occupation kills

"Fuck, Tarek! Why the fuck do you have to put yourself through this? And just because I ask this, it doesn't mean I don't "understand" or "support" you... It just means that you're a fucking lunatic!

Quite frankly, I can't really see what the heck you're doing in Fallujah. There ain't no reporting on the state of Iraqi hospitals, and no "helping of people" that's going on... so, what *are* you trying to do being where you are?!"

In the last few days, a lot of people have said something to this effect, though none have been quite so eloquent. The inquirers have been my family, friends, my Iraqi detainers, and perfect strangers.

I'm safe. I was essentially cleared through Mooj Security today, and am now scouting hospitals. Everytime I walk into a hospital, they say no. Then my Mooj Minder comes in, and they say yes.. It's funny cuz it's true.. I'll keep you posted as I get settled.

tarek : )

I asked Ibrahim [name obviously changed] to take me to the mosque to pray tonight. We washed, we lined up, then we began to pray. The Imam, who leads the prayer, started with the standard section - the Fatihah or "the opening". We all say "Amen" when the Fatihah ends, and so we did. The Imam continued, and I got somewhat lost in my own thoughts. While we stood there, listening to the Quran, not so deep in prayer, Ibrahim started to cry.

There's so much pain around that everybody has to hide at least some, or else they would never stop crying. Hide enough, and it turns into a minefield - you never know when something blows up.

I've been looking for a word to describe my status at the moment - any noun at all. The best that I can come up with is "detainee". I am essentially monitored on the phone, though I'm sure they don't understand what I'm saying except when I throw in "mother" or "father" for their benefit. I can't go anywhere at whim. I don't have my passport, laptop or camera. Yet, I am still called a guest and treated like a brother.

Today, I was supposed to have my "last" interrogation. I was taken around the front lines (the interviewer is the highest frontline commander), where I saw the Mujahideen lazing around. The Americans were just over the horizon, apparently just beyond reach.

It's as though everything in this whole damned place is cued. As the frontline commander left, more Mujahideen were coming back from the front lines of Fallujah, a little bit tired and one of them limping and grimacing. At least one or two Mujahideen are dying a day, so I counted those coming in, then slapped the limping man on the shoulder and helpfully contributed that at least he was still alive, eh? He sneered his discontent.

Cue Sweden vs. the Netherlands in the Euro 2004. The incoming Mujahideen told stories and gave updates during the anthems, but as soon as the ball was played, everyone went quiet. Until now, the only other sound is the metallic grinding of a C5 (the missile that goes in a bazooka) under the foot of one of the fighters who is rolling it back and forth nervously.

"Don't you ever feel like you've gotten yourself in too deep?"

So read a single line in an email from a good friend. It stuck out like a sore thumb.

Today, I was more actively recruited by Fallujah's armed resistance. I kept telling them that my life goal was to fix people, not to break them, but they kept trying.

It became obvious yesterday that nobody would touch me until I passed Mujahideen Security Clearance, so I knew that I had to keep playing ball. I went to a couple more interrogations (all friendly, I promise) and finally ended up at the "last" one. At this point, I realized that they were really freaked out by my laptop (out of my possession still). They were not only unable to peruse it, but even unable to get it to boot properly.

"Ummm... Are you sure that's a good idea?" His smile was ear to ear. His finger hit the trigger, and he kickstarted a chorus, as other guns followed. Those holding the guns began dancing. The flashes set beautifully against the dimming sky, and the smoke rose majestically. The dancing went on.

It was a wedding party in Fallujah, so I wondered what the pilots overhead or the pilotless "predator" drone operators were thinking. The Americans have bombed a few wedding parties, and I couldn't help but wonder if this one was next. The street was filled with male well-wishers of prime fighting age (15 to dead), so it was conceivable that the Americans might "accidentally" bomb the wedding party, much as they "accidentally" bombed one close to Ramadi not long ago.

I left for Fallujah this morning hoping to have better luck on the hospital front. I paid less than $1 for the more than 1 hour trip. As we neared the city, a little boy flagged us down on the highway and mimed a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. The driver shrugged "what's new?"

As we got closer to the city, we heard a massive bombardment. It was worse than anything I've heard before. F16s littered the sky, and it was as though some giant boombox was constantly replaying the "whoosh" of a jet flying overhead. Somewhere in the din was the constant sound of an unmanned predator drone, its propeller sounding like a toy plane circling overhead.

I was in Fallujah's ICDC station, so I was not particularly afraid. These people are legendary for their anti-occupation stance, and are essentially subverting American money against the Americans.

It is no secret that the Americans got their asses handed to them on a plate in Fallujah. Instead of just admitting defeat and withdrawing, American pride led to the creation of a police force that got well armed with weapons and armour. Everybody who has looked at the forces armed here by the Americans, however, can clearly see that they are either Mujahideen or under the direction and command of the Mujahideen.

I wish I could convey to you the absurdity of this place. I can't. In taking letters and forming them into words, I am creating order that is not otherwise present. If I were to be true to the absurdity and irrationality I see around me, there would be only a jumble of letters before you.

My running around from place to place trying to get permission to help in Baghdad's devastated hospitals has been a prime example. The hospitals are desperate, and most of them could easily put me to use, but they wouldn't dare for fear that I am an American spy.

"And how can I prove I'm not a spy?" "Get approval from the Ministry of Health" "And who runs the ministry?" "The Americans." "But if I were an American spy, wouldn't I get the minister himself to say I'm not and write me a letter?"