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LOUISVILLE'S OWN HEART & VOICE IN IRAQ: DOUG JOHNSON |
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LOUISVILLE'S OWN HEART & VOICE IN IRAQ: DOUG JOHNSON |
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HISTORY, CULTURE & POLITICAL LINKS
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Friday, February 21, 2003---My first day in Baghdad After driving all night from Amman, Charlie, Christopher and I arrive around 4:00 this morning at the Al Fanar, a clean, comfortable hotel that houses most of the 28 other IPT members. We check into our separate rooms and I go immediately to sleep. When I awake around 10:00 am, I’m delighted to discover a sliding glass door that leads to an adjoining balcony, and when I step outside I’m greeted with warm air and a wonderful city view. In some ways this could be a view of any city; on one side of a well-constructed five-lane parkway I see towering apartments and modern hotels, and on the other is a river (which I later learn is the Tigris). But traffic on the parkway is ominously sparse, and the vehicles, which range from spotless Mercedes’ to an assortment of Japanese and American cars – many well beyond their prime, speed past an occasional donkey pulling a cart. Below me on the sidewalk I watch an armed soldier pace nervously back and forth. It hits me; this isn’t just any city. I muster up some courage and venture downstairs, looking for other IPT people, and when I find the lobby empty, I wander outside and begin walking, and before I know it I’m several blocks from the hotel. Hidden within the proud, modern façade, I find a strip of impoverished, run-down shops on a side-street where men congregate to drink tea and smoke tobacco from a large bong-like contraption that I later learn is called a “hookah.” As I make my way towards the men they eye me with a reserved curiosity, and I can’t help but think that they know I’m from the country that’s about to attack them. I wave nervously and I’m surprised to see a dozen men’s faces suddenly break into a smile as they wave back. One Iraqi gentleman stands and gestures for me to sit next to him, and in broken English invites me to share some coffee. While he puffs on his pipe, I sip a delicious Turkish coffee as we converse with our hands and banter in one or two-word phrases. I ask the obvious question: “How do Iraqis feel about the war?” “The second war?” he asks. “Very angry,” he continues. He pulls something from his wallet and shows me a picture of a cute little boy, a picture of himself at ate 12 he tells me, taken during the first Gulf war. I look into his eyes. He’s lived half his life, I realize, under brutal sanctions, and yet he harbors no resentment towards me personally. He’s able to distinguish between the US government responsible for the sanctions and US citizens. Why can’t Americans also make this distinction towards Iraqis and their government, I wonder? When I leave he proudly and graciously insists on paying the bill.
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Saturday, February 22---Day 2 2:30 pm Trish, Peggy, Jeff and I dropped by an Iraqi family’s home this afternoon. Only two of the three children were home, Sammar and Yassir, ages 15 and 16, (their father, Abbas, was working and their mother, Seehan was at the market). The two boys welcomed us into their home, smiling brightly and insisting we make ourselves comfortable in their living room. “Sit, please,” they said, pointing towards the couches. Peggy, who’s been in their home many times, immediately found Sammar at her side, writing words in Arabic into a notebook to help her learn the language. Peggy absorbed the knowledge from her patient tutor. Yassir, meanwhile, disappeared into the kitchen to make “cheye” (sweetened tea) which he served with pastries called “cleche,” one of his mother’s specialties. We talked about many things, including soccer (football), school, languages, cooking, and even theater and ballet. (The two boys had recently attended the Baghdad Ballet with another IPT member.) When Trish said she was from the Hudson Valley, Sammar confused the word “valley” with “ballet” and immediately perked up, and then he seemed confused when I corrected him. I later learned that neither the “b” nor the “v” sound exist in Arabic. Yassir, who was sitting next to me, explained that Arabic is a much more difficult language to learn than English, and I believe him. Not long after, we heard a car honk in the driveway, and the boys announced joyfully that their father was home. One went out to the driveway to greet him, while the other stood watch at the door off the living room, ready to formally “present” him. Minutes later the door opened and Abbas, their father, emerged wearing a more formal dress, smiling proudly and urging us to sit back down. We continued talking, and Abbas, knowing almost no English, relied on his sons to translate, and his pride and admiration for them was obvious. After we left I learned that Abbas has a heart condition that goes untreated because the sanctions prevent him from getting the drugs he needs. Consequently, he is unable to work full-time. Although quite educated, he makes only a meager wage as a part-time driver for a company. The house they occupy, which consists of three rooms, is rented, and what’s left over provides barely enough to subsist. It began to dawn on me why Sammar and Yassir appear physically immature and under-developed. When you consider that for 12 of their 15 or 16 years the sanctions have left them barely enough to eat, it’s a miracle they’re still alive. Yet their hardships never came up in conversation, nor was the impending war with the US ever mentioned. Iraqis go about their lives as best they can, and their suffering is so pervasive and internalized as to become almost transparent. I keep thinking that if Americans were faced with the same hardships, we might not be so gracious towards those from the “aggressor nation.”
Needless to say, I’m inspired by this family’s pride and dignity. I left their home rethinking my concepts of ‘rich’ and ‘poor.’
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Sunday, February 23, 2003---Day 3 On the balcony again. After spending a couple hours on my computer this morning, I ran into Jeff who notified me of a meeting at the Al Dar. We're now set to go to the Iraq/Kuwait border tomorrow morning at 6:30 am, and the meeting was to iron out the details. Halfway into the meeting, Kathy sent three of us (me, Lauren, and Christopher) off to get mandatory AIDS tests, and we grabbed Faruke, a trusted cab driver, to take us to the clinic. He smoothed our way through the entire process and got done in one hour what could have taken all day. The clinic consists of several rooms, each of them crowded with people hovering over the doctors' and nurses' desks. Except for a briefcase full of syringes , I saw no medical equipment, a strange phenomenon in a country that used to have the best health care in the Middle East. While waiting for our results, a gentleman from India sat next to us and claimed to be C. M. Mehra, the Chief Coordinator between India and Iraq. He seemed to think that whatever he told us would be immediately published, and he offered us the following quotes: Humanity is finished; now we have only Americanity. The Pentagon is the newest Wonder of the World for having the most WMDs. Bush will be nominated for the Nobel War Prize; Blair will back him. The U.S. is only 250 years old; we should respect our Grandfathers (India, Iraq). Afterwards, Lauren and I had lunch with Faruke in a wonderful little café near the clinic. I had chicken and rice, while Lauren had a stew called "Chilifri" that looked delicious. We shared a noodle-like dish called "Charia," plus the most amazing soup I've ever tasted. It was "tomato-like," but saying that does it no justice. I lack the words to describe it. When I asked what it was, they told me "soup." We also shared "Samoo" (Iraqi bread), which we dipped in a sweet sauce made from dates. I paid for all three meals, and it came to around 4,000 dinar - or a little over $2.00. (I walk around with a wad of dinar notes worth 250 each, and I'm told that 250 dinar used to equal $750.00. After the devastating Gulf War and 12 years of genocidal sanctions, that bill is now worth around 12 cents.) I'm off to the Iraq/Kuwait border tomorrow. My meal tonight will be my last for 3 days.
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With apologies to the starving Doug: Middle East Recipes, Ingredients.
& others
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Monday, February 24, 2003---Day 4: From
an internet cafe in Basra,
southern Iraq.
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