occupation kills

Baghdad's sky had a dark halo around it today. Nobody could figure out what it was until we read a headline that said an oil pipeline had been blown up. That explains it.

I went to the Ministry of Health today with the intention of getting "permission" to volunteer in the hospitals of Baghdad. I intended to be there at 10, but traffic kept me until 11am. On the way, I bought a dress shirt for the equivalent of $1. The shirt, coupled with my attempted mustache, my fluffed out chest hair and my newfound ability to completely suppress smiles has made it almost impossible for people to identify me as a foreigner until I speak. So, I mostly just speak in monosyllables and keep to myself, just like everybody else.

The "click" is one of this world's few universal signs, and so the man holding the gun didn't have to say anything. His click was speaking plenty enough.

I was en route to Al-Nouman hospital in the Adhamiya district of Baghdad (the top of the "Sunni triangle"), riding in a "Ford" van (this time a Mitsubishi) when we ran across a road blocked off by the Iraqi Police (IP). The driver ushered us all out, turned his van around and sped away.

One of my riding companions saw that I was lost, and asked where I was going. No sooner had I answered than he grabbed my hand and began a brisk walk. "Don't be afraid. God will protect us." I walked faster so as to not be dragged, and now there were three of us walking as fast as we could. The other two talked politics, and I tried to figure out what was happening.

I arrived into Al-Nouman hospital a little ruffled, and so I asked for a glass of cold water. I was checked for a gun, and realized that if they would have found one, it would not have created a problem. Instead, the guy behind me checked in his gun and took the police officer's badge as collateral.

I started to look for the doctor who was to help me out, but he was nowhere to be found. Finally, I heard word that he was called in late last night, and so was probably sleeping. "Oh yeah, you can wake that guy up about as easily as you can wake the dead."

How would you try to wake the dead? For me, my knuckles grew raw knocking at the door, so I grabbed a stick and batted on it until the neighbours were checking their doors. But still no response. This continued off and on for about an hour before I finally surrendered. I left a message with one of his coworkers, and left it at that. Strike hospital #2.

In March 2002, I remember sitting at the MSF (Doctors Without Borders) office in Halifax and crying like a baby. I cried so much that I could not compose any reasonable sentence. I remember the woman with the British accent patting my shoulder and quietly reassuring me, as though words would melt away the tears and frustration.

Today, it was a different office and a different hand, but my tears were the same. There is nothing more frustrating than total rejection: No way, no how was I allowed to walk into a hospital in Sadr City. The man was one of Moqtada Sadr's representatives, and oversaw all public works in the area. After the director of the hospital rejected me as a volunteer in our 25-second encounter, this man was my best hope. But he wouldn't intercede, nor speak on my behalf. I begged him to reconsider, but he wouldn't - he said he couldn't on account of the rules.

He squinted his eyes, the wrinkles of age showing through heavily. "You might make it a month, but you definitely won't last two." I laughed nervously at the oft-repeated vote of no confidence, and asked for clarification: "You mean I'll get shot, or I'll go crazy?" "Maybe both," he said.

And with that, I ended my day yesterday. I shook the man's hand and checked into an Iraqis-only hotel, where I'll spend $10 / night until I can find something more reasonable. By shortly after sunset, there was nothing left to do, so I went to sleep.

Today, I started about the business of trying to be useful. After some conversation yesterday with like-minded westerners, I figured that it made most sense for me to try to get into a hospital to report and volunteer. Of all the hospitals around, everyone says that the ones in Sadr city are the most desperately in need, and so I figured I would start there.. The only problem being that you can't just waltz into Sadr city, a "renegade" city ruled by "radical cleric" Moqtada Al-Sadr.

After what feels like an eternity of traveling, I'm finally in Baghdad (Canada (Toronto) -> UK (London) -> Jordan (Amman) -> Iraq (Baghdad)). When I arrived in Jordan, my main priority was to assess the safety of the land route, and to see whether it was feasible for me as a foreigner. As such, I went to some square full of drivers, and tried to get a feel for the situation.

First up were some boys from the "office". They were all dressed in suits, wore fakley shades, and completed each other's sentences. They told me that they would take me in these beautiful brand-new GMC suburbans with special markings driving in convoys of 5 at a time. $150. I told them that gosh, I don't like the idea of being in a GMC suburban convoy. $140. Yes, it costs too much, but the point is that I'm just not feeling the whole suburban convoy thing! $130, but we're making no profit here. No. $120. I said no. $100, but now I'm paying to take YOU to Iraq!

"Maybe it was Assad," my father said. Assad lacks opposable thumbs and is a cat, so I doubted that he had planned and executed a daring passport heist. There were only three of us in the house (plus Assad), and so I knew that it was either my mother, my father or both who had taken my passport and replaced it with my older, much more expired passport from a decade ago. A part of me was enraged in a way that I can barely comprehend, but the largest part of me felt a profound sorrow and understanding: They didn't want their son to die, or even be at risk.

My family has long debated the merits of non-violent direct action and solidarity versus its costs. Every year, a few months before I depart, my parents, siblings, relatives and I sit for hours on end discussing the current international situation and whether the best course of action is to go or stay. I always end up going, but this year is the second out of three in which the destination country has changed as a result of these discussions (the initial plan was Chechnya).