occupation kills

When I came to Iraq, it was with the relatively explicit goal of "helping" in some way. In my mind, the best thing I could do as a non-Iraqi in Iraq would be to bear witness. However, I have always believed that bearing witness should be a part of something else. Since my return from Fallujah, I have been trying to reposition myself to do that "something else", but have thus far been unsuccessful. I also feel that I have gotten as close as I can to understanding the situation, the law of diminishing returns now in full effect unless I have some preternatural breakthrough. The exchange below culminates in one of the most cohesive and compelling pieces of advice about why I should leave.

[...]

It matters even less now that [Christian] Parenti -- perhaps the only other North American in the entire country with an ego that rivals yours, excepting your average Marine colonel -- has done you the wonderful service of documenting the material aid you've provided to the Fallujah Mooj. It's really quite astonishing that you happen to have found an independent journalist who believes the story of a Nick Berg wannabe is the relevant news to report for the week.

It's the height of irony, don't you think, that your confessions of doing precisely that for which the US loves to jail Muslims appears on your public weblog, at the bottom of which you urge readers to use PGP encryption when they write to you?

Note: I started writing this while in Fallujah, but only finished recently.

"Bad people have parties too." So said General Mark Kimmett, one of the senior US military brass when he was trying to explain why his troops had bombed a wedding party, definitely killing old men, women and children, and probably killing a few resistance fighters. I couldn't get the saying out of my mind as I watched the gorilla sing and dance, imploring me to be his valentine.

When everything is going to shit, you find an escape. Everybody I've met in Fallujah so far has had some escape. I saw some kids in theirs yesterday. One seven year old was pretending to be a fighter, complete with a working cap gun that made me flinch every time it went off. Another six year old pretended to be a dead fighter, and lay lifeless on the ground, a rolled up cardboard rocket launcher laid carefully by his side. Yet another declared he was a dead civilian. His friends piled cartons on top of him, making the scene resemble that of last week or the week before or any other week in which people were being pulled out from under the rubble of an F16 strike under the unblinking eyes of the children.

"$250 000 for a car??" I was being asked because I live in the West/North, making me an expert on decadence. I admit with shame that yes, cars can cost that much, and that people sometimes pay it. "But my motorcycle cost $25!" The comment was less protest than confusion. I could tell he was trying to figure out how many motorcycles he could buy with that much money.

We're watching Jet Set, which is essentially a show about decadence. The hand-made Bufori car they were showcasing actually costs two-hundred fifty thousand dollars. The real question on my mind, though, is what this man must think the outside world is like when his only real link with it is this satellite, complete with thug rap videos ("What happens to that full-scene tattoo when the hair on his stomach grows back or when he's old or if he loses weight?" "It's a question I ask myself all the time"), Hollywood movies and shows like Jet Set.

On our way home tonight, we ran into no less than five Iraqi Police (IP) checkpoints. Out of those five checkpoints, the car I was in was stopped at least three times, each time for five to fifteen minutes.

The American occupation machine tried a full-frontal on Iraq. They hoped that they could "shock and awe" it into submission or something stupid like that. The strategy was to instantaneously instill a "democracy" that was functionally undemocratic - answering to American occupation forces but not to the Iraqi people. The strategy failed miserably, but it appears that the American occupiers are learning. By bringing in Iyad Allawi, they are falling back to the somewhat successful Latin American model.

I have four thousand dinars in my pocket (1 450 Dinars = $1 USD). Other than the miscellaneous gear and my clothes, this is all I currently possess. I went to the bank in a bid to try to use my Visa or bank card to withdraw money. I was laughed at for even making the request. "Iraq isn't part of the international banking system, you know.." "Are you telling me that there's no way for me to get money from my cards in all of the newly sovereign Iraq?" More laughter.

I've decided to try to live this way - to see what it really means to live like an Iraqi. Most jobs pay less than $15 USD per month, but it will cost me at least $25 to get from here to Jordan, where I can find a usable bank, so I don't know where the $10 gap will be made up. Being a de facto whitey, I'm sure I can get bailed out as always. Still, I can't believe I'm sweating ten bucks.

It is amazing how self-absorbed I have become. In the last few days, I have thought about nobody but myself. I have, in turn, contemplated begging, borrowing and stealing to resolve my financial situation. As it is now, I am lazing around waiting fruitlessly for my laptop, hoping and wishing it comes back even though I realize it is a meaningless material possession. I think it's less about the laptop than it is about having something to focus on. This is the third day they say they're bringing my laptop and the third day I wait.

The perfect strangers I met just two weeks ago who have agreed to let me stay in their room think me so completely naive for thinking it'll come back. The family I stayed with, who are now in possession of it, keep telling me to come back to Fallujah to get it. If I were not suspected before as a collaborator, I bet I am right now for my sudden departure and insistence on having my laptop. They may think that they shouldn't have let me go. They may think anything, so I can't go. I can't go because I'm afraid of them - that illogical distrust that I still can't shake.

The laptop just arrived. It was supposed to get here at 2pm, so I started waiting downstairs at 1:30pm. I waited until 5, then asked one of the Iraqi fixers to call and see what was up. They were just about to leave now. Right on their way. I waited two more hours when the trip should have taken half that. Then, another call. "Listen. We're in Baghdad, but we can't make it to exactly where you are. Can you come meet us?" I emphatically insisted they come to the hotel, stating a whole host of bullshit reasons. Really, there was only one reason I wouldn't go: I was scared they would kidnap me or maybe just kill me. Another hour passed, and the sun was setting.

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

-- IF by Rudyard Kipling

I left Fallujah today. It was too much. Just too much. I'll spend the next couple of days writing on the various experiences.

tarek

Boom. My life is the fragments left over after a bombshell.

Fragment 1 - Midnight

Abu Omar [Name obviously changed] came over. He's the leader of the Mujahideen cell that checked me out and he wanted me to explain why a "normal" person would have a laptop computer. I didn't, but I let him surf it. It was OK, so he decided I would be a translator for him or something. Bullshit, I said. I'm not a secretary, nor do I want to work with the Mooj, even though I ideologically support their right to resist the occupation militarily. He left before I could finish my sentence, and brushed me off.

Fragment 2 - later than midnight

I'm fucking constipated in the land of diahrrea, squatting over some fucking hole in the ground. Somewhere in between my subvocal cursing at Abu Omar, I try to make sure I'm squatted right over the hole. There's no light or running water, so in the end, there ain't too much I can do.

As I meditate, I finally decide this is it: I'm going back to Baghdad. If this guy is gonna push, I'm fucking outta here. Don't look back. Don't change your mind. Just go.

Fragment 3 - 10am

"These people are sinners, Tarek. We all are. I swear to you, if you knew the things we had done, you'd never be able to look a one of us in the eyes. We're sinners, I swear.

There was a man once who we knew was a spy. He told us a Turkmen worked with him. We grabbed the Turkmen so he would confess, but he wouldn't. He owned a hotel and had a wife and three kids. No matter how much we beat him, he wouldn't confess. We broke every bone in his body, but he still wouldn't confess.

Finally, Abu Ahmad [Name obviously changed] - your friend - finally he took a knife and he cut a checkerboard into his back, then he sprinkled salt on it. The Turkmen begged us to kill him. We knew we were wrong, but letting him live would have been cruel, so we killed him and dumped his body on the highway.

We're sinner's all. All except for me, the fatman. Fat men have good hearts, you know."

Fragment 4 - Overheard while walking past the outhouse

"God. This is disgusting! Someone peed all over the outhouse! It was either some drunken stranger or one of the little kids!"

Fragment 5 - 1pm

Dahr once warned me that everything around here was hard. How true. I was packing my things to leave when I realized that all my money was gone - all but $5 USD, which I considered insult atop the injury.

I didn't want to tell anyone, but I had to. I suspected the fat man primarily. The keeper of the house went for his AK-47 and swore he'd kill him if he didn't fess up. It was Abu Ahmad with the gun, so we believed him. In the end, we brought out the Quran (The Muslim holy book) and we all swore on it that we were telling the truth. It's the final word, so the matter was dropped after that. The keeper of the house went and collected on some debts, then swore up and down I'd take the money. I swore up and down I wouldn't. I ended up taking a hundred - enough to feed his family for more than a month. I just wanted to leave, but they wouldn't let me till the money thing was fully settled.