Bound for Baghdad

by Susan Galleymore

After serving nine months in Afghanistan, my son was deployed to the Sunni Triangle on January 9, 2004. I sought support from military moms then realized that none amongst us knew what was really going on there.

Three weeks ago, I packed my bag, traveled to Baghdad with a womens delegation, and talked to GIs, Iraqi professionals, and with no help from the US military, I located and visited my son. Nick was not pleased I was bound for Baghdad. He told me, Dont come. Its too dangerous. Iraqis are fine. If you do come, go to a rifle range first and practice shooting. Then carry a big gun while youre here.

I didnt carry a gun nor did I go to the rifle range. But Iraq is dangerous. Just driving from Amman, Jordan, to Baghdad was an ordeal. We landed in Amman at 1:15am and discovered the three SUV drivers hired to convoy us across the desert expected us the following day. The delegation leader scrambled and found three different drivers. When we left Amman at 4:15am we were two hours behind schedule. A delay of two hours in a twelve hour trip may not seem like much until you consider that we had to be in Baghdad by early afternoon to avoid Ali Baba, the notorious highway robbers; failing that, we had to be in Baghdad before dark and certainly before curfew at 8pm (January is mid-winter in Iraq and daylight hours are short).

We lost another three hours at Jordanian passport control where two administrators manually checked passports. The Jordanian visa of a fellow delegate was expired after she was jailed for nine days by Israel for assisting Palestinians. I was detained momentarily for snapping a photograph in the passport office. Another delegate was hysterical over the state of the womens toilet. It was a mess, with soiled toilet paper strewn about, water an inch deep on the floor, and feces piled high in the squat-style toilet bowl. When she fled outside to shake someone elses urine from her shoes and her own urine from her fingers. I stifled a giggle --anyone would think she was contaminated with depleted uranium and attempted to joke her out of it, Well, you could have your driver trying to interest you in his penis. For, yes, our driver had flashed his manhood perhaps as a hospitable display for the snacks Id shared with him earlier.

Our anxious drivers sped across the desert at 140 180 kmp, driving within inches of one another on the highway. Daylight faded and one driver lagged. We slowed, waited, and were relieved when he was sighted. Alas, he and his passengers had been hijacked by Ali Baba in a black Mercedes sedan capable of higher speeds than our vehicles. Delegates had been overtaken, pushed off the road, and, at gun point, money, a passport, return air tickets, and a digital camera stolen. Fear spurred us on until we noticed headlights coming towards us on the freeway. Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) had been found on the road and the US military was turning traffic back. Half an hour later, after detouring through rush-hour traffic, we arrived at our hotel. Another surprise awaited: the hotel expected us the following day. Like a litter of exhausted puppies, four of us flopped onto mattresses on the floor.

A dawn explosion woke me; then the pop-pop of automatic gunfire and helicopters overhead. Two CNN reporters were killed in that attack.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Our delegation traveled to University of Baghdad to meet psychiatrist Dr. Ali Hameed, working with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Dr. Ali admits that its tough to measure current psychological health of children as Iraq has been traumatized by war since the beginning of the 1980s: the Iran-Iraq war, Desert Storm (the Gulf War) UN sanctions, and the current war and occupation. Iraq has children traumatized from earlier wars growing up to parent children traumatized by the current wars. He explains that, while US and adult Iraqi citizens were jubilant at Saddams demise, Iraqi children witnessed a mythical figure disappear, someone who loomed larger than life, whose image was everywhere, and for whom school songs were sung and national holidays held. In the void, children watch TV images of statues toppling, the exhuming of mass graves, Iraqis huddling in bombed out building, children, like themselves, begging in the streets, bombs destroying familiar places, and family members wracked with fear. They experience mid-night visits by soldiers searching insurgents, smashing in doors, yelling incomprehensible orders, dragging family members outside in their nightclothes; too often they witness fathers the heads of families -- humiliated in front of them. Outside their homes, children witness uniformed and heavily armed foreigners, razor wire and other barricades in their streets, military tanks and humvees patrolling their neighborhoods, arbitrary arrests with Iraqis forced to the ground, boots placed upon their necks, nylon bags on their head; in extreme cases, they witness random shootings in their streets. No child should witness such events, says Dr. Hameed.

Tell Them there is Tragedy in Iraq.

After Dr. Ali Hameed, we visited Anwar Jeward. Her husband, son, and two daughters were killed by coalition forces, guilty of nothing more than driving home after dark from a visit with Anwars parents. For such random shootings, victims are occassionally paid nominal compensation, anything from $100 - $1000 under the Foreign Claims Act. The Act, however, is void in combat situations; definitions of combat and non-combat situations are elastic and Rules of Engagement easily misunderstood.

This visit casts the occupation in a different light: for the first time I feel Im in a war zone. Theres tremendous tragedy and loss in Iraq. Anwar, who will carry darkness in her heart for the rest of her life, wants me to tell outsiders that there is tragedy in Iraq. Anwar and her remaining children will always mourn the loss of their father and siblings, and the soldiers responsible for the destruction of this family will always carry the knowledge of their shameful actions. How can they not? Im angry at the leaders of our country, the United States, who willingly place our young people in situations they cannot handle. The creativity, high ideals, and sacred spirits of young Americans deserve much more than death and destruction in this ravaged land.

On to a hospital

A well-known American comedic actor has pledged money to a hospital on our delegations recommendation. Might it be the pediatric wing of Al Mansoor Teaching Hospital for Childrens Medical City? Built in 1986 with 220 beds, this hospital is poor in resources (understaffed, under funded, under equipped) but rich in patients. Unfortunately, the pediatric wing is rich in young patients dying of various forms of cancer; leukemia predominates. Can the actors donation get the pediatric wing of Al Mansoor Teaching Hospital up and running and spur the Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) to do the same?

Dr. Faisal Al-Jadiry shows us around the pediatric oncology wards. He explains that hes living with his father so that he can continue to practice medicine in this very needy place; without his fathers generosity he would be driving taxis to make ends meet as former colleagues are doing. Happily his salary, hovering around the equivalent of US $5 per month since UN sanctions, will soon increase, perhaps to as much as US $250 per month. Many competent nurses have left the hospital, too; the equivalent of US $3 or less per month was simply not enough to live on. But, with unemployment hovering at 60 percent there is little hope that nurses will find alternate employment paying a lot more.

The hospital is so under funded that food is sparse and of poor quality; family members of patients bring food from home. Nevertheless, malnourishment exacerbates illness.

UN sanctions banned many chemotherapy drugs as potentially aiding the manufacture of Weapons of Mass Destruction. The drugs that are permitted are so expensive that families sell cars, belongings, even homes, to pay for one 8-day round of chemotherapy treatment; frequently, two to three years of treatment is required.

As a professional scientist Dr. Jadiry is unwilling to guess at why rates of cancer in Iraqi children are sky-rocketing, especially in children from northern Iraq. He eagerly seeks funds to conduct a study.

At a Police Station

The delegation visits a police station to report the Ali Baba hi-jacking. During our interview, the Police Chief expresses his opinion as to who is carrying out the many bombings around Iraq. These terrorist attacks, we believe and we have evidence of this, are committed by foreigners from Kuwait, Jordan, Iran, Saudi, Syria, Yemen, Pakistanpeople from all over. Some of them are supported by Baathist Iraqis who lost everything with the downfall of Saddam. As you know Iraqs border are wide open and no one is trying to stop these terrorists. His Supervisor opines that the US is using Iraq as a huge honey pot attracting terrorists, like honey bees, from around the world to take pot-shots at Americans. (This opinion is repeated frequently at different venues.)

A Trip to an Internet Cafe

I find my way to an internet caf�between the Istar Sheraton and Palestine Meridian hotels on Saadun Street. Both hotels hunker behind walls of concrete, rolls of razor wire, sandbagged lookout towers armed with GIs and artillery, and assorted barriers. Both hotels are known to shelter western visitors, particularly American contractors generating big bucks from the war and its aftermath, the occupation. Both hotels have been attacked with RPGs and IEDs.

The internet connection is slow but charges are minimal: $1 for a half hour. When the electricity fails I leave the computer and join a young US military man enjoying a cup of coffee. When I saw him step into the hotel, uniformed, helmeted, carrying a huge gun I was afraid he might attract the wrong kind of attention, perhaps an attack from the ever-vigilant and opportunistic resistance. I kept an eye on him as he settled onto a sofa with his gun on his lap. When I heard him order Turkish coffee like a pro I understood this wasnt his first visit to the hotel.

I introduce myself as a mother with a son in the 82nd who Im trying to track down. Staff Sgt Juan doesnt offer advice on how to do that but I learn that he is a long way from home. So, too, is his wife. Theyre both stationed in Iraq: he guards the Sheraton; she guards Baghdad Airport. They talk on the phone sometimes but seldom see one another. Their two children, ages 2 and 3, are cared for by Juans parents in San Franciscos Mission District.

Juan has been in the military for seven years and in Iraq for two tours of duty totaling one year to date. Hes with the 4th Armored Division and, as Staff Sergeant, is responsible for nine soldiers. He tells me theyre young and easily distraught; hes had to send one back to the States due to stress. Two of his soldiers were killed in Baghdad. One, 18 years old, straight out of boot camp, died when shrapnel from a grenade exploded in his face. His replacement, 19, was killed when a RPG hit the humvee in which he was a passenger.

I relate Anwar Jewards story to him and ask his opinion. He responds. That's heavy but I know it happens. Some soldiers are inexperienced and not well trained.

A Visit with My Son

After a week of seeking and emailing and questioning the whereabouts of my son, I receive an email from him. The next day I hire a driver/translator and we travel north of Baghdad into the notorious Sunni Triangle. I have a hunch hes on a military base but the military Public Affairs Officer never responds to my email so Ahmed, the driver, and I could be on a wild goose chase. Happily, we stumble onto the right base and, still wearing my hijab to disguise my western origins, I approach the military check point on foot. Afraid of spooking the GIs conducting searches with guns slung over their shoulders, I gently say, Im coming up behind you, I mean you no harm. I have my US passport in my hand. I have business here and I want to speak to your Sergeant. Ma,am, get back in your car, maam!

I will do that as soon as I talk to your Sergeant.

The Sergeant notices me and, surprised, asks, Youre American?

Im allowed into the Check Point Office where I state my name and my mission. The GI manning the office says, Youre Sgt. Ns mom? I know him. We were in Afghanistan together. Gee, I wish my mom would visit me. On second thoughts, maybe not. Shes just cry all the time.

My son is called on the radio and, when he arrives, I give him a big hug, hand over the goodies Id brought and we spent a good hour or more in mother-son chit chat.

Yes, Iraq is dangerous. But now I know where my child is, I know the environment hes in, I know the dangers he faces every day, I even know some of the GIs working with him. And that knowledge is well worth the danger I risked getting it.

First published in The Natal Witness (South Africa) and Guerilla News Network in 2004.