The View From Iraq in Photos

Please be forewarned that some of the photos at the end of this posting might be difficult but I was told by many veterans that what they wanted was a more honest view of what Iraqis were living. So I've posted a few shots just to give you all an idea.

In Iraq the lines for gas go for blocks. Many wait up to 16 hours and still leave empty handed.


So many prefer not to wait at all. Instead, they head to a black market vendor generally located nearby the gas station. US soldiers warned me not to head back to do interviews, but I wanted to see for myself.

They were wise to warn me considering the terrorists I found lurking there.


In Khadamiya children play in raw sewage and are ALWAYS eager to have their photos taken, much to the dismay of this photographer. US soldiers are working on fixing the sewer lines.


A typical soldier's room on base.


Iraqi translators who work with the occupation as they call it, are threatened daily. This man poses in front of a mural of a colleague recently killed.

During Ashura religious festival we patroled the streets near the Khadamiya mosque.


This woman made the pilgrimmage during the day. The things she has seen...


But the day was not without its terror.


This child probably would have survived had he been in the states but on this day we guessed that he would not.

No one is sure exactly where the bomb went off. Or how many explosions there were.

End of the day exhaustion. Tomorrow we do it again.

After Iraq, the deluge

I travel a lot. Really a lot. Maybe too much. I’ve decided that when I don’t take the time to reflect on the travels I’ve done then I’m really just a passing tourist. And that’s not what I want to do or be. I had one month in New Mexico after my return from Iraq and Sri Lanka before heading out again for my grandmother’s 90th birthday in the south of France. During that time I had to make a bit of money, do my taxes, prepare to rent my house, try to sell articles in the works and give several requested presentations on Iraq while trying to integrate some very difficult and confusing experiences. It wasn’t enough time and I hope not to do it again. You heard it here now: I’m wanting and needing to slow down a bit. Stop, think, write and prepare. That said, it won’t happen any time soon as I’ll be overseas probably until the end of the summer. At that point, I’ll work long enough to prepare my winter sojourn to warmer climates.

Anyway, the birthday was lovely – a chic affair at my cousin’s summer house in Cassis, a destination for the rich on the Cote D’Azur. There was plenty of food, wine, cheese, more cheese, some cream and sugar, plenty more wine, lots of desserts, and some champagne, followed by a bit of wine. We were content. And luckily my pre-trip alcohol tolerance building exercises were successful.
Now I’m back at my grandmother’s home of Uzes, a small town with blue shutters surrounded by vineyards and big farmhouses made of thick, white stones. I can walk the perimeter of the town in about twenty minutes, which I try to do at least once a day, if not twice or three times. Had the airline not “misplaced” my suitcase on the flight out, I might even jog it a few times in my nice running shoes. Yes, that’s right. My suitcase was lost by the airline, found at one point, and then misplaced again somewhere between Paris and the south. I feel fairly confident that the bag will find its way back to me, and in the meantime I’ve been forced (forced!) to buy myself a few crucial items: some sandals, a little frilly skirt, a halter top for the summer heat and a packet of contact lenses parce ce que j’en ai marre de mes lunettes. But all the careful packing I did (and those who helped judge the pre trip fashion shows are surely smiling) for lavish festivities surrounding and including my grandmother’s party—the scoop neck gowns, high heels and dressy slacks -- were ultimately replaced by ill-fitting and stylistically incompatible clothes, including a carousel of different shoes meant to offset the growing colony of blisters on my feet (including ones on the soles of my feet when I ultimately had to walk barefoot). Heck, I couldn’t even get my hands on a razor or a good stick of deodorant before the party. Ah, vanity! ah, humility! But family members were great and generous with their extra clothes and the tale of the lost bag was always a good focal point of any conversation, lest we start to bicker, as families are wont to do. Actually, I’m not sure what I’ll do when I do get my suitcase because it takes losing it all to realize how little we really need.
My trip is lasting as long as it is because I agreed before leaving for Iraq to rent my home to the Santa Fe Opera, and I felt compelled to follow through on the contract once I returned. I’ve no doubt my summer visitors will love my beautiful home and in the end it’s a good excuse to go somewhere without internet or phones to write. Now if I can only get that ticket to Sri Lanka. Or India. Or…

So now I’m running to catch up with my life and experiences. Excuse that my postings will jump from France to Sri Lanka to Iraq with a dash of Santa Fe. That’s just the way life is sometimes.