I flew out of Baghdad this afternoon and landed in Amman a couple of hours ago. I'm excited to spend a couple of days here going to Petra and the Dead Sea, getting a massage at the luxurious Four Seasons and doing a bit of shopping.
That said, I'm really sad about leaving Baghdad. Our crazy frat house had become my home, and the guys had become my brothers. And as war-torn as the city itself may be, I feel like it's my war-torn city. Saying goodbye was really hard -- everybody came outside to wave me off, and I wanted to cry. J, my American coworker, is one of my favorite people in the world, and I hate that I won't get to see him every day anymore. I think it's going to be very strange to go back to living alone.
Fortunately, A is in Amman at the moment as well, so I don't have to totally divorce myself from Baghdad quite yet. We're going out on the town tonight and to Petra tomorrow, so hopefully it'll take my mind off of being sad.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
The quest for alcohol
We're throwing a party tonight because I'm leaving tomorrow, which led to a hilarious quest to buy beverages. It was sort of a ridiculous proposition in the first place -- buying alcohol in an Islamic country, on a Friday, during Ramadan. Poor planning led to the Friday part of that equation; the rest was fairly unavoidable.
There are a few remaining liquor stores in Baghdad, and a few of our guys -- a Christian and a couple of lapsed Muslims -- know exactly where to find them. We asked G, the Christian, to go to the liquor store where he usually buys Amstel and Corona, but it's closed for the entirety of Ramadan (which raises a question about how its proprietor supports himself, no?). We knew the location of two other stores, but they were closed too. At this point, we began to panic a little bit, because we had invited 25 people over and we figured they would be expecting alcohol. Somebody told us that there was a liquor store near the PX in the Green Zone, but we soon learned it had been shut down because soldiers were buying alcohol, which they're not allowed to drink.
And then a British security consultant next door told us about the "tactical shop," which reportedly sold beer out of a sketchy little trailer in a remote part of the Green Zone (U.S. officials call it the International Zone, or IZ). We got step-by-step directions and set out. Getting there requires a complicated series of turns at intersections marked only by small yellow signs proclaiming "tactical shop." We drove off a paved road, essentially into a dump, and saw a series of battered trailers. Sure enough, one of them had two signs: "Tactical Shop" in yellow and "IZ Liquor Store" in green. The trailer couldn't have been more than eight feet wide, and the passageway was even narrower than that because of the cases of beer stacked high on both sides. We got two cases of Corona, one case of Amstel, four bottles of wine and a bottle of Absolut (for mixing with pomegranate juice).
The party is on.
There are a few remaining liquor stores in Baghdad, and a few of our guys -- a Christian and a couple of lapsed Muslims -- know exactly where to find them. We asked G, the Christian, to go to the liquor store where he usually buys Amstel and Corona, but it's closed for the entirety of Ramadan (which raises a question about how its proprietor supports himself, no?). We knew the location of two other stores, but they were closed too. At this point, we began to panic a little bit, because we had invited 25 people over and we figured they would be expecting alcohol. Somebody told us that there was a liquor store near the PX in the Green Zone, but we soon learned it had been shut down because soldiers were buying alcohol, which they're not allowed to drink.
And then a British security consultant next door told us about the "tactical shop," which reportedly sold beer out of a sketchy little trailer in a remote part of the Green Zone (U.S. officials call it the International Zone, or IZ). We got step-by-step directions and set out. Getting there requires a complicated series of turns at intersections marked only by small yellow signs proclaiming "tactical shop." We drove off a paved road, essentially into a dump, and saw a series of battered trailers. Sure enough, one of them had two signs: "Tactical Shop" in yellow and "IZ Liquor Store" in green. The trailer couldn't have been more than eight feet wide, and the passageway was even narrower than that because of the cases of beer stacked high on both sides. We got two cases of Corona, one case of Amstel, four bottles of wine and a bottle of Absolut (for mixing with pomegranate juice).
The party is on.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Chaos
So I've been terrible at posting this week. I apologize. It's my last week in town, and life is basically chaos. I'm trying to finish two different long-term assignments while following major developments this week. Our two best staff members quit this afternoon, a decision that may not stick but is not good for the office.
And then there's Blackwater. I just wrote that "Sunday's shooting has inflamed deep-seated frustrations with Blackwater among Iraqis, many of whom view the company’s contractors as highly paid bullies who fail to respect citizens or customs of the country where they work." This is probably an understatement. Iraqis hate Blackwater contractors, and it's hard to blame them. These guys are making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year (I think the average salary for a contractor in Iraq runs about half a million) to drive around like bad-asses in their SUVs with M-16s poking out from the sunroof. They are arrogant, disrespectful of Iraqis and somewhat thuggish. I hate to generalize about an entire 1,000-person operation, but I have never had a good experience with Blackwater. Essentially, Iraqis see Blackwater as epitomizing everything terrible about Americans.
It will be interesting to see whether the revocation of the company's license sticks and if the Blackwater guys are forced out of the country. It would be a huge turnaround, considering the prestige their contractors have carried for the last four years. Whatever happens, my American colleague had a point yesterday when he said "Damn, it's nice to see the Iraqi government sticking up for it's people."
And then there's Blackwater. I just wrote that "Sunday's shooting has inflamed deep-seated frustrations with Blackwater among Iraqis, many of whom view the company’s contractors as highly paid bullies who fail to respect citizens or customs of the country where they work." This is probably an understatement. Iraqis hate Blackwater contractors, and it's hard to blame them. These guys are making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year (I think the average salary for a contractor in Iraq runs about half a million) to drive around like bad-asses in their SUVs with M-16s poking out from the sunroof. They are arrogant, disrespectful of Iraqis and somewhat thuggish. I hate to generalize about an entire 1,000-person operation, but I have never had a good experience with Blackwater. Essentially, Iraqis see Blackwater as epitomizing everything terrible about Americans.
It will be interesting to see whether the revocation of the company's license sticks and if the Blackwater guys are forced out of the country. It would be a huge turnaround, considering the prestige their contractors have carried for the last four years. Whatever happens, my American colleague had a point yesterday when he said "Damn, it's nice to see the Iraqi government sticking up for it's people."
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Shopping, redux
I got to go shopping with two of my coworkers yesterday, which was a rare chance at true freedom -- no work, just looking for pretty things to bring home. S wanted to buy a painting for his mother's house in Baghdad, A wanted art to decorate his family's new home in Amman, and I went along for the ride.
With the exception of the bodyguard lurking outside, it felt fairly normal. We walked around a series of adjacent galleries, compared our favorite paintings, chatted with the owner and generally had a good time. I bought an absolutely amazing painting -- it's hard to describe, but it's an abstract painting of a couple of "Baghdadi doors," a minaret of a mosque, etc. It's royal blue with other bright colors (lots of gold) and some raised texturing. It's going in my bedroom when I get back.
The gallery owner was clearly pretty desperate to make a sale -- when my coworker asked about the price of the painting I was looking at, he said "Oh, whatever you think." We eventually settled on $20 American for something that was similar to pieces that people were charging $150 for in American military compounds. These guys can't make a single sale most days, so having three people walk in with money to spend was pretty exciting. All told, we gave him the equivalent about $100 American (for five paintings, one of them framed), and he couldn't stop thanking us.
With the exception of the bodyguard lurking outside, it felt fairly normal. We walked around a series of adjacent galleries, compared our favorite paintings, chatted with the owner and generally had a good time. I bought an absolutely amazing painting -- it's hard to describe, but it's an abstract painting of a couple of "Baghdadi doors," a minaret of a mosque, etc. It's royal blue with other bright colors (lots of gold) and some raised texturing. It's going in my bedroom when I get back.
The gallery owner was clearly pretty desperate to make a sale -- when my coworker asked about the price of the painting I was looking at, he said "Oh, whatever you think." We eventually settled on $20 American for something that was similar to pieces that people were charging $150 for in American military compounds. These guys can't make a single sale most days, so having three people walk in with money to spend was pretty exciting. All told, we gave him the equivalent about $100 American (for five paintings, one of them framed), and he couldn't stop thanking us.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The roof
I have a confession to make that will disappoint most of my good friends. When I moved into our house, directly next door to a 12-story hotel, it didn't occur to me to go up to the roof of said hotel. Even when I began spending most of my leisure time in the hotel, I never went higher than the third floor. I'm a failure.
That said, I finally made it up yesterday. Oh my lord, it's amazing. I'm disappointed in myself for not seeing it before now. You can actually see the entire city from up there. The Tigris glimmers on three sides and the golden minarets of mosques tower in every corner of the city. I lost my breath for a moment marveling at the beauty of Baghdad, and spotting the carcass of a bombed car a few blocks away didn't totally ruin the feeling. My head felt clearer during my 15 minutes on the roof than it has since I've been here.
A couple hours after I discovered the roof, J and I were driving by the river. J glanced at the sun setting over the Tigris and sighed. "Sometimes I love this city," he said. I couldn't agree more. Everybody warned me that Baghdad would get under my skin, that I would love it so much that I would never want to go back. I won't go quite that far; I'm pretty excited to see the Bay Area and New York and all my favorite people. But Baghdad has become part of me, and I couldn't be happier about that. I may have to find a way to get back here at some point.
Tomorrow I will take pictures from the roof, I promise.
That said, I finally made it up yesterday. Oh my lord, it's amazing. I'm disappointed in myself for not seeing it before now. You can actually see the entire city from up there. The Tigris glimmers on three sides and the golden minarets of mosques tower in every corner of the city. I lost my breath for a moment marveling at the beauty of Baghdad, and spotting the carcass of a bombed car a few blocks away didn't totally ruin the feeling. My head felt clearer during my 15 minutes on the roof than it has since I've been here.
A couple hours after I discovered the roof, J and I were driving by the river. J glanced at the sun setting over the Tigris and sighed. "Sometimes I love this city," he said. I couldn't agree more. Everybody warned me that Baghdad would get under my skin, that I would love it so much that I would never want to go back. I won't go quite that far; I'm pretty excited to see the Bay Area and New York and all my favorite people. But Baghdad has become part of me, and I couldn't be happier about that. I may have to find a way to get back here at some point.
Tomorrow I will take pictures from the roof, I promise.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Iftar
It becomes a bit difficult to think through complex assignments at about 6 p.m. after a full day of fasting, so the break-fast at about 7:15 p.m. is eagerly anticipated at our office. For the past two days, every single person in the house has gathered for Iftar together as soon as the sun sets -- the first time since I've been here that we've all eaten together. We all gather around a television where the government-controlled station counts down to official sundown, an occasion marked by a clip art depiction of a firing cannon. Then all 20 (or so) of us gather around the dining room table, where food is abundant.
Perhaps it's just nostalgia now that I'm in my final week in Iraq, but Iftar has been really meaningful for me. After 10 weeks of working and living with these people in very close quarters, I do feel like they are family, so it's been pretty great to celebrate the holiday with them. Our Iftar parties have been similar to an American Thanksgiving -- a somewhat dysfunctional family, all crowded around a big table, laughing and stuffing ourselves. It makes me glad I'm fasting so I can be a part of it all.
Perhaps it's just nostalgia now that I'm in my final week in Iraq, but Iftar has been really meaningful for me. After 10 weeks of working and living with these people in very close quarters, I do feel like they are family, so it's been pretty great to celebrate the holiday with them. Our Iftar parties have been similar to an American Thanksgiving -- a somewhat dysfunctional family, all crowded around a big table, laughing and stuffing ourselves. It makes me glad I'm fasting so I can be a part of it all.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Ramadan
Ramadan begins today. Living in an Islamic country during holy days is fascinating. Restaurants close altogether, since there's nobody to buy food during the day -- everyone fasts. Among my coworkers are a large number of people who don't practice Islam (no prayers, no visits to the mosque, in several cases no belief whatsoever), but they all celebrate Ramadan. Celebrating only high holy days is obviously not limited to Muslims, but when it's such a huge commitment -- no food or drink during the day for an entire month! -- it seems particularly striking.
Because everyone at home is fasting, I am too. We'll eat two meals a day: a break-fast/dinner at 8 or so, then something light before we all fall into bed at 2:30 (or 3, or 4...). I don't really eat during the morning anyway, and if I'm running back and forth to different meetings I occasionally miss lunch, so I don't think this will be a huge problem. And no, it's not the first step to my conversion.
There is one definite problem, however. I'm leaving tomorrow night to go on a trip with the military for three days. Since I'm only fasting because everyone else is fasting, presumably I wouldn't do it around soldiers (it would be a bit awkward to say in the dining hall that I'm not Muslim but I am fasting for Ramadan). Additionally, soldiers work incredibly hard in still-brutal heat, so I think maybe I should not pass up opportunities for fuel -- and the idea of working outside all day without water sounds unappealing. On the other hand, plenty of Iraqis do the same thing...
Because everyone at home is fasting, I am too. We'll eat two meals a day: a break-fast/dinner at 8 or so, then something light before we all fall into bed at 2:30 (or 3, or 4...). I don't really eat during the morning anyway, and if I'm running back and forth to different meetings I occasionally miss lunch, so I don't think this will be a huge problem. And no, it's not the first step to my conversion.
There is one definite problem, however. I'm leaving tomorrow night to go on a trip with the military for three days. Since I'm only fasting because everyone else is fasting, presumably I wouldn't do it around soldiers (it would be a bit awkward to say in the dining hall that I'm not Muslim but I am fasting for Ramadan). Additionally, soldiers work incredibly hard in still-brutal heat, so I think maybe I should not pass up opportunities for fuel -- and the idea of working outside all day without water sounds unappealing. On the other hand, plenty of Iraqis do the same thing...
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
So much testosterone
On an average night, there are three women (one of whom speaks no Arabic, one of whom speaks no English) and roughly 13 men sleeping at our house. This automatically connotes a frat house environment, a stereotype that our particular men seem to embrace. Last night we started coming up with the list of "You know you live in an Iraqi frat house when..."
10. Despite having a cook who prepares full meals, the majority of the population ate meatballs for dinner last night. Meatballs and beer.
9. You fall asleep most nights at 4 a.m. to the sound of pool balls crashing together.
8. American movies worth watching are sorted into two categories: lots of violence or slapstick humor. Major bonus points for attractive women in either category.
7. Our 400 news channels from all over the world are ranked by how attractive the young female newscasters are. Al-Arabiya currently maintains a significant lead.
6. Serious discussions ensue fairly regularly about the possibility of inviting Moqtada al-Sadr to play pool.
5. You can't convince a soul that french fries are not a vegetable.
4. People regularly wonder aloud when they last showered.
3. The general consensus determines that it's acceptable for Iraqi women to wear hijab, but never Lebanese women because they're so much hotter.
2. Running upstairs for two minutes to wash your hands before taking a cookie from a platter of about 100 of them means no cookie for you.
1. At least three people are crowded around the Playstation in their boxers at all hours between 9 a.m. and 4 a.m.
10. Despite having a cook who prepares full meals, the majority of the population ate meatballs for dinner last night. Meatballs and beer.
9. You fall asleep most nights at 4 a.m. to the sound of pool balls crashing together.
8. American movies worth watching are sorted into two categories: lots of violence or slapstick humor. Major bonus points for attractive women in either category.
7. Our 400 news channels from all over the world are ranked by how attractive the young female newscasters are. Al-Arabiya currently maintains a significant lead.
6. Serious discussions ensue fairly regularly about the possibility of inviting Moqtada al-Sadr to play pool.
5. You can't convince a soul that french fries are not a vegetable.
4. People regularly wonder aloud when they last showered.
3. The general consensus determines that it's acceptable for Iraqi women to wear hijab, but never Lebanese women because they're so much hotter.
2. Running upstairs for two minutes to wash your hands before taking a cookie from a platter of about 100 of them means no cookie for you.
1. At least three people are crowded around the Playstation in their boxers at all hours between 9 a.m. and 4 a.m.
Monday, September 10, 2007
D-day
As I type, we're crowded around the bank of TVs in our office watching the start of Gen. Petraeus and Amb. Crocker's presentation to the House Armed Services and Foreign Affairs committees. Although I don't think anyone is expecting huge surprises out of this testimony, this is a big deal for us -- all of our work has revolved around this day for at least six weeks. It's hard to describe how I feel watching this: I'm bizarrely nervous, as if this is a referendum on our work, not just the military's. In some ways it is -- Ike Skelton just cited something I wrote this morning (no mention of my name), and a lot of our work is likely to come up in discussion. Political developments over the next several days or weeks could also determine the course of my company's work in the long term.
I also am nervous that there will be too much political infighting and not enough discussion about how the continued U.S. military presence is affecting Iraqi civilians. A poll in The Washington Post this morning showed that most Iraqis think security has gotten worse since the troop "surge" -- not a single person in Anbar province and Baghdad, where the majority of additional troops are based, said they feel very safe. And, of course, things are much worse where there are fewer troops. Combine that with the fact that many Iraqis don't have jobs, water, electricity, schools, etc. and you get a pretty bleak situation. Although I believe Gen. Petraeus is a brilliant guy, he's looking at this from a military perspective, which only touches the tip of the iceberg.
More later...
I also am nervous that there will be too much political infighting and not enough discussion about how the continued U.S. military presence is affecting Iraqi civilians. A poll in The Washington Post this morning showed that most Iraqis think security has gotten worse since the troop "surge" -- not a single person in Anbar province and Baghdad, where the majority of additional troops are based, said they feel very safe. And, of course, things are much worse where there are fewer troops. Combine that with the fact that many Iraqis don't have jobs, water, electricity, schools, etc. and you get a pretty bleak situation. Although I believe Gen. Petraeus is a brilliant guy, he's looking at this from a military perspective, which only touches the tip of the iceberg.
More later...
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Finals week
Students at Baghdad University are taking end-of-term exams this week, which brings a whole host of problems unique to students in war zones. Many of them haven't been to class in weeks, so they are essentially taking exams based on independent study. Yesterday my colleague's 23-year-old daughter, S, came to our office, and I talked to her a bit about her experience in school.
S's father (my coworker) moved his whole family -- S, her mom, and her brother and two sisters -- to Jordan last year because he feared for their safety in Baghdad (he stayed behind because he earns a good salary here). They became illegal residents in Amman, doing everything they could to get their residency permits but essentially running from the law. Making it worse for S, who was a second-year college student at the time, she couldn't attend a university in Jordan because she was not a citizen (additionally, Jordanian universities refuse to accept Iraqi college credits, meaning she would have had to start over). She and her family decided that she would study on her own in Jordan and fly back to Baghdad for exams.
S said that it's incredibly isolating to attempt to replicate a college experience on her own. She doesn't know anyone in Amman and rarely goes out, studying all day in the room she shares with her sister and helping her mother around the house. As exam time came near this summer, she wasn't even sure that her hard work would pay off -- she still hadn't gotten a residency permit in Jordan, and if she traveled back to Baghdad she might not be able to reenter Amman. With just a week to go before the exams began, she finally got a permit. She flew back to Baghdad, worrying her father terribly, and is sitting for exams this weekend. Then she'll go back to Amman, continue her studies on her own, and make plans to come back at the end of the next term.
S was nearly crying as she told me what her college experience used to be: sitting with friends at coffee shops helping each other review for tests, staying out too late, developing crushes on classmates. Now she steps on campus for exams only, then beelines back to Jordan. Many of her classmates' families cannot afford to move them out of the country, so they still have a community here, and S is crazy with jealousy. She's begged her father to allow her to move back to Baghdad, but he says absolutely not. As much as he loves having S here, my coworker is counting down the hours until she is safely out of Iraq again. We're at 48 and counting...
S's father (my coworker) moved his whole family -- S, her mom, and her brother and two sisters -- to Jordan last year because he feared for their safety in Baghdad (he stayed behind because he earns a good salary here). They became illegal residents in Amman, doing everything they could to get their residency permits but essentially running from the law. Making it worse for S, who was a second-year college student at the time, she couldn't attend a university in Jordan because she was not a citizen (additionally, Jordanian universities refuse to accept Iraqi college credits, meaning she would have had to start over). She and her family decided that she would study on her own in Jordan and fly back to Baghdad for exams.
S said that it's incredibly isolating to attempt to replicate a college experience on her own. She doesn't know anyone in Amman and rarely goes out, studying all day in the room she shares with her sister and helping her mother around the house. As exam time came near this summer, she wasn't even sure that her hard work would pay off -- she still hadn't gotten a residency permit in Jordan, and if she traveled back to Baghdad she might not be able to reenter Amman. With just a week to go before the exams began, she finally got a permit. She flew back to Baghdad, worrying her father terribly, and is sitting for exams this weekend. Then she'll go back to Amman, continue her studies on her own, and make plans to come back at the end of the next term.
S was nearly crying as she told me what her college experience used to be: sitting with friends at coffee shops helping each other review for tests, staying out too late, developing crushes on classmates. Now she steps on campus for exams only, then beelines back to Jordan. Many of her classmates' families cannot afford to move them out of the country, so they still have a community here, and S is crazy with jealousy. She's begged her father to allow her to move back to Baghdad, but he says absolutely not. As much as he loves having S here, my coworker is counting down the hours until she is safely out of Iraq again. We're at 48 and counting...
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Best picture ever
For some reason, the Americans in our compound were really, really fascinated by the Larry Craig scandal. I guess it just struck us as so delightfully trivial that we couldn't resist. We read all the coverage, gossiped about the details, etc. The photo below depicts a particularly wonderful moment in which a conversation about Iraqi politics stopped dead when someone heard a CNN anchor announce the start of the audio tape of Craig's interview with the police. These brilliant, talented people leaped off the couch and crowded around the TV to hear every word. None of us could stop laughing for a good 10 minutes. Fortunately, someone had a camera, and you can even make out Craig's face on the TV (and yet, you can't recognize any of these people unless you know them personally).
Time marches on
I don't think I was under any delusion that life in the U.S. would stop altogether while I was gone. I accepted early on that people would keep going to work, eating and sleeping and ::sigh:: even having fun without me. But I don't remember giving people permission to keep having all these life events while I'm thousands of miles away. And yet, my small circle of loved ones seems to be having a tremendously eventful summer. In the past few weeks:
So I have a request: can you all start having more boring lives for a couple of weeks? I'll be back soon, and hopefully you'll all be willing to help me play catch-up in person. But honestly: no more moves, no more weddings/engagement/breakups, no more new anything. Just for three weeks, okay?
Love,
Briony
- A friend got engaged
- A family friend got married
- OFH started his senior year of college
- So did my baby sister -- yikes!
- A close friend moved to DC
- A friend left my company and moved back to NYC
- Another moved to a new apartment in NYC
- At least three friends got their first grown-up jobs
- One good friend had a painful breakup
- A friend was officially cured of cancer, six years after I sat in her hospital room
- THREE favorite people, including the best friend who was already too far away, moved from NYC to Boston so two of them can get Ph.Ds or some ridiculous thing
- I lost one intolerable coworker from my very small office and gained a wonderful one
- One good friend moved to NYC to start law school
So I have a request: can you all start having more boring lives for a couple of weeks? I'll be back soon, and hopefully you'll all be willing to help me play catch-up in person. But honestly: no more moves, no more weddings/engagement/breakups, no more new anything. Just for three weeks, okay?
Love,
Briony
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Dress to impress
The more time I spend with other western women here, the more I realize how much the question of what to wear starts to dominate our lives. At home, unless I'm going to work I basically exist in jeans and t-shirts. I am not the fussiest person about clothes, to put it mildly, so in Iraq I'm forced to put WAY more thought into these choices than I'm used to.
As I've explained here before, my goal in moving around Baghdad is to blend in as a normal Iraqi woman. This means wearing a hijab and either an abaya or Iraqi-looking shirt. I own two shirts that I bought here, neither of which I would wear in the U.S. (suffice it to say they both have a significant number of sequins). So, when I'm going to an interview in Baghdad, I generally wear one of the shirts with jeans and sequined flip-flops -- there are a lot of sequins in my life. If we're going to a conservative neighborhood where an insurgent group dominates, I wear the full abaya, but I try to avoid that if at all possible.
Of course, I have an entirely different costume for trip out with the military. Besides the flak jacket and helmet, I'm also required to wear a long-sleeved shirt on the helicopters, and wearing a trendy Iraqi shirt would just be weird. I generally opt for a button-down collared shirt and khakis, plus hiking boots (which have saved me from spraining an ankle several times already).
The problem occurs when I have a need for both sets of clothing -- whenever I need to travel through Baghdad to meet the military (i.e. every time I go out with them). Often, I can get away with my button-down shirt and a hijab for the short drive to the military pick-up point, but today that wasn't the case. I went to lunch at Camp Victory, a military base at the airport -- a lengthy drive from the office, on the most dangerous road in the city. The REI shirt wasn't going to cut it.
The solution was slightly complicated, but it worked. Abaya and hijab to the airport (where I was attending a lunch meeting with Lt. Gen. Ray Odierno, the three-star general that is second in command to Gen. Petraeus), stash both in the car in exchange for body armor and helmet for the short helicopter ride to Odierno's home. On the way out, throw the body armor and helmet in the trunk, abaya and hijab back on. As I was adjusting my hijab for the drive home, I realized how crazy this all was, and yet how accustomed to it I've become. Tomorrow I have no appointments, and I'm going to be perfectly happy to sit home in my jeans and t-shirt.
As I've explained here before, my goal in moving around Baghdad is to blend in as a normal Iraqi woman. This means wearing a hijab and either an abaya or Iraqi-looking shirt. I own two shirts that I bought here, neither of which I would wear in the U.S. (suffice it to say they both have a significant number of sequins). So, when I'm going to an interview in Baghdad, I generally wear one of the shirts with jeans and sequined flip-flops -- there are a lot of sequins in my life. If we're going to a conservative neighborhood where an insurgent group dominates, I wear the full abaya, but I try to avoid that if at all possible.
Of course, I have an entirely different costume for trip out with the military. Besides the flak jacket and helmet, I'm also required to wear a long-sleeved shirt on the helicopters, and wearing a trendy Iraqi shirt would just be weird. I generally opt for a button-down collared shirt and khakis, plus hiking boots (which have saved me from spraining an ankle several times already).
The problem occurs when I have a need for both sets of clothing -- whenever I need to travel through Baghdad to meet the military (i.e. every time I go out with them). Often, I can get away with my button-down shirt and a hijab for the short drive to the military pick-up point, but today that wasn't the case. I went to lunch at Camp Victory, a military base at the airport -- a lengthy drive from the office, on the most dangerous road in the city. The REI shirt wasn't going to cut it.
The solution was slightly complicated, but it worked. Abaya and hijab to the airport (where I was attending a lunch meeting with Lt. Gen. Ray Odierno, the three-star general that is second in command to Gen. Petraeus), stash both in the car in exchange for body armor and helmet for the short helicopter ride to Odierno's home. On the way out, throw the body armor and helmet in the trunk, abaya and hijab back on. As I was adjusting my hijab for the drive home, I realized how crazy this all was, and yet how accustomed to it I've become. Tomorrow I have no appointments, and I'm going to be perfectly happy to sit home in my jeans and t-shirt.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Shopping
After eight weeks in Baghdad, I finally was able to wheedle our security guys enough to convince them to let me go out on a food shopping trip for the house. We basically have one man whose entire job is to shop for everyone's food, and he stays busy -- it's a huge job. At any given point, there are between 12 and 20 people here, so shopping is done on a large scale. I had been wanting to go for a while now, but it took a while to convince M, our security chief.
I expected to come back today and write a post about how inspiring it was to see the bustle of the market; life going on even as a war is going on, blah blah blah. But honestly, the whole trip was a little depressing. The market, which was in the neighborhood once considered the single safest area in Baghdad, was relatively empty, with just a handful of people picking out vegetables and a few shop-keepers trying to get rid of some merchandise. But it was the look in people's eyes that really got me -- everyone was moving very quickly, glancing around nervously, looking for signs of trouble. I can't blame them, as this neighborhood has been bombed eight times in the past six weeks. I wasn't allowed to speak English, so I walked silently next to our house shopper, dressed in an abaya and hijab. Even so, I felt people's eyes boring into me, like they knew that I was an intruder. I'm sure it was my imagination -- DH told me as much -- but I was uneasy the whole time.
Also, as someone still longing for the produce at Monterey Market in Berkeley, I found the selection in Baghdad even worse than in D.C. (which is saying something...). I see why we don't get served a lot of vegetables -- the choices were basically limited to tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and potatoes (not a vegetable). There were some bruised apples and sickly oranges, but that was the extent of it. I cannot even articulate how happy I will be to spend four days eating in California.
I expected to come back today and write a post about how inspiring it was to see the bustle of the market; life going on even as a war is going on, blah blah blah. But honestly, the whole trip was a little depressing. The market, which was in the neighborhood once considered the single safest area in Baghdad, was relatively empty, with just a handful of people picking out vegetables and a few shop-keepers trying to get rid of some merchandise. But it was the look in people's eyes that really got me -- everyone was moving very quickly, glancing around nervously, looking for signs of trouble. I can't blame them, as this neighborhood has been bombed eight times in the past six weeks. I wasn't allowed to speak English, so I walked silently next to our house shopper, dressed in an abaya and hijab. Even so, I felt people's eyes boring into me, like they knew that I was an intruder. I'm sure it was my imagination -- DH told me as much -- but I was uneasy the whole time.
Also, as someone still longing for the produce at Monterey Market in Berkeley, I found the selection in Baghdad even worse than in D.C. (which is saying something...). I see why we don't get served a lot of vegetables -- the choices were basically limited to tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and potatoes (not a vegetable). There were some bruised apples and sickly oranges, but that was the extent of it. I cannot even articulate how happy I will be to spend four days eating in California.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
The haircut story
In one of the worst decisions I've ever made, I decided to get my hair cut yesterday. Without a translator around. I was desperate for a trim, and this lady who runs a salon downtown was in our living room with all her supplies.
I held my fingers slightly apart to indicate I wanted about an inch taken off. She nodded, repeated "beautiful hair" a few times in English, and took up her scissors. With one cut, I lost seven inches of hair from the left side of my head. At that point, I couldn't do a thing about it -- I had to let her keep cutting, as I watched in horror in my bedroom mirror.
I'm embarrassed to admit it, but after the whole experience was over I ran out of the room and began to cry. This may sound totally silly, but I felt completely violated. I liked my hair. I know I gripe about how much I shed and how insanely thick my mane is, but I really liked it. And she took that away. I instantly experienced this profound sense of loss that I still haven't shaken. This happened less than a week after our compound got stormed and my car got shot at, and though that day prompted an anxious day, I never cried -- and a phone conversation with a very wise friend calmed me down. I've now talked to two other close friends about the hair debacle, and despite their best efforts neither of them made much progress trying to convince me that this was not a life-threatening crisis.
My hair is now about shoulder length at its longest point, with incredibly dramatic layers going up to nose-length bangs. Bangs. I haven't had bangs since third grade. The layers make my stick-straight hair look bizarrely curly, but only on the ends, and it does this weird Farrah Fawcett feathering thing. There are people who have this haircut, even people who look good in it, but I'm not one of them. Half of it is too short to be pulled up, and these stupid bangs fall in my eyes. I hate it.
I am pleased to say I managed to look in a mirror a few minutes ago without feeling like I was going to cry all over again. I really, truly hate this haircut, but it's not wild and crazy or even poorly executed -- it's just not me. There are many women who have this haircut, so it's not like I'll look like a freak walking down a city street. Most of my male friends probably wouldn't notice it.
Apparently the normal growth rate for hair (about half an inch a month) can be sped up slightly by limiting its exposure to chlorine and other chemicals and eating a protein-rich diet. I've resolved not to set foot in the pool again while I'm here and force down as much mystery meat as possible.
I held my fingers slightly apart to indicate I wanted about an inch taken off. She nodded, repeated "beautiful hair" a few times in English, and took up her scissors. With one cut, I lost seven inches of hair from the left side of my head. At that point, I couldn't do a thing about it -- I had to let her keep cutting, as I watched in horror in my bedroom mirror.
I'm embarrassed to admit it, but after the whole experience was over I ran out of the room and began to cry. This may sound totally silly, but I felt completely violated. I liked my hair. I know I gripe about how much I shed and how insanely thick my mane is, but I really liked it. And she took that away. I instantly experienced this profound sense of loss that I still haven't shaken. This happened less than a week after our compound got stormed and my car got shot at, and though that day prompted an anxious day, I never cried -- and a phone conversation with a very wise friend calmed me down. I've now talked to two other close friends about the hair debacle, and despite their best efforts neither of them made much progress trying to convince me that this was not a life-threatening crisis.
My hair is now about shoulder length at its longest point, with incredibly dramatic layers going up to nose-length bangs. Bangs. I haven't had bangs since third grade. The layers make my stick-straight hair look bizarrely curly, but only on the ends, and it does this weird Farrah Fawcett feathering thing. There are people who have this haircut, even people who look good in it, but I'm not one of them. Half of it is too short to be pulled up, and these stupid bangs fall in my eyes. I hate it.
I am pleased to say I managed to look in a mirror a few minutes ago without feeling like I was going to cry all over again. I really, truly hate this haircut, but it's not wild and crazy or even poorly executed -- it's just not me. There are many women who have this haircut, so it's not like I'll look like a freak walking down a city street. Most of my male friends probably wouldn't notice it.
Apparently the normal growth rate for hair (about half an inch a month) can be sped up slightly by limiting its exposure to chlorine and other chemicals and eating a protein-rich diet. I've resolved not to set foot in the pool again while I'm here and force down as much mystery meat as possible.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Sleep
I've been thinking recently about the war's effect on the simplest parts of life. Outdoor markets are frequent targets of car bombs, so shopping is very difficult. As I mentioned earlier, walking through the street -- a luxury that most people take for granted -- is dangerous, especially for a woman alone. But the biggest effect of the war on people's daily life might be the problems sleeping.
There are a few problems with sleeping in Baghdad. The first, and most common, is that it's often too hot to sleep at all without electricity. Even at night, the temperature in the summer hovers at or above 100 degrees. Making it worse, Baghdad residents are only getting about an hour of city-provided electricity a day, and for the vast majority of people who cannot afford to run generators (even an average-sized generator can only run for a few hours a day -- our house has three massive ones), the heat is unbearable at night.
Consequently, people flock to their roofs, hoping for some slightly cooler open air for long enough to get a few hours of sleep. But sleeping on the roof is a scary thing -- especially in some of the more dangerous neighborhoods, mortar rounds fly through the air regularly. Sleep can be difficult because of a more general fear of violence as well. Most Baghdad residents
have adapted to living with some degree of fear -- if you can't delude yourself that your bedroom is safe, you've got nothing left. But with helicopters flying low and loud every night and fairly regular sounds of gunshots and explosions in the distance, sleep doesn't always come easily.
This morning I mentioned in the newsroom that I was staring at my ceiling at about 4:30 in the morning, unable to sleep. "Me too," my American colleague said. "Me too," A added. "And me," D said. We realized that all four of us had been lying in adjacent rooms, wide awake in the pre-dawn hours. There was a pause, then all four of us laughed, slightly uneasily.
There are a few problems with sleeping in Baghdad. The first, and most common, is that it's often too hot to sleep at all without electricity. Even at night, the temperature in the summer hovers at or above 100 degrees. Making it worse, Baghdad residents are only getting about an hour of city-provided electricity a day, and for the vast majority of people who cannot afford to run generators (even an average-sized generator can only run for a few hours a day -- our house has three massive ones), the heat is unbearable at night.
Consequently, people flock to their roofs, hoping for some slightly cooler open air for long enough to get a few hours of sleep. But sleeping on the roof is a scary thing -- especially in some of the more dangerous neighborhoods, mortar rounds fly through the air regularly. Sleep can be difficult because of a more general fear of violence as well. Most Baghdad residents
have adapted to living with some degree of fear -- if you can't delude yourself that your bedroom is safe, you've got nothing left. But with helicopters flying low and loud every night and fairly regular sounds of gunshots and explosions in the distance, sleep doesn't always come easily.
This morning I mentioned in the newsroom that I was staring at my ceiling at about 4:30 in the morning, unable to sleep. "Me too," my American colleague said. "Me too," A added. "And me," D said. We realized that all four of us had been lying in adjacent rooms, wide awake in the pre-dawn hours. There was a pause, then all four of us laughed, slightly uneasily.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Stress
I officially committed to staying in Baghdad until Sept. 23 last night, which will bring my total time in country to 11 weeks (instead of the eight I initially committed to). If this decision had come just two hours earlier, I might have been mostly excited about it. As it was, this came an hour after gunmen had attacked the guards that man the entrance to our compound, so I wasn't feeling too thrilled about the whole Iraq concept.
Tensions have been running high around here since the incident last night. For a few of us, the stress was compounded by another scary incident this morning. On our way to a meeting at the Green Zone, we attempted to drive down the road that hundreds of Shiite pilgrims were using to return for an aborted religious festival in the southern city of Karbala. People were packed into buses and trucks, with many riding on the roofs of each vehicle because there was not enough room inside. There were lots of guns as well. At one point, somebody shot twice directly at our car. It would have been tough for them to figure out I was an American, since I was dressed like an Iraqi, so it was probably because they assumed our armored car was carrying a VIP. An AK-47 bullet won't go through armor, so we were never in any real danger, but combined with last night's violence it was too close for comfort.
By the time we made it past all the pilgrims, we heard that the road we needed to take was closed, so we turned around to head back. By then, they had also closed the road leading back to the office, so we were stuck in the middle of a scene that seems to have all the necessary characteristics to prompt a riot. We were contemplating leaving the cars and walking back to the office, but one of our drivers managed to bribe a soldier to let us through a barricade. Traffic jams are so, so scary in Baghdad because they are the perfect setting in which to set off a car bomb. We made it back to the office just fine, but the sequence of events has made me a bit uneasy.
Tensions have been running high around here since the incident last night. For a few of us, the stress was compounded by another scary incident this morning. On our way to a meeting at the Green Zone, we attempted to drive down the road that hundreds of Shiite pilgrims were using to return for an aborted religious festival in the southern city of Karbala. People were packed into buses and trucks, with many riding on the roofs of each vehicle because there was not enough room inside. There were lots of guns as well. At one point, somebody shot twice directly at our car. It would have been tough for them to figure out I was an American, since I was dressed like an Iraqi, so it was probably because they assumed our armored car was carrying a VIP. An AK-47 bullet won't go through armor, so we were never in any real danger, but combined with last night's violence it was too close for comfort.
By the time we made it past all the pilgrims, we heard that the road we needed to take was closed, so we turned around to head back. By then, they had also closed the road leading back to the office, so we were stuck in the middle of a scene that seems to have all the necessary characteristics to prompt a riot. We were contemplating leaving the cars and walking back to the office, but one of our drivers managed to bribe a soldier to let us through a barricade. Traffic jams are so, so scary in Baghdad because they are the perfect setting in which to set off a car bomb. We made it back to the office just fine, but the sequence of events has made me a bit uneasy.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Questioning my cynicism
Some small part of me has always thought about doing something to make the world better instead of just writing about the people who do. A friend that I deeply admire is starting law school this week after teaching in an innovative school for low-income boys for a year and then working as a paralegal for a homeless services organization for another year. Unlike many of the people who are going to his top-five law school, he isn't interested in the whopping $200,000 many first-year associates are now earning -- he wants to continue work for disadvantaged people and/or to teach. Being in Iraq, where literally everybody is suffering, makes me feel somewhat guilty that I'm not also making the world better, whether in New York or in Baghdad.
I know that storytellers have an important role in the world too, but to some extent it's that of a middleman -- get the information to the people who will actually do something about it. Supervisors have praised me for my critical eye toward happenings both in DC and Iraq, but there's a fine line between criticism and cynicism -- a line I find myself crossing fairly regularly. It sometimes scares me that I'm jaded at 23, that my mind ascribes political or self-aggrandizing motives to anyone who claims to be making progress in Iraq.
It's probably healthy that there's still part of me that wants to run away and join the Peace Corps or something, but I find it difficult to balance the two sides of my personality. I realize that dedicating my life to community service wouldn't put me in a position to solve the big problems of the world, but very often I feel powerless to fix even the small stuff. In the last three days, two close friends -- one in Iraq and one at home -- have, in different ways, lost people close to them, and it drives me crazy that I can't do anything about it. I realize that joining the Peace Corps wouldn't put me in a position to fix my friends' broken hearts, but wouldn't doing something for someone be a step in the right direction?
I know that storytellers have an important role in the world too, but to some extent it's that of a middleman -- get the information to the people who will actually do something about it. Supervisors have praised me for my critical eye toward happenings both in DC and Iraq, but there's a fine line between criticism and cynicism -- a line I find myself crossing fairly regularly. It sometimes scares me that I'm jaded at 23, that my mind ascribes political or self-aggrandizing motives to anyone who claims to be making progress in Iraq.
It's probably healthy that there's still part of me that wants to run away and join the Peace Corps or something, but I find it difficult to balance the two sides of my personality. I realize that dedicating my life to community service wouldn't put me in a position to solve the big problems of the world, but very often I feel powerless to fix even the small stuff. In the last three days, two close friends -- one in Iraq and one at home -- have, in different ways, lost people close to them, and it drives me crazy that I can't do anything about it. I realize that joining the Peace Corps wouldn't put me in a position to fix my friends' broken hearts, but wouldn't doing something for someone be a step in the right direction?
Monday, August 27, 2007
Okay, okay
So there are people reading. This is good to know. I got comments from everyone from my favorite NYC blogger (who should take her own sentiment to heart and post more often) to my high school physics teacher (who would like you to know that Berkeley High is amazing). And my mother, of course. I will keep posting on whatever happens in life, and at times when that's nothing I'll rail against bad media coverage and stupid politicians. Capiche?
I talked to a man this morning who has just sold his house in Baghdad. He moved to Syria when he started getting threatening letters at his home here, but it took him two years to sell the house. Even then, he sold it for less than one-third of its estimated value. In fact, he sold the nine-room home for just enough money to be able to afford the monthly rent on a two-room apartment in Damascus (his menial salary as a salesman pays for other life expenses). He is a Sunni whose neighborhood in Baghdad was taken over by the Mahdi Army, the major Shiite group. Fortunately for him, his Shiite next-door neighbor helped him sell the house and wired the money to him in Syria.
The man started crying when talking about his home, which his parents built a few years before he was born. He compared the feeling to losing a child -- not because he is materialistic (he clearly isn't), but because a lifetime's worth of memories were made there. He had planned to raise his children there, then pass the house to his oldest son, just as his father did. When I asked him to describe the house physically, he couldn't do it. He started to mention the backyard with the swing set and the bedroom with the secret crawl space, but he stopped and said he couldn't keep talking about it. He was in tears.
The people who have moved out of Baghdad have lost nearly everything -- family members and friends, their sense of security and freedom and the city they love. For this man, his home was the physical reminder of how much the last four years have taken. I nearly cried too.
I talked to a man this morning who has just sold his house in Baghdad. He moved to Syria when he started getting threatening letters at his home here, but it took him two years to sell the house. Even then, he sold it for less than one-third of its estimated value. In fact, he sold the nine-room home for just enough money to be able to afford the monthly rent on a two-room apartment in Damascus (his menial salary as a salesman pays for other life expenses). He is a Sunni whose neighborhood in Baghdad was taken over by the Mahdi Army, the major Shiite group. Fortunately for him, his Shiite next-door neighbor helped him sell the house and wired the money to him in Syria.
The man started crying when talking about his home, which his parents built a few years before he was born. He compared the feeling to losing a child -- not because he is materialistic (he clearly isn't), but because a lifetime's worth of memories were made there. He had planned to raise his children there, then pass the house to his oldest son, just as his father did. When I asked him to describe the house physically, he couldn't do it. He started to mention the backyard with the swing set and the bedroom with the secret crawl space, but he stopped and said he couldn't keep talking about it. He was in tears.
The people who have moved out of Baghdad have lost nearly everything -- family members and friends, their sense of security and freedom and the city they love. For this man, his home was the physical reminder of how much the last four years have taken. I nearly cried too.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Gun lessons
M, our security chief, informs me that every young woman needs to know how to use a gun. The perplexing part of this is that he realizes I will never own a gun, but just in case... just in case what? Just in case I find one on the street just as I'm being attacked? Just in case my nonexistent martial arts skills are enough to grab my attacker's weapon? It's unclear. But I figured it never hurts to learn, and now I'll be able to tell people I learned how to use a gun from a hard-core retured Iraqi Army captain. For some reason M is convinced that a 9 mm is more practical than an AK (in Iraq, it sure doesn't seem like it!)
Lesson one was all about safety (a good place to start). I practiced taking the magazine out, checking the chamber and aiming. It's not the sexiest stuff, but M promises he'll take me to a range at some point. Right now I'm mostly just aiming an unloaded gun at the clock in his office.
I've got some cousins back in Kentucky who would be pretty proud of me. I have a very distinct memory of sitting in a much-older cousin's truck a few years ago and being horrified when he pulled his handgun out of his waistband to rest it in the cupholder. Turns out Kentucky has slightly less restrictive rules than, say, Berkeley.
Lesson one was all about safety (a good place to start). I practiced taking the magazine out, checking the chamber and aiming. It's not the sexiest stuff, but M promises he'll take me to a range at some point. Right now I'm mostly just aiming an unloaded gun at the clock in his office.
I've got some cousins back in Kentucky who would be pretty proud of me. I have a very distinct memory of sitting in a much-older cousin's truck a few years ago and being horrified when he pulled his handgun out of his waistband to rest it in the cupholder. Turns out Kentucky has slightly less restrictive rules than, say, Berkeley.
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