Barefoot in Baghdad (3 page)

Thus began a series of family meetings in my brother’s basement in northern Virginia. I respected my parents too much; I couldn’t go without their approval. Meeting after meeting I presented my case, and each time I was shot down. It was the first time the Omars were united against something—me. Nothing could convince my family that my need to go to Iraq was logical. I shifted tactics and tried to get them to see that I had something to offer. My experience and studies, coupled with my background as an Arab Muslim, were needed in the country.

“Nobody is in Iraq except CIA agents and preachers,” my father insisted.

“Maybe so, but that just makes it more important for me to be there!” I shot back.

By the third meeting, I was beginning to get through. Or perhaps I’d just worn them down. Regardless, their responses became less hostile and more geared toward what I would be doing when I was in Iraq. Where would I live? What did the program have to offer?

I began to explain the program of Women for Women International to my father. It began with a sponsorship program, where every enrolled woman was matched with a sister from a developed country, mostly from the United States. The program gave Iraqi women cash to help with the immediate effects of the war, such as food, water, medicine, and other necessities. They also received emotional support in the form of letters.

Women for Women International focused on the most vulnerable women. This usually meant those who were the primary breadwinners in their house: widows, divorcees, or unmarried women living with elderly parents. In addition to the economic challenges, there was a social stigma attached to these women. This meant that their finding work was even more difficult.

The program I would be helping to establish would support women on two levels. First, the program addressed the pragmatic challenges of securing food, water, and shelter. Our main objective was to train the participants in a job skill that would enable them to earn an income. Second, the program hosted bimonthly sessions in which women would discuss ways to improve their lives. A large portion centered on protecting their rights. At the same time, we would organize awareness workshops centered on health care, family planning, and access to education. The experience of Women for Women International demonstrated that women could only be prepared for the second level of training when their basic needs had been addressed.

I explained to my family that Zainab Salbi had founded the organization. As an Iraqi American born and reared in Iraq, she was herself a war survivor. I was inspired by her because she refused to be a victim and channeled her experience into helping women worldwide. Since its formation in 1993, Women for Women International positively affected more than five hundred thousand family and community members in seven countries.

And now Zainab was offering me an opportunity to join them.

“So how much money are we talking about?” Rula asked.

“Around fifteen dollars,” I answered.

“
Jad?
(Seriously?)” my father interrupted. “Is this program serious? You plan to give Iraqi women fifteen dollars? We are talking about Iraq: one of the richest Arab countries, a country that had one of the best education and health infrastructures in the world. You want to go to this rich country, and you think you can help them by giving them peanuts. Not only will it be useless, it will be offensive!”

It was the first time I had seen my father so upset that he stood up and walked out on me. My brothers scowled at me and followed. I didn’t have a chance to explain that, like the United States, there were pockets of poverty in Iraq. Not everyone was rich. And in the impoverished areas, fifteen dollars was the difference between starving and feeding your family.

I cried, not because of what my father said, but the way in which he said it. For the first time, my father’s face was filled with disappointment when he looked at me. The whole time I had been fighting to go to Iraq, I had believed the only obstacle was my personal security. I began to realize that I was in the midst of an ideological battle as well. For my Palestinian family, the Iraq War hit a raw nerve. My parents saw the war as a reminder of what had happened to the Palestinians in 1948. It was another humiliation of the Arab world at the hands of the West. And as far as they could tell, I wanted to be a part of it—and I was on the wrong side.

The disappointment my parents continued to express pained me deeply. My mother cried every night and took every opportunity to wail her woes at community gatherings. At several family events my mother would complain about how her daughter was punishing her.

“If I only knew what my crime was, I would try to make amends,” she said. “But I did all I could to give her a better life. I just do not understand it. We sacrifice everything to take our children out of a war zone, and this one keeps running back in!”

My father’s suffering was less open. He would pull me aside and talk to me; he would say he was trying to talk some sense into me. In one of our conversations, he lectured me about the wiles of the CIA, who he said had a history of recruiting idealists like me. At one point he actually believed I would be working secretly for American intelligence.

“You may think you are helping, but you are not,” he warned me. “The best way to help our people is by getting the best degrees and being the best at what we do. That way we earn respect that nobody can deny. Your success here is more valuable than anything you can do back there.”

A part of me wanted to pull back and be a good Arab Muslim daughter, but something inside me refused. I had an opportunity to make a difference. I was frustrated with watching people sit on the sidelines and complain about George Bush’s war and the destruction of Iraq. I had seen the same passivity during the UN-imposed sanctions on Iraq after the 1991 Gulf War. By 2003 the sanctions had crippled the Iraqi economy and devastated the infrastructure. UN agencies had reported the deaths of approximately half a million children as a result of the sanctions. There was a ton of rhetoric about crimes against humanity, but little action was ever taken. Now—after the U.S.-led invasion—Iraqi civilians were left once again to suffer. Malnutrition, illness and disease, inadequate housing. The people lacked the basic necessities of life.

I wanted to stop talking and start doing.

We hit a crossroads as a family. Nobody was willing to back down. My father would not agree, and I would not stop trying. It was getting closer to the end of June, and I was scheduled to leave in two weeks. My brothers and sister were angry with me for what I was doing to our parents. But I couldn’t let that stop me from lobbying to make my case.

In the end, I would not go if my father did not give me his blessing. This was a line that would never be crossed. I knew it, and my father knew it. Yet my father never used his veto power casually. It pained him to stand in my way. I was resolved to listen to his final word, but I also owed it to myself to try everything I could to convince him up to the last minute.

Apparently my parents had the same strategy. Wherever I went, family friends pulled me aside and lectured me. “Do you know what you are doing to your mother?” they would ask. I would nod, listen to the lecture, and walk away more determined than ever.

I had grown to expect such encounters. What I hadn’t expected was that my close friends began to confront me as well. Most of my friends worked in the same field of international development. Many were avid human rights activists. I had expected their unconditional support. Instead, I received more disappointment and criticism. They argued that no matter how I spun it, my decision portrayed support for the Bush administration. Any success in Iraq equaled a Bush success.

In short, I was seen as a sell out from every angle.

I had reached a breaking point. I needed to get away and think things through. Ever since I was in high school, I had found peace at the Shenandoah River in West Virginia. I went online and booked a room at a small bed-and-breakfast in West Virginia. It was only a one-hour drive from my apartment in DC. I left a phone message at home that I was spending the night out. It was time for some hard-core soul-searching.

Was all this worth the pain I was causing my parents? Was I really selling out and too dense to see it? Was I really trying to make a difference or was this some narcissistic way of seeking attention?

I spent all night praying
Istikhara,
a special prayer for Muslims to help them with difficult decisions. The next morning I awoke with more clarity on the situation than I had had in weeks. This was something I had to do. I had just turned twenty-eight, and if I didn’t seize control of my life now, I never would.

I made a final plea to my father. Armed with modern technology I plotted the best way to make my case. Email. I sent a long email to my father, outlining my arguments once more. The final paragraph read:

Dad, it goes without saying that ur word will always be the final word. I know none of the above can convince u, but at the end of the day I am asking u to have faith in me and trust me. I need to do this. I believe I can help. And I could never do this without your blessing.

After I sent the email, I drove back to Virginia. When I arrived home, I found my father’s brief reply in my in-box:

I do not know what satanic force is dragging you to Iraq, but I do know I cannot stop you. Go and may God bless you.

It wasn’t exactly the father-daughter correspondence I had imagined, but it would have to do. My mother was insistent that I was playing with fire, but she knew that once my father had agreed, there was little more to be said. Indeed, all things immediately fell into place.

On July 4, 2003, I left from Washington Dulles International Airport for Amman, Jordan. The poignancy of traveling on Independence Day was not lost on me as I reflected on countless debates I’d had over Iraq’s status between liberation and occupation. Despite our disagreements, all my friends and family came to the airport to bid me farewell. I felt grateful for those in my life. As much as they opposed my decision, they gave me the freedom to make it. When the time came, they were by my side to wish me good luck.

Even my mom came to the airport. Reluctantly, she hugged me and, through her tears, warned me that I may have tricked my dad, but she was still not happy with my decision. For that, she promised me, if I died, the family would hold no funeral services.

In return, I promised to haunt her.

I was scared. I knew I had no real reason to be, but I couldn’t help it. It was 3:30 a.m., and I was standing outside a hotel parking lot in Jordan and waiting for my ride to Baghdad. Our plan was to drive to the Jordan-Iraq border. We would wait until sunrise to cross into Iraq, and then we would speed across the country like the devil was chasing us.

I was actually going to do this. I couldn’t quite believe it.

Less than twenty-four hours ago I had boarded my flight at Washington Dulles, filled with anticipation. The moment I had spent three months fighting for had arrived. But somewhere along the line, a feeling of dread overtook me. Instead of shouting for joy, I wanted to turn and run.

Why hadn’t I flown to Baghdad? Well, there were no official flights. Traveling by road was the only option. But no one had secured the roads between the border and Iraq’s capital. Coffee shops in Amman were filled with stories of travelers who had never made it to their destinations. Highway robberies, once punishable by death under the Saddam regime, were common. What’s more, the primary bridges into the city had been bombed, making travelers depend on alternative routes. Although the Saddam regime had been toppled from formal power, the Baathists now controlled the peripheries around Baghdad. Everyone knew they were in charge of all civilian traffic into the country.

The most dangerous travel in Iraq was the journey I was about to embark on.

To make matters worse, I was traveling into Iraq with Zainab Salbi, an icon of women coping with war and its aftermath. She had founded Women for Women International in 1993 in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and since then the organization has opened offices in such war-torn areas as the Congo, Nigeria, and Afghanistan. Zainab herself was honored in 1995 by President Bill Clinton for her work in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and she was named
Time
magazine’s Innovator of the Month and received
Forbes
magazine’s 2005 Trailblazer Award. She is one of the few nongovernmental organization leaders to be featured on
The Oprah Winfrey Show,
and she has been Oprah’s guest five times.

Being around Zainab was intimidating for me. I was constantly filled with self-doubt. I thought,
I’ve made a mistake. Look at this woman! She is so calm and in control. This is a woman who knows what she is doing. This is a woman who goes inside a war-torn country to help other women. I’m not this woman!

While I stood and worried in front of the hotel, Zainab bid her younger brother an elaborate farewell. She hugged him, pinched his cheeks, and hugged him again. I could not shake off the feeling that I did not belong on this journey. It didn’t help matters that the airline had lost my luggage. I clung to my only possession: a messenger bag. The contents of the bag were all I had now: my passport, my iPod, a miniature first aid kit, a book, lip balm, antiseptic wipes, and a small copy of the Koran. The realization made me feel even more pathetic.

We did receive some good news. A few other SUVs had radioed in to say they would meet us at the border, so we would now be traveling in a convoy of four Jordanian GMCs instead of a single vehicle. Our driver still looked nervous, but as we pulled out of the parking lot, Zainab began to chat with him. Where was he from? How long had he driven the Amman-Baghdad route? Where did he think Saddam was hiding? I tried to enter into my own trance and zone them out. Her voice was far too cheerful for 4 a.m.!

Zainab began to rummage through the cooler her brother had brought her. “Anyone want falafel?” she asked as she unwrapped a sandwich.

The driver chuckled. I tried to play it cool and laugh quietly as well, but it came out more as a snort. How could she eat at a time like this? I wanted to remind her where we were going. Baghdad. Into a country that was in the middle of war—no matter what President Bush said.

She pulled out an inflatable U-shaped pillow and a matching eye mask, which she placed over her short cropped hair that made her look like her brother’s identical twin.

“I’m going to take a nap,” she announced to the driver. “If we run into any highway bandits or a roaming al Qaeda cell, make sure to wake me up. I don’t want to miss the excitement.” With that, she disappeared into the backseat.

Now, there was a true adrenaline junkie. Any excitement I had initially felt about going to Baghdad was long gone.

Playing the role of advocate for the last few months had forced me into a position of offense, and I had not even had a moment to entertain the many doubts and fears that I harbored inside. This eighteen-hour ride gave me plenty of time to catch up.

***

It wasn’t until I reached Baghdad that I began to understand the full extent of the risk I was taking by launching an office dedicated to marginalized women in Iraq. Despite the fact that the ride into Baghdad was uneventful, worst-case scenarios of life in the city were storming through my mind.

The insurgency would team up with al Qaeda and make Iraq a living hell.

I would be kidnapped.

I would be arrested by U.S. troops because of a mistaken identity.

I would be caught in a crossfire between American troops and the Baathists.

Over my corpse a debate would rage about what to place on the tag identifying me: traitor or terrorist?

My imagination ran wilder with each passing hour. Despite Zainab’s reassurance (she had been in these kinds of situations before, and she knew what the odds were like), I could not let my guard down. I became convinced that Iraq was destined to be another Vietnam, and I was struggling with the idea that in a few days Zainab would be returning to Washington DC—and I would be left behind.

I tried to share my thoughts indirectly with Zainab. Each time, she responded with an unmistakable look of sternness in her dark brown eyes. Without saying a word, the look warned me that if I had cold feet, I had better get over it. Pronto! That was the only choice. She had taken a leap of faith in hiring a twentysomething as the country director, and my calling it quits at the eleventh hour would embarrass us both. Yet there was also a kindness in her look. A sort of encouragement touched her smile, and it made me ashamed to admit my doubt. Great. I had managed to add a new item to my list of fears: disappointing Zainab.

I desperately tried to put aside my worries and concerns so I could simply absorb the city as it was.

***

Zainab was ecstatic to be in her home country and with her family. From the moment we arrived, we stayed with her maternal uncle. His house was tucked into the corner of the Al Khadamiyah district, where large concrete walls separated the houses from one another. Inside the cold walls, the warmth of her extended family was waiting for us.

Zainab bounced out of the car and disappeared through the gate. A young man came out of the guardhouse and began unloading our luggage. Well, Zainab’s luggage. I followed her through the gate.

The minute I passed through the gate I was greeted by two dogs. They ran circles around my ankles and took turns trying to jump onto my thighs. Since childhood I had been a fan of dogs, so I crouched down to their eye level, patting one on his stomach with the palm of my hand while the other ran around me. I was so pleased at seeing my new canine friends that I didn’t notice an older man standing nearby and watching me.

“Definitely
Americeeyah,
” he said as he offered his right hand in greeting.

Americeeyah
—the term Arabs use to refer to Americans. Most Arabs and Muslims have a strong dislike for dogs, since canines are considered to be ritually impure by the majority of both the Sunni and Shia branches of Islam. The only exception is within the Maliki school of Islamic thought, of which I was an adherent.

I stood up. I was embarrassed to offer my hand to him after the dogs had licked it.

“A bit of a mutt myself,” I smiled back and offered my hand anyway. I figured it would be worse to leave his hand hanging.

The man’s handshake was firm, and the big smile he offered while balancing a cigar at the tip of his mouth was reflected in his deep gray blue eyes. He was about five feet eight, with a trademark large Iraqi belly that made him look like he was nine months’ pregnant with twins, and he radiated confidence and warmth. Whoever he was, I knew I liked him. Something about him automatically put me at ease.

Zainab came rushing out of the house and flung herself into his arms. “This is Uncle Fahad, my favorite person in the world,” she said.

His smile stretched toward both ears. She was clearly his favorite niece.

Zainab quickly introduced me, and we turned toward the house. It was a large modern home with a small pool in front. It was what lay behind the house that took my breath away. The house was built on the banks of the Tigris River, which runs through the city of Baghdad. A shiver ran up my spine as I looked out on the historic waterway that is mentioned in the Bible twice and was the lifeline of the ancient Sumerians.

I was reminded of how my love affair with Baghdad had begun, back in 1997, when I was here with the UN. Once I realized that every street corner possessed a piece of culture, art, or history, with Nahrain—the two rivers of the Tigris and the Euphrates—as the inspiration, I fell in love. I was ecstatic to be back.

By the side of the pool was a small garden with patio chairs. Three young boys were running around the chairs, playing an imaginary game of war and hiding behind imaginary walls while shooting at each other with plastic guns. Zainab shook her head and turned to her uncle.

“This is the problem with Iraq. From a young age, we give our boys guns and raise them on violence.”

Uncle Fahad smiled. “It’s
broblem
with all world, my dear.”

Overall Fahad’s English was very good, with the obvious exception of the constant substitution of
b’
s for all
p’
s. There is no equivalent letter
p
in the Arabic alphabet, and so many Arabs replace it with a
b.
Growing up, my siblings and I would roll with laughter whenever one of our parents would order a
Bebsi
instead of a Pepsi. We teased our parents mercilessly to the point that they would overemphasize their
p
’s when they were in public. Sometimes they were so flustered that they compensated for all the years of mispronouncing
p’
s by replacing all their
b’
s. So
bikini
turned into
pikini,
and
bike
into
pike.
The end result was that I was fluent in an emerging pigeon English language and could easily understand Uncle Fahad.

We left the boys. Uncle Fahad placed his hand in mine and led me into the living room. As we relaxed on the couch, he explained what he saw as the state of the country.

“Iraq is very safe,” he said. “No listen to Arab satellite channels. Every Iraqi
habby
we finish with horrible
dick-ta-toor
Saddam. Our country has never had
obbortunity
to see its
botential
. Now it has. And that is scary for many our neighbors.”

I nodded as he spoke. It was about all I could manage. I was physically and mentally exhausted from the eighteen-hour drive into the city. I was not sure why he had launched into such an intense subject with me so soon.

Zainab smiled at us from the doorway. “Don’t worry, Uncle Fahad. Manal has spent most of her life in America,” she said. “She is more American than Arab, even her Islamic side. I had to listen to her sing Nelly’s ‘Hot in Here’ the whole way over.”

Then she turned to me and explained. “My uncle is worried you are a Wahhabi or a fundamentalist. The fact that you are coming from America and wearing a veil leads people to assume you are an extremist. Also, many Iraqis are frustrated with Arab talk of insurgents. People like my uncle just want a chance to rebuild Iraq and secure a future for their children. He wants to make sure you are not influenced by Al Jazeera.”

“Oh.” It was making sense to me. “Don’t worry. My Arabic isn’t good enough for me to watch Arabic news channels. I would be more worried about my dependence on CNN, which I consider to be MTV for adults.”

Uncle Fahad laughed. “You right. All news channels are rubbish. Just
bromise
me one thing. Take time to listen to the Iraqi
beoble
. We suffer a lot, but we are not a
stubid beobles
. We know exactly what we need and what we want. ”

His wise words were the cornerstone of proper humanitarian and development work. As much as we thought we knew what was needed, in the end only the communities we planned to work with really knew. That evening I made that promise both to him and to myself: I would keep my ears open and listen to the Iraqi people.

I felt ashamed of all the fear that had engulfed me on the drive to Baghdad. After all, the only danger we encountered on our way into the city had been reckless driving.

I knew that the people of Iraq had suffered a lot: the Iran-Iraq War, the First Gulf War after the 1990 invasion of Kuwait, thirteen years of sanctions, and now Operation Iraqi Freedom. The time had come for the Iraqis to seize their own future. It was long overdue and well deserved.