya children play in raw sewage and are ALWAYS eager to have their photos taken, much to the dismay of this photographer. US soldiers are working on fixing the sewer lines.


A typical soldier's room on base.


Iraqi translators who work with the occupation as they call it, are threatened daily. This man poses in front of a mural of a colleague recently killed.

During Ashura religious festival we patroled the streets near the Khadamiya mosque.


This woman made the pilgrimmage during the day. The things she has seen...


But the day was not without its terror.


This child probably would have survived had he been in the states but on this day we guessed that he would not.

No one is sure exactly where the bomb went off. Or how many explosions there were.

End of the day exhaustion. Tomorrow we do it again.

After Iraq, the deluge

I travel a lot. Really a lot. Maybe too much. I’ve decided that when I don’t take the time to reflect on the travels I’ve done then I’m really just a passing tourist. And that’s not what I want to do or be. I had one month in New Mexico after my return from Iraq and Sri Lanka before heading out again for my grandmother’s 90th birthday in the south of France. During that time I had to make a bit of money, do my taxes, prepare to rent my house, try to sell articles in the works and give several requested presentations on Iraq while trying to integrate some very difficult and confusing experiences. It wasn’t enough time and I hope not to do it again. You heard it here now: I’m wanting and needing to slow down a bit. Stop, think, write and prepare. That said, it won’t happen any time soon as I’ll be overseas probably until the end of the summer. At that point, I’ll work long enough to prepare my winter sojourn to warmer climates.

Anyway, the birthday was lovely – a chic affair at my cousin’s summer house in Cassis, a destination for the rich on the Cote D’Azur. There was plenty of food, wine, cheese, more cheese, some cream and sugar, plenty more wine, lots of desserts, and some champagne, followed by a bit of wine. We were content. And luckily my pre-trip alcohol tolerance building exercises were successful.
Now I’m back at my grandmother’s home of Uzes, a small town with blue shutters surrounded by vineyards and big farmhouses made of thick, white stones. I can walk the perimeter of the town in about twenty minutes, which I try to do at least once a day, if not twice or three times. Had the airline not “misplaced” my suitcase on the flight out, I might even jog it a few times in my nice running shoes. Yes, that’s right. My suitcase was lost by the airline, found at one point, and then misplaced again somewhere between Paris and the south. I feel fairly confident that the bag will find its way back to me, and in the meantime I’ve been forced (forced!) to buy myself a few crucial items: some sandals, a little frilly skirt, a halter top for the summer heat and a packet of contact lenses parce ce que j’en ai marre de mes lunettes. But all the careful packing I did (and those who helped judge the pre trip fashion shows are surely smiling) for lavish festivities surrounding and including my grandmother’s party—the scoop neck gowns, high heels and dressy slacks -- were ultimately replaced by ill-fitting and stylistically incompatible clothes, including a carousel of different shoes meant to offset the growing colony of blisters on my feet (including ones on the soles of my feet when I ultimately had to walk barefoot). Heck, I couldn’t even get my hands on a razor or a good stick of deodorant before the party. Ah, vanity! ah, humility! But family members were great and generous with their extra clothes and the tale of the lost bag was always a good focal point of any conversation, lest we start to bicker, as families are wont to do. Actually, I’m not sure what I’ll do when I do get my suitcase because it takes losing it all to realize how little we really need.
My trip is lasting as long as it is because I agreed before leaving for Iraq to rent my home to the Santa Fe Opera, and I felt compelled to follow through on the contract once I returned. I’ve no doubt my summer visitors will love my beautiful home and in the end it’s a good excuse to go somewhere without internet or phones to write. Now if I can only get that ticket to Sri Lanka. Or India. Or…

So now I’m running to catch up with my life and experiences. Excuse that my postings will jump from France to Sri Lanka to Iraq with a dash of Santa Fe. That’s just the way life is sometimes.

Suicide bomber

It’s not that I didn’t see any death last time around. It’s just that I didn’t see so much of it, and it wasn’t so overwhelming. The death here is awful. It's horrible and inhuman. Bodies aren't even bodies anymore. Which is why it’s so easy not to see them.

It didn’t hit me until much later that theseare scenes that soldiers (and certainly Iraqis) see too often. It isn’t only the killing that stays with them afterwards (as I've been examining. so many of them tell me they don’t know if they’ve killed people, don’t know where the bullets landed when they sprayed), it’s the images of death. The kind of death that lets you believe there aren’t families attached to these bits of flesh. There aren’t mothers and fathers wondering where there loved ones are or if they’ll be home for dinner. It’s another suicide bombing, just like the day before and the day before that. Just like the one that might go off tomorrow. One day sooner to going home.

This day there were just over a dozen bodies, maybe more it's hard to tell. Then I hear about a hundred dead on the same day and I am so relieved I was not there. Again, bits of human beings who may never even be claimed because they are not recognizable. They will be among the "disappeared" of Iraq, never counted because Americans don't do those counts and Iraqis have lost count. The first suicide was difficult and then the next I was on automatic and I knew it was time to go.

It was the smell. I couldn’t get it off of my clothes, out of my hair, or away from that space below my nose that is known to turn odor to memories. I stood under the shower for more than an hour but immediately sensed it again once the water was off. Burnt flesh. Too many people. Kids. One barely breathing when we arrived and I wanted so badly for him to be dead so he wouldn’t suffer any more. Shreds of skin and hair, clothes and metal and melting plastic. It’s just like a movie, people had told me, and it’s true. Just like a horror flick but this time no one stands up, dusts himself off and prepares for the next scene.

Just moments before this we were seated around an Iraqi feast, offered by farmers from Amarra: rice, soup, dates and homemade yoghurt. We left when someone called over the radio that an IP vehicle was on fire in the street at one of the pilgrimage entry points. They said there were casualties. So we went.

The worst part is that in many ways I was unmoved. I took photos, my hands shaking only a bit in the beginning. I wondered what kind of photo it would be: prurient interest or a story to tell. Some images are too gruesome even to look at, to know how flesh is so empty once soul is gone. Would I want anyone else to see the images I now have in my head? But I couldn’t stop, as if to show how horrible it really could be, and also how normal.

I hear later there were police officers crying and beating themselves with their rifles (I missed the shot). And a man burned from head to toe who was still alive when medics arrived. I was on the other side of the street trying to figure out if the boy in the major’s arms would survive. Or how long it would be before someone would tell me to leave. Could I really be standing in the middle of all this and no one is noticing? Someone quickly hands me a loaded pistol as he bends to check if someone is alive. I hold it in my left hand and my camera in my right wondering which deserves more attention. I contemplate where to put the gun – think about my pants pocket or tucked into my waistband. I laugh for a moment at the thought of me shooting myself in the leg, laugh only because everything is too absurd. I run back to an American soldier and hand him the gun – “take it, I can’t hold this,” I tell him, and he will tease me about it later.

One Iraqi man led me to the worst of sights, and then to another to make sure I recorded the damage. “It’s my son,” he says pointing to a scrambled pile of metal and blood that once was a school bus. Too many feet to tell which son he was talking about. And then he was gone, a mirage disappearing into the smoke-filled street. I remember there were Iraqi dinar on the ground and for one dissociative moment - just a fleeting moment - I forgot why it was there and wondered if I should pick it up and put it in my pocket. Did others have the same lapse as they pushed aside a dismembered head to steal bus fare while police secured the scene? My black boots with deep grooves were thick and sticky. I swore that day to throw them away, that cleaning would not get rid of the mess or the memory. (which I still can’t get myself to do. This will be a story in itself). In time most of the recognizable bodies were covered and then removed, so it became more like a normal car crash except for the head that still lay in the middle of the street (why the fuck couldn’t they take away the head?) and the woman who was next to it on her back with her hands and feet splayed. At least her face was covered. And the pair of feet next to her that wore those damn tennis shoes. Don’t even know if it was a suicide bomber but they wear tennis shoes, not sandals like the others, to run fast, the soldiers tell me. Looking at the photos later – there is one that still makes me close my eyes -- I see the body of the American soldier crumpled on the street. I don’t even remember seeing him really, except maybe his soft, young face from close up, before they lifted him into a blue bag and carefully carried him away. But there he was, America’s finest, another casualty of this stupid war. And the translator who was with him. Her body was already gone by the time we arrived. (Later I will embrace her close friend as she weeps uncontrollably. This, I think is the hardest part. It isn’t blood and soulless bodies, but those who are left behind who are the most difficult to document. So we stand in a dark hallway and she cries and I tell her she will be all right and try to allay her fears that the Americans will not abandon her, all the while hoping I am not telling a lie. I just don’t know.)

Then suddenly every vehicle is a potential car bomb and the street is cleared. The US robot motors out to check on cars and one, then I think two, bombs are dismantled. But to me every vehicle will hold a bomb and I’d rather be in the middle of destruction than near destruction about to happen.

In a moment of comic relief I must use the restroom. A translator cannot believe when I ask him to help me find a loo. “Aren’t you afraid?” he asks. “Of a bathroom? When I’m standing in front of a bomb scene?” He decides to help me and asks a bystander if I may use the bathroom in his house. The Iraqi is gracious, as they are, and agrees right away. A US major screams that the place is not secure and when I emerge from the loo there are three soldiers in this poor man’s living room. I apologize, and leave.

I am completely calm as we walk back to the humvees and the soldiers joke about the uptight major and what’s for dinner. I almost want to join in but haven’t the stomach, watch instead as an exhausted Iraqi translator climbs into the humvee, takes off his helmet and stares into the seat in front of him.

The soldiers make fun of the frightened ING – call the Iraqi General “Puss in Boots” -- and I don’t care. I am enraged the Iraqis are hiding in nearby buildings as US soldiers secure the scene. I can’t imagine how they will secure their country if they are too afraid to be in the middle of what I have seen.

Two weeks later I am sitting in Sri Lanka watching an outdoor movie with three small children stuck to my sides and in my lap just wanting to be held. I remember sitting in front of a television in Iraq watching the Tsunami unfold on Fox (all they had). Soldiers on both sides on numerous days said how much they wished they could be there. “At least we’d feel like we’re doing something and helping people. No one wants us here,” they said to anyone who would listen. Indeed the Marines in Sri Lanka are considered heroes, miracle workers, for fixing the streets, the rail line, the water. I wish more soldiers could be here too, for healing. Or just to feel like they were being used for something good in the world. Or maybe just to feel like they weren’t being used.

So you want to freelance in Iraq?

I have decided that hands down the most difficult aspect of working in Iraq is finding a good and trusted driver and translator. The task is fraught with stress, complications, immense monetary negotiations and a great deal of language differences to boot. But the task is also the most essential because as journalists well know, you are only as good as your fixer.

This wasn’t an issue when I was with the military but it did become important once I made my way back to the “Red Zone” to my old haunt at the Al Dulaimi hotel in downtown Baghdad. I had the pick of hotel rooms, I was told. “This hotel is yours, Zayluh. You pay whatever you want.” (though in the end they charged me what they wanted – a fair price, I might add). I was hoping to have input about working conditions from Nadeem and also from Hussein, my two closest Iraqi friends from my prior visit. But Nadeem, I learn, has flown to Amman, on his way to be a big rock star in London. I love him for it. Hussein has not been heard from since he was kidnapped last January. I don’t dare contact his wife. So I must begin again with these precarious negotiations, but in a climate so drastically different from the last time.

Mohammed: I hear from another journalist that he used to translate for the Americans at Abu Ghraib and had to leave because his life was so threatened. It’s been a while now and the man needs work. I’m happy to oblige.

He calls from the lobby and I go down to meet him, then bring him to my room as I don’t want people in the lobby to overhear my plans for the next two days. He reluctantly sits down and I tell him what I need: he will go to the Communist Headquarters the following morning and arrange an interview for me with a woman’s activist as soon as possible. His forehead becomes beaded with sweat and though it’s been freezing all day long I do notice he has on a thick sweater and jacket. Perhaps he’s overheating. He asks if I have an abaya and I say I do. I will cover my head with a hat and a scarf, and my body will be enveloped in the traditional black gown. I will change my shoes (as I’m currently wearing sneakers) and we will not be out long. “And you cannot smile,” he tells me. “Iraqi women do not smile.”
I smile and nod my head. “I know.”
“And you cannot talk too much.”
“Pardon me?”
“The Italian journalist was kidnapped from the mosque here, down the street. I heard that she talked a lot.”
Again, I need clarification.
“You mean the interview was too long? Or did she speak loudly? Or maybe she came too many times to interview. I did hear she had visited more than once.”
“Yes, you mustn’t talk too much.”
“We will be safe, I know,” I tell him.
“Inshallah, inshallah.”
He is assigned to go to the Women’s center in Iraq the next morning and arrange the interview for me for the following afternoon. It is a simple task, and one that does not include a Western girl sitting in the back of his car long. He seems hesitant, or perhaps he’s still nervous sitting in a room with a female and a closed door. I apologize again for this situation. I am extremely nervous about my safety, and want plans discussed in utmost privacy.
“Yes, yes,” he says he understands. “We will pray to God for safety.”

The next morning he does not show and by the afternoon there still is no word. I know he needed time to find the women’s center located on a small sidestreet near the Palestine Hotel with an entryway that is often obscured. But that morning there has been a car bomb at a busy intersection and I am beginning to worry. Initially I thought perhaps he was delayed by the traffic; then I wondered if he may have been among the wounded. I finally reach him by phone and he tells me he tried to call one of my friends in the morning to tell him he could not come, his car is broken. He did not think of calling my hotel.
“I’m just glad you’re safe. So how long until it is fixed?” I ask.
“Two maybe three weeks.”
“Oh.”
My Iraqi friend Sadiq is in my room and looks at me confused. “Three weeks? He can have two or three cars by then,” he jokes. We laugh, but it has nothing to do with mechanics or delays; it is clear that his reluctance is about fear and the dangers of working with, being seen with a western woman, regardless of how completely I cover my face and body. My eyes will give it away.
“It’s not about the car, Sadiq," I say after getting off the phone, but Sadiq knows.
However, my time here is getting short and if I don’t find someone who will work with me I won’t accomplish anything at all. I am a bit hamstrung because as a freelancer I cannot pay the enormous sums that outlets like NBC and Time are paying. I am willing to make the driver/translator the greatest part of my budget in Iraq – if I can only find someone I trust. I trusted Nadeem and Hussein intrinsically. These days I can’t find anyone.

I go next door to the Getty pad, a fully wired top-floor room in the Al Hamra hotel, and ask a photographer if he has any driver translator to recommend. One of the translators in the Getty pad says he has a friend who is good and who needs work, and who has worked with journalists before. He calls him immediately and then says he is coming downstairs to meet me. It’s all happening a bit quickly and I ask my friend Joe if he knows the man. Joe knows nothing. And to make matters worse, the man doing the recommending is new to Getty. Ugh. I want to take a leap of faith but when ransom for a western woman could fetch more money than months of work, “trust” takes on new meaning. Still, if I want to work in Iraq on my own, I have to move on this.

So I go downstairs and meet Adil. I like his face but am not yet willing to climb into a vehicle with him. We try a first assignment - the same one I had for Mohammed - to go to the Communist headquarters and arrange an interview with the female activist. He’s then to go by Yarmouk hospital and inquire about a female doctor there and arrange an interview with ehr. I interviewed the doctor last year and wrote as much on a small note that Adil was to hand to the doctors with my name and address.
Three hours pass and I finally receive a call that the doctor cannot be found, but the activist can meet when I’d like. The activist and I have a nice phone conversation and for this first day I feel satisfied enough with Adil’s work. We meet to discuss the next day’s plans and I tell him I would also like to go to Khadimiya, where the Shiites are having a pilgrimage.
“No, it’s far too dangerous for you. You must stay here in the Karada district. Believe me.”
As far as I’m concerned Khadimiya is one of the safer areas in Iraq as it’s full of Shias, and unless something tragic happens, like a car bomb, the people there are more accepting of westerners. But he will not go. I wonder if it’s because he’s Sunni. Plus, his English is not so good so he wants me to find another translator. He knows a good one, he says – they all seem to know someone – so he whips out his phone and dials a friend, then begins speaking quickly in Arabic. I say I would like to meet any translator before heading out, so he calls the translator who is Jordanian and has him speak to me, assuming that will be enough. Sure, he sounds fine on the phone, speaks English well enough, but it’s just not about skill at this point.

“If you do not trust me, I cannot work with you,” Adil tells me. I couldn’t agree more.
Iraqis are notorious liars and they see nothing wrong with lying to cover their lack of knowledge. I have had Iraqis lie directly to my face, even when confronted with the fact that I know they’re lying and have the proof in my hands. The other side is that they want to be trusted and if they are not it is considered a question of honor. On a day to day basis, people working in the Middle East have to take this cultural element with a grain of salt and factor it into any working condition. But when it comes to the kind of insanely dangerous working conditions in Iraq, the game becomes much more serious. So I decide to give it a bit more time.

The next day I decide to skip Khadimiya for the moment and start with something a bit less threatening. I’ll go to meet a good friend in his apartment on the other side of town and then we’ll return. Adil comes to my room and tells me I look “beautiful” all covered in black with only my eyes peering through (I’m sure he says that to all the journalists). But he’s still nervous.
“Why can’t I bring him here for the interview?” he asks when I explain the new plan. I appreciate his concern but his nervousness is making me nervous. I tell him the point is that I want to see my friend’s studio and film his newest artworks.
“Then we will need a second car. I’ll call my neighbor and he’ll follow us,” he says without pause. Now technically speaking a second car following us is a very wise idea, and I’m certainly not opposed in principal. But I’m just trying to get used to and trust one man, and we haven’t had much time together. He sees my hesitation
“Is it about cost? Only $15. I know him. He will just follow, wait and come back.”
Only $15? For Iraqis, that is more than most will make in any given day, but it is nothing for drivers working around the area. I immediately wonder if I’m being set up.

I’m also aware that I’m becoming totally paranoid and at some point you have to give it up or you will become paralyzed, which is pretty much the point I've reached. I wish someone would tell me that this person is ok, or that one, that climbing into a car with a stranger is something people do here to write stories. It is how we tell the story of Iraq.

“Please Ma’am. Let me bring him to you,” Adil pleads. Then I give up. At that moment I see his fear and I realize that we really must trust each other to go into the streets of Iraq. If he’s too afraid then I’ll be too afraid, and there’s no way we can do good work. Plus, we’re likely to get ourselves killed, which isn’t in my game plan at all. I realize that this time around it will take me longer to work in Iraq and longer to redevelop ties.
So I let the immediate need go. I stop trying to force things to come together and suddenly it becomes fun. I teach Adil to video and ask him to film my friend’s apartment, especially the Miro painting that was looted from Saddam’s art center then bought on the street for $100! Adil is worried about his skills and for a moment almost asks me to go with him. I can tease him now because I know he doesn’t want me in his car, plus I am enjoying teaching him how to film, and I don’t care if the product is perfect. It is a trust building exercise between us and for the moment it seems more important than anything else.

I spend only a few more days on my own (a total of ten days), conducting interviews around the Kerada area and only twice do a tour of the city in a beat up Toyota truck, sweating the entire time. I’m happy with the interviews I have – and in fact spend more time with individuals than I might have otherwise, but realize that I won’t get much more done given the circumstances. Plus, I have to return to base to attend a city council meeting.
Next door to the council house I have planned to meet a friend – the first person I interviewed last time I was in Iraq!!! I met him by chance while on patrol and have orchestrated a perfect rendezvous with the unknowing help of the military. And the council meetings are amazing: a mishmash of recycled complaints about sewer and garbage collection and why one of the council members hasn’t had his belongings returned after being mistakenly detained by US officials just before the election. Nearby is a center where Iraqis come to file complaints and apply for compensation for damage done or family members killed by US forces. (A story on this will completed soon). These are all operations I would not otherwise have access to and I am grateful. I tell Adil I will call him again when I am next in Iraq. Inshallah, misses. May God be with you, he says when I leave. And with you, Adil.

Out of Iraq

I have finally left Iraq but have been delayed once again from writing as my lovely laptop computer has died. I’ve spent the past week trying to revive it -- and I can hear friends from the 10th MNT laughing as I write this -- but there is no help for Macintosh in the Middle East. So I have fled Istanbul where I landed after Iraq and am now in Sri Lanka where at least I am comforted by sun and warmth and even an internet café. I have a lot to download and will put my tales on the site as the days go on. There is a lot to say and a lot to digest. Iraq was a different experience for me this time around. It was more brutal and difficult in a profound way. It's hard to explain but the level of sadness and violence, the amount of death, paranoia and anger, hit me so hard it's taking me quite a while to get over it. So I will post as I go, probably out of order but all will come in due time. It’s good to be out and I will say again that I met so many wonderful people; I just wish it had been under different circumstances.

*

People ask me if there are stories that are not being told from Iraq, a great coverup of the atrocities done. And I have to say no, the stories have been and continue to be reported. There are no mysteries that I have uncovered, perhaps just the details of larger tales, which to some might certainly come as a surprise, but only if one hasn’t been paying attention. The real story is that no one cares.
Who hasn’t heard of total US isolationism in Iraq or widespread abuse by Halliburton? Inflation of prices and millions simply disappearing into the pockets of war profiteers. Who hasn’t read about the extraordinary military waste, about piles of American food, non-stop electricity, running water – anything and everything to keep soldiers as far away from the realities of a war. That in the face of Iraqis who still have intermittent electricity (6 non consecutive hours a day by last reports), poor sanitation in many areas, and streets too dangerous to walk. Or women who now have to cover their heads for fear of a fundamentalist wave, after 30 years of secular living. Who isn’t concerned about the extraordinary number of Iraqis killed that the US still refuses to count (“It would let the enemy know how successful he’s been” one Col. Told me), or the number of soldiers committing suicide, plagued by PTSD or becoming homeless once they return. These stories are out. I’ve read them – even written some – and I didn’t have to look very hard. But no one seems to care.
Everyone is concerned there are no “good” stories coming out of Iraq and that also is untrue. I’ve read (and also written some of these) plenty of warm and fuzzy accounts. But the overarching impression I was left with is that Iraq is more dangerous than before. More Iraqis are being killed and detained with little evidence. They are still without work, unless they are “lucky enough” to get a US job, which is often a death sentence in itself. Terrorists are being pulled to the region as a bee to honey, eager to kill Americans for their rites of passage. To those who argue they are in Iraq so “their kids don’t have to be,” I say that terrorists wouldn’t be here in these numbers were not for you – and they would not multiply were it not for the opportunities you are giving them. And if you left, I believe they would also leave for lack of a target rich environment. The thought that this war will “get rid of terrorism” is absurd. It is endless. Meanwhile, young soldiers are tired and angry and taking out their frustrations on people for whom they have little compassion, nor any desire for understanding. They just want to go home – alive, or more critical: sane. Of course there are exceptions. I met dozens of extraordinary soldiers at every level who truly believe in their mission (a fundamental problem as I see it) and are working tirelessly on micro level projects hoping to improve the lives of Iraqis in some small way. But if the fundamental premise is not working – if Iraqis still cannot live in peace then I don’t believe that all the clean sewers or hours of electricity in the world will solve things. It will help, to be sure, but it will not solve the problem of Iraq. What will? Training Iraqi police and army is a good start. It should be done quickly and the US should get out to be replaced by a multinational peacekeeping force. This is the way I see it and some Iraqis I spoke to were aghast. “The US cannot leave, not now. Only when there is peace and we are nowhere near that,” said one. All Iraqis want is a strong leader who will reinstall security and get rid of crime. They want someone who will kill a robber or murderer, put his head on a stick and let it rot in the middle of town to serve as an example for all to see. I was given this same scenario by several different people, all eager for a return to, well, “better times”. What they wanted was a return to dictatorship. To Saddam, but not Saddam. Just like Saddam. “Anyone who says we should have Democracy now is wrong,” said one Army General. “We must have order first, and then we can have freedom.” Imagine the irony of our legacy: We invaded a country that posed no threat to us, destroyed a secular and prosperous society, albeit run by a brutal dictator, created a state of such chaos and danger that people actually wished for the dictator’s return. In the meantime, we wait to see if the great democratic experiment will not result in a fundamentalist Shiite government where women are veiled, multiple marriages allowed and honor killings considered part of the culture. It would be funny if it weren’t so true.

About that vote

I had a kind of visceral response to some of the critical pieces I read following Iraq’s elections last Sunday, and felt that so many talking heads failed to honor a most amazing event. Of course the election was not perfect. How can any election being held in a militarily occupied country be without flaws? But this election was not about Americans or even so-called Democracy. It was about Iraqis.

Sunday’s election was to me like a religious pilgrimage with millions of Iraqis defying threats of death and violence to venture into the war-ravaged streets of Iraq and cast a ballot. Coming from the United States where people don’t vote because they’re afraid of missing the next episode of Survivor, it was extremely powerful to witness a person afraid for his or her life entering a polling station all the same. Watching masses of people walk down a desolate highway 20 kilometers just to vote, it is difficult to argue with anyone who calls the event a great success.

It was indeed a success.

Make no mistake, this election was far from ideal. It isolated a section of the population; pushed candidates backed by coalition forces but unknown to many Iraqis; and allowed pundits in the US to make political hay, as it has been doing for three years, in the face of thousands of Iraqi and American lives lost. In many ways it resembled our own flawed process.

But for much of Iraq it was an election. It was about Iraqis choosing, that simple and monumental act of making a decision and having a voice. They didn’t necessarily know whom they were voting for or even what– but more important was the symbolism of the act. And the statement, to both Americans and terrorists, that they wanted their country back.

“We want an end to this,” said one man jutting his chin towards a passing American convoy. “That is the only reason to vote.” Even before the election, campaign posters touted the benefits of voting as a mean of getting the US occupiers to leave and uniting Iraq.

One soldier heard it repeatedly: “Anyone is excited about anything they think will help us leave earlier… They don’t want us here and we don’t want to be here. But if we left now, I don’t think they’d make it to their second election.” And this is where Iraq’s ambivalence is strongest (and perhaps the timeline most confused) because as much as the Iraqis hate being occupied, in equal measure they fear civil war and terrorism if the US leaves too soon.

Though with the garrison buildup across Iraq – new concrete foundations and housing structures, improved walkways and home decorating – a near departure seems extremely unlikely. President Bush has said he would leave if requested by the new Iraqi government, but even that request is questionable. And the interim Iraqi president already said US forces are needed to maintain security. How long is that? No one knows, but it shouldn’t be long as far as I’m concerned. The Iraqis have proved they can protect themselves. Now they need a return of their country.

I do see a danger that despite the ambivalence Iraqis feel about American forces, their prolonged post-election presence may eventually be regarded as yet another promise broken.

Last Sunday’s vote was also a test of wills, a kind of good versus evil in the showdown over Iraq. Iraqi and American officials are still scratching their heads over the relatively low level of terrorist attacks and neither side has any illusions that “the enemy” is gone. But neither is there any doubt that the less than expected violence was due to US and Iraqi efforts. Just months ago, tales of officers fleeing at the first sign of attack were rampant and the stream of violence against Iraqi Police cast doubt whether they were ready to stand on their own against such a formidable enemy. So preparation and training leading up to the election was immense and ultimately joined members of the Iraqi Army, the Iraqi National Guard and the Iraqi Police, factions that beforehand openly voiced distrust and dislike of one another. These entities were reinforced from the outside with logistics like food, water and uniforms, and inside from unifying with fellow countrymen to defend their own country. If America destroyed so many of Iraq’s national institutions, such as the army, this was a first step in trying to build it back up.

The seeds of cooperation have been sewn but only time will tell if these groups will continue to work side by side. The bleaker prospect to me is that the entire strategy, complete with new weapons and ammunition, is the beginning of a re-baathification process.

Many Iraqis hardly had a sense of who was running aside from the US-chosen Prime Minister Ayad Allawi or the Shiite Coalition party supported by Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani. Votes are still being tabulated but if Allawi’s party gains support in the elections, it is not just because of his relationship with America; in many cases it is because of his relationship with Saddam Hussein. America sees the former CIA employee who spent much of his life outside Iraq’s borders as a good secular leader in Iraq, particularly for those who fear an extremist religious influence, most likely from Iran. But many Iraqis support Allawi because of his tough stance on crime and his reputation as a brutal thug who once worked for Saddam Hussein and the Mukhabarat, Iraq’s intelligence Agency.

“At least Allawi says he will take care of criminals and not let them out of prison as the police do now. He is strong,” said Anan Husseini, his finger still stained days after the election. “Strong” seems to be the most oft repeated phrase in reference to Allawi and there is no confusion as to what that means.

And why wouldn’t they want an iron fist? One of Iraqis’ greatest issues has been and will continue to be security. Allawi is not Saddam Hussein but to some Iraqis he may be the closest thing to maintaining defiant order in Iraq.

While women were the first to vote and some of the strongest advocates I interviewed, others also boycotted the day because they feared a return to a fundamentalist society where women – who did not generally wear veils under Saddam’s regime – could be forced to cover themselves entirely. This fear cannot be underestimated and as the popular Shiite party seems to be far in the lead of vote counts, the fundamentalist question is still a large unknown.

There is no way to accurately predict the long-term impact of Jan. 30 elections or how members chosen for the National Assembly will choose to craft a constitution. (And just wait for that Kurdish story to begin unfolding!) But let those who defied terror to vote have their day. Honor Iraqis for their continued patience and resilience in the face of an ongoing and seemingly never-ending war, and remind Americans that their role in this new Iraq should be solely and entirely, as guests. And that the terms “freedom and democracy” – whatever that may mean to the Iraqi people – will carry little weight if they still lack jobs and electricity and risk their lives taking their children to school, or even leaving their homes to buy bread.


Update:

Remember my former translator Nadeem, the Iraqi rock star who made the Baghdad Project possible, not to mention my safety and sanity throughout? Well, his visa finally came through and he’s on his way to the UK! I was of course incredibly sad to miss a final visit with him here in Iraq but amazed and overjoyed that his dream is coming true. I’m so happy for you, Nadeem, and wish you the best.