The Trip to Najaf

Jen found a small stash of Oreo cookies in one of her bags, and she and I feasted secretly on the remnants, wiping the chocolate evidence from our mouths before we met the rest of the team in the lobby. We piled into our SUVs, deciding to follow the canals that fed water to the rural villages. This would allow Jason a close look at water systems served by the canal and would give us a closer look at the lesser-known rural areas.

We packed up, split up into our two SUVs, and slipped onto the rocky, unpaved road, surrounded by swirling hot dust yet again. The weather here was now excruciatingly hot, and there was no escape. The air was heavy, the heat and humidity clinging to us as we headed south.

The villages along this area of the canal were lined with lush green date palm trees, exquisite in their abundance and beauty against the otherwise stark landscape. We stopped first in the village of Aufi, a small and quaint village that ran alongside the canal. I would find that the small mud homes, clustered together behind privacy walls, and furnished with bright carpets and pillows scattered on the floor, were not so different from the houses I knew so well in Afghanistan.

In Aufi, Jason checked out the decaying water system, while I headed to the clinic with Kevin and Jen. As we started out, we noticed two abaya-clad Iraqi women motioning to us. One of them, a tiny woman, ran toward us, her veil flying, while the other watched for a minute and then slipped away.

“You’re American? You speak English?” the small woman whispered.

“Yes,” we answered.

“I speak English, too,” she said, “and I don’t have much chance to use it. May I speak with you?”

“Of course,” Kevin answered, pointing out the clinic to which we were headed.

She nodded. “My name is Halia,” she said as we walked. “I am twenty-five years old and unmarried. By my own design,” she said proudly. In Iraq, even for the educated and elite, marriages were still most often arranged. “I am not ready to be married. You understand?” She rushed on without pausing for an answer. “I want to see the world, get a doctorate in English, and do something important.”

She was a professor, she said, at the Karbala University, but there had been no classes due to the war, and now the soldiers were using the university as a base. She had no idea when classes would start again.

We had never met an Iraqi woman quite like her. “I don’t need a man right now, I am okay here,” she said, tapping her forehead for emphasis. “You get it?”

We nodded in unison.

“I am happy that your soldiers are here,” she said. “And Jay Garner, I like him very much, too.” She was adamant that the United States stay in Iraq until everyone was sure that the political factions vying for power were neutralized. “We need help. You see that, don’t you?”

She was a courageous woman. People here, though grateful to be liberated, often chose not to be seen speaking with us; they were fearful of being branded as collaborators. We met her just days after the fall of Baghdad, and people just weren’t sure that Saddam wasn’t lurking in the shadows, waiting to reclaim Iraq and punish anyone who’d been disloyal. Halia, so outspoken and forthright, was like a breath of fresh air, especially welcome in this oppressive land. In fact, the friend who had rushed away as Halia had rushed toward us was especially fearful of Saddam. “My friend ran off because she was afraid. It was not so long ago that her brother was murdered by Saddam’s people. She is afraid to seem subversive, that the information that she had been speaking with you would find its way to the wrong people.” Halia drew in a long deep breath. “I am not afraid.”

It seemed clear that she wasn’t. The village here was far from the main roads and the bustling cities of Iraq, but not far from the political intrigue for which this land was known. There would be whispers and lingering suspicions here for a long time to come, and no one wanted to be caught in that web. People, wisely, would choose their words and companions with care until they could be certain that Saddam and his band of thugs were gone and the danger was over.

We turned into Aufi’s clinic, which, though small, was in good shape and still providing care, though with fewer medicines than they’d been used to. The people here were in reasonably good health, we were told, and this tranquil little village was doing quite well.

We said good-bye to Halia and continued along the canal. The farther we went from the cities, the more destitute were the people. One tiny village had no clinic at all, and when we introduced ourselves and told them we were here just to look at and test the water, the villagers eagerly invited us inside one of the homes. This home had one large central room, and we sat with the women and children, who asked if I would examine them. I got my stethoscope and blood pressure cuff from the car and told them we had no medicines. I did a quick baby clinic and saw several little ones. One of them, just like the little girl in Karbala, seemed to have a heart condition. She had the blue lips and fingertips, rapid irregular pulse, stunted growth, and listlessness of a baby with cardiac disease, though without testing, I couldn’t be sure. I told them that her condition was serious, and that they should try to get to Baghdad for a thorough evaluation and treatment. The other children had only minor problems, respiratory and ear infections that required only basic medical treatment. Left alone, these were the problems that could fester and worsen and ultimately kill vulnerable children. Although we really hadn’t done anything, the people here in this small village sent us on our way with warm, fresh bread as thanks.

At all of these villages, the people were fascinated with Jen. With her pale, delicate skin, natural blonde curls, and blue eyes, she was an object of curiosity. I had nicknamed her “Grace Kelly” because of the natural way her scarf stayed in place with blonde wisps peeking out. My veil was still dust-covered and always awry, but not Jen’s. She winced every time one of us called her Grace.

We stopped last at a rural village that seemed to be stuck in the 19th century. These homes were made of the usual mud surface, and clustered together, but this village had absolutely nothing—no power lines, no water, no roads—nothing but a wonderful spirit that permeated the air here. People ran out to greet us, and we wondered when the last car had stopped here in this distant place. We were greeted joyously and guided into one of the compounds. These homes seemed the same as so many others we’d seen, but one house in this desolate place inexplicably had a real bedroom with a real bed.

While Jason looked at the latrines and tested their water, I ran another impromptu clinic, checking blood pressures, listening to hearts, examining eyes and skin as the villagers lined up to be checked. Most here had never had their blood pressures checked or their hearts and lungs auscultated, and they were eager and willing patients. They listened intently to the health advice I offered and were especially interested in comparing their blood pressures; whose was better and whose heart beat with “more force.”

These people were so welcoming and so kind to us that we left reluctantly. We knew we had to get to Najaf before nightfall. It was still dangerous to be on the roads after dark. I fell asleep in the sweltering heat of the back seat of the car, amidst suitcases and work.

“Miss, miss,” Akram said, his voice rising, an urgency in his words. “Wake up. You must sit up, and please cover your head. Quickly, quickly, we are in a holy city.”

I woke with a start, bathed in sweat, gathered up my veil, and hurriedly covered myself. We pulled into Najaf just as thousands of Shi’a pilgrims did as well. Much like in Karbala, these pilgrims filed to the mosque, a never-ending stream of worshippers, some banging their chests, others chanting.

Shit, I thought, here we go again. Someone will be insulted by our presence here, but they barely seemed to notice us as we made our way through the city looking for a place to stay. We were waved into a hotel, where we negotiated some rooms and fell into bed. In the morning, we each hungrily ate the boiled egg and bread provided for us and explained that we wanted only hot water so that we could make our own instant coffee. Because of the pilgrimages and the thousands still streaming into this city, we thought it unlikely that we would be able to carry out any useful assessments here in Najaf. We decided it was best to head south and stop at villages along the way.

Tom, the photographer who’d joined us, asked that we make a detour to an area where he and other journalists had been ambushed, their cars set ablaze or stolen just weeks earlier. With some difficulty, he directed us through the maze of similar-looking roads until finally he pointed out a deserted stretch of road. There in the distance was one lonely charred hulk of a car, the surrounding landscape scorched black.

“It belonged to a Newsweek magazine reporter,” Tom said, looking through the lens of his camera and snapping away. “When our cars were attacked, we jumped out and rolled onto the ground and into the brush, any bit of shrub to camouflage us, and it did. No one was seriously injured—a few scrapes and minor burns, but otherwise . . .” He lowered the camera, his gaze resting on the burned-out remains of the car. He stood there quietly, perhaps remembering how close he’d come, perhaps reminding himself how quickly things can change. He heaved a sigh and turned. “We’d better get going, huh?”

We headed back along the main roads and stopped at a large village along the canal. Even in the unbearable heat and sweltering sun of the day, women clad in black abayas were bent over the dirty water, scrubbing clothes and pots, a never-ending cycle of work for them. Children and some adults, likely alerted by the hum of our vehicles, poured out of every nook and cranny in this village called Al Diseem.

They surrounded us. When Akram asked about health care, they guided us to a crumbling and long-abandoned clinic. Akram and one of the village men pried the door open, and we stepped inside to the musky scent of old dust and older rodents. The rooms were in disarray. Long-expired pills and medical supplies covered now in layers and layers of dust, pieces of smashed equipment—lights and desks, exam tables, a cabinet—littered the floor. We stepped warily over the debris, broken shards of glass crunching under our feet. I reached for one of the hundreds of pill bottles—a quick look revealed that all had expired, some were antibiotics, some for blood pressure—but it was hard to tell. The bottles had been opened, most of the pills spilling out. This place was a disaster waiting to strike.

I groaned and turned to the people who had gathered behind us. With Akram interpreting, I tried to explain the dangers here. “This isn’t safe,” I said gently but firmly, remembering that this was their village, not mine, and it was important that they not feel I was insulting them. “This is the government’s responsibility,” I added for good measure. “But until they clean this up, I hope that you might try to keep this place safe, maybe sweep up the debris, gather the pills and destroy them. Just to keep everyone safe, you know?”

While Jason had a look at the water system, I wandered about the village with countless children in tow. For my own diversion, I taught them to sing “Maria” from West Side Story, but I substituted Haliya for Maria and had them serenade Kevin. They were incredible little showmen, all gestures and big voices, and though the English lyrics were unfamiliar to them, the language of song is universal.

Before long, our impromptu musical was interrupted by a thin Iraqi man, a gray blanket draped over his shoulders in this heat, a worrisome sign in this land where battles still raged and suspicion still lingered.

“Hello,” he shouted. “American?”

We hesitated. Akram spoke up. “Why do you ask?”

The man stepped closer, a wide smile revealing a row of rotted teeth. “I like America,” he replied, standing a little taller. “I have friends, you know, you understand?”

We didn’t, but we nodded anyway.

The man tapped his own chest. “I was an Iraqi soldier.”

My heart pounded in my ears. Shit! Everyone here had seemed so friendly, but was it only a ruse?

“One of Saddam’s soldiers?” Akram asked warily.

“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed proudly. “I was a prisoner of the Americans. They were very good to me.” He was so pleased with the treatment he had received and the warm blanket they had let him keep that he proudly showed us his prisoner badge, issued by the Red Cross, as he extolled the virtues of the American soldiers. “Very good men,” he proclaimed. “Do you know them?”

“Well, some of them.”

“Do you know—?” He rattled off a list of names—Bob, Jim, Curt—continuing until he paused to take a deep breath. “Look,” he said as he lovingly fingered the gray army-issue blanket, “even this blanket is of the finest quality. And they gave it to me. Do you think you can help me? I’d like to see them again.”

We shook our heads. Though he seemed genuine in his praise of all things American, who knew if he wasn’t in fact a saboteur? War makes you suspicious of everyone.

We reluctantly waved good-bye to the children, the village, and to the lonely former POW, and then we were on the road again.

We saw several other villages, all similar, some with clinics, some without, all in some degree of need. None had electricity or running water, but they expected that those would soon be restored. After all, the United States was here now, and they always brought miracles—or so these people and everyone in Iraq, it seemed, all believed. At one village clinic, the female doctors spoke softly and asked if they could speak openly with me. I assured them I was here to listen with an open mind.

“We are grateful that the United States came into our country, but now we are weary and tired of the empty promises to deliver help and electricity and water. Your armies must leave, leave Iraqis in peace to clean up and take care of ourselves.” They were unyielding in their demands. “Foreigners, all of you, must leave. You aren’t helping us here. You are only bringing trouble, and we will have that for years to come. Tell your people to leave us alone!”

My cheeks grew red with embarrassment, or maybe it was a flash of resentment. We were here to help, after all. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I said, stepping quickly away from the clinic. Aside from the men by the mosque in Karbala, these were the first hints of anger I had heard, the first grumblings of discontent. I didn’t know then how true their predictions would be; things indeed would only get worse, and sooner than any of us had imagined.

We knew that we couldn’t possibly make it to Basrah before nightfall, so we stopped at our now-favorite hotel in Nasiriyah for the night. The hotel was barely recognizable now with all of its improvements. The plywood and stacked-high furniture that had protected the blasted windows were now replaced with bright, clean clear glass. The lobby furniture, no longer necessary to protect the window area, was now arranged for comfortable seating. The whole place seemed clean and there was electricity, as evidenced by the rotating overhead fans and the bright chandeliers now lit and glowing. A lot had changed here in Nasiriyah. Akram went to the market and came back with a hot, plump chicken and fresh bread, and we feasted on that in the still dusty, decaying, and dim ballroom. It would be, we were told, the last room here to be restored, and the lights were not yet working. I was grateful that the ambience of our first visit to this elegant old room remained intact.

This would be our last night together. Tom would head back to Baghdad in the morning, and once we arrived in Basrah, Akram would find his way back to Umm Qasr. The rest of the team, including Kevin, would be heading back to Kuwait after meetings in Basrah.

My room this time had electricity, a fan, a light, and, now that I could see them, the largest cockroaches I had seen since my latrine in Africa. I had been blissfully ignorant of their existence on previous visits, but now they seemed to be everywhere—on my bed, the walls, spinning around on the ceiling fan, in my shoes, under my pillow, sitting on my backpack. The electricity sputtered and died, and with it, all evidence of my roommates. I took a real shower, though with scant water, by flashlight, accompanied by the roaches, which somehow avoided the water as they scurried about my feet in the little globe of light created by my flashlight. I dried off with a crusty and slightly smelly towel the hotel had provided. We had all determined that although they were open for business now, they had neglected the laundry, and these were the same sheets and towels that had been used by countless other guests. No matter, I was still clean. I slept peacefully, and in the quiet, I realized that the cockroaches did, too.

We left early the next morning, breakfasting on jam, crackers, and instant coffee before saying our good-byes to the hotel staff. We were headed to a Marsh Arab village that we had hoped to see earlier. The Marsh Arabs of Jebbayash had been especially persecuted under Saddam Hussein’s vicious regime and had been isolated and forgotten for years, not unlike Afghanistan’s Hazara population. The Marsh Arabs had historically relied on the marshes for their livelihood; they fished, they wove mats and rugs and even homes from the reeds that grew in lush abundance along the water’s edge.

During the Gulf War of 1991, the Marsh Arabs had supported the coalition. Post-war, Saddam retaliated by draining the marshes upon which these people’s very existence so relied. With UN sanctions in place, they were isolated and struggling just to survive. Some revolted, according to the people left there, and some managed to escape. The rest managed to get by on the UN WFP food rations, while others eked out a small living by farming the soil.

The children here who were lucky enough to attend school—mostly the boys—walked barefoot along rocky roads, for a distance of about three miles. They were considered the lucky ones. In Iraq, education had always been important, allowing children here the opportunity to read and learn and grow, though most texts contained flattering portraits and likely untrue stories of Saddam’s benevolent leadership. Nonetheless, Saddam controlled his people by controlling access to the outside world. UN sanctions had prohibited most outside contact, and Saddam further tightened his grip by forbidding satellite transmission of foreign programs. All that people here could view was Saddam’s own programming, which further extolled his own charms and derided the world as infidels and enemies of Iraq.

When we arrived in Jebbayash, we were the first foreigners many of them had ever seen. We were cheered and mobbed, touched and fussed over. We were movie stars. Amazingly, these people had fared pretty well; they had weathered Saddam’s brutal regime, and now, since his fall, the dams had been removed and the water was flowing into the marshes once again. People here had great hope for their future. Although they had one small clinic and one small hospital, they had survived in good health and hopeful spirits.

We headed to Basrah in the highest heat of the day. As we pulled into the city, a camouflage-clad British soldier motioned us to pull over. “Where are you headed?” he asked, leaning into the car, his eyes sweeping over all of us and the contents of our vehicle.

“To a house just up there,” Jen answered. “We’re with IRC.” We pulled out our IDs and waved them in the air.

“Be careful,” he warned, his soft British accent somehow tempering his message. “Two cars were just ambushed here at this intersection. The passengers were robbed at gunpoint. Keep your eyes open,” he said. “Crime is on the rise, and they’re targeting foreigners. We can’t be everywhere. You have to take care of yourselves and each other. Understood?” He tapped on the driver’s door and waved us on our way.

The soldier’s warning wasn’t really a surprise. In every country I’d been to, people know that aid workers have the nice cars, the money, the jewelry, and we don’t fight back. Easy targets, easy rewards for those daring enough and willing to commit the acts. Chaos, crime, and lawlessness were the order of the day in Basrah and Baghdad; other cities were tense but quiet. Iraq was on edge, but we continued on, certain that the danger wouldn’t touch us.

In Basrah, we had a staff meeting, where we met up with some new staff and presented our assessments, ideas, and program proposals. It was obvious that we had found the right niche for IRC’s expertise; we had completed the rapid assessments, identified the most pressing needs, and started the program design process.

We had been on the road for much of the day. We were hungry, but there was no food in the Basrah house, and, because of the crime and danger lurking literally right outside our door, we had no way of getting food. The electricity was out, so without food or light, we simply collapsed into bed, limp, hot, and sweaty in the thick night air. The sound of gunfire and dogs barking right outside the house started and then continued intermittently throughout the night. Still, somehow we slept. Barking dogs and gunfire, the night sounds of Iraq.