A Night of Terror

I spent a few more days in Kuwait, and finally, Adam and I headed back to Najaf. The drive was hot, the air heavy, the road as dusty as ever. As we drove through one dusty village, a young boy, as so often happened, ran to the side of the road and raised his arm, in greeting, I thought. The sides of the roads had often been lined with children who, recognizing the uniqueness of a foreign vehicle, would run out to wave and greet us. In the pickup’s front passenger seat, I started to wave back, when I realized his arm had drawn back, not in a wave but to throw something—deadly weapon or rock. I ducked and yelled for Adam to do the same. He swerved, and we avoided the brunt of the hit. As that rock and then more rained down on the car door, we saw the boy run into the maze of alleys in the village. We were lucky; his aim hadn’t been good enough, and we had realized at the last moment that something was wrong. It was a sobering reminder of where we were. Things had changed in Iraq in the days I’d been recovering in Kuwait. The tension here was thick, the cheering crowds gone, the air heavy with heat and anger.

Paul Bremer was directing Iraq now, and he was in full charge. With a heavy, authoritarian hand, antiterrorism (he had been an antiterrorism expert at the State Department) and rigid security seemed to be his primary goals. Electricity, water, health care for the average Iraqi seemed to languish somewhere lower on the list, and the military civil affairs experts and NGOs struggled to fill the gaps. One reservist sergeant based in Karbala, a literal rocket scientist at home, was busy designing a reliable power grid that would turn the lights on here in Iraq.

But the lights weren’t on yet, and the situation had changed significantly in the days since I’d last been here. People were still without money, food, water, and reliable electricity in much of the country. They had lost faith and grown impatient; their tempers flared, and they weren’t quite so happy to see us now. We were no longer heroes—we were the people who had ruined everything and delivered nothing. The waving, cheering crowds were gone, replaced by watchful eyes, suspicious minds, and people—like the boy with the rocks—who wanted to take their anger out on someone. Added to that was this new administrator with the perfect hair, fancy suits, and squeaky-clean construction boots. More image than action.

We arrived at the rooming house in Najaf, where the team would now consist of me, Adam as the coordinator, and Azad, a tiny Armenian man who replaced Jason on water and sanitation. I sent a message to Amir, my interpreter, and he appeared early the next morning at our rooming house. We set off early to Karbala to reconnect with the medical system and staff there, who likely thought that my plans and I had turned to dust. There was no reliable or consistent communication in Iraq, no telephones, no internet; there had been no way for me to get a message to them that I was in a hospital in Kuwait, so it was important that I get back to work quickly to explain my absence and implement our programs.

In Karbala, we reconnected with the director of health, the director of primary care, and Dr. Sayed, while I made plans to get our programs off the ground. I would be leaving Iraq soon and needed to make arrangements for national staff to fill my role so that the programs would continue. Dr. Sayed agreed to take over my position as health manager.

The sound of gunfire still broke the stillness of night here, but mostly we’d adapted and normally slept straight through till morning. One night, I was startled awake by a sharp rapping on my bedroom door. I looked at my watch by the bright moonlight streaming in and saw that it was almost midnight. I assumed it was a hotel or IRC employee with a silly message; they frequently knocked at my door late, since they knew I’d answer. Adam and Azad would simply ignore it. I decided not to answer and got up to use the squat toilet in my room instead. On my way back to bed, I glanced out the window, my mouth dropping open. There were four US Army tanks lined up directly in front of the hotel, still more across the road, all with their gun turrets pointed at our windows. Soldiers, too, lined the road with weapons at the ready. I was puzzled but not really afraid; I was sure that they were here on patrol or searching for terrorists or saboteurs. Another series of hard knocks shook my door. I took the time to brush and pin up my hair and run some gloss over my lips before I opened the door.

I heard a quick hush of voices and rustle of movement, and I hesitated. “Step away from the door,” a harsh, unseen voice commanded me.

My heart flapped furiously in my chest. This was not what I’d expected, not at all. “Can I come into the hallway?” I asked timidly.

Several rifles appeared, all trained on me. Other than the rifles, which seemed to glisten in the moonlight streaming in, the hallway was black, the men holding the rifles invisible. Bathed in deep shadow, their identities remained obscured, which made the moment all the more sinister. I hesitated, my breath catching in my throat, my lungs seizing up. Were these men the ones the soldiers were after?

“Show your hands!” a voice demanded, and I put my now trembling hands into the air. Motioning with their rifles, they directed me into the hallway, where the glare of lights shone on a cluster of US soldiers, some of whom I was sure I’d seen. I relaxed and dropped my hands; though no one had given me permission, no one shouted to put them back up either. This was okay after all. “Who else is here?” a voice barked.

“Adam,” I answered, completely forgetting Azad.

“Is this his room?” they asked as they pointed with their weapons to his door. I nodded that it was. “He’s not answering,” the soldier sneered.

“It’s the middle of the night, he’s sleeping.” I shook my head. “Want me to wake him?” There was only silence as they motioned me forward with their guns. I walked quickly to his door and knocked. “Adam,” I called, “there are soldiers here to see us.” I could hear him moving about; the soldiers positioned themselves on either side of his door with me still directly in front, so that when he opened it, he’d see only me. And then I realized that was the point. It was a kind of ambush. But why? Everything seemed to stop; a shiver ran up my spine. This was going terribly wrong. We hadn’t done anything wrong and yet . . .

I wanted to shout a warning to Adam to be careful, but just then he opened the door, pulling on his jeans as he did. He was quickly surrounded by soldiers; two hung back with their rifles pointed at me. Oddly, now that Adam was here, I began to relax a little. I was certain that there would be a great story behind this midnight raid, terrorists or some evil element lurking about, with the soldiers dispatched to see to our safety.

The soldiers asked Adam if the new white Toyota trucks parked outside belonged to us. We’d finally gotten our own and had driven them happily into Iraq.

“Yes, they belong to us,” Adam answered, a hitch in his voice.

And with that simple reply, there was a distinct shift in the air. Adam was pushed roughly to the stairwell. I was told not to move. Three gun-toting soldiers escorted Adam, and three stayed with me. As he was taking his first steps down, Adam realized I was not behind him. He stopped and turned. “I won’t go down without her.” They prodded his back with a rifle. “Roberta, are you alright?” he shouted, his voice cracking.

I tried to answer, but they were pointing their weapons at both of us, and my voice was thick and almost a whisper. “I . . .”

The soldiers prodded Adam down the stairs, and when he tried to resist, they barked, “Move or we’ll be forced to hurt you.” I knew that this was not a rescue.

The soldiers searched Adam’s room, tossing everything, opening drawers, pulling his suitcase out and going through his belongings. They had probably searched mine as well, but I was too numb to notice. Minutes later, I, too, was escorted down the darkened stairway at gunpoint. I was marched to the street, where the tanks and a squad of soldiers stood about with their guns pointed at us. Adam was sitting on the street with his hands clasped on top of his head. I was motioned to do the same. I turned to Adam and opened my mouth to speak. “No talking,” a voice barked. Though we weren’t allowed to communicate with each other, I could feel his unease; we were each lost in our own fearful thoughts.

I could see people crowded around their windows watching the drama play out, and I knew that no matter what happened, this would be bad for us. If not even the soldiers trusted us, why should they? But, as I squatted on the road, it finally occurred to me that some terrible mistake must have brought them to us.

“Excuse me,” I said. “We know the commander here.” I couldn’t grasp his name from the confusing maze that my brain had become. A soldier glared at me; it was clear that I shouldn’t speak unless asked a question. All eyes and weapons were trained on us, our skin moist with sweat and fear in the heat and uncertainty of that deep night.

One of the soldiers finally spoke up. “We have reliable intelligence that some terrorists have just moved into the area, a man and woman driving new white Toyotas. You two match that description perfectly.”

I swallowed the hard lump that was in my throat. Trouble was, we weren’t terrorists, but this was how mistakes were made.

“Check us out with your commander.” Adam spit his words into the air. “We’re aid workers.”

The soldiers mumbled an unintelligible reply. One of them was on his handheld radio, the hum of static breaking up his words.

“Alright, that’s it,” one of them finally said as the soldiers pulled back their weapons and seemed to relax. “Your story checks out. You can go.” He motioned back toward the rooming house, then trained his gaze on me. “The next time we knock—answer. We were just about to kick your door in.”

We’d been in custody for less than an hour, but an eternity in a situation like that.

Back in the rooming house, Adam was angry and chain-smoking. “They could have killed us; they were so young and inexperienced, with nervous trigger fingers.”

I was just happy that they had released us. My arms ached from holding them on top of my head, and my thighs burned from the long squat. I was already seeing the humor in the episode, too. Me, a terrorist? I thought. I had brushed my hair and applied lip gloss.

Adam was relieved that neither of us had mentioned Azad, our impatient, Russian-accented coworker, for his accent would surely have aroused further suspicion. The Russian breakaway Republic of Chechnya had been fighting for independence from Russian rule for almost a decade, and the Chechnyans had gained recent notoriety as a particularly vicious and bold terrorist group. Azad’s accent, so similar to that of a Chechnyan, would surely have aroused suspicion and prolonged our confinement. It wasn’t that we’d been protecting him; we’d simply forgotten him.

By morning, I was ready to get to work and move on. It was over for me, but I knew that the tension continued for the soldiers, who lived every minute of every day under a cloud of unrelenting pressure and fear; danger lurked everywhere for them. Their suspicion and weapons were always at the ready; to relax for a moment could mean death.

Azad had slept through the entire incident and only learned of it the following morning, when, over coffee, Adam related the story in tense detail.

In his heavy accent, Azad brusquely replied, “That’s nothing; once in the Congo I had to dance for my freedom as rebel fighters with guns took shots at my feet. They were laughing so hard, I was sure I’d be crippled.” He shrugged. “So, you didn’t have to dance? No problem.” There’d be no sympathy from Azad.

And no rest for the weary. I had too much to do. The events of the night before did not affect my appetite and longing for my morning boiled egg. Once I’d devoured every crumb, I was ready to go, and there was still plenty to get done.