Barefoot in Baghdad (8 page)

I felt like telling Joumana’s seventy-something-year-old mother that it was too late for that. Her daughter’s story was being read all over Washington DC and Baghdad.

I realized the time was getting late and began to bid farewell. I asked Joumana if there was anything she needed. She only had two requests. The first is that I would visit her again. The second was that I would bring her an Arabic Bible. I promised to do my best on both counts.

***

There was nothing extraordinary that I could do for Joumana. She had much stronger allies than I. Yet she begged her allies to allow me to visit her in the Green Zone. And I agreed. I was never quite sure why. Agreeing to help Joumana pushed me toward a point of no return. All my attempts to distance myself from the U.S.-led CPA were proving futile. The fact that I was entering the Green Zone on a regular basis meant that I had to cross a virtual picket line of antiwar protesters among the international organizations.

Perhaps I agreed to help because I had just come back from Hillah, where I had visited a mass grave. According to the popular Arabic media, this focus on mass graves was supposed to be an American ploy to shift attention from the missing weapons of mass destruction. But the mass graves were real. And the women tied to the victims were even more so.

The mass graves from the 1990s Shia uprising were only confirmed and exposed after the U.S. invasion. Women flocked to the sites, probing through the remaining items for clues. They searched with grace and dignity for any trace of a loved one, explaining to me that God had answered their prayers by giving them an opportunity to bring closure to their tragedies and mourn their dead. Small piles of nonbiodegradable personal items—a plastic sandal, a wooden prayer bead, shirt buttons—were the only evidence for the women of what had happened…

Joumana’s testimony presented an opportunity to have actual hard evidence against some of the perpetrators of these crimes. Judge Campbell had indicated that she was providing details to the authorities, including identifying to U.S. government investigators the sites of mass burials from prisons in Baghdad and the scenes of torture.

I never lost focus that she was one of many. During my trips around Iraq, I conducted numerous interviews with women who believed the end of the dictatorship symbolized a new beginning for them, an end to the era of hopelessness that had enveloped most Iraqis under Saddam. I met women from all walks of life whose lives began to blossom after the war. They were swept up in a whirlwind of hope, and at some point, I allowed myself to be carried away by it too.

***

A week later I sat at the edge of the bed in my hotel room. The first few weeks in Iraq had seemed like years. Each day had dragged on endlessly as I scurried across the country to launch the Women for Women program. On this day I was extremely tired from the day’s trip to Babylon as part of a community assessment. I had convinced my driver to make a detour to the ancient site, but I immediately regretted it. It was deeply disturbing to see. The ruins were forced to bear witness as history unfolded, and they often had to pay a price. Saddam had reconstructed the site in a Disneyland-style and had engraved his initials on every brick. The U.S. military presence had taken another toll, leveling parts of the historic site to create a helicopter landing area.

I sat on my bed, my toe poking at a bag as I debated whether my hunger or my exhaustion would win the moment. I was too hot and too tired to have to get dressed and go downstairs to the restaurant. I wanted to stay in my room, where I could relax in shorts and a tank top. Not to mention, my right shoulder was killing me.

I stared absently at the culprit—my emergency bag. I had been lugging around the thing since I had arrived less than a month earlier. I shook my head at the amount of time and research I had invested in the contents of the useless bag. Perhaps it was time to admit that I was being overly dramatic. I could simply keep the emergency bag in my room. There was clearly no need to carry it around every day. With the large generators surrounding the hotel, I had not had any cause to use the flashlight I had packed.

But maybe it could still be put to use. It was probably time to stop hoarding the protein and meal bars I had packed. I fumbled through the bag to find one of the Luna bars. I pulled out the pale blue box holding face masks, a compromise with Mark after fighting with him over whether or not to purchase a Geiger counter.
[2]
I was convinced I would need one to detect areas of depleted uranium.

That also would probably not be necessary in my new lodgings. I was finally making plans to leave my hotel in Karrada. I had recently found a place near Hay Al Jammah (the university district), where several university faculty members lived. The people who owned the house were part of the extended family of a close friend in Washington DC. The owners were a Kurdish family originally from Arbil, but they had spent the last forty years in Baghdad. In a week I would move into the house. I was excited at the idea of having Iraqi neighbors around a place of my own. I was beginning to feel settled in. I was feeling safe.

As I dozed off while watching reruns of
Friends,
a huge blast jolted me awake. Suddenly the room was dark, the television off. I surmised that the hotel’s generator was offline. The blast was followed by a few gun shots. I jumped out of bed and looked for my emergency bag, the contents of which were now scattered on the floor. I quickly pulled on sweat pants, a long sleeve T-shirt, and my
hijab.
I could not decide if I should leave my room, but then the decision was made for me when I heard the sound of rifle fire. The gunfire was very close. In fact, I was suddenly sure the sound was coming from the guards in front of the hotel. That was answered with more gun shots. The shooting slowly became a steady stream of gunfire that got louder and louder. There was an increase in the intensity, and within minutes it seemed like the entire neighborhood had pulled out their weapons and opened fire.

My imagination was back in full force. Certainly the neighborhood had organized an attack on the hotel. Wouldn’t that be why I kept hearing the steady shooting from the guards downstairs? Leaving my room was not an option. Neither was staying put and waiting for those who were going to storm the hotel to find me. I decided the best thing to do was to hide. There were not many choices in my hotel room. Under the bed. That would be no easy task for a five-foot-ten medium-build woman.

Just after I managed to play origami with my body parts and squeeze myself under the bed, I heard a knock at my door. It was a simple knock. Not the pounding noise my imagination believed would be more appropriate for the scene unfolding around me. Perhaps I was going to be dragged out by some polite and cordial insurgents. I stayed under the bed. There was another knock. And then someone called my name.

“Manal, are you in there?”

I held my breath. The logical part of my brain was telling me that I knew that voice. It was Mark. Great, my imagination yelled, they have captured Mark, and he has turned me in!

“Hey, all is okay out here. There seems to be some commotion outside. I am going up to the roof to find out what’s going on. You wanna come?”

I opened the door, embarrassed by the fact that I was out of breath from my struggle to squeeze out from underneath the bed.

“What the hell?” were the only words I could manage.

Mark smiled. He probably figured that I had panicked. “The news is saying that our troops got Saddam’s sons.”

“And the gunshots from the hotel guards?”

“Yeah, they seem to have joined in the celebrations. Wanna come up to the roof with me?”

Of course I don’t want to go to the roof, you freaking cowboy
, was my first thought. But then again, I didn’t want to be left alone with my imagination.

I followed Mark. I stopped at the door leading to the roof and watched as he walked out. It looked like someone had set up a huge bonfire in the middle of the sky. Euphoric, celebratory gunfire was arcing everywhere, and I could hear the sound of music and the stomping from impromptu dabke dancing.

I did not sleep that night. Mark and I spent the night shuffling between the roof and the hotel lobby, listening as the Iraqi staff shared an Uday or Qusay nightmare their family had experienced. As I listened to the stories, my thoughts went to Joumana. Where was she now? Had she heard the news? So much of her story centered on Uday and the brutal cruelty of his cronies. I recalled her descriptions of being gang-raped and of the many Iraqi women who lived in fear that they would catch this madman’s eye. For these women, justice had finally been served.

***

I was scheduled to visit Joumana the next morning. Before I was taken to see her, my escort cautioned me that she had only been informed of the deaths of Uday and Qusay a few hours earlier. They were concerned about her reaction to the news.

When I walked into the trailer, Joumana was pacing back and forth. She turned toward me and smiled.

“Today is my payday,” she said. “It is the minute I have been waiting for. It was the vision I held on to every moment I was being tortured. Today, I really believe Iraq will be a new place.”

I smiled. Joumana’s voice echoed the stories I had heard the previous night. People had described to me how they could no longer remember a time before Saddam’s regime. They could not even begin to envision a time after Saddam. Today was a miracle.

Joumana embraced me. “Today, I have decided to allow myself to hope again.”

Charles Dickens understood war. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Over the last three months Baghdad had been divided into two separate cities, each one an unrecognizable stranger to the other.

First, there was the vibrant, cultural city. In that environment, I enrolled in the prestigious Hunting Club in Mansour and went swimming every Tuesday and played Bingo every Friday night. And we ate. Oh, did we eat. Fadi had created a list of the best restaurants in Baghdad, and each night we scratched one more off the list. My favorite was Sasiboun, in Jadrieh, which featured a large outside seating area in the midst of an elaborate British-style garden. We’d smoke shisha there until midnight. Another favorite spot was Arassat Al-Hindia Street in the commercial heart of Baghdad, which was also home to many foreign embassies. The French restaurant Babiche and the Lebanese restaurant Nabil were among the ones we frequented most. It was a combination of the best of both worlds, East and West. Babiche had several Western-style dishes, including pepper steak and pasta, whereas Nabil was famous for its kebabs, hummus, and the best Lebanese salads.

Yusuf had a list of his own. Although he lived most of his life in the high-end neighborhood of Mansour, he preferred the more common areas. His favorite place was Qadoori at the Bab al-Sharjee market. The market was the electrical hub of Baghdad as well as a haven for criminal activity. That was secondary to the fact that it served the best kebabs in the city. Yusuf preferred restaurants that were frequented by regular Iraqis, and he shied away from the ostentatious Western-style places.

This sentiment was the main thing Yusuf and I shared. I wanted nothing more than to roam Baghdad as a local. We both loved the historic streets of the city, and Yusuf volunteered to be my tour guide. I became obsessed with the vibrant art community that was reemerging. Once a week Yusuf would take me to a string of shops in Karada that housed the work of many local painters. I sipped on cardamom tea as I aggressively negotiated good prices with the shop owners. I took great pride in my purchases and flaunted my latest acquisition at every opportunity.

During this time a fourth male employee joined us. The security situation was fragile, and Mais argued that new employees had to be recruited based on strong relationships. At first, I thought this had been a setup for Mais to hire his brother or cousin. Instead, he brought in a childhood friend, Salah. After I saw how easily Salah integrated into the team, I understood Mais’s point of view. The companionship between the four stood as a living testimony of a diverse yet unified Iraq: Fadi was a Christian, Mais a secular Shia, Yusuf a practicing Shia, and Salah a Sunni from the western province of Fallujah. These four men represented different communities in Iraq, and each one introduced me to a different side of Baghdad.

Salah introduced me to my secondary obsession: walking through the markets of Mutanabi Street. Every Friday morning I was ecstatic about taking part in one of Baghdad’s oldest traditions: the one-thousand-year-old book market. The main street spread out into alleys, all lined with bookstores. I loved walking down those paths, finding my way into the streets filled with buildings dating back to the Ottomans. Named after a famous tenth-century poet, Mutanabi Street was one of the main reasons I had fought so hard to return to Iraq. The road fulfilled the Arabic proverb: “Cairo writes. Beirut publishes. Baghdad reads.”

This was the side of Baghdad I chose to see. My family and friends abroad, however, were reading about the other side of Baghdad. The one that remained quarantined in the back of my mind. The Baghdad that was a stranger to me.

My circle of expatriate friends had shrunken considerably due to several bombings that targeted international organizations. It started on August 19, 2003, when a truck bomb outside the United Nations building killed the top UN envoy in Iraq, Sergio Vieira de Mello. The bombing confirmed many suspicions about Iraq not being safe for civilians. Almost immediately several colleagues evacuated. I had been due at a meeting in the UN Canal Building fifteen minutes before the bomb went off. But I had been delayed at another meeting at Hillsdale, a recently discovered ad hoc camp of displaced Iraqis from around Baghdad. The attack was followed over a month later by a bombing of the International Red Cross. The Al Rasheed Hotel, which had been considered one of the safest places in Baghdad, was then hit by two mortar attacks.

In fact, one evening a mortar round came flying by and landed in the garden of the restaurant next door to Sasiboun as we puffed on our shishas. Yusuf quickly pulled me to the ground, and we laid face down as a second mortar shell whistled by. Once Yusuf determined all was clear, we returned to our shishas.

The saga of Kalthoum wasn’t that easy to shake.

***

I listened to five U.S. military policemen debate about whose home state had the best beach when Munther, an Iraqi police offer, entered the room. In my opinion, Kitty Hawk had nothing on Myrtle Beach, but Munther interrupted my thoughts and handed me some dates. Time to break my fast.

It was the middle of the holy month of Ramadan, but instead of being at home, I was stuck in a police station with the angry mob of Kalthoum’s family waiting outside. I stared absently at the dates, realizing that if it was time to break my fast, the sun had set. The citywide curfew imposed by the coalition would be in effect in less than an hour, and I would be stuck at the police station.

“
Jazak Allahu khair
,” I said to Munther and accepted a bottle of water from one of the MPs. As I ate the dates, I scanned the room to see if there was a place for me to make my prayers. Something about bending and prostrating in the room seemed intrinsically wrong, but all the other rooms at the police station were filled with soldiers or Iraqi police. The only less crowded room was the kitchen, where I had first met Kalthoum.

Kalthoum was sound asleep on the bench adjacent to where I was sitting. The past few hours seemed to confirm her story of having been led into drugs; it was clear from her vomiting, sweating, and shakiness that she was going through withdrawal. Or perhaps those were attributable to her pregnancy.

Over the last few hours I had successfully entered my own state of denial. I knew there was no way out of the police station, and if I were to give proper attention to my circumstance, I would probably launch into a full-scale panic attack.

Yusuf and Mais were sitting in a café one block away, patiently waiting for my call to say that the coast was clear. I realized that, with the curfew, they would not be able to wait much longer. I also realized that there was no way in hell I was going to spend the night in this police station. I had boasted in my emails and phone calls back home that I had survived four months in Iraq without having to take any serious risks. But the time for risk taking had arrived.

“Guys, I have to leave,” I said turning to Tom, the MP who had initially greeted me when I first arrived.

“Sorry, ma’am, no can do. It’s not an option with those Iraqi men standing out there. Best option you have is to hope they are gone in the morning.”

I turned to Munther. In all Arab cultures it would be unacceptable for a woman to spend a night in this environment. If word were to get out that I had spent the night at an Iraqi police station—with U.S. military police to boot—it would vaporize my credibility in the neighborhoods. I was confident Munther fully understood what was at stake.

“The other option,” he said, “is to wait until after the curfew. These men will not risk staying after the curfew. Once they leave, then you can head home.”

I didn’t wait for Tom the MP to answer but quickly dialed Yusuf and Mais to see if they were willing to wait for me. I knew they would be taking the real risk. Stories abounded in Baghdad about those who broke curfew. I’d heard about desperate fathers-to-be driving their pregnant wives to a hospital at midnight and getting their cars riddled with bullets in the process. Most likely, we would be stopped at a military checkpoint. Checkpoints were unpredictable. Sometimes after curfew, soldiers would wave you through. Sometimes they would take everyone in the car in for questioning. Often those taken in by the authorities just disappeared.

Despite protests from Tom and the other MPs, Munther promised to escort me outside once the family had left. I bid farewell to Kalthoum, who was only half-awake. Munther shook his head disapprovingly as I promised to be back the next day.

I had managed to broker a peace between Tom and Munther by promising to follow up with Kalthoum the next day, but I knew it would not last long. Kalthoum’s staying under the protection of the MPs was a short-term solution only. I needed to find her a safe place.

Munther delivered me to Yusuf and Mais, and we drove home in silence, muttering prayers in the blessed night of Ramadan. Driving late at night in Baghdad generally ended in one of two opposite extremes. In our case, we were thankful that our trip was anticlimactic.

***

I woke up before the dawn prayer for Sahoor
[3]
and could not get back to sleep. I forced myself to wait a few more hours to call Mais and Yusuf. Then I begged them to come to my house as soon as possible. When they arrived thirty minutes later, Mais could not hide his frustration that I had called him again to address Kalthoum’s situation.

“It’s 7 a.m. It’s Ramadan. Even the U.S. soldiers are not riding their translators like this!”

I could do no more than mumble an apology. I knew Mais was right. I was expecting too much from them. In addition to all the extra hours of work, they were taking an enormous risk by being associated with Kalthoum, a prostitute.

“You need to rest. If you keep working at this pace you will collapse,” Yusuf interceded.

I was touched by his obvious concern. Yet time was against me, and I knew I had several visits to make before I would be able to even begin to think of a solution for Kalthoum. The first stop would have to be the conference center. I had befriended a Czech aid worker who had been appointed by her government to help document human rights abuses under Saddam’s regime. Ivana was among the few people in the CPA who actually had experience in working with civil society. Although there was little she could do within the CPA, I knew she would at least be able to point me in the right direction. I also knew that by 8 a.m. she would be wide-awake and on her third cup of coffee, having already smoked half a pack of Marlboros.

I hurried through the several checkpoints into the convention center and toward the transitional justice office where Ivana worked. Sure enough, she was sitting in a fog of cigarette smoke, puffing away as she violently shook her head back and forth at the twentysomething U.S. assistant assigned to her. When she saw me hovering at the door, she waved me in as she simultaneously waved her assistant out.

The best part about Ivana was that I would not have to waste time with polite conversation. I had not seen her in two weeks, but I knew I could jump right into the business at hand without her being offended. Ivana recommended I touch base with the Ministry of Labor and Social Affairs. The fact that Kalthoum was under eighteen placed her in its jurisdiction. Legally, the ministry was required to provide her with a place in one of the public orphanages. Ivana explained that would be the best long-term solution because the orphanages were well established and provided a high school education with an option for college. At the same time, orphans in both Iraqi and Muslim society have a special reverence. Numerous verses in the Koran and sayings from the prophet Mohammed (peace be upon him) called for respecting, caring for, and providing for orphans. This would help combat any previous stigma that might be attached to her, and it would provide an opportunity for her to start a new life. Ivana warned me, though, that this option might not work, and that as I reached out to the Iraqi ministry, I should also explore the option of the U.S. military’s civil affairs unit.

I walked out of her office on a high. It was a perfect solution. I went back to the car and found Mais and Yusuf had reclined the front seats and fallen asleep. I tapped on the window and tried to offer a grateful smile. As I climbed into the backseat, I explained the plan to them. One laughed and the other snorted. They were not the least bit impressed.

“I will cut off my right arm if the minister does not throw you out,” Yusuf said as he chuckled.

“I will cut off something far more important if the minister even agrees to see her,” Mais said with snort.

“It doesn’t hurt to try,” I snapped back, a little hurt and very defensive. I still thought it was a good idea. “Besides, Ivana has already arranged an appointment for me with the deputy minister.”

I decided to ignore the skeptical looks the two shot at each other and settled in the backseat to prepare my case for the minister. I knew I would not be able to lie about Kalthoum’s background. But she had a compelling story, and the fact that she had been forced into marriage at such a young age solidified her status as a victim. Besides, she was only sixteen years old. The deputy minister had to take pity on her situation.