arch/ive/ief (2000 - 2005)

This is my second night at the new apartment that I moved to. It is a dump compared to the place I lived in for the past week. Last night I could not sleep due to the near-by mosque which did not stop praying and to a rat that kept crossing back and forth in my room trapping me on the sofa – and no one dares laugh cause it is not funny! I wonder where he is right now!

It is getting really cold at night, to my misfortune and distress. I have been trying my best not to get sick, having my vitamins daily due to the non-food diet I am having and trying to keep as warm as possible.

Today was not a regular day in Baghdad. You can not but feel the tension in the air. It was clear on people’s faces and with the excessive military presence. Helicopters hovering low all over the place, and tanks and soldiers all over town in unusual density and more frequent 3-tank patrols (that are usually two-tank patrols on regular days). For the past two days rumors filled the city that Saddam and Ousama Bin Laden are going to bomb universities, schools and governmental buildings if people broke the strike that was conforming by the newly declared so-called Day of Resistance. Posters with such news were posted all over the city, yet I found it hard to believe and decided to go out.

It was 9 a.m. and it was my first time to take a cab alone in Baghdad. The street was full of people, seemed like more people did not buy the story. I was heading towards the headquarters of the Worker - Communist Party of Iraq, who I was told were among the very active groups in the civil struggle and very out spoken against the occupation.

Traffic…as usual! It takes around an hour to two hours (sometimes three) to get to any place in Baghdad that might have taken you around ten minutes before the occupation. I figured it could be another roadblock by the U.S. forces. The only thing that makes me want to leave this town is the traffic jam. I hate it. Sometimes an hour passes and the car does not move an inch.

Two hours passed and we arrived at the block point. Three American tanks were blocking the road with few Iraqi policemen waving for cars to make a detour. It was an unusual roadblock, the neighboring car told us that there is a booby trap in one of the traffic officers’ cubicles on the intersection ahead. Then more details came through the window. The US forces were trying to dismantle it. The explosions expert was not there yet, so no one can pass - added the Iraqi policeman who asked us to move faster.

Detour, and take another route… something one does frequently in Baghdad with the roadblocks and the newly happening bombs that you barely go anywhere without having to take one or two (if you are lucky).

I arrived at 12:10 p.m. at the headquarters of the Worker - Communist Party of Iraq. I met with the comrades, an amazing group of people that welcomed me heartily and immediately we started organizing for me to find things I can assist with in Baghdad.

The party’s work is divided to three parts: women rights, labor union activism, and support to the squatters in governmental buildings (that are to be evacuated soon).

I took copies of their publications to all of you guys in Beirut to see, and gave them some of ours. After the regular cup of tea, I accompanied a group to visit one of the squats at what used to be one of the residential compound for Saddam’s army officers and the Republic Guards and their families (and mistresses of course).

We arrive and the minute the squatters spot the van loaded with donations of shoes for the barefoot children they start gathering in what used to be a tennis court.

Women all dressed in black chadors carrying or dragging children whom the minute I got out of the van gathered around me inspecting me. To their shock this stranger speaks their language and turned out to be Lebanese (seems being Lebanese in Iraq means: “ahh, Lebanese, Ya Leyl Ya Ain !!!” followed by a smile and a nod! There is nothing worse than being identified with a nationality except being identified by a TV program or “Ahhh Marian and Tony”).

I said “Allah bil Kheir” which is the Iraqi greeting. The kids smiled and I started to shake their hands as we exchanged names. One kid approached from afar with stunning courage - though he bearly reached my knee. He silently cut through the group till he stood right next to me. Naturally I extended my hand to shake his and to my astonishment he pulled me down and planted the gentlest kiss on my cheek with an adorable smile only to walk away after it leaving me speechless and stunned. I had to fake a cough to cover the tears that ran down my face. This little barefoot boy of three is Hassouna.

Ali, a 16-year-old skinny squatter with a smile that did not leave his face and eyes that were astonished even when he himself said something. He started talking to me without me addressing him, telling me everything; where he used to live, how they came here, and how people ripped this place down to sell its metal window rims, brass knobs, tinted glass and furniture. They later broke what was left of the marble floors and ceilings and brunt the place down.

Ali was complaining to me, for him this was not something acceptable. He explained how Saddam stole the fuel and that his people should have been “civilized” if they were given the wealthes. He did not mind the presence of the Americans, yet he wishes he can go back to school which he dropped out cause of the unsafe path to it. Under Saddam he had a better place to live, though now at this squat there are no fights cause the US forces are nearby and have tight security measures. At that moment he was showing me the place; taking me around the swimming pools that are now stinking swamps and the cinema houses that are now garbage dumps. Ten minutes later, bullets erupted from a nearby building, and I was the only one started by it, the rest went by normally and Ali, of course, continued speaking with the same smile and the same stupid astonishment look on his face.

“These shots are either of the police or at the police… or maybe someone is being stolen or someone rejoicing” he explained!

Later he took me to his place, an apartment shared by two families in addition to his family of five. Few kids followed us and walked in the house with no permission (except for me, as I had to wait for the women to be veiled and/or hide where I can not see them).

In the house Ali showed me the TV, the decoder of the satellite the three families share, and insisted to show me Al Jazeera where he said we can see Saddam!!!

I asked Ali what would the people do if they were to be evacuated. I had my direct action in mind, and I wanted people to lock down with the internationals and myself in the face of the occupying forces. For Ali it was simple. “Some people said they will not leave unless it was to the cemetery, some said they will camp outside the compound where the newcomers can see them and feel the guilt, and some others are ready to either blow themselves up or throw grenades on the compounds.” he explained. I was about to start one of my boring endless lectures on non-violence but to his fortune I was called to leave.

Before I left Ali went in the kitchen (which is the entrance to the apartment) and came back with a metal bowl filed with water and ice from which he poured me a glass and insisted I’d drink it explaining it is cold. Cold water here is served to honored guests and it is always hard to say no in such cases. But the stomachaches afterwards are always tough and this time I managed to escape drinking it courteously. I said goodbye promising that I will try to come visit again.

As I was about to leave with the group, a woman stopped Leila (one of the frequently visiting activists) and started crying telling her about this man who comes to her place beat her up, take whatever she has of donations and leave her with nothing. She was crying hard, hugging Leila and attempting to kiss her hand begging her to bring her a blanket and stop this man from beating her up. The women went on to tell us that this man, Raed, punched her in the eye. Leila called one of the men and asked him to handle the man if he shows up again, and promised the woman help as soon as possible (which we all new means as soon as we find funds).

I am getting used to how things go under such massive in justice; emotional over ride leading to few tears and throat dryness then you’d wipe your face and move on… maybe to find another misery somewhere else!

As I was about to get in the van to leave, Ali came running from the compound handing me a piece of candy. He said it is his gift for me… the same smile was still on his face… the same stupid look of surprise in his eyes. I took it and shook his hand and said “fi aman allah” the Iraqi goodbye.

I went back to my place, then out of it, called my best friend in Beirut, and my Mom. I spent four minutes with them both, hung up and burst in tears!

Distant suppressed sounds of explosions can be heard. Things we will know about tomorrow in the news.

Ali’s candy is lemon flavored and as I am typing now it is resting next to my keyboard. My trip to Baghdad has just started today!

Peace and solidarity, I-Mad!