Waiting

With everyone who was here, the UN was conspicuous by their very absence. Although their umbrella organizations—UNICEF, WFP, and WHO—were here and working hard, the UN had stayed away. For all of the disagreement that we may have with the UN, it is they who take the lead in humanitarian crises around the globe. It is the UN that helps to define and focus the collaborative efforts of the NGOs in the field. The verbal skirmish between the UN and US government leaders regarding the invasion had left the UN feeling bruised and battered. Still, we knew that we needed them here and were relieved when, in April, they finally moved in and began directing our relief efforts.

Besides the daily military briefing, we collaborated with USAID, UNICEF, WHO, and the multitude of other NGOs on revisions to the WHO Rapid Health Assessment Form, a form that would guide us through assessments. Although called “rapid,” the form was actually eleven pages long, and the information it requested was vital to our work—age and sex data, birth rate, death rate, immunization rate, frequency of disease, available medical providers, available medicines, accessibility to shelter, food and water, sanitation facilities, and health care. Because we were in the early days of the invasion, we also planned to look at other issues, structural damage among them. Were homes habitable? Were hospitals and clinics damaged or safe? What about the condition of schools, the water supply?

We were prepared. Our WHO emergency kits had arrived in Kuwait, and Adam was working with Customs to get them released to us. We were anxious to get into Iraq, and a few, tired of waiting for the go-ahead from the coalition, ventured in while the war still raged. An ICRC worker from Canada was caught in cross fire in Baghdad and was killed. An MSF French field coordinator I had worked with in Afghanistan was taken hostage and held outside Baghdad for ten harrowing days until he was found safe.

Three members of an Irish aid group decided to rent a car and go inside to see for themselves just what was happening. Unfortunately, the Irish had a terrible sense of direction and no compass. (GPS in 2003 only provided coordinates, not directions.) They took one wrong turn and wound up in Basrah in southern Iraq just as the fighting there intensified. Assumed by the Iraqi forces to be spies, they were taken in for questioning and held overnight in the crumbling Basrah Sheraton, which was without electricity, food, and running water. Informed that they would be sent to Baghdad at first light, the three spent a restless night, the sounds of war just outside their hotel, the sky illuminated by the tracers’ and rockets’ glare.

The luck of the Irish prevailed, however, and by the next morning, the Brits had captured the city, the Iraqis had fled, and the Irish fellows prepared to get back to Kuwait. When they approached the hotel’s exit, they were met by a staffer, who handed them bills for their rooms. The trio took the bills, promised to send money, climbed back into their rented car, and sped back to Kuwait with stories that would keep us doubled over with laughter for days.

Within days, we were finally given permission to enter Iraq. My team would head to Nasiriyah to do our assessments. We did not yet have our expected all-terrain SUVs, so we rented a red Ford mustang for our first trip into Iraq. Aid workers usually traveled in shiny white SUVs; a Mustang, we thought, would give us cover and easy accessibility to areas that might harbor trouble. Four of us were going in: Phil, Jason, Salim—a Tanzanian who would help with supplies—and I. We had no idea whether or not we’d find sleeping accommodations, so we brought camping gear and our own food.

We packed crackers, peanut butter, cheese, fruit, instant coffee, sardines, and a few chocolate bars. We crammed the food into the trunk, camping and personal gear into the back seats, and then we squeezed in. It was definitely a squeeze. The old car had a tape player but no air-conditioning. Still, we headed into Iraq thinking we were pretty damn well prepared and pretty damn cool. But that feeling soon dissipated in the sweltering heat of the Iraqi desert, and, since we were alone in just the one car, we created a mini-convoy by following another NGO, Mercy Corps, into Iraq. We would split up once we arrived in Nasiriyah; they were headed further north.

The road into Iraq, the scene of fierce battles just days earlier, was littered with the fresh remnants of war. Burned-out shells of Iraqi tanks and vehicles littered the scarred roads; along the sides of the roads were fragments of bombs and other pieces of scorched and blackened debris. In the distant desert, we could see smashed and falling-down power grids. There was no doubt that we were in an active war zone. These modern battle scenes were traversed by camel caravans, which gave it all an odd, otherworldly feel.

For the entire seven-plus-hour drive, we were enveloped in a sand and wind storm. At every checkpoint along the route, we had to get out of the car and stand in the swirling sand while a variety of soldiers—Kuwaitis, Brits, sometimes an American—looked at our travel papers and decided if we would be allowed to travel further. The sand seeped into the car through the cracked open windows, and by the time we reached our destination, we were covered in the fine sand; even my nostrils and ears were gritty. We arrived in Nasiriyah tired and dirty, but finally, we were in Iraq.

Our first stop was the US military CMOC (Civil-Military Operations Center) to let them know we were here and to get a fresh security briefing and general information about the area. “There’s no running water here,” the soldier cautioned. “Have you brought enough?”

Shit! Shit! Shit! We hadn’t even thought of bringing water. I shook my head and admitted that, as cool as we thought we were, water had never made our list of things to pack. We had a damn water engineer with us. How the hell could we have forgotten that? The officer didn’t blink. Smiling, and likely chuckling to himself, he gave us two cases of water and invited us to stop by if we needed more.

After a few miles more, we reached Nasiriyah, the city where American soldiers had been ambushed, with some killed and others captured in the first days of the war. The US tanks, damaged and useless now, lay in pieces at the side of the road, a silent tribute and reminder to all who passed by of the terrible events and incredible bravery that had taken place here. The town itself had suffered heavy bombardment, although the targeting appeared to have been amazingly precise, for although there was some collateral blast damage, many buildings remained untouched.

We headed to the city center and stopped at a crumbling hotel that was somehow still standing despite the obvious damage of blown-in windows and walls. Several men were outside sweeping up broken glass. They stopped to watch us. “Any rooms to rent in town?” Phil asked. The men looked at one another and then at us. It was clear that they needed our money and we needed a place to stay. “Right here,” one shouted in clear English as they ushered us in with warnings to avoid the shards of glass that littered not just the street but the hotel lobby as well. We made our way around bits of broken furniture piled high in front of the windows. “To keep looters away,” one of the men said proudly as they showed us to rooms that hadn’t been damaged too badly. There was no water, no electricity, but in the early dusk, the place had its own special ambience.

I was the only woman, so I had a room to myself. I had a smashed balcony door and shattered windows with glass scattered on the floor, allowing me a permanent and pleasant breeze, which deposited more dust and grime on the once-white sheets that covered my bed. The room next to mine had taken the brunt of the attack. The walls were blown in; debris remained strewn all over the room, the quiet and shadows of dusk creating an eerie tableau. I stood transfixed. “You coming?” Phil called, breaking my reverie. I closed the door quickly and headed out to help unload our car.

The food that we had so carefully packed—the fresh fruit, the precious cheese and sweet chocolate—all of it—had melted and rotted in the heat of the trunk. Even the peanut butter had separated and turned into a hopeless, oily mess. We stood together, mouths agape, and cursed again our lack of planning. We would have to find food here in Nasiriyah or survive on crackers, the only food that had survived the heat.

Phil went in search of food and was able to buy a small cooked chicken. We ate in the dusty and decaying but surely once elegant ballroom overlooking the Euphrates River. As the sun slid into the horizon, we switched our little flashlights on, creating a soft glow that hid the worst of the dust and rubble all around us. The dinner was as sumptuous as if we’d been eating at the Ritz. At least that was what we told ourselves. Ninety percent of survival for us was attitude and humor, and we had plenty of both.

So far, despite the recent battles fought here and the fresh damage we’d seen, this journey had just seemed an excellent road trip. But we were here to work, and the next morning, we set out. Phil and I headed on foot to the city center to get a feel for the people here. We still weren’t sure how they felt about the invasion and our presence.

Once we set foot on the main road that held the city’s bazaars and stalls, we were surrounded by crowds of well-wishers. People were smiling, patting our backs, shaking Phil’s hand, nodding to me and offering copious thanks. For what? I wondered. They had no electricity, no water, and no jobs at the moment. It was the soldiers they were really grateful to, and they expected that soon enough their lights would be on, their taps running with fresh clean water, and their pockets jingling with the money that follows aid workers. In the meantime, people were using the river water for washing and drinking. And that reality sent shivers up our collective spines. That dirty water could surely bring outbreaks of cholera and typhoid and God knew what else.

“Can you give me a job?” one man said, his eyes flashing.

“Not yet,” Phil replied. “We’re here to see what needs to be done.”

The man’s shoulders slumped and he wandered away, only to be replaced by another man.

“You know that soldier—that Jessica Lynch?” he asked.

We both nodded. She had been captured and severely wounded by Iraqi forces in late March. Held at the Saddam Hospital in Nasiriyah, she was initially reported as missing in action until she was rescued by a special ops force on April 1, 2001, just weeks before our arrival.

“I helped to get her out,” the man said, pointing to himself. “It was me. I told the soldiers where she was, that she was in the Saddam Hospital. Can you let them know I’m still here? I’d like to get out, too.”

Before we could answer, more came forward, all claiming to have helped in her rescue. “It was me,” each declared, taking credit for her rescue. “We all knew she was being held there,” one man added, pointing to the crowd around him. “We all helped in that rescue.” The onlookers nodded in agreement.

“I am Dr. Said,” one bespectacled man said, elbowing his way toward us. “I took care of her.”

I instinctively, and carelessly, raised a brow.

Dr. Said had noticed. “No, no, it is true,” he said without rancor. “Her back was broken, her legs were crushed. We planned to amputate her leg, but she cried out and resisted, so we did what we could. She was gravely ill. Do you know how she is now?”

I shook my head. We hadn’t heard any details of her injuries or recovery, and had no idea if what he said, if what any of them said, was true. The descriptions the doctor and others had shared would turn out to be eerily accurate, and I wondered later how their accounts could be so accurate if they hadn’t somehow been involved in her rescue. Perhaps this entire town had somehow conspired to save her. A local lawyer was the only one ever named by the United States as helping to locate Ms. Lynch; in late April, he and his family were quickly and quietly granted asylum in the United States. Perhaps he was one of several to pinpoint her exact location, though he was the only one to get the credit. It didn’t seem fair, but nothing else here did either.

We continued along the street, the crowd in our wake. Shops and stalls were open, selling squawking chickens, fresh bread, rice, tea, but there were few buyers. People had no money. Offices and businesses had slowed and then stopped completely as the invasion had neared. For many, it had been months since their last paycheck. We could only reassure them that WFP would be in soon, delivering food rations, and the military was working hard to get the electrical grid back up. Once that was back, fresh water could be pumped into homes once again. Until then, people were using water from the Euphrates River and were, by their own admission, not generally boiling it before drinking. Although bottled water was being distributed by the US Army Civil Affairs (CA) group, not everyone had been able to get it, and many who had been able to get it had decided to save it instead of using it.

The people we met nodded and smiled, confident that it would be a mere matter of days or even weeks before things were back to semi-normal. Forgotten in that first blush of new freedom and hope was the fact that nothing ever really works out the way we think it will.