 An Iraqi police officer kisses a child on election day. |
This is my third attempt to enter Iraq this trip. I canceled my first scheduled flight due to a failure in arranging for a proper driver to pick me up from the airport. Since the road to the airport is considered one of the most dangerous in all of Iraq, it's important to have this part of the journey planned out carefully. On my second attempt, I arrived at Baghdad International Airport only to be refused an entrance visa. A car bomb had exploded outside the hotel where I planned to stay (when I finally did arrive they were replacing the blown out windows in my room), so I really had no complaints. I'd shed a few tears at my unfounded rejection at BIA—but that was before the car bomb went off.
The engines rev high for a while and then shut off. We're asked to leave the plane and wait on the tarmac. "Last night the plane flew through the worst storm I have flown through in the past 10 years," the pilot informs us. Water has made its way into the electrical system rendering the altimeter—necessary for the plane make the steep, security-inspired spiral landing into BIA—useless. The flight is canceled. We will try again tomorrow.
As we head back to the terminal we notice a line of men, perhaps a dozen or so, streaming past—seemingly exchanging places with us. It is immediately apparent that these are elite contractors, not the usual bunch of scrappy-looking worn private security enlistees who shuffle their way through the airports shoelaces untied, tattoos glaring, heads down as if too afraid to look up. No. These are high-caliber security contractors.
One is actually frightening to look at, his face creased and dark, as if he has covered himself in a protective force field and has seen more than any human's fair share of violence. It's unlike any I've ever seen. He walks a few steps behind the others, and in his separation from them I can decipher the feeling that sweeps through me: he has killed. He will kill again. And he is perhaps more frightened of it than I am.
The Christian Broadcasting security guard recognizes one of the men in the line. After a split-second exchange he runs to get his bag from the terminal. Dashing past me, his face full of adventurous glee, he says, "I've hitched a ride to Baghdad with these guys."
"Hey, take me with you," I answer.
His expression changes drastically. "No," he says emphatically. "These are Blackwater guys. You don't want to go with them. You don't want to be seen with them."
He runs outside. The glass terminal doors close and lock behind him, so I cannot follow. He boards the bus and I watch it roll away in the direction of our grounded plane.
Highly skilled private military contractors are subject to neither US law nor the military code of conduct. It was four Blackwater USA personnel, driving in a white SUV as part of a food delivery convoy, that were brutally killed in Fallujah in March. It has been reported that they have more than 450 personnel in Iraq and have scored millions of dollars' worth of contracts there, including guarding former Coalition Provisional Authority chief Paul Bremer. They are the top of the food chain. They earn between $500 and $1,000 per day for the privilege of working in Iraq. Demand for their services is increasing worldwide.
But I'll be hot-damned if they are to take they our plane, I thought as I watched their bus go out of sight.
Private contractors, especially military contractors, are not allowed to use the AirServ plane. To do so would be a blatant breach of services, and possibly endanger the airline and anyone who might use it in the future. AirServ Airline is funded by the US Agency for International Development (USAID), which has connections to the State Department, and is intended strictly to provide air transport for humanitarian non-governmental organizations (NGOs) approved by the State Department. It could have been yet another "blurring of the lines" of humanitarian relief aid efforts across the world—in which terrorist groups, insurgents, freedom fighters, or whatever you choose to call them cannot tell the difference between NGOs and government aid agencies such as USAID.
 This Baghdadi woman brought her children to watch her vote. Purple-inked fingers were raised in solidarity all over Iraq on election day. |
Feigning a heat attack, I asked the airport security officer to open the locked terminal doors so that my flight companions and I could see if the Blackwater crew are actually hijacking our plane.
They weren't. It turned out they boarded an old cargo plane flat along the top with a big rounded belly hanging underneath—a "flying elephant" as the mine surveyor called it. Told to "come back again tomorrow," we leave the airport, but not before the AirServ staff has put in a request for the flying elephant to turn back—in order to return the cheerful security guard who had hitched the ride illegally
Baghdad at Last
The next day we're back—same time, same place. But there are only five of us. The security guard, I found out when I ran into him in Baghdad a few days later, successfully made his way with the Blackwater folks, who had refused the control tower's request to return to the airport. Our plane takes off and lands without incident. By then I had acquired not one, but two letters of entry from the Iraqi Minister of Immigration and Displacement, Pascal Worda—she agreed to see me in her suite at a hotel in Jordan at midnight and hand-wrote the letters. When I saw the immigration officer at BIA who just a few days earlier had rejected my travel papers, I thanked him for possibly saving my life. He puffed out his chest and repeatedly told this to everyone in the room. I don't think he will reject me again!
Heidar, my newest driver, picked me up at BIA. Very sweet, very quiet, and a careful driver, he appears to know very little English until he has something important to say and then he speaks in full clear sentences. Like after the day we were caught in the crossfire of a firefight between Iraqi soldiers and a car firing at them at a checkpoint. He didn't say a word the entire time, even when I grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the car as the bullets were flying. Later, when we had gotten a good distance from the checkpoint he said, speaking very slowly, deliberately, and with an impish smile on his face, "Now, I think you have really good story to write, yes?" to which we both roared with laughter.
Haythem, an Iraqi friend of a few years acts as my interpreter. We three make a great team and with the two of them I feel very safe and calm. To tell you the truth, Baghdad seemed as normal as ever, however normal Baghdad has become defined as for me. But I've arrived fresh and have not lived through the various horrors with the consistency that the Iraqis have. Nor have I built up my awareness yet, as to what is really happening here on a day-to-day basis.
The next three days are filled with visits to friends and pre-election preparations. There are numerous visits to the convention center, located on the outskirts of the infamous Green Zone, to apply for the Coalition Press Information Center (CPIC) press credentials needed in order for us to be out and about in the days before the election and on Election Day. And even with those credentials, there's still some question as to whether we'll choose to be out, and if we'll be allowed. Crossing the most dangerous checkpoint into the Green Zone was something I and hundreds of Iraqi and international media personnel—including the likes of CNN's Christiane Amanpour—had to do several times. To get inside one has to pass through four sub-checkpoints, i.e. four searches—both bags and body. These searches included what I jokingly referred to as "massages"—the very thorough "pat down" given to all who enter. (The checkpoint pat down is far more like a massage than the simple passing of hands performed at US airports.)
We are told journalists must acquire three separate badges in order to travel freely during the daytime on the days before, during, and after the election. The first is required by the Coalition forces to show you are a journalist, the second is required by the new Iraqi government and allows access to polling stations, and the third is a media accreditation card required by the Independent Electoral Commission of Iraq. Each pass is validated by the one preceding it and each has its own separate requirements. In the end, it will take my team and the massive number of other media personnel—ranging from network giants like NBC to independent journalists like me—three full days at the convention center to obtain all three passes. Physical full body pushes to the front of the line, heated tempers, long lines, and total confusion all become par for the course. One man simply turned and struck another out of frustration on day two, while the force of others pushing against a huge heavy metal and glass door caused it to become unhinged and come crashing down. It is but a microcosm of the chaos that has been occurring outside of the convention center—known as the Red Zone—for the past two years. With only 70 days to prepare Iraq's first election in many years, it is nothing short of a miracle that media personnel were able to get credentialed at all.
Pre-election Hubris
One of the first people I visited upon my arrival was Judge Zuhair Al-Maliky. During an interview in August, he revealed to me—off the record—that he would be issuing arrest warrants shortly for Achmed Chalabi and a number of men associated with his political party, the Iraq National Congress. Seventeen arrest warrants in all, including one charging Chalabi's nephew, Salem, with murder. Back then Maliky, formerly Bremer's interpreter, was the chief investigating judge on Iraq's highest court. Month's earlier, Maliky had issued an arrest warrant for Francis Brooke, an American consultant and right hand man to Chalabi, accusing him of interfering with the work of Iraqi police during a raid on Chalabi's house in relation to allegations that he had leaked intelligence information to Iran. According to Maliky, Brooke, an evangelical Christian who has worked with Chalabi since 1900 and has boasted of engineering the Iraq war by providing evidence of WMDs to the Americans, stopped the raid by telling the police he was an American and they didn't have legal jurisdiction over him.
Maliky's judicial actions earned him the label of a "rogue, out-of-control judge" pursuing "Saddam Hussein's style of justice" by Richard Perle, the former chairman of the Pentagon's Defense Advisory Board with close ties to Achmed Chalabi. Other critics, including Chalabi, denounced Maliky as a "puppet of the American-backed government." The label was touted by media beginning in the early months of 2004 every time Maliky's name was mentioned in an article.
Journalists must acquire three separate badges in order to travel freely on the days before, during, and after the election. |
Caught in this media-stoked, politically motivated crossfire, Maliky was removed—not long after serving the 17 warrants—and demoted to a regional judgeship. I was interested to hear what he had to say about the upcoming election.
A large, attractive man in his 30s, Maliky is the first to admit he is more than a little bit overweight. His stress was apparent. Adding to my already sensory-deprived state brought on by the confines of my hijab—with its multi-layers of material wrapped around my head and covering my ears—he spoke so low at first that I could not decipher a word he said from his perch behind his desk. He then came, sat next to me, and in hushed tones explained that a friend of his, 32-year-old Judge Kais Hashim, had been stopped in his car earlier that morning by a few men in an Opel sedan. According to Maliky, the "assassins" got out of their car and danced around Hashim's saying, "Death to the Shiite traitors. This is what will happen to them," before opening fire and shooting Hashim and his six-year-old son to death.
It was not the best time to interview him—his statements were colored by high emotions and laced with frustration and anger as he cited budgetary problems and a host of other issues that aided in the untimely death of his friend. But his responses echo the underlying feeling of hopelessness that strikes at many Iraqis, as they exist under this constant threat and everyday reality of violence. "I have told them not to lessen the security because of the budget. This man would still be alive had he the proper security."
Touching on the issues of blatant nepotism within the current governmental structure, Maliky explains that there are five distinct offices in the Ministry of Interior, each headed by a member of a different culture. For example, Turkomen are represented by a deputy at the Ministry of the Interior—but according to Maliky, the deputy has no power. The Kurds control the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that oversees police intelligence. The Shiite control the Ministry of Finance; the Sunni, the Ministry of Planning; and Christians control the Ministry of Reconstruction. The structural separations provide no true unified direction with each group putting forth its own agenda.
"I doubt even Dr. Alawi is in charge right now. The focus is on security but this is not the only problem. There is no heating fuel, no water, and no electricity. I have to take a cold bath and this is why I have the flu. We are just days from the election and I doubt we will have an election. And if we were to have a real election—a democratic, honest election, none of the people who are on the top would stay there. There is money in the budget for them: armored cars, bodyguards. For judges and people who are working, there is no budget. The people who are working deserve to be protected."
"No one wants to deal with the real problem," Maliky added. "Corruption. And the insurgency is a scapegoat. All that people want are jobs. And instead you have price tags: $5,000 for a dead American, $3,000 for a dead foreigner, and $1,000 for a dead Shiite."
Indeed, in my travels around Baghdad in the days before the election, I found many people who were predicting there would be increased violence as each day passed, culminating in large-scale attacks on the day of the election. Among these, many acknowledged the fear of violence might keep them home on election day. Others felt that to vote would be a futile event where corruption would rule the day and nothing would really change for Iraqis. And yet for others, there was absolutely no question that they would vote—despite the threats by insurgents that their "blood would run in the streets," if they attempted to do so.
Judge Zuhair Al-Maliky has been branded a puppet of the American-backed government for indicting Achmed Chalabi. |
It was not difficult to find these sentiments being expressed or argued by and between people wherever I went. Wanting to stock up on supplies I drove with my team over to the neighborhood of Karada. Friends at the Kesh Mesha juice bar stuffed me with pomegranates and oranges while Heidar parked the car and Haythem went to get us some falafel. When the falafel arrived, we sat down to eat while the Kesh Mesha men squeezed oranges and lemons into three one liter bottles for me to take back "home." Talk of the upcoming election dominated the conversation. All three Kesh Mesha men said they would not vote, much to the horror of my teammates. "Without knowing who the candidates are or what the candidates stand for, the election is a sham and will only serve those already in power," the Kesh Mesha owner said as his employees nodded their heads in agreement. Haythem, new at interpreting, soon involved himself in his own heated conversation with two of the men, at first forgetting to share with me what they were saying. His view differed from theirs and he passionately explained to the men the various reasons he felt all Iraqis should and must vote. His election-day plan was to be the first in line at his polling station. But the men would not be swayed and talked about the lack of security. "What value will this vote have? How can we vote when they will try to kill us?"
Election Day
What at first seemed to be a journalist's nightmare turned out to be, a singular media opportunity for the Iraqi people to show the world just how they felt about the elections. After all the hours and days spent getting the proper credentials, we all woke up the morning of the election to find out that no one American, international, big media, or small—the Los Angeles Times, the Christian Science Monitor, Britain's Independent, Time, the New York Times, a cornucopia of TV and radio outlets, no media outlets that I know of, including myself—would be able to drive the streets of whatever region they had requested to cover at the time of application to CPIC, because they didn't have a sticker for their cars that allowed them to be on the closed-to-all-traffic roads. The reason? Everyone had been told during the application process in the convention center that the sticker would not be needed. So no one had one.
The result was the media had to walk the streets if they wanted to find out what was happening in Iraq that day. Most media outlets are ensconced behind 16-foot-cement blast walls, hiding under the guarded eye of dozens of security contractors and only venturing out to "mingle" with Iraqis in armored vehicles. In most cases this involves two at a time—one carrying the journalist and his or her driver and/or interpreter and another full of bodyguards. To walk the streets and actually have close contact with Iraqis was nothing short of a miracle. Their fear filter—the one through which they transmit the news of what is happening in Iraq to you, the recipient of the news, was removed, albeit for only this one day.
And what a spectacular day it was.
 Children playing in a trash-strewn lot after Friday prayers in Sadr City. A predominanty Shiite section of Baghdad, Sadr City is the poorest slum in Iraq. |
After much rain and cold damp weather the clouds disappeared, revealing a clear blue sky and temperatures resonating with the promises of spring.
The Iraqi Police and National Guard were in charge of the security that day, with Coalition forces taking a back seat—but ready and waiting to give support if called upon. This was the day the Iraqi people came together, security forces and civilians alike, to show the world, and more importantly, those who have been bringing violence and the threat of bloodshed for participation in anything foreign or "Western," that they would not be deterred from voicing their opinions, no matter what the threats. It was also the day that Iraqis showed the world that, with a proper security force in place, violence could be deterred.
The change was palpable in Baghdad, where people regularly fill the streets as they go about the tasks of life—shopping, school, work, eating in restaurants, dealing with the new bureaucracy—under a very thick blanket of fear. There is laughter, joking, and light moments, but to walk in the street unafraid and look into another's eyes and genuinely smile at a stranger—this is a rarity.
Yet in the three days leading up to the elections, even an untrained eye could see a difference. The Iraqi soldiers, normally standing at checkpoints in a seemingly relaxed stance, could suddenly be seen completely alert—standing at attention, chests swelling beneath their at-the-ready Kalashnikovs. The Iraqi Police also stepped up. It seemed as if each one had polished off their black leather jackets, dusted off their hats, spit-shined their buttons. The feeling was of being in control of their own welfare, of accepting and welcoming the burden of responsibility to keep their fellow citizens safe and create a strong atmosphere of security not seen since before the days of Saddam.
Yes, not since before Saddam Hussein took control. Life under Saddam was never secure. Not for the people of Iraq, not for his family, not for anyone he took a dislike to, no matter what some people say. More than one Iraqi has told me they were afraid "even when I am sleeping to dream of killing Saddam because he would find out and come to kill me first."
Election day was nothing short of inspiring.
As one friend, a former interpreter, said, calling from his Christian community late in the day, "I would not believe that these are my people, that this is my country. I woke up in the morning prepared to vote but there were mortars exploding so I decided to try in the afternoon. But I looked out my window and hundreds of people were in the street walking, despite the mortars! I cannot believe my eyes. Even now I cannot trust that this is what I saw."
According to Haythem, hundreds had lined up long before his polling station opened, just one of 1,200 in Baghdad alone. Gunfire broke out at one point and "no one left," he marveled. One elderly woman who couldn't walk on her own was carried into the polling station by two young men. "I will not die before I vote," she told the poll workers.
At one of the polling stations I visited, without my teammates as they had decided to stay in their communities and vote, I asked a female poll worker what if the people who got elected were not good. She laughed and defiantly said, "In four years we vote again and they will be gone! I am not worried."
A man who lived down the street from the polling place stood outside his home with an Iraqi policeman, holding his son in his arms. "We have never met until today," he said, pointing to the policeman. "But we stand here today as Iraqis." He pointed across the street to a neighbor's house—a Sunni—and told how in this neighborhood, as in many communities in Iraq, Sunni and Shiite live peacefully side by side. Holding up his purple-tipped finger in the ET-like, pride-filled greeting between all those who participated in the fledgling democracy. He said, "It is for my son that I have voted. So that he will have a good future."
Others lined up to tell me tales of disappeared relatives. One man, who has nurtured for many years a backyard greenhouse filled with tulips, spoke of his eight relatives who had "disappeared" over a period of years when Saddam was still in power. His eyes were etched with a permanent sadness and ringed with tears; his face was visibly weary as he told of recently getting a call notifying him of the discovery of a mass grave and requesting he come and attempt to identify three of the bodies. As he was speaking, he held his purple finger up to a passing woman's purple finger, a neighbor who had just come from voting and had brought her children along with her—her eyes had the same exhausted, older look to them. "Today is the birthday of the new Iraq," he said. "Today the people have hope."
On Election day, the Iraqi people came together to show those bringing the violence and the threat of bloodshed that they would not be deterred from voicing their opinions, no matter what the threats. |
The unification of the Iraqis—the poll workers, the police, the National Guard, many of whom are in their 20s, and the voters—all coming together in a show of defiance and strength to those that would try to impose their violence-driven rule over them, was a sight to see. In the face of threats and violence and potential loss of life they came out in droves to vote. Those who participated were standing a bit taller, looking relieved and smiling with unabashed joy. All told, estimates of up to 60 percent voter turnout have been widely reported.
Those who report positive stories are often criticized, for failing to tell the sordid tales. It is not that there isn't any horror and death occurring under this occupation. The violence comes from many sides and there is plenty of it. But you see these images every day and night, strewn across your consciousness with the singular purpose of enticing you, attracting your attention to the different agenda being put forth. In the case of the Iraqi election, it was inescapable for any journalist who left their cocoon of safety from behind 16-foot-high blast walls that day to actually walk the streets that day to feel and see the jubilation and unleashed spirit of the Iraqi people who dared go out to vote. The product of this was overall positive coverage of the Iraqi election day in the Western press—which of course was attacked by critics.
Let the doomsayers ply their trade. Whatever tomorrow brings, for one day—Election Day—the people of Iraq got some respite. And they also got a jolt of something that will feed them for a great while inspire them to work towards more of the same. For one day they took back their power.
Now it is your turn. You have to decide what is more important—your agenda to love or hate your government and its actions; or the plight of the Iraqis, and their desires for their future.