Baghdad, 2004

by Edward Clower (United States of America)

Making a local connection Iraq

By most accounts, this would be considered a beautiful day. The sun is shining, there isn't a cloud in the sky, there is a strong breeze coming from my right, and the humidity is well within tolerance. But this isn't a day at the park, or a quiet moment in the backyard or at the beach. This is post-war Baghdad, 2004, where "too much of a good thing" has taken on a whole universe of meaning. I am surrounded by contrasts. I have seen a few of the opulent palaces, most with surprisingly little damage to the exterior. But the efficient use of high explosives has had its effect on the subterranean plumbing, and the now famous gold-leafed fixtures stand unused. Except for one. A sink, salvaged whole, has been placed on a cart next to a row of portable toilets. A single rubber hose supplies it with clean water, while another attached to the drain runs off into the dust. There is water all around at the palaces, which makes a sort of perverse sense. In a country like this, the ultimate show of wealth would be your own private lake. Here, there are lakes, and ponds, and canals, and swimming pools. One building has a swimming pool on the second floor. Later that morning I put on full body armor, strap on a helmet, and ride in an armed convoy across town. The damage along the way is more intense, more visible. Shattered buildings, like skeletal hands reaching toward the evening sky, stand at the outskirts of populated neighborhoods where children play and old men sit in the shade smoking water pipes. In the suburbs life appears to go on, in spite of the Abrams tanks at every major intersection and concrete barricades blocking the side roads. We drive alongside ordinary traffic. As I ride along in the back of the humvee, the canvas doors removed for quick action when necessary, a microbus passed us on the right. It is occupied by a group of men that appear to range in age from the mid 20s to late 40s. Possibly a carpool returning from work, at this time of day. The soldiers surrounding me stay alert but make no move to indicate they are concerned. At our destination, business is conducted in another palace. Discussions are brief and direct, and all concerned return to their work after an agreement to meet again at another location. Arriving at the parking area, we find a young girls, no more than 12 by my estimation, arguing with a British Junior Officer. No no, she says. This is no good, pointing to the black SUV in which he apparently chauffeured someone more senior to himself. Too dirty, she decrees, and summons a group of boys with buckets and rags from nearby. I find myself smiling as she begins to negotiate the fee with the officer. One day, I hope to myself, she will be running this country, or some part of it. The return trip is much like the first. A boy shouts something at us as we pass his neighborhood, but beneath the roar of the engines "Hurray" sounds too much like "Go away", and enough like "give me a candy bar", to know how to respond. Tensions elevate at the traffic stops, but not so much that I am unwilling to hang out the still-open door and snap photos with a disposable camera once we start moving again. The drive back to our base of operations is uneventful. The same cannot be said for the time here while I was away. A half dozen rockets were launched into the living areas from outside the perimeter. No one was injured, but a trailer was hit and another next to it burned to the ground. The security patrol found the remains of the launch equipment, but no personnel. Arrangements are made and living arrangements are shuffled, then life returns to the version of normal that we have grown accustomed to. The sun sets, and a loudspeaker blares out the Adhan. "Hurry to the prayer. Hurry to salvation."