The Baghdad Project

War, enemies and the truth about Santa Claus

2011-12-06T21:10:00.000-08:00

“Mom, is Santa Claus Really real?” Aiden asked me with such sincerity and concern that I was taken aback. Do I lie to him in the name of perpetuating a kid fantasy? Do I set him up for disappointment when he learns the real truth? Or should I just let him enjoy the fun of a mythical Santa (perhaps making it my own by, say, telling him the Norwegian/David Sedaris version of Santa as a giant Black man). Oddly, I just had no idea how to answer the question.

Then again, we've broached topics recently that have left me speechless.

For example, while shaving my legs in the bath the other night, Aiden came in to supervise.

What are you doing?

Shaving my legs.

Does it hurt?

No, only when I’m not careful and I cut my leg.

Cut your leg?!

This is a razor and it’s very sharp. It can cut your leg if you’re not careful.

Like Tim’s leg?

Sorry? What do you mean?

Like Tim’s leg? Did a razor cut his leg off?

Our friend Tim is a former Marine whose leg was blown off in Vietnam. He recently updated his prosthetic with a fancy contraption that probably cost about as much as my home. So now he likes to show it off, and Aiden is fascinated. Aiden heard that Tim stepped on an explosive device, but there’s no real place for that in the mind of a four year old. Might as well have been a razor that cut off the limb. In fact, the shrapnel probably functioned in exactly the same way. So we continue.

No, his leg was cut off by an explosion, though there may have been a piece of metal that was just as sharp as a razor.

So where is his leg?

I think it fell far away.

Did he go get it?

Well, Tim fell unconscious. He wasn’t able to.

What’s unconscious?

In some cases the body is so shocked it kind of falls asleep to protect itself. He didn’t wake up until he was in the hospital.

But where did his leg go? What happened to it?

Well, um... maybe animals ate it. I'm not really sure.

War is certainly a topic of our times, and a topic of my life, but answering questions with honesty and without inducing fear and horror is another thing entirely. What happened to his leg? It’s a perfectly logical question for a four year old. In later years we might ask, what happened to his soul – and how can we get it back into his body and into his heart? What do we do to repair the fabric of his mind? and thankfully he only lost his leg and not his life. But those aspects are too big and esoteric for a four year old. He wants to know, Why was there an explosion? Were they bad people? Why did they want to hurt him?

I wished I could call Tim and have him come over. Not that any of us have the answer to these questions. And none of us knows which detail might lodge into the mind of a young boy and stay there for years, maybe a lifetime. With Aiden’s mind and consciousness developing I think it’s important to start sharing information about the fact that some people aren’t so good, that some ideas aren’t so good, and that fighting is rarely if ever a way to solve problems. Fighting hurts people and guns hurt people, and when we aren’t kind to each other our words can hurt people. And is that really how we want to be with the people around us?

But what about enemies? he asks. What if we just hurt our enemies?

The other day in a café, a young man at the table next to us started asking Aiden about his new books. Within minutes, the two had gone through the I Spy booklet and with Aiden now climbing into the stranger’s lap had moved onto a Berenstein bear book warning children about how to avoid strangers.

The young man laughed under the weight of Aiden’s body, now reclined into his arm. “Yes, it’s important not to trust strangers,” he chuckled, looking at me. Always attentive to the subtlest of sentiments, Aiden climbed off of the man’s lap and came to mine. I read him the book myself, emphasizing that not all strangers were kind and that they could hurt him, and how he could yell if anyone ever tried to get him to climb into a car or otherwise lead him away. I felt sick by the end of it. Sick because I hated conveying that message but I think it’s important. I know that preparing my son for a life of war, caution and the possibility that there are strange people out there set on hurting him is what I need to do. But suddenly war seemed easier to explain. The absurdity of fighting was much easier to rationalize than the kind of illness that leads people to hurt children. Surely there is some overlap, but how do we know if someone is an enemy, and why should we spend any time or energy trying to define this? No one is our enemy, right?

But what about the people who took Tim’s leg? he asks.

Sometimes it feels too much and these topics of dangers and strangers, enemies and why there are wars, are not subjects on which I want to make too many mistakes. We go, we talk, we are gentle, and sometimes things slip. Like last night:

Why was she talking about the end of the world, mom? When is that?

There's no end of the world, honey. It all just keeps going. So yes, let’s ask Tim. Let’s ask him again about his leg.

(beautiful photo by the wonderful Jennifer Esperanza)

Help Survivors of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia

2011-03-14T13:50:00.000-07:00

Cambodia project needs your help to become a book! Help us help TPO.

Most of you know that Alan and I spent last summer in Cambodia interviewing and photographing survivors of the Khmer Rouge regime. We collaborated with a great organization called TPO (Transcultural Psychosocial Organization), one of the few in Cambodia doing mental health work, which the country desperately needs. Now TPO wants to use our work to promote what they do best, which is helping the survivors, and particularly those who are having massive memories come up around the country's war tribunal.

Please help us help them. We need to help TPO raise $2500 to print 200 hundred copies of a hardback book with the images and stories of survivors. It’s an historic account and also speaks to the power of storytelling for psychological healing. This book will go to all the people we interviewed, to the donors who made our work in Cambodia possible, and then to TPO to help them promote their work. In fact, the organization has been asked by the UN to present something at an upcoming conference in Geneva. We would love for them to have a printed book of our work to offer.

We’ve set up a paypal account to make this easy (send through alan@amtproductions.com once you have an account). Then we’ll send the funds directly to Cambodia and get the print run underway. Alan and his designers have already adjusted the layout and sent a PDF to the printer. This is a great way to support an organization that has such immense and difficult work to do – and also to support our work and all the efforts we put into this project to help survivors of war. Any amount would be greatly welcome!

Thank you all for following us and supporting us! If it goes well, we'd love to reprint it here in the states and have copies available for friends and supporters.

Call either me or Alan with any questions (or if you'd like to donate but can't manage paypal, like my mother).

Zélie - 505-699-1662

Alan - 505-470-0659

Some things I will/will not miss in Cambodia

2010-09-04T05:52:00.000-07:00

I'll be wrapping everything up in the coming week and a half (while also trying write my dissertation proposal!) and so it seems appropriate to reflect a bit on times here in Cambodia.

Many things can be separated into miss and won't miss lists, but so many other sights and sounds just can't be labeled. It has been a wonderful experience overall, and an amazing education on culture, history and the work I want to do collecting oral histories of trauma victims. But those lessons will need their own post. For example, there are still a few things that I can't get used to during interviews. For example, when someone we’ve interviewed can remember every province, commune, district and village to which they were sent during the KR regime, but then forgets that two of their previous children were killed. Or when someone asks after we conclude an interview if I believe their story. This still pains me so much, and really represents the magnitude of some people's search for recognition and acknowledgment. It also shows the importance of listening work, and of giving people the opportunity to tell their stories.

More on this as I reflect on my work here, but first a few things I will and will not miss. :)

Some things I will be happy to leave behind:

-Pollution
-Crazy traffic

-Witnessing moto accidents (luckily no major injuries)
-Complete lack of communication between people – even speaking the same language
-The look of fear, suspicion and sadness on people’s faces
-MOSQUITOS and sand fleas
-Visits to the hospital where the “doctors” knowledge is often questionable at best
-Aiden's various rashes/bites/infestations/otherwise unexplained maladies.
-Spending personal money on projects organizations say will be covered and NOT getting reimbursed. Nope, definitely won’t miss that.
-Living in hot muggy climate with no air conditioning
-Lack of good organic, clean food

people pinching, grabbing, hitting Aiden as an expression of their "love" and "adoration"

-Similar people grabbing Aiden's private parts. Apparently a male "bonding" thing. (In my country there's a word for it. It starts with a "p" and ends with "philia")
-Having to contend with the possibility of political censorship with every interview, presentation, thought of exhibit, etc.

But the above-mentioned have been largely overshadowed by some amazing and wonderful experiences with lovely people and incredible countryside. Here are some things I will very much miss about Cambodia:

-Those frogs at night, whose call sounds like someone running their finger across a stand up base.
-Riding in a tuk tuk every day, everywhere

-Smiling people who love kids! After the UK, this was the greatest joy.
-Open air markets with lots of color
-Mangoes and fruit smoothies
-The Cambodia daily newspaper – a really great paper for a country with serious censorship issues
-Restaurants with outdoor play spaces for kids.

-The riverside walk at about five pm when the light is just right, and especially right after a rain when the sky feels clean (er).
-The temples of Angkor, especially Angkor Thom.
-Hearing Aiden speak some Khmer (his “English-speaking” babysitter doesn’t speak any English).
-Hearing Aiden speak some French
-Hearing Aiden speak some Spanish (Dora videos)
-A beach! Sand/Sun
-Good friends, old and new, and lots of laughter
-Ice cream, and lots of it
-Sitting in my chair watching the torrential rainstorm move across the sky and come directly into my living room
-Vietnamese coffee (any coffee, really.)
-That little market in Takeo with bowls of snails, and veggies from Vietnam
-Motorcycles! Seeing how many people can fit on one small motorbike – SIX is my top! As Alan says, seat belt laws are for ninnies
-Elephants!

-Testimony therapy ceremonies at the killing fields

- The "crew", a great group of people who helped with aiden, with translation, with photographs, and with everything else we needed in Cambodia. Thank you Vandy, Tongny, Sinoun, Channut, and Judith. We will miss you guys, but hopefully will be back to continue our work sometime in the near future!

-And most of all I will miss interviewing amazing people with incredible stories. So many brave and open hearts giving their time and sharing their lives.

Thank you all!

Khmer Rouge Tribunal response

2010-08-01T08:59:00.000-07:00

Note: I’ve tried several times to upload photos and each time I’ve crashed the system. One of these days the conflict between me and technology will call a fragile ceasefire. Until then I’ll (and you’ll) just have to settle for text.

The Khmer Rouge Tribunal was surely broadcast across the states and various countries. One of Cambodia’s most notorious leaders during the khmer rouge regime was finally handed a verdict for his crimes. He was found guilty of overseeing (though not directly causing, the court was eager to point out) the deaths of about 14,000 people and he was sentenced to 35 years in prison. Considering illegal detention and time served the sentence was reduced to about 19 years. Fourteen thousand people and the best case scenario is that he’ll serve 19 years. There is also the possibility that he will be pardoned on the king’s birthday, which is quite possible and something Cambodians fear. The larger implication is that Duch could walk out of prison during his lifetime, a thought that makes survivors here both rageful and distraught.

If the verdict weren’t bad enough, the court ruled against any meaningful reparations, claiming the defendant was indigent. Now, claimants weren’t asking for much: a wall at Tuol Sleng prison with the names of the dead, for example, or a small pagoda built to honor the dead. The court offered instead to list the names of the dead on their website – as if most the people living in the country even had a computer or access to the internet!!

They also offered to record the “remorseful sayings” of Duch in a book for the claimants. I assume they would leave out the request for full amnesty that followed his last “remorseful saying.” Ugh. What a mess.

And to top off the beauty of the event, out of 92 claimants 26 of them were rejected on the day of the verdict. Meaning that their claims were denied on Lord knows what grounds, despite the fact that they had been participating in the proceedings for the previous NINE MONTHS. My first interview following the verdict was with one of the rejected civil party members; it turned into suicide counseling when she threatened to kill herself inside the Tribunal so her story would be known!

Court officials made grand gestures about the sound legal nature of the decision, and the great impact and influence it would have on the Cambodian legal system for generations to come. Perhaps all that is true, but claimants don’t really care about that. No, I don’t think there would have been a verdict that satisfied all Cambodians. Forty years (the maximum under Cambodian law) might have been accepted by most, but some people I interviewed still felt anything short of death (and I won’t even get into the details of how one subject described how that death should be experienced) was too good for the man. “He can still tuck his clean shirt into his slacks, can eat well and sleep on a nice bed,” this man said.

If reconciliation was one of the goals of a court procedure, then this court failed in huge measure. What Cambodians want and need is recognition for what they suffered during the Khmer Rouge regime. They have been told to forgive, forget, and move on. “Dig a hole and bury the past,” as the prime minister once famously said. But that cannot be done until the past is acknowledged. Cambodia is a country in a state of Post Traumatic Stress. Stuffing the truth down even further is not the answer. The country needs to get more creative and dedicate some of its rapidly growing wealth (which oddly seems to remain in government coffers) to healing its population. It will benefit the country in the long run to honestly reconcile with its past. It will heal souls and return the “courage” that has been taken from the Cambodian people and that they so dearly need back.

First Survivor interviews

2010-07-11T01:50:00.000-07:00

The beach was a great reprieve from city life -- and Aiden’s three hour afternoon naps didn’t hurt either! It was with a bit of disappointment that we had to head home, but that night, July 2, Alan was arriving and we had to prepare the house.

Alan settled in nicely, seemingly adjusting the heat and hustle with ease. We hit the ground running, and on the following Tuesday had our first interview at Tuol Sleng prison with Chu Mey, one of only twelve of the prison’s survivors and one of only four survivors still living. Starting out with new (and heavy) audio equipment was a bit of a challenge, but even more than that were the attempts at trying to get someone who has interviewed literally hundreds of times give answers that were not canned. The fact that I knew much of his chronological story and in reality was searching for the sub layer never quite sunk in – or perhaps was never accurately translated. Indeed, working with the translator was a challenge—not as difficult as with the first translator I interviewed, but difficult nonetheless. I could never be sure if it was the subject who was resisting the answers or the translator encouraging, even unconsciously, avoidance. The interviews always reverted back to the details of the life story and we could rarely penetrate any deeper. After five hours of dialogue (and I couldn’t help notice my lunch turning stone cold as it sat beside me, my stomach grumbling) my patience was tried and I simply didn’t know what else to do to turn the tide. This isn’t to say I didn’t hear an amazing story from someone who is lovely and open and so eager to share his tale for the world to hear. It’s more that I’m being confronted with a culture that does not easily express emotion. To do so is considered brash, weak or worse: akin to an illness, for which the Khmer Rouge would kill.

That said, Chu Mey was the first to tell me that it was only through the presence of TPO counselors at the trial that he could tell his testimony at all, and it is through telling his story that he has found meaning and strength to go on. This is a common refrain, and this is in fact why I am doing what I’m doing. The healing powers of storytelling… In the US we call it psychotherapy, but it’s more than that. It’s the act of telling and being listened to with a sincere interest to hear. It’s about presence and believing someone’s story. One survivor described his two years in a prison in Siam Reap then ended with: do you believe my story? Duch wants people to believe that the things we say didn’t happen. I tried to imagine the living this man’s experiences – horrible enough in and of themselves – and then being told that I was exaggerating or even lying. Insult to injury but with a layer leveled at destroying the self.

Yes, I believe his story. Yes, I believe everything he said, even if there are other cases and times when I do in fact have my doubts. So it’s also about acknowledging someone’s experience, being able to honor what someone has gone through, and to say to that person that in telling their story there may be some kind of redemption and some kind of reconciliation.

The most fear I saw in someone’s eye was from a woman who served as a Khmer Rouge soldier until she herself was imprisoned and tortured. She was one of the lucky ones, and was able to stay alive until the regime ended. She married her husband shortly after the Vietnamese invasion but tells me that it was only in 2007, after her photo in Tuol Sleng was identified and she was encouraged to testify at the tribunal, that her husband learned she had been a soldier – and she learned that he had had a wife and child before her, both of whom were killed by the Khmer Rouge. This detail struck me more than many others, and as we rode back home in the tuk tuk I wondered aloud, “Can you imagine being married for almost thirty years and never sharing your personal experiences under the Khmer Rouge with your partner? If you suffered, had nightmares and difficulties sleeping because of your post-traumatic stress [as she acknowledged], then how would you explain that? If you rarely left your house or covered your face for fear of being identified by others, then what would you say by explanation? We in the West – and particularly among my highly communicative friends – are very focused on notions of clear communication and honesty, particularly in relationships. So where would this fit in, this idea of survival through silence? growing silent trees, as they called it here. When is it that the survival is assured (or as assured as any survival can be) and the silence is all that remains? Or is it as one survivor noted, “the khmer rouge never left. They are in all the high government positions, so why would we think it’s safe to start speaking about our experience now?”

To the Beach! Sihanoukville

2010-07-01T01:14:00.000-07:00

A month in Phnom Penh with hardly an excursion elsewhere and I decided the game was up! After realizing that Alan would be arriving in a matter of days and that soon after our work would begin in earnest, I started eyeing a bus schedule at the visa extension office. Within a couple of hours I had run home, packed bags, shopped for snacks, collected Aiden from school and decided to head south! I’m writing this from Sihanoukville, about four hours south of Phnom Penh (or five hours if you take the wrong bus like we did; there are drawbacks to being so spontaneous) where the beach is lovely, and the food and hotels quite cheap. Aiden befriended two kids also from Phnom Penh and the trio has become inseparable. In fact, it’s been so nice, our Wednesday return date drifted into Thursday and was just extended a final time to Friday. I do have to return as Alan is coming in late Friday and I’ve promised to be at the airport for him. It is the least I can do.

We’ve tried four different hotels in four nights and I can say that four times a charm. Tranquility hotel is our favorite so far, the smell of bug spray not withstanding. Considering that in last night’s room there were so many cockroaches in the drain I could barely get to sleep, today the smell of bug spray is welcome! Ah, yes, the beach…

Sihanoukville is not the cleanest of beaches, and I was advised to pack up the kid and head next door to Sokah beach, a private beach attached to a luxury resort. I had been told that for a five spot we might buy a lounge chair, and with lunch the pool would be open. Much to our disappointment the five spot has since increased to $10 A HEAD for the use of their private beach, and lunch buys you nothing but lunch. “You can eat but if you start playing, you pay $10 each,” the somewhat embarrassed beach guard told us. I tried to imagine making Aiden and his friends sit quietly while we had lunch and not even feign any playing lest we get charged for enjoying the atmosphere too much. Then I thought better of it. No need to give elitist, corrupt landowners (and Sokha is surely corrupt; it is only a matter of time before the shanty town that shares their beach will be “relocated” for its own good) any more funds. Let them have their six guests. We’ll head back to our lovely site. Furthermore, by “cleaner” my friend must not have been referring to garbage necessarily, but to the fact that vendors and beggars are not allowed. Hmmpf, Clean indeed… At least the kids got to play on the playground before we were approached.

Needless to say it has not been all luxuriating and fresh Barracuda. No! I had been in Phnom Penh a month trying to organize meetings, raise funds, create working partnerships and arrange and test translators. But all of a sudden our most important partnership to date had to be finalized the day after I left the city, with requisite meetings, phone calls, requests for MOU and schedule creation, etc. to be completed within a matter of days! Incredible. Judith filled in at the meetings; phone calls and emails are flying; and and I'm trying to finalize the MOU this evening to set the groundwork for the flurry of collaborative activity that will begin a week after Alan arrives. Welcome to Cambodia, my friend! But the partnership looks great with a group called Youth for Peace which is doing beautiful work, specifically on a memory project with Khmer Rouge Survivors. Seems a perfect fit. Hopefully they will provide transportation and translation in return for artwork and other documentation. All this to be finalized in that MOU I'm finishing. But first a bit more BBQ Barracuda...

First translation-let the learning curve begin

2010-06-22T01:12:00.000-07:00

Oh my… First day working with a translator and I fear this is going to be much more difficult than I expected. In fact I admit I’m a bit afraid. It’s about translation and expression, perhaps language itself and the way people have access to it. I have to remind myself that the people who were educated in Cambodia were killed under the Khmer Rouge regime. Those who survived the regime were often the farmers or otherwise manual laborers. The people I encounter who speak French and English well most often weren’t here during that time. They managed to escape or were away when the evacuations began. And while the regime was overthrown more than thirty years ago, there were lingering effects. I read of parents not wanting to send their children to school because they saw what happened to educated people, and how could they be sure it wouldn’t happen again? This differs so profoundly from Iraq where almost everyone I met was educated to some degree, with most city-dwellers I met holding at least a bachelor’s degree, if not a Masters and more. Many spoke English or at least understood some of it. The translators we worked with were educated at least in part in England and France. So even though Arab culture and people were so different from what I knew, I didn’t feel as far away from them. That’s not the case here. At least for now. It doesn’t mean this divide can’t be overcome; it just means that each interview will take more time, better translation, more patience, more relationship building and understanding. I’ll have to continue my search for a translator with whom I can work for the whole project because this relationship is crucial. Understanding one’s perception of a question – by defining justice, I am not (only) asking how many years leaders should spend in prison, for example – as well as pronunciation particularities can make or break an interview.

Take one of today’s more comical exchanges, which unfortunately revolved around someone’s terribly traumatic moment: I was asking a woman to describe an important memory, good or bad.

“She was carrying the ground”, the translator tells me. “It was so hard for her.”

“The ground?”

“Yes, to a field.”

“Carrying the ground to a field…” I repeat in the hope that by hearing his own words he might also recognize the not exactly clear nature of what he is saying. No dice. I have to guess. What could she carry to a field, I wonder. “Maybe dirt? Was she carrying dirt?” I ask. Translator nods excitedly. “Yes, then she had to carry a “seed” with her hands.”

“Seed to plant? In the ground with the dirt?”

“No SEED”

“A seat? Like a chair? Maybe for the soldiers?”

“No! SEED SEED SEED. From the button. You understand?!”

No I didn’t understand and despite my best efforts not to, had to chuckle at his exasperated look. A room full of old Cambodian women watched my face. Then it hit me “oh, SHIT! Did she have to carry Shit??”

“Yes!!”

“Then she was climbing on top a tunnel she fell and soldier blame her. She thought she going die but then carry seed.

“Carry seed again?” I ask.

“No this happen before”

“… oh.”

Ok, so with a bit more time I will catch context/timing much more quickly, but at the outset I don’t want to assume that a KR soldier made this woman carry shit back and forth to a field because she accidentally fell down. Of course he would. He did that and more. I just need the language to understand it. And I need more. Not just the events but feelings, which are so rare here. Even the word “emotion” is different. In a TPO meeting the other day the lead psychologist was discussing people’s emotional response and spoke at length in Khmer but interjected the English word “emotion” throughout. I still have to ask about this discrepancy, and also remember that raw emotion is still not a cultural trait here. Indeed, who would want to feel after what they’ve gone through?

Cambodia pics from Aiden's POV

2010-06-20T22:01:00.000-07:00

me and mom at Doctor Fish. Can't say much for the rest of Cambodian medical establishment (already one near concussion and then I almost bit my tongue off) so hopefully the only other medical attention we'll need is from these fishees! May it always be so...

When we went to the zoo on a school trip there were crazy aggressive monkeys. They were so fearless, we couldn't have our picnic lunch, and had to hire escorts for protection as we wandered through the grounds!!! I thought it was pretty funny but mom was exhausted at the end of the day, glad to get back on the bus and head home!

rooftop garden fun. There's also a fish pond up here but mom never lets me catch the fish with this watering can, no matter how many times I try. party pooper.

Loving the tuk tuks

Am I safer now, mom?

I am practicing my best look for French school!

The Cambodians love kids and I can't seem to go anywhere without one of them touching me, squeezing me, trying to pick me up, tussle my hair or otherwise try to get me into some photo with their small children. Ah, to be a rock star. It's hard work, but somebody's gotta do it.

Phnom Penh shots pt 1

2010-06-20T08:33:00.000-07:00

We landed at a lovely hotel in Phnom Penh with a big swimming pool and floatie wings for kids. Aiden spent hours floating. Literally hours. It was at this pool we met our first friends, with whom he now attends school. Though Aiden started his socializing long before -- on the plane to SE Asia, explaining to me that he couldn't put on his seat belt for landing because he was "talking to all of his friends". He hasn't stopped since; my little ambassador makes friends everywhere. He quite likes Cambodia. He especially likes his new Go Cart. If he could sleep with it, he would. Bought a fancy little pink helmet to go with it (bottom). Sometimes he wears his helmet in the Tuk tuk. Sometimes he wears it on walks. Seems appropriate just about anywhere in PP. Often we just stay home and hang out on our deck. Fabulous place. lovely breeze. If we go out it has to be special, like to Dr. FISH to get a little fish massage. Big hit! or perhaps out to munch on some tarantula. Also a big hit. Wherever we go, spirit is high. A bit accident prone. After a near concussion he then slipped and almost bit half his tongue off! Would've snapped a shot but the blood was a bit much. Within days the tongue has almost healed itself. My new favorite body part.

Laying the groundwork

2010-06-18T19:44:00.000-07:00

My colleague Alan Thornton arrives on July 2 to begin work with me in Cambodia, the second part of my journey towards documenting survivors of war. Alan, a talented photographer and great friend, agreed to jump on board after I sold him the idea generally over tea last Christmas in Santa Fe. As my summer plans began to take form – with such email exchanges titled “Hmm… Cambodia or Colombia? Burma is looking difficult. Nepal violence too fresh” – he stayed the course, and when I finally zeroed in on Cambodia and working with TPO and Khmer Rouge survivors, he signed on the dotted line and bought a ticket. Hats off to Alan for his leap of faith. The project couldn’t go forward without him. I still hope to cover all the above-mentioned countries (the decision was quite difficult given that my Rotary stipend will only finance one such summer internship!), but I can only do one at a time.

It was in discovering the important psychological work being done by TPO in Cambodia that my decision was made. Because while violence erupts every day, and sadly Kyrgyzstan is the newest wound to open, the long-term impact on survivors is rarely mentioned, and nor is the work being done to treat them. My dream of a large-scale photo documentary project on survivors of war fit perfectly with TPOs desire to have a similar public documentation for their work with victims of the Khmer Rouge. Many of those we will interview will be claimants in the country’s War Crimes Tribunal (here called the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia, or ECCC). Some of these claimants told me that their testimony to the courts was the first time they spoke of their experience under the Khmer Rouge, and that the presence and support of TPO was the only reason they had the strength to tell at all.

I have spent my first few weeks here first getting settled and then trying to lay the groundwork for the project, starting with creating collaborations with local organizations, some of whom are doing similar projects. We want our work here to benefit and promote the work being done, and not to repeat efforts if at all possible. Collaborations seem the best approach all around, and TPO has been a great entry into what’s happening here – and what could be done. It all depends on funding, and there is always a question of need chasing monies. Now we’re compiling a list based of possible subjects based on a number of criteria: people who are clients at TPO, people who have not had a chance to tell their tale before and would like to, people who are members of the local victims association and also who live near killing site in Cambodia that are not within the jurisdiction of court investigations (there are about 180 killing sites around the country; the Killing Fields is only one such place!!). Then it’s about finding good translation, transportation, and time. Everyone is focused on July 26 when the verdict for “Comrade Duch”, who ran the Tuol Sleng prison, will be handed down by the courts. It will be the first such verdict since the court began its proceedings in 2006, so is sure to be profound. I’m particularly interested in seeing people’s reaction and whether they feel there has been any “justice” given. My suspicion is that they will still feel lacking.

Meditations on Parenthood

2010-06-15T21:59:00.000-07:00

Aiden and I have settled in nicely. Still no stomach bugs, though adjusting to the heat, humidity, and mosquitos seems an endless process. We have a beautiful top floor flat with a small pool down below and a Cambodian Montessori school attached. Our brief foray into the world of expat French school was quickly squelched as I saw too many depressed and aggressive children forced to sit still in circles and repeat information by rote. Now, I know it’s important to learn discipline, and to be able to sit still during a lesson. But first thing in the morning when a three year old has just caught a tiny frog in the nearby water basin, the last thing he wants to do is be forced to sit still in a room and repeat French numerals!

I spoke with a young French volunteer working in PP for the summer who explained to me that the French kindergarten system is the same everywhere, and that kids are rarely happy or have fun while “learning”. Now perhaps he was projecting his own experience, but it was enough food for thought that I’ve moved Aiden to the Cambodian Montessori where focus is on play. The children are more gentle and joyous, though clear English is rarely spoken, much less French! Still, I think I’ve made the right decision even though there is a part of me that wonders if I should be pushing kiddo to accept a more rigorous and structured system. I assume this will be and is an ongoing dilemma for parents who want the best for their children. On the one hand, I am fortunate that it is only me having to consider these things, without negotiation and possibly different views of a co-parent. On the other hand, it is only me having to consider these things, without the help and support of a co-parent. And so it is.

To compensate for taking him out of French school, I’m trying to make a point of speaking more French generally and having brief vocabulary lessons every day. This morning we spent time together feeding the poissons (fish) and then counting birds (in French!) from our hammock on the porch. This is not our greatest struggle here in Cambodia, but it one among others.

A far greater dilemma is about safety and cultural expectations here. It’s quite difficult coming from a Western background where personal safety is utmost, and an entire industry has grown around creating the boundaries to keep our children safe. Here in Cambodia that is most certainly not the case. For example, the small pool downstairs has no fence whatsoever surrounding it, and there aren’t even little stairs to enter slowly if need be. I have already lost hours of sleep over this, as well as contemplating all the other various means and ways that Aiden could be hurt in this chaotic and often boundary-less city. My landlady, who also heads the Montessori school, says Western children aren’t very smart about some things, and need repeated surveillance to make sure they don’t wander into traffic, run on the slippery sides of pools (as Aiden did when he bonked his head), go near swimming pools, or otherwise do stupid things. I argued that the Cambodian children I’ve seen may be better behaved but not necessarily due their intelligence, moreso out of subservience and a lack of freedom to explore and be curious. On this we agreed. So there needs to be a middle ground, a gentle respect developed but also a long lead given for kids to explore, be curious, and also, yes, make mistakes. What a fine line this is because if anything ever happened – God Forbid –could you ever forgive yourself for being so permissive?

Flash back to Bradford, England, where a kind of paranoia is so pervasive, I’m not sure many children have a childhood at all. Cameras are poised everywhere and headlines scream of pedophilia cases at least every other day, to the point where parents tell their children to avoid everyone, and they do the same. Whereas in the US I could easily strike up a conversation with another mom in a park, and possibly have a play date set for the following week, in Bradford I’ve only set one playdate -- with a mom in one of my classes. Instead I’ve been told that I should “check a website” to see what might be available for kids in Bradford. Part of this is due the demographic there – Pakistanis (who make up the majority population) are quite insular – and part of it is a larger ethos of fear. One English couple held their child on a tight leash – inside a gated playground!! -- and didn’t let her interact with others, literally yanking her backwards if she began to engage. A case of child abuse as far as I’m concerned, but sadly common in Northern England. So no, I don’t believe in safety at any cost.

As I hung laundry on the roof this morning and tried to shake myself awake after a turbulent night spent churning these issues over in my mind, I wondered why I should be so fraught at all (ok, I have to admit, I also just finished reading Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer about young Chris McCandless who wanted to spend the summer living off the land in the Alaskan wilderness and unfortunately never made it out. His quest for adventure was not unlike any young person’s need for a rite of passage, a means of proving oneself as we enter adulthood. He made some mistakes, as we all do; just that his proved to be fatal. Never the best for late night dreamlife.) I came back to the Middle Eastern saying, Inshallah: God Willing. In Iraq they use it after everything, whether it be the desire for a healthy life or the desire to meet you the next day for lunch. It will happen, God Willing. And so I thought about this in reference to my stay here, and to our life of adventure generally. That we will overcome all of our difficulties, Inshallah. We will stay safe in this sometimes dangerous and chaotic city, God Willing. I will do everything I can to make this a safe and enriching experience; I will take precautions every day like wear sunscreen and use bugspray; I will hold my son tightly in Tuk Tuks and try to travel when traffic is light. I will buy helmets and hold his hand tightly while crossing the street, I will monitor pools and food and drinking water, and use antibacterial wipes after every ride. I will try to make sure he drinks enough and sleeps enough and doesn’t walk near the hot mufflers of parked motos, or go near wandering dogs or creepy-looking people. I will read my son books and speak to him in French, try to find him vegetables he will eat, and not use the TV as a babysitter. I will listen to his concerns and snuggle whenever he needs it, and continue to give positive reinforcement for the wonderful things he does and says, for sharing and being kind and smart and polite. I will be patient and not yell, even if I’m tired or sad or sometimes scared. I will pray for protection and guidance and be thankful for everything we have – and we have so much. I will do all of this and more. And everything will be ok. God Willing.

The Cambodia Project Takes Flight

2010-05-31T02:43:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know it’s taken me months to write again but I have been a bit busy. As in, WAS I REALLY CRAZY ENOUGH TO MOVE TO ANOTHER COUNTRY AND ATTEND GRAD SCHOOL AS A SINGLE PARENT WITH A TODDLER?????? Yeah, That kind of busy. Suffice it to say that my term at Bradford was difficult. Wonderful, fun, challenging, interesting, but terribly difficult. Some photos will follow, but meanwhile my focus and energy is on phase two: our summer.

The Cambodia Project

We arrived Phnom Pehn after a brief stay in Bangkok – Rotary counselors strongly suggested avoiding the city. We waited for our hotel shuttle while a half dozen Thai ladies took photos and cooed over Aiden as he showed off his car set. I suspect he already likes Thailand! Aiden was able to sleep through much of the flight from London to Abu Dhabi and again from Abu Dhabi to Bangkok – and again that night, I might add. He was sufficiently tired! So we lucked out and jet lag is impacting me far more than him. We landed by chance in a really lovely hotel with a small saltwater pool and attached restaurant, all good for those first days of adjusting to heat, time zone and noise. Villa langka for anyone traveling here. Not the cheapest, but such a nice little spot.

PP is a noisy, dirty city with mad traffic and hardly a sidewalk to be seen. Aiden is so far quite popular, almost to a fault; he now avoids the incoming pinch or ruffled hair that is endless as we progress down the streets. That said, it’s so lovely to be in a place where people openly love and appreciate children.

The expat communities at first sight appear separated between French and English, with a bit of crossover. In just two days here Aiden has met two students with whom he’ll be in French school, if in fact this works out well for him, and we’ve gotten several tips on fun child-friendly spots (including one restaurant with a huge sandpit and slide in the middle! A great success with the A-man, I might add). So while I’m quite overwhelmed by the traffic and my own lack of orientation, I’ve also begun to realize that PP is in fact small geographically and socially.

I have yet to see my flat – that may come tomorrow – but it’s within easy walking distance to several possible schools. If I’m relieved by this fact, I’m a bit distressed to hear that my actual work site, TPO Cambodia, is quite a distance from anything, which will entail some form of long distance transport (and requisite costs) on a daily basis. Unfortunate indeed.

But I’m not going to stress about that yet. Our first days are intended simply to acclimate. Aiden has spent more hours in the hotel pool in the past two days than perhaps he’s spent in his entire life, and I’m not even kidding about that. He has gone from a bit timid in the water to enjoying a flotation device for hours, to wearing goggles and letting his face go underwater. We’re on a fast track swimming lesson here as we have a small pool at our flat and I’m eager to feel a bit more confident being around it. Besides, water is one of my great joys in life, and while there still is a bit of clean water in the world, I look forward to exploring it with my son!

I had been warned but am still a bit shocked at the prices here. Aiden’s little pair of swim goggles? $10! For a moment there, I had a flashback to London! Food is priced by Western standards with most meals costing between 7-20 dollars. I’m sure that once we adjust we’ll find the $1 noodle stand that will make me happy, but for now I’d like to prolong that first stomach bug for as long as possible! Ah, the joys of travel.

I’ve met my work colleague Judith who seems a smart, dedicated and fun woman (three characteristics I like a lot), and hope to meet the others by the end of the week.

So for those of you still wondering what the heck I am doing, let me back up a bit: I am in Cambodia for the summer interning with an organization called TPO, Transcultural Psychosocial Organization, run by one of few psychiatrists currently working in the country. The internship is part of my Rotary Fellowship and it’s a great opportunity to get some practical experience. I was drawn to TPO primarily for its use of Testimony Therapy, which uses a person’s retelling of his or her history and particular traumatic events in order to heal. My belief, and especially after working in Iraq, is that oral history plays a vital role in reconciliation, and sadly Cambodia has a long way to go in terms of any meaningful reconciliation following its genocide now thirty years ago.

I chose Cambodia and Dr. Sotheara Chimm after reading a blog that described his testimony at the Khmer Rouge Tribunal. As described by his colleague, his testimony first covered the psychological impact of the Khmer Rouge years: “how the trauma of imprisonment, torture, starvation, slave labor, witnessing deaths, and being forced to execute loved ones has left survivors with severe anxiety and post traumatic stress.” He then described how the regime systematically broke the structures of Cambodian society one element at a time. “After the regime ended in 1979, Cambodians had lost the structures that would have allowed them to heal from trauma. There was no family, no teachers, no doctors, no monks, no honoring of the dead, no comfort, no closure, and no justice. The very institutions that would help Cambodia recover from the immense trauma no longer existed.”

Now as head of a well respected -- albeit undersourced, overworked and somewhat stigmatized psychological organization (mental illness is still not a fully accepted subject) Chimm is trying to approach the massive traumatic impact in his fellow countrymen. And he has an immense amount of work to do. I’m quite excited to be part of the team.

Rotary convention and life in Bradford

2009-10-13T03:49:00.000-07:00

A familiar sign in some English towns

Aiden in Rachel's lap listening to instructions on our stage entrance and exit (A pic of him waving a, um, Canadian flag will hopefully be forthcoming!)

Big Bday celebration -- And no, we didn't ALL plan to wear red!

Me and my fellow Fellows at the Rotary District Convention

Aiden socializing with two Iraqi women at the University's atrium

Pyjama party at the Library!

Mercury goes direct!

2009-10-13T03:36:00.000-07:00

October 2 and my mother tells me that Mercury is finally exiting out of retrograde and going direct. I certainly hope so! Not that I pay much attention to this stuff, but if anything can account for why everything has been so difficult, then maybe it’s that. And hopefully now that Mercury is going direct, things will start to get easier. Right? Right? Among the frustrations was that my new/used stroller broke (no wonder he knocked 10 lbs off the asking price!), my internet stopped working in the eves, and babysitters are falling to the wayside.

So Aiden has attended his first Gender class, and should know the Bradford Library system by now. The babysitter cancelled for the morning's class the night before at 11:30 PM while I was sleeping, of course, so instead of skipping classes I just wheeled him in. He was great! definitely aware that he was getting to do something special. It was the second day that I had to push him in and out of classrooms so I must be the butt of a lot of people's jokes by now. Hopefully, gaining a bit of respect or admiration as well! Aiden is getting over some of his shyness and for better or worse now introduces himself to everyone with: “Hi, I’m Aiden. Pleased to meet you. I’m not shy.” he loves the atrium at school where he can run up and down ramps and run his stroller into any number of pretty Asian girls.

I will have you know that I am the first of the fellows to host a party, and so tonight will be serving tortillas and... something to new friends. I went to the nearby Tescos tonight for supplies (similar to Sam's club) and was so overwhelmed that I left with only a chunk of cheddar cheese and a giant inflatable spaceship for Aiden!

In general, the upside is that Aiden seems to like his bohemian existence out of daycare and free of anything resembling structure. The downside is that I've hardly been able to pay a second of attention to classes/academics/reading, and have had to skip a few classes that I wanted to check out during this first week because i just couldn't bare to wheel him into one more room. I'm hoping that by the time the momentum starts gaining that we'll be in enough of a rhythm that I'll be able to study. Maybe even head into the library. This chaos also has my fragmented mind even more fragmented, and focus spitting like a light bulb with a short. It really wants to be on but just doesn't have the juice.

Oct 3 – We spent the day in Saltaire, a World Heritage Site, doing a less than Heritage activity. Instead we found the local Kidzone and spent about four hours there. It was great! Aiden loved it, dashed out immediately and helped himself to toys and climbing equipment without so much as a glance backwards. The place not only had snacks and good seating but wireless internet! Imagine that. I was even able to read my required essay “Weak States, Global Threats and U.S. National Security: A Research and Policy Agenda” between searches for Aiden, chats with other moms (or mums as they’re called here), and eating incessantly. We caught our scheduled train home with just a minute to grab a sausage roll. Back in Bradford Aiden met his second friend: a girl from India named Ashante, whose mother is also looking for playmates for her daughter. She and her family live right down the street from us and the get together possibilities sound very promising. She and Aiden seemed destined immediately. Ok, so maybe there’s something to this mercury direct thing! Back at home (late) Aiden collapsed for two hours, awoke and ate FOUR (yes, four) bowls of soup before heading back to bed. Can you say, “growth spurt”? Mom’s having her own growth spurt. She ate two bowls of soup, a cup of chocolate covered raisins and, get this, a cup (yes, a cup) of vinaigrette salad dressing. This adjustment thing better happen already or I’ll be unrecognizable faster than I can grab another crumpet. And it’s just Oct. Apparently, Nov though Feb are the really “bad” months. Deep breath.

Oct 9th and I spent my BIG birthday with a hundred plus Rotarians at a quasi sea town (quasi because there was no view of the water). The conference was a challenge with Aiden but we managed quite well despite it all. (Becasue Aiden is a champion. Full stop.) With my fellow fellows we ate Indian food and toasted my new decade. A lovely time indeed. Maybe there is something to this Mercury thing... :)

First weeks in Bradford

2009-09-28T13:43:00.000-07:00

Photo captions:

Aiden is NOT a happy camper

Aiden feeding ducks o the canal in Skipton. Note little black duck with white neck, Aiden's "friend"

Aiden enjoying the canal.

Aiden in the Bradford park. Behind him girls celebrate Eid.

Sept 14, 2009

So after that last update, some THREE months ago I’ve had to do some serious reckoning. The truth is that I was a bit horrified (understatement) by Bradford, England and its serious lack of anything kid friendly. I dipped into depression. Then I tried with all my power to switch campuses. Still nothing. My depression deepened. My lung funk kicked in. I fell sick for a week. Depressed, depressed, depressed. Finally I decided that I’d gotten this far, was this close to a Masters degree, and really, it couldn’t be THAT bad, could it??? Chin up, missie. And on Sept 9^th I boarded a plane to Bradford, England. A week and a two days later we moved to our flat, in the center of downtown Bradford – Uber urban jungle, with not a blade of grass for miles. Our flat is really quite nice with light wooden floors and lots of light, a definite necessity for those long, dark, cold days that await us. “Flat”. Note the Britishism already in full swing. After Aiden’s first visit to the nursery he ran to tell me he’d eaten a chocolate “bisquit”. read: cookie. Beware fellow Yankees: it happens fast. Aiden has had his own struggles with adjustment, which are manifesting mostly in the physical. Within a day or so of our arrival Aiden started to develop a crazy itchy rash on his torso that eventually made its way down to his feet. The doc said he had tonsillitis and recommended antibiotics cause that’s what they do here for most stuff, she said. On advice from home docs I gave him ibuprofin, Tylenol, Benadryl and spent hours rubbing calendula gel on is back at night. Once the itching stopped the vomiting began. Poor guy should be immune to it all by now! And that’s just his physical state. I never imagined that a two-year-old could show depression but Aiden did, and it took some time to get him out. In fact yesterday was the first day when he acted like a normal, happy kid again. Hallelujah. So I feel like we’re finally on course again. Tomorrow we begin our nursery visits, which were delayed due to Aiden’s illness. The setting looks good and the children quite baby-like next to Aiden, but fine for company. Meanwhile, I’ll begin the project of looking for missing homeware, signing up for medical cards and on Thursday registering for classes. Don’t know which ones as there is no information about this Masters course. Nothing. It’s crazy. I’ve been known to jump feet first into things I know little about but this tops most everything that’s come before.

A nice note is that one new friend here who I can see may become a dear friend is from Basra, Iraq. Aiden is in love..

So that’s it for now. And no telling when I’ll have internet to post all these. Already we are behind. Such is life.

A few things I found: that when things say “No Sugar Added”, it only means there’s sucralose or some other nasty sugar substitute involved.

When we were invited to “dinner” somewhere I said it was too late and we had to go home. But they meant lunch. So what does one say for the meal at night, I ask? That’s “tea”. In my country tea is something we drink… and speaking of tea, try finding some lovely herbal bedtime tea and you're out of luck!

Sept 22

First official sighting of wildlife: a squirrel, running near a tree, in a park. A real park! Soon after followed by Aiden’s first big rat sighting. Is that also considered wildlife? Will have to consult.

Sept 25

Oh boy... well, Aiden's visits to daycare have gone from bad to worse. Today he screamed hysterically for 45 minutes until they ran to get me in the waiting room because he had turned purple. Let's just say it's not working very well. Part of me just wants to trust Aiden on this one, but I'm not entirely certain where to turn next, and I'm trying not to freak out that classes start next week. That said, he has fallen head over heels in love (wanda style) with this wonderful Iraqi woman we met so I'll try to register her help. She stayed with him while I signed up for classes (for a small fortune, I might add) and within a day Aiden was saying he loved Lubna (or Luna as he calls her), and "missed her." Amazing. So I'd love for her to do more, even though she has no experience with kids. And not sure where the funding will come from. But she's very Christian and says that God will find a way. More likely I'll find a way, but I'm sure there's a little God in there somewhere!

Otherwise, my fellow students seem pretty cool. I think there are a couple other Americans in the mix of 100 or so, but most others are from Africa and Asia (Pakistan). In fact “Asian” here refers to Indian, Pakistani and Middle Easterners. What we call Asian, they call Oriental. I thought Oriental was a rug, but whatever.

Our apartment is still sweet but feeling very far away from everything. Good thing is today I was able to get a new buggy to replace my fabu jog stroller destroyed in transit by the airline. This will make hoofing around Bradford a bit easier, especially when those frigid "sleet storms" kick in. The recent winds have given a hint of what's to come and it's NOT pretty.

Wish I had time for a run to London but the cost and time to get there makes it less feasible than I was initially imagining. Guess those weekend runs will be fewer than expected. But already feeling the time pass, and if Aiden can get comfortable with someone I know I'll jump in with both feet and love it. And then we'll pack up next summer and head off again. Ugh.

Sept 27

Today is another day and I’ve decided it’s all going to work out. Not sure how, but it’s going to work out. Lubna will stay with Aiden tomorrow while I attend a library visit and a meeting with my advisor, and then the following day classes begin in earnest.

I’ll try to visit another nursery but the email I received was in very poor English so wondering how the spoken language will be. Then again, I’m looking for warmth and comfort for aiden. Right now that feels more important than anything. So what if they don’t speak English? Urdu may come in handy in a couple of years.

As the wee one sings from the bedroom (it’s 9:30 at night and he refuses to sleep) I’ll update the weekend. On Friday we had our first big night out. I strapped Aiden to my back and headed over to campus to celebrate 20 years of activism on the part of Chris Howsen, a local Reverend and our hands down best friend and resource since we arrived. The room was full of lovely people, and amazing stories. Chris is very involved with helping refugees and asylum seekers, and he doesn’t seem to have a moment of calm with all the people who seek him out. I feel a little guilty also seeking his time, but he and his wife are the only other parents I know of with small children and so we spend as much time at their pad as possible. Aiden is quite fond of his two girls.

We made it to a puppet festival on Saturday where the highlights for A included a giant paper mache musk ox, and a cup of reconstituted giant prawns with garlic. Ew. I’ve decided that Skipton is a wonderful little town and I’m so glad I’m now familiar with it. A was thrilled to see his old friend the little black duck. (long story)

Oh! How could I forget? we ran into our first full on gang fight type thing! A group of kids were coming back from a football game in Leeds and another group was waiting in Bradford. Usually there are police officers at every station following a game, I was later told. Unfortunately, there was no such security at bradford. So when the train stopped a flood of guys streamed out of the parking lot with bats and broken bottles and attacked the kids getting off the train. Aiden and I arrived just as the fury had abated and the yelling seemed ordinary enough that I just gingerly stepped around the confrontation. I even brushed aside the fact that pools of blood covered the floor of the train (“I recognize the look of that liquid,” I thought to myself. “Maybe that’s just common in Bradford trains…”) and tried to navigate Aiden’s stroller into a dry patch. When I finally focused and took in the drama around me I saw a victim holding his head and his friends calling for an ambulance. I think just a surface wound but quite a dramatic result. Police came, testimonies were taken, my train was more than a half hour late and on we went to our puppet festival. Welcome to Bradford.

New year, new life -- Off to England!

2009-06-14T14:15:00.000-07:00

While it seems a bit odd to still have the title "Baghdad Project" for this blog, it also makes sense. Because it was Baghdad that changed my life forever. The place and experience redirected me to the life I am now living and the work I am doing. The suicide bombings on the streets of Baghdad made me realize that more than documenting war, I wanted to start working for peace. All of the adventures previously posted make up who I am and were i am going, and for that I am grateful-- and feel blessed.

My fellowship in Bangkok, Thailand, in 2006, introduced me to dozens of amazing individuals around the world doing the kind of work that I found inspiring and important: They worked to help child soldiers in Africa; provide support for Tamils in Sri Lanka; stop the sexual exploitation of women and children on the Burmese border; and help victims of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. I wanted to be part of that tribe. I then applied to become a Rotary International World Peace Fellow and am so fortunate to announce that I was chosen for this prestigious program. I will be attending university in England this year with my darling boy Aiden. Our adventure continues!!

Aiden is now over two years old (yes, it's been two years since I've posted! gulp). He is my greatest joy and inspiration,

and I hope that he too will become an Ambassador for peace.

Please follow us here as we report on the logistical ups and down of moving overseas, (finding daycare and suitable kid-friendly sites, restaurants, housing etc) and the amazing experience of meeting Rotarians who are doing incredible work in the world, and supporting those of us who really do aspire to change the world for the better. Here we go!!! xo

My Biggest Adventure Yet!

2007-04-10T10:12:00.000-07:00

So graduate school took a backseat to a more pressing, and ultimately much more difficult and rewarding, project: my son, AIDEN DANIEL POLLON, who was born on March 22, 2007. I'll try to keep my blog from becoming an all baby all the time outlet, but no promises. At least not in the beginning.

Z at 8.5 months pregnant

Aiden at three days. My little zen baby.

At one week flashing his big blues.

At 2.5 weeks. Uh oh, might have grandma's ears...

Thailand photos in no particular order

2006-10-03T09:37:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm not sure why my photos are so terribly out of order but perhaps it reflects the way I feel at the end of the Rotary Peace and Conflict Studies Program: like it was a three month blur that I'm just now trying to sort out. Below are some of my sweet memories from a wonderful three months with great new friends. I'll post more soon, including some of our numerous Rotary functions and class activities.

A little elephant love for mattias in Chiang Mai

My Kohsamet beach friends, the soi dogs

My favorite spot in Thailnd: Kohsamet

near the end of our program we decided we needed more more out of class time together. This was one of several "block parties" held in alternating rooms.

One of my favorite field trips was our journey to the Burma Thai border to look at a gas pipeline. The sign in the background marks the dividing line.

"Miss Universe" and the future president of Liberia at a very fun evening Rotary function.

Our last field trip was to the south. This mermaid is the symbol at Songklah.

Deft and Kim, from Thailand and Korea respectively, hamming up over the river Kwai.

The Colonel tries out a little spontaneous aerobics in Lumpini park.

During one of our trips we stopped at this Khmer temple, similar, though much smaller, than Angkor wat in Cambodia

This was the fine bus we traveled in for hours on end for our first trip to visit dams all over the northeast. Good colors, no?

I was so thrilled to finally discover the presence of oxygen in Bangkok! we were so happy, we went on a boat tour of the lake.

Well, it didn't take long for me to tire of Thai food, so you can imagine my joy when I discovered a Mexican Buffet held every Tuesday night. This night I even found a few converts!

One of our group outings in Bangkok was to the Grand Palace.

Because world Cup soccer played such a big part of my early days in Thailand, I had to include this one shot of the World Cup final at an outdoor space near the trade tower. I walked home at 4 a.m. as the revelers were getting wild!

But most of our time was spent in this room listening to lecturers from around the world. The great info made up for the bleak decoration scheme! :)

By the end of our time, even I had become a convert to the school canteen where we could get a great stir fry for only 15 baht (about $ .50)

Nothing like a good coup!

2006-10-03T08:01:00.000-07:00

I guess it takes a political coup to get me excited enough to write these days. I’ve been in Thailand almost three months now, watching this “calm, peaceful democracy” at work and wondering at what moment the hairline crack will open, sending the country into chaos. It is peaceful here – and calm, held together by a king who is revered to the point of piety. As we celebrate his 60th year on the throne, the streets of Thailand swarm with Thais clad in yellow T-shirts, yellow apparently being the king’s favorite color. Mondays - the day he was born - are an especially golden day. Twice a day everything stops to sing the king’s anthem; every movie begins with the same standing song. But the king is getting older and – God grant him good health forever – no one knows who might follow. His son is not as popular as his father and despite a change in law to allow his daughter – a very popular and smart MIT-educated woman – the possibility of ruling, people say the son will be the likely heir.

At the same time the country since 2001 has been led by a prime minister whose conflicts of interest are extraordinary; they make Dick Cheney’s Halliburton connections look almost ethical! Thais accuse him of using the country to amass extreme wealth, which some say was first multiplied during the market crash in 1998. Conspiracy theorists suggest he knew of it beforehand, tipped off by the Finance Minister who – surprise – remains in a plush government position. This is speculation, of course, but what we do know is that he sold his massive telecommunications company to Singapore to avoid taxes – that is, after changing the laws to allow foreign companies to own Thai telecommunications businesses.

Dr Amara, the head of this Rotary program and the previous dean of the Political Science Department at Chulalongkorn University, was one of the first to publicly speak out against the Prime Minister, calling his actions unethical and bad for Thailand; she and a collection of academics called for him to step down. That was the beginning of the ground swell against him that led to a discussion of new elections to be held this October or November. It culminated Sept 19 in a political coup led by the combined military and police forces of the country, and with the blessing of the king. PM Thaksin, or Toxin, as one pronouciation-challenged Indian participant always calls him (truth be told, it’s catching on!), was in New York at the United Nations General Assembly at the time, one stop on his whirlwind PR tour, despite his own call for no campaigning before the October elections.

The news flashed on BBC around 9pm, just as Kofi Annan was preparing to address the General Assembly. Tanks were gathering in front of government offices in Bangkok, the headlines read. Thaksin, who got wind of something happening back home, fired his head of army and immediately declared a state of emergency. Dr Amara got a call that members of the armed forces had earlier entered an extraordinary session with the king. By 10pm it was official: a military coup was underway. Thaksin said he would return from the US early, but if he does he risks being arrested for corruption upon arrival. His bank assets – hundreds of millions of Baht and only a fraction of what he really owns – would be seized.

At this point, all I wanted was a one-way ticket back to Bangkok. Imagine, I’m just an hour away from a real live military coup. Who knew a girl could get so lucky? By 10:30pm the Thai “democratic” government cut off satellite TV – i.e. BBC – and on all channels ran continuous coverage of the king and his good deeds with a backdrop of every patriotic song in the book. Finally, one statement was issued declaring that a “political reformation” was underway, supported by all arms of the military and police, but not signed. At the time no one knew it if was led by anti or pro Thaksin supporters. By 11:30pm the statement appeared with a signature by an anti Thaksin official, but still no one knew who would lead the country. By 9:30a.m. the next morning there was an official appearance by the military and police leaders of the coup, led by Thaksin’s head of the army. But still no word on who would lead the country. We waited until late that night to hear which interim leader would be put in place until elections could be held. Still no word.

The next morning we were asked to cancel all travels and stay inside the hotel; we weren’t in Bangkok, but in the notorious “deep south” conflict zone and no one knew what the coup would inspire. With the country now under Marshall Law, no more than five people were allowed to gather in one place at a time. So we invited two speakers into the hotel and crammed into our professor’s room. During a session on helping trauma victims of southern conflict we got word that Thaksin might try to enter the country through Laos in the north where his strongest support base had always been. It appeared the coup would not go over without some resistance. But Thaksin underestimated the support the coup had among Thai people.

By evening the army leader, one of the few Muslims in a high government position, announced that a new leader would be appointed within two weeks, and that leader would rule until October 2007 when the next elections could be held.
Otherwise, the coup was already shunted to the back pages. It was bloodless and had hardly a resister. In fact, regular Thai citizens were seen giving soldiers flowers as they passed the guarded buildings. Go Go dancers pulled up a truck and performed for the soldiers; parents snapped photos of their children on the tanks. For someone studying conflict this was a very odd coup. But as numerous people would tell me: “This isn’t the way we would have wanted it, but it’s the only way it could have happened.”

And maybe they’re right. It’s a peaceful government transition claimed through a military coup. How do you define that one? It’s not as if this is new to Thai politics. Though it’s the first coup in fifteen years, the country has gone through more than a dozen military coups – some not quite as peaceful as this – and had numerous different constitutions. Not amendments, entirely new constitutions! People worried about the continued presence of the army but within two weeks, as promised, a new leader was chosen and the tanks were put back in storage. The man chosen is a retired military General but I suppose it’s the closest thing to a civilian they could find. And the most important thing is that he’s respected by the king and by the Thai people. Can’t ask for much more than that I suppose. But no one will say that Thaksin is out for good. He’s too smart and too resilient; most Thais I spoke to were certain he’d be back in the future. Stay tuned…

(P.s. I will start to work backwards and detail what's new, and as always, a lot is new!)

Grad School, Fellowships and Debt, Oh My!

2006-07-05T03:34:00.000-07:00

Change is always afoot and this summer is no exception. The big news is that I’ve decided to join the debtor nation and I’m going to grad school. After looking at several International Relations programs around the country I decided on Johns Hopkins SAIS, and will be starting on their Bologna, Italy campus in late September. My second year will be in Washington, D.C. SAIS was kind enough to let me start a month late so I could finish a Fellowship program in Bangkok (Guess the exorbitant tuition cost is all that matters!). So that’s the other big news: I received an international Rotary Fellowship to study Peace and Conflict Studies in Bangkok, Thailand. The three-month intensive course is for mid and upper level professionals who work with conflict in one way or another. I am currently the only American to be chosen for the program and because I’m a dual citizen I’m apparently also representing France! I find that very funny… and also disconcerting. While I may be the only American this time around, this has to change. Now more than ever it is important for the rest of the world to see that there are Americans who are dedicated and in fact devoted to finding peaceful resolutions to world conflicts. Research this fellowship, apply or find other worthy applicants, and follow this blog site. I hope to be updating it on a consistent basis.

For better or worse, the Rotary website has posted the mugshots of the 17 participants. http://www.rotary.org/foundation/educational/rpcsp/index.html. It’s a pretty grim looking lineup photographically (except for Patel. Good going!) but I’ll be sure to add a more human touch soon. Perhaps the karaoke night shots, the field trips, the heated classroom discussions... I’m looking forward to it all.

I’m also looking forward to my pre fellowship adventures: En route to Thailand I’ll be stopping in Beirut, Lebanon for five days where I’ll catch up with Nadeem and the boy band!! and then a day in Dubai with my friend Chris, a diplomat I met in Baghdad. Chris will be heading back to grad school as well -- coincidentally, to SAIS. Great minds, etc. etc. But he’ll be in DC.
So you see, the world really isn’t so big afterall.

A brief aside: Given the above described projects, as well as a small family matter, I was forced me to cancel my trip to Nigeria, which would have been my second venture into training African journalists. The “Great Black One” or GBO, and I (the “Great White One” or GWO) will certainly reunite at a later date for there is much work to be done in the creation of true democracies.

Training Journalists in Africa

2006-03-03T13:05:00.000-08:00

I almost jumped. I know it’s a desperate move but I didn’t see many ways out. Journalism was killing me, or perhaps I should say, the lack of journalism I was seeing, feeling and writing was depressing me to no end. I felt that no one wanted to read real stories, and when they did – only when they had no other choice -- they simply didn’t care. They didn’t care about Iraq or war, or corruption or the destruction of this country’s natural resources or the dissolution of its hard won freedoms. I couldn’t take it and I saw no other way. I applied to grad school. Heck, I even applied to a business school. I considered a day job.
But then something completely unexpected happened. I was asked to go to Cameroon to help a Nigerian colleague train other journalists in that country. At first I didn’t believe him. Why would he ask me and what would I have to say to other journalists in a country I knew very little about? In fact Africa is one of my last frontiers. I’ve always been a bit intimidated by the huge expanse, the level of violence in various areas (despite the snarking, I don’t have a death wish) and, to be quite honest, the specter of AIDS. I’ve traveled alone most anywhere but in Africa, suddenly the possibility of an assault could be considered deadly.
My colleague Ndaeyo, who I first met at the Neiman Conference on Narrative Journalism at Harvard when I crashed one of their elitist speaker dinners, insisted that anything we had to share would be welcome. “It’s the most important work I’ve ever done in my life,” he told me of his newly formed organization the International Centre For The Advancement of Journalism, ICAJ. “You must come see for yourself.” We had bonded a bit at the Harvard conference. I felt his newly formed organization to train African journalists was an amazing idea and I was sure it would be funded. More importantly, I told him how distraught I had been and continued to be in Iraq, where efforts (whether real or perceived) to create democracy were laughable in the best of moments and in the worst were terribly, tragically dangerous and off base. Training journalists as a means of promoting democracy, free speech and community, was something I could finally get behind. I told him I would do whatever I could to support his efforts.
And so our conversation continued and within a matter of months he asked if I would join him on one of his trainings, this time in Cameroon where we would be joined by a third trainer from the Cameroonian town of Boue. Far be it from me to turn down a chance for adventure, so by the end of the month I had a ticket in my hand, and malaria pills burning a hole through my wallet. I was heading to Africa.

Ndaeyo was right: the training was amazing. Hand chosen groups of journalists from around the country, and representing all forms of media, sat before us for the day-long sessions that we led mostly though personal anecdote.
Ndaeyo was energetic and engaged, talking of his history covering Nigerian politics and dealing with government pressures. I started slowly, still unsure what a white woman from America could possibly offer this group of people. The answer came quickly. They were eager to learn anything and everything we had to offer. They wanted to know how to conduct an interview, how to write a lede, how to cultivate sources and how to identify a story. We talked about the basis for our devotion, which was a responsibility to truth, to representing those who had no voice, and to warning and educating communities of what actions would impact them. I repeated the mantra as if it was news to me, and in a sense it was. I had forgotten what I loved about journalism. I had forgotten its importance and its power in shaping and informing society.
Our most frequent discussions were around the issue of gombo, or bribes. Gombo is intrinsic in Cameroonian culture, and particularly where it comes to journalism. In fact journalism listed just after government, military and police as best occupation to receive money through bribes. People weren’t going into journalism because they believed in the intrinsic value of reporting but as a way to make illegal money! We have our own form of bribes in the United States, I assured the gathered journalists, but they often take the form of access. Write a story the government/military/corporate interest doesn’t like and you won’t be invited to the next press conference or have your call returned. Same same but different, as we say in these parts.
Regardless the nature of the bribe, its destructive nature is the same. Taking a bribe makes your work illegitimate, makes it impossible to include both sides, and if you later decide to write against the hand that has fed you “you will die,” Ndaeyo said menacingly. ‘They will kill you.”
“At the very least, if you’re going to take a bribe, make it a very big one and then leave and go retire in a beautiful place,” he joked, lightening the moment. But the message was clear. After the session several young men came to Ndaeyo in a kind of confessional, professing their guilt for taking bribes but unsure how to escape the temptation given the low wages of the profession.

The problem of economics is so much bigger than he or me. How could we tell anyone not to take money when they aren’t able to feed their families, or even themselves? This wasn’t about morally vacant individuals; it was about finding a means of survival. There was no clean answer. But the first step was telling people that there was another way to conduct business and to be successful. Journalism could be a tool, if used correctly, to help one rise above.

Another popular, though tense, subject was about homosexuality. A local newspaper had recently published a “Top 50” list of suspected homosexuals, many of whom it turned out were high government officials. But neither the list nor the adjoining article gave any evidence as to why these people were listed, only that the journalist had “sources” proving their “guilt.”
“What’s wrong with this story?” we asked to a room full of blank stares. Apparently nothing was wrong.
“Is it right to accuse people of something illegal, regardless of the crime (it just so happens homosexuality is illegal in Cameroon) without giving any evidence, or without having the accused have his or her say?” More blank stares.
One man reiterated the fact that the journalist had “evidence”.
“What evidence? Where is it? Is it corroborated? Why isn’t it in the article?”
For lack of a better response he said – and this will forever mark me – “Homosexuality is such an evil in our society, I think it is for the better good to have the names out there. Some of these people we knew are homosexual, and even if they aren’t, even if there is no evidence, they are probably guilty of other things, like corruption.”
Now I was the one with the blank stare.

What could we do but remind these people of some of history’s darker moments. From my own culture I could remind them of burning witches, blacklisting communists, or even turning in “terrorists” because they don’t agree with the current government. Adolf Hitler thought Jews were a scourge to society, and Saddam Hussein killed thousands of Shiites for the most minor of offenses, like smiling at the wrong time. Given these extremes, is it such a big burden to allow the accused to have a say? we asked them.

Perhaps it was the disturbing nature of the homosexual attack but by the time the subject turned back to gombo, and during our last day of training, I was not very compassionate or patient.

In a burst of frustration I implored those gathered before me to do whatever they wanted regarding bribes, “but if you take money, then don’t call yourselves journalists.” My voice was weak with emotion. “You have so much power to create democracy, to start wars or move societies. Do it responsibly. Make journalism sacred. Make it a church that you honor. Because there are people who have died trying to write about the truth. Please don’t dishonor them.”

I immediately realized this speech wasn’t for them. It was for me. It was for me to remember the values and promise of a profession that I truly believed could change the world. Those values have been lost in a swirl of advertising, killed stories and lack of public reaction. Though they are true and real.

Participants said they came away from our workshop inspired and enthusiastic. They had come to learn but left with so much more. One woman wrote in her evaluation, “Now I know you don’t have to take bribes. You make me want to be a better journalist and a better person.”

I would agree, the workshop also made me want to be a better journalist and a better person. I felt renewed and inspired to work harder and to improve my skills. Most of all I felt moved not to give up, that I could walk away from the edge and remember, once again, the power of journalism.

Photos to come
Here’s one article about our trip, though wish he had been there for day two, once I had warmed up a bit!
http://allafrica.com/stories/200602160419.html

And here’s an interview with my rockstar colleague Ndaeyo Uko
http://www.postnewsline.com/2005/10/like_beer_a_goo.html

Home at Last - a reporter's life

2005-11-05T19:03:00.000-08:00

I’m starting to get emails from people wondering where I am, so it must be time for my quarterly update.

I’ve arrived back in Santa Fe after one of the more amazing summers of my life. I still haven’t finished my book, but there’s more time for that later. So now I’m replanting myself back at home – at least until springtime when the winds will carry me… well, somewhere else.

This summer and since I’ve returned home I’ve been in contact with several friends I met in Iraq. Some of them have since finished their tours; some are on their way out. All are alive and doing well. I was so happy to get notes and calls and perhaps wasn’t aware of the weight I carried knowing they were still in a dangerous place, while I was able to fly away.

The most exciting updates are about my dear, wonderful Iraqi friends:
First, babe squad member and translator NADEEM finally made it to England!!!! Yes, he and the band are practicing daily and getting used to a Western lifestyle they’ve been dreaming of for years.

HUSSEIN was released from his Iraqi kidnappers after 157 days in captivity. I met him and his family in a Paris suburb where we shared food, stories and tears. He was a shell of his strong, former self. “They beat me and wouldn’t even let me pray,” he said of his captors. “They are not Muslim, they are criminals,” he said. Hussein was fortunate to get amnesty and a job, but he still yearned for Iraq. Sura, my Iraqi sister and Hussein’s wife, was thrilled. “I never want to go back. Never.” The family is doing well in their new western home. Much love to you all.

So now for a little story about life as a journalist.

During my goodbye party on the Pont des Arts on the Seine I got a call from one of my bosses in the US: would I be willing to go directly to Texas, instead of New Mexico, to help report on Hurricane Rita which was destined to come ashore within two days?
Er, suuurre, I’d love to. I spent the rest of the evening and well into the early hours of the morning trying by phone to divert my flight home, but to no avail. I’d try again in the morning, I told myself.
In Chicago I learned the Houston airport had already closed down but managed to cram myself onto a San Antonio flight I’d learned about from a French hand surgeon I sat next to on the flight out of Paris. San Antonio was overwhelmed with evacuees from Houston and at 11 pm I was assured there was nowhere to stay – “not even one of those rooms you rent by the hour,” one woman cackled to me.
My new French friend came to my rescue and, in exchange for my help on the speech he was to give the next day on some obscure surgical procedure, he offered me half his hotel room. I had little choice but to sheepishly agree. Merci, Stephane!

The next day I waited far too long in my San Antonio hotel room, hoping, somehow, to find a means of venturing into the eye of the storm under some military or otherwise protection. But by 1pm with little response and a boss wanting me at the eye of the storm, I knew I had to move. I had the state of Texas to cross to get to Beaumont and a hurricane scheduled to come ashore around midnight. Oh my. I swung up to Austin to get a satellite phone (my French line was dead) and tore across Texas to meet my fate. The freeway to Houston and then the city itself was completely empty. It was abandoned. There was nothing. No gas, no food, no cute coffee stops. As night fell and the winds began picking up in earnest I took a deep breath and followed the signs east for Beaumont. Watching Houston disappear in my rear view mirror, I wondered if this would be one of the worst decisions I ever made, irreversible and soon to be out of my control. We journalists are so stupid sometimes, I said to myself slamming my hand into the steering wheel. We’re so driven by sensationalism – and, ok, adventure. I had joked with my boss that I wasn’t going to strap myself to a tree but suddenly this seemed a close second.

The rains began pouring down and my small Nissan swept from one side of the highway to the other as I raced toward the storm. I looked for any possible spots to take shelter in the event I could not, or would not, go on. Minutes later with my heart racing I pulled my car over and took some deep breaths. I could barely see anything through the windshield and I wondered just how bad this was about to get. By now I couldn’t really turn around because I knew Houston even less than Beaumont and at least in Beaumont I had a hotel room reserved. Then I saw a cop car pass me. Followed by a coast guard truck pulling a rescue boat. Without thinking I pounded the gas and raced after them. I flashed my lights and made the cop pull over. “Are you going to Beaumont?” I screamed through the wind and rain. “Yup.” “Can I follow you? And will you make sure you don’t lose me?” “Sure, lets go.”
Suddenly everything was ok. Even if all three cars were swept up into a tornado I felt better about it, less alone. I hate working alone, I decided that night. It’s really old. So we caravanned into the town of Beaumont, occasionally stopping to wait for the boat that was practically blown off the highway. My Nissan was amazing. Just get me to shelter and I’ll do an advertisement for the company, I said.
Thank God I followed these two. I had no idea where I would have pulled off, my sat phone didn’t work and the wind was getting dangerously strong. They led me to a towering white building and told me to run inside. I staggered through the wind and just barely made it into the shelter --tho didn’t have enough time to get my round of Camembert and the bottle of wine I had been trailing since Paris. It turns out the central information center was where - shock and awe - every other journalist was staying, including several I had met in Baghdad. Ah, the reunion. Did I mention my Camembert was still fermenting in the trunk of my car. Very sad.
After making the rounds and planning the morning attack with the photographer I was to meet up somewhere, somehow, I made myself a bed from a pile of donated clothes for hurricane victims and tried to go to sleep. At 3 am someone was yelling for us to move toward the center of the building. The windows of the supposedly hurricane-proof building were snapping in and shattering onto the ground below. I made my way to the window to see that my car was still in the parking lot – and thankfully it still was, waving in the wind between two big SUVs. It was the best I could do, having missed all the high ground parking spaces.

I met the photographer the next day and we set to work looking for barricaded civilians and stories of rescue. We toured various sites, always aware of the lack of gas, the lack of food and the warnings of danger. He was careful to hide his extra gas tanks: they can be confiscated in the name of a national emergency, he told me ominously.

Hurricane Rita was considered a non-event to most media, despite the fact that entire towns, such as Cameron, LA, were essentially wiped off the map. Still, I pushed, spending my days interviewing survivors, including one amazing couple that had also survived Hurricane Audrey in 1957 (They also put me up and fed me! because there were no hotels. Thank you both). If for no other reason, Rita, like Katrina, was an eye opener of what it feels like to run out of resources in a country that thinks the well will never run dry. It was terrifying. But also a reminder of the kindness of strangers.

Then I made my way to New Orleans where I would take a day to assess the situation before flying home. One month after Katrina – I repeat: 30 days later – I couldn’t believe my eyes. And the smell… That’s what doesn’t come across in photos or on TV. I joined an EMT squad, which joined a humane society caravan, which called on an FBI team, and together we spent our day tearing down doors and breaking windows to save terrified and starving dogs left by their owners to die. We saw the animals by chance – a face peering through a window in an upper level apartment, bark, a neighbor. The animals were then taken to a huge compound overflowing with more than 2500 animals. But I couldn’t go there. It would make me cry – or worse, I’d go home with four dogs.

I drove into the French Quarter, which was eerily like the Green Zone, packed with contractors and soldiers marauding around like gangs, frequenting the few bars and strip joints that had just opened. The Quarter was generally off limits to citizens, even those willing to pay the exorbitant $300 hotel fees (how do you sayyy price gauging?). One of my interviewees said I could stay in an extra condo he had nearby. Being me, I agreed. He led me to a beautiful, furnished apartment, pointed out the TV, washing machine and fluffy linens, then gave me the key and left. This time, in this setting, it was too odd. I was so paranoid, I couldn’t sleep a wink. Good going, Z. The next day I left.

By the time I got on the plane I had already heard the hurricane story was killed. It wasn’t big enough, devastating enough, Katrina-like enough. And plus, Demi Moore had just gotten married.

Speaking of things that make you crazy, there’s one more thing I have to add:

There have been so many people who helped me and Laurent with the Baghdad Project. And there are a few I never sufficiently recognized. It was a stress thing. It happened at one of the Baghdad Project readings. The lights switched on and I began to speak to a crowded auditorium, and suddenly I went blank. I looked at my wonderful friends and volunteer readers for the night and I felt myself getting nervous. Then I was so terrified of forgetting a name – a friend’s name, due to my shameful alzheimers – that I didn’t mention a single one. I regret it to this day. I’m so sorry. And while it’s quite late I want to thank you all now.

Thank you Bill Depuy from KSFR radio, Santa Fe’s independent radio station for your fabulous support and stellar, booming voice. www.ksfr.org

Thank you Jenny and Matt Laessig from El Paradero Bed and Breakfast. Jen is an actress in her own right and one of my long time friends. www.elparadero.com

Thank you Max Friedenberg of High Mayhem Emerging Arts, a not-for-profit emerging arts facility, record label and multimedia production collective based in Santa Fe. www.highmayhem.org

And thanks to Tomas Rivera, a local artist who didn’t even know me but came and participated on short notice because he believed in what I was doing and wanted The Baghdad Project to succeed.

THANK YOU ALL!!

Sri Lanka and Paris

2005-08-05T07:49:00.000-07:00

Where to begin? Since I left Iraq I’ve been back to Turkey, to Sri Lanka twice and am now residing in Paris until the end of the summer. Pas mal, eh?

At the risk of turning into a spokesperson for the Paris tourist bureau, this place is simply amazing in August. I really never knew. There is live music all the time. They’ve even turned the banks of the Seine into a carnivalesque beach scene, complete with beach chairs, sand, dance lessons, rock climbing and more. In front of the historic Hotel de Ville is a full-on four court beach volleyball championship going on every night. And across the banks are groups of revelers dancing salsa, tango and folkloric until midnight every night. C’est fou!!! I could go on…
And amid all the madness, and sometimes drunk with fatigue, I am managing to write almost daily. In fact, I try not to let myself out of my room until late afternoon otherwise I’ll never come back in. Plus, I’ll spend too much money. Paris is crazy expensive. But my Lord it’s fun!!! And many thanks to my generous cousin and family who have given me a room for the summer. Surely I couldn’t do it without them.

But before Paris there was another trip to Sri Lanka. One of these days I will upload photos - and I really thought today would be the day - but technology is always working against me (sorry, carol). So there’s the rough 101 text on Sri Lanka, as I see it:

My first trip to Sri Lanka was spent entirely on the western and southern coasts, primarily in a vegetative state as I recovered from Iraq. I wasn’t at that moment ready to engage the post tsunami society head on. My second trip was meant to be a bit more directed. The month and a half stay this summer was spent almost entirely in Arugam Bay on the eastern coast, a surfer’s paradise that was devastated by last December’s tidal wave. Six months later, I was hoping to find a reconstruction effort in full swing, with hardly a remnant of the wave’s destruction visible from the road. Nothing could be further from the truth. Sri Lanka is still in a state of stasis while officials from various agencies and NGOs decide how to rebuild the island. Much of the confusion comes from a law the government now threatens to enforce, that forbids people from building within 100 meters of the shoreline on the west coast and 200 meters on the east coast. As the government negotiates alternative plots of land, either buying from farmers or using land already in government hands, people wait for something permanent. And they wait for handouts.

“It’s a wound they don’t want to heal; if it did the handouts would stop,” said one cynical Colombo native. It is obvious that the landslide of handouts directly following the tsunami has greatly impacted the island. It’s The Golden Wave, as many islanders call it, as it has brought untold riches to some, nothing to others. A man who had no boat now has three. A man who lived in a shack now has two homes. Indeed the uneven dispersal of funds has created not just enmity, but all out fighting between communities and within communities. And all this before international aid money or government help has even reached the people in any substantial way. The Sinhalese government claims it hasn’t received the promised funds. It is possible they’ve only received a portion, as aid should be doled out slowly, generally over two years and only as it pertains to an established plan of action, to avoid graft and corruption. Yet the funds it has received can hardly be located. Though there are hundreds of brand new luxury vehicles touring Sri Lanka that never before existed. None of this is lost on the Sinhalese people.

The added delicacy of the situation on the eastern coast, particularly in the north, is that it is home to the island’s roughly 30% Tamil population, and its armed resistance faction, the LTTE. The LTTE has been fighting for equal access to jobs, education and the legal system, among other things, since 1956 when the then prime minister declared the official language of Sri Lanka to be Sinhala; those speaking only Tamil would have to adapt. The declaration took what was by most accounts an equal society and overnight divided it into first and second-class citizens. There was a ceasefire declared between the government and the LTTE in 2002, but many Tamils and Sinhalese feel it was a contract between two factions of government officials against armed conflict, with little resonance for the rest of the population. Injustices and inequality still exist today, they say. The idea of separate but equal had its lifespan in the US, in the end prompting the notion that separate was in fact not equal. In Sri Lanka it’s a concept whose time has not yet come. Armed conflict is certainly not the answer (and the LTTE have certainly used their share of car bombings, shootings, etc) but the two sides have yet to find a common ground. In the meantime, aid becomes a political tool.

As the east coast sits among its post tsunami rubble, often lacking even for food and fresh water, the government fears that any funds given will go into buying arms. One of the few NGOs I encountered that got the thumbs up from every person I spoke to was the Tamil Rehabilitation Organization (TRO), funded in large part by international donors through the LTTE. TRO are careful to distance themselves from the LTTE saying their funding may have come in some part from the rebels but the aid organization is certainly not filled with rebel members. But the possibility of an LTTE aid organization has kept most larger and international NGOs from officially recognizing the TRO. At the time I was there the Sinhalese government was supposed to recognize them as part of a joint mechanism strengthening the ceasefire. Many citizens care little about the politics of it all. “If the LTTE are the only people who support us now, then we will have no problem supporting them later,” said a man of the TRO, as he stood in the rubble of his home, which was finished just 58 days before the tsunami brought it crashing to the ground.

Regardless of who the TRO members actually are or where funding might eventually go if it were ever given out, the truth is that tensions are mounting on the east cost of Sri Lanka and any ceasefire seems in name only. There were 61 deaths in 32 days the month I was there, almost six times the average. I asked the 28-year old head of an LTTE office if he thought it was a sign of things to come. He and the men seated around him nodded in unison. “Things will certainly get worse before they get better.” Their take is that the government is creating the violence and is the only one to benefit at this point in time from an ongoing war. The government claims the lack of stability from terrorism is preventing proper reconstruction of the area, despite their best efforts.

And I haven’t even begun to describe the mess of aid workers, volunteers and locals. Stay tuned for a much longer piece soon. And of course, photos…

The View From Iraq in Photos

2005-05-24T07:55:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-24T07:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Suicide bomber

2005-03-09T20:39:00.000-08:00

It’s not that I didn’t see any death last time around. It’s just that I didn’t see so much of it, and it wasn’t so overwhelming. The death here is awful. It's horrible and inhuman. Bodies aren't even bodies anymore. Which is why it’s so easy not to see them.

It didn’t hit me until much later that theseare scenes that soldiers (and certainly Iraqis) see too often. It isn’t only the killing that stays with them afterwards (as I've been examining. so many of them tell me they don’t know if they’ve killed people, don’t know where the bullets landed when they sprayed), it’s the images of death. The kind of death that lets you believe there aren’t families attached to these bits of flesh. There aren’t mothers and fathers wondering where there loved ones are or if they’ll be home for dinner. It’s another suicide bombing, just like the day before and the day before that. Just like the one that might go off tomorrow. One day sooner to going home.

This day there were just over a dozen bodies, maybe more it's hard to tell. Then I hear about a hundred dead on the same day and I am so relieved I was not there. Again, bits of human beings who may never even be claimed because they are not recognizable. They will be among the "disappeared" of Iraq, never counted because Americans don't do those counts and Iraqis have lost count. The first suicide was difficult and then the next I was on automatic and I knew it was time to go.

It was the smell. I couldn’t get it off of my clothes, out of my hair, or away from that space below my nose that is known to turn odor to memories. I stood under the shower for more than an hour but immediately sensed it again once the water was off. Burnt flesh. Too many people. Kids. One barely breathing when we arrived and I wanted so badly for him to be dead so he wouldn’t suffer any more. Shreds of skin and hair, clothes and metal and melting plastic. It’s just like a movie, people had told me, and it’s true. Just like a horror flick but this time no one stands up, dusts himself off and prepares for the next scene.

Just moments before this we were seated around an Iraqi feast, offered by farmers from Amarra: rice, soup, dates and homemade yoghurt. We left when someone called over the radio that an IP vehicle was on fire in the street at one of the pilgrimage entry points. They said there were casualties. So we went.

The worst part is that in many ways I was unmoved. I took photos, my hands shaking only a bit in the beginning. I wondered what kind of photo it would be: prurient interest or a story to tell. Some images are too gruesome even to look at, to know how flesh is so empty once soul is gone. Would I want anyone else to see the images I now have in my head? But I couldn’t stop, as if to show how horrible it really could be, and also how normal.

I hear later there were police officers crying and beating themselves with their rifles (I missed the shot). And a man burned from head to toe who was still alive when medics arrived. I was on the other side of the street trying to figure out if the boy in the major’s arms would survive. Or how long it would be before someone would tell me to leave. Could I really be standing in the middle of all this and no one is noticing? Someone quickly hands me a loaded pistol as he bends to check if someone is alive. I hold it in my left hand and my camera in my right wondering which deserves more attention. I contemplate where to put the gun – think about my pants pocket or tucked into my waistband. I laugh for a moment at the thought of me shooting myself in the leg, laugh only because everything is too absurd. I run back to an American soldier and hand him the gun – “take it, I can’t hold this,” I tell him, and he will tease me about it later.

One Iraqi man led me to the worst of sights, and then to another to make sure I recorded the damage. “It’s my son,” he says pointing to a scrambled pile of metal and blood that once was a school bus. Too many feet to tell which son he was talking about. And then he was gone, a mirage disappearing into the smoke-filled street. I remember there were Iraqi dinar on the ground and for one dissociative moment - just a fleeting moment - I forgot why it was there and wondered if I should pick it up and put it in my pocket. Did others have the same lapse as they pushed aside a dismembered head to steal bus fare while police secured the scene? My black boots with deep grooves were thick and sticky. I swore that day to throw them away, that cleaning would not get rid of the mess or the memory. (which I still can’t get myself to do. This will be a story in itself). In time most of the recognizable bodies were covered and then removed, so it became more like a normal car crash except for the head that still lay in the middle of the street (why the fuck couldn’t they take away the head?) and the woman who was next to it on her back with her hands and feet splayed. At least her face was covered. And the pair of feet next to her that wore those damn tennis shoes. Don’t even know if it was a suicide bomber but they wear tennis shoes, not sandals like the others, to run fast, the soldiers tell me. Looking at the photos later – there is one that still makes me close my eyes -- I see the body of the American soldier crumpled on the street. I don’t even remember seeing him really, except maybe his soft, young face from close up, before they lifted him into a blue bag and carefully carried him away. But there he was, America’s finest, another casualty of this stupid war. And the translator who was with him. Her body was already gone by the time we arrived. (Later I will embrace her close friend as she weeps uncontrollably. This, I think is the hardest part. It isn’t blood and soulless bodies, but those who are left behind who are the most difficult to document. So we stand in a dark hallway and she cries and I tell her she will be all right and try to allay her fears that the Americans will not abandon her, all the while hoping I am not telling a lie. I just don’t know.)

Then suddenly every vehicle is a potential car bomb and the street is cleared. The US robot motors out to check on cars and one, then I think two, bombs are dismantled. But to me every vehicle will hold a bomb and I’d rather be in the middle of destruction than near destruction about to happen.

In a moment of comic relief I must use the restroom. A translator cannot believe when I ask him to help me find a loo. “Aren’t you afraid?” he asks. “Of a bathroom? When I’m standing in front of a bomb scene?” He decides to help me and asks a bystander if I may use the bathroom in his house. The Iraqi is gracious, as they are, and agrees right away. A US major screams that the place is not secure and when I emerge from the loo there are three soldiers in this poor man’s living room. I apologize, and leave.

I am completely calm as we walk back to the humvees and the soldiers joke about the uptight major and what’s for dinner. I almost want to join in but haven’t the stomach, watch instead as an exhausted Iraqi translator climbs into the humvee, takes off his helmet and stares into the seat in front of him.

The soldiers make fun of the frightened ING – call the Iraqi General “Puss in Boots” -- and I don’t care. I am enraged the Iraqis are hiding in nearby buildings as US soldiers secure the scene. I can’t imagine how they will secure their country if they are too afraid to be in the middle of what I have seen.

Two weeks later I am sitting in Sri Lanka watching an outdoor movie with three small children stuck to my sides and in my lap just wanting to be held. I remember sitting in front of a television in Iraq watching the Tsunami unfold on Fox (all they had). Soldiers on both sides on numerous days said how much they wished they could be there. “At least we’d feel like we’re doing something and helping people. No one wants us here,” they said to anyone who would listen. Indeed the Marines in Sri Lanka are considered heroes, miracle workers, for fixing the streets, the rail line, the water. I wish more soldiers could be here too, for healing. Or just to feel like they were being used for something good in the world. Or maybe just to feel like they weren’t being used.

So you want to freelance in Iraq?

2005-03-08T01:29:00.000-08:00

I have decided that hands down the most difficult aspect of working in Iraq is finding a good and trusted driver and translator. The task is fraught with stress, complications, immense monetary negotiations and a great deal of language differences to boot. But the task is also the most essential because as journalists well know, you are only as good as your fixer.

This wasn’t an issue when I was with the military but it did become important once I made my way back to the “Red Zone” to my old haunt at the Al Dulaimi hotel in downtown Baghdad. I had the pick of hotel rooms, I was told. “This hotel is yours, Zayluh. You pay whatever you want.” (though in the end they charged me what they wanted – a fair price, I might add). I was hoping to have input about working conditions from Nadeem and also from Hussein, my two closest Iraqi friends from my prior visit. But Nadeem, I learn, has flown to Amman, on his way to be a big rock star in London. I love him for it. Hussein has not been heard from since he was kidnapped last January. I don’t dare contact his wife. So I must begin again with these precarious negotiations, but in a climate so drastically different from the last time.

Mohammed: I hear from another journalist that he used to translate for the Americans at Abu Ghraib and had to leave because his life was so threatened. It’s been a while now and the man needs work. I’m happy to oblige.

He calls from the lobby and I go down to meet him, then bring him to my room as I don’t want people in the lobby to overhear my plans for the next two days. He reluctantly sits down and I tell him what I need: he will go to the Communist Headquarters the following morning and arrange an interview for me with a woman’s activist as soon as possible. His forehead becomes beaded with sweat and though it’s been freezing all day long I do notice he has on a thick sweater and jacket. Perhaps he’s overheating. He asks if I have an abaya and I say I do. I will cover my head with a hat and a scarf, and my body will be enveloped in the traditional black gown. I will change my shoes (as I’m currently wearing sneakers) and we will not be out long. “And you cannot smile,” he tells me. “Iraqi women do not smile.”
I smile and nod my head. “I know.”
“And you cannot talk too much.”
“Pardon me?”
“The Italian journalist was kidnapped from the mosque here, down the street. I heard that she talked a lot.”
Again, I need clarification.
“You mean the interview was too long? Or did she speak loudly? Or maybe she came too many times to interview. I did hear she had visited more than once.”
“Yes, you mustn’t talk too much.”
“We will be safe, I know,” I tell him.
“Inshallah, inshallah.”
He is assigned to go to the Women’s center in Iraq the next morning and arrange the interview for me for the following afternoon. It is a simple task, and one that does not include a Western girl sitting in the back of his car long. He seems hesitant, or perhaps he’s still nervous sitting in a room with a female and a closed door. I apologize again for this situation. I am extremely nervous about my safety, and want plans discussed in utmost privacy.
“Yes, yes,” he says he understands. “We will pray to God for safety.”

The next morning he does not show and by the afternoon there still is no word. I know he needed time to find the women’s center located on a small sidestreet near the Palestine Hotel with an entryway that is often obscured. But that morning there has been a car bomb at a busy intersection and I am beginning to worry. Initially I thought perhaps he was delayed by the traffic; then I wondered if he may have been among the wounded. I finally reach him by phone and he tells me he tried to call one of my friends in the morning to tell him he could not come, his car is broken. He did not think of calling my hotel.
“I’m just glad you’re safe. So how long until it is fixed?” I ask.
“Two maybe three weeks.”
“Oh.”
My Iraqi friend Sadiq is in my room and looks at me confused. “Three weeks? He can have two or three cars by then,” he jokes. We laugh, but it has nothing to do with mechanics or delays; it is clear that his reluctance is about fear and the dangers of working with, being seen with a western woman, regardless of how completely I cover my face and body. My eyes will give it away.
“It’s not about the car, Sadiq," I say after getting off the phone, but Sadiq knows.
However, my time here is getting short and if I don’t find someone who will work with me I won’t accomplish anything at all. I am a bit hamstrung because as a freelancer I cannot pay the enormous sums that outlets like NBC and Time are paying. I am willing to make the driver/translator the greatest part of my budget in Iraq – if I can only find someone I trust. I trusted Nadeem and Hussein intrinsically. These days I can’t find anyone.

I go next door to the Getty pad, a fully wired top-floor room in the Al Hamra hotel, and ask a photographer if he has any driver translator to recommend. One of the translators in the Getty pad says he has a friend who is good and who needs work, and who has worked with journalists before. He calls him immediately and then says he is coming downstairs to meet me. It’s all happening a bit quickly and I ask my friend Joe if he knows the man. Joe knows nothing. And to make matters worse, the man doing the recommending is new to Getty. Ugh. I want to take a leap of faith but when ransom for a western woman could fetch more money than months of work, “trust” takes on new meaning. Still, if I want to work in Iraq on my own, I have to move on this.

So I go downstairs and meet Adil. I like his face but am not yet willing to climb into a vehicle with him. We try a first assignment - the same one I had for Mohammed - to go to the Communist headquarters and arrange an interview with the female activist. He’s then to go by Yarmouk hospital and inquire about a female doctor there and arrange an interview with ehr. I interviewed the doctor last year and wrote as much on a small note that Adil was to hand to the doctors with my name and address.
Three hours pass and I finally receive a call that the doctor cannot be found, but the activist can meet when I’d like. The activist and I have a nice phone conversation and for this first day I feel satisfied enough with Adil’s work. We meet to discuss the next day’s plans and I tell him I would also like to go to Khadimiya, where the Shiites are having a pilgrimage.
“No, it’s far too dangerous for you. You must stay here in the Karada district. Believe me.”
As far as I’m concerned Khadimiya is one of the safer areas in Iraq as it’s full of Shias, and unless something tragic happens, like a car bomb, the people there are more accepting of westerners. But he will not go. I wonder if it’s because he’s Sunni. Plus, his English is not so good so he wants me to find another translator. He knows a good one, he says – they all seem to know someone – so he whips out his phone and dials a friend, then begins speaking quickly in Arabic. I say I would like to meet any translator before heading out, so he calls the translator who is Jordanian and has him speak to me, assuming that will be enough. Sure, he sounds fine on the phone, speaks English well enough, but it’s just not about skill at this point.

“If you do not trust me, I cannot work with you,” Adil tells me. I couldn’t agree more.
Iraqis are notorious liars and they see nothing wrong with lying to cover their lack of knowledge. I have had Iraqis lie directly to my face, even when confronted with the fact that I know they’re lying and have the proof in my hands. The other side is that they want to be trusted and if they are not it is considered a question of honor. On a day to day basis, people working in the Middle East have to take this cultural element with a grain of salt and factor it into any working condition. But when it comes to the kind of insanely dangerous working conditions in Iraq, the game becomes much more serious. So I decide to give it a bit more time.

The next day I decide to skip Khadimiya for the moment and start with something a bit less threatening. I’ll go to meet a good friend in his apartment on the other side of town and then we’ll return. Adil comes to my room and tells me I look “beautiful” all covered in black with only my eyes peering through (I’m sure he says that to all the journalists). But he’s still nervous.
“Why can’t I bring him here for the interview?” he asks when I explain the new plan. I appreciate his concern but his nervousness is making me nervous. I tell him the point is that I want to see my friend’s studio and film his newest artworks.
“Then we will need a second car. I’ll call my neighbor and he’ll follow us,” he says without pause. Now technically speaking a second car following us is a very wise idea, and I’m certainly not opposed in principal. But I’m just trying to get used to and trust one man, and we haven’t had much time together. He sees my hesitation
“Is it about cost? Only $15. I know him. He will just follow, wait and come back.”
Only $15? For Iraqis, that is more than most will make in any given day, but it is nothing for drivers working around the area. I immediately wonder if I’m being set up.

I’m also aware that I’m becoming totally paranoid and at some point you have to give it up or you will become paralyzed, which is pretty much the point I've reached. I wish someone would tell me that this person is ok, or that one, that climbing into a car with a stranger is something people do here to write stories. It is how we tell the story of Iraq.

“Please Ma’am. Let me bring him to you,” Adil pleads. Then I give up. At that moment I see his fear and I realize that we really must trust each other to go into the streets of Iraq. If he’s too afraid then I’ll be too afraid, and there’s no way we can do good work. Plus, we’re likely to get ourselves killed, which isn’t in my game plan at all. I realize that this time around it will take me longer to work in Iraq and longer to redevelop ties.
So I let the immediate need go. I stop trying to force things to come together and suddenly it becomes fun. I teach Adil to video and ask him to film my friend’s apartment, especially the Miro painting that was looted from Saddam’s art center then bought on the street for $100! Adil is worried about his skills and for a moment almost asks me to go with him. I can tease him now because I know he doesn’t want me in his car, plus I am enjoying teaching him how to film, and I don’t care if the product is perfect. It is a trust building exercise between us and for the moment it seems more important than anything else.

I spend only a few more days on my own (a total of ten days), conducting interviews around the Kerada area and only twice do a tour of the city in a beat up Toyota truck, sweating the entire time. I’m happy with the interviews I have – and in fact spend more time with individuals than I might have otherwise, but realize that I won’t get much more done given the circumstances. Plus, I have to return to base to attend a city council meeting.
Next door to the council house I have planned to meet a friend – the first person I interviewed last time I was in Iraq!!! I met him by chance while on patrol and have orchestrated a perfect rendezvous with the unknowing help of the military. And the council meetings are amazing: a mishmash of recycled complaints about sewer and garbage collection and why one of the council members hasn’t had his belongings returned after being mistakenly detained by US officials just before the election. Nearby is a center where Iraqis come to file complaints and apply for compensation for damage done or family members killed by US forces. (A story on this will completed soon). These are all operations I would not otherwise have access to and I am grateful. I tell Adil I will call him again when I am next in Iraq. Inshallah, misses. May God be with you, he says when I leave. And with you, Adil.

Out of Iraq

2005-03-07T03:55:00.000-08:00

I have finally left Iraq but have been delayed once again from writing as my lovely laptop computer has died. I’ve spent the past week trying to revive it -- and I can hear friends from the 10th MNT laughing as I write this -- but there is no help for Macintosh in the Middle East. So I have fled Istanbul where I landed after Iraq and am now in Sri Lanka where at least I am comforted by sun and warmth and even an internet café. I have a lot to download and will put my tales on the site as the days go on. There is a lot to say and a lot to digest. Iraq was a different experience for me this time around. It was more brutal and difficult in a profound way. It's hard to explain but the level of sadness and violence, the amount of death, paranoia and anger, hit me so hard it's taking me quite a while to get over it. So I will post as I go, probably out of order but all will come in due time. It’s good to be out and I will say again that I met so many wonderful people; I just wish it had been under different circumstances.

*

People ask me if there are stories that are not being told from Iraq, a great coverup of the atrocities done. And I have to say no, the stories have been and continue to be reported. There are no mysteries that I have uncovered, perhaps just the details of larger tales, which to some might certainly come as a surprise, but only if one hasn’t been paying attention. The real story is that no one cares.
Who hasn’t heard of total US isolationism in Iraq or widespread abuse by Halliburton? Inflation of prices and millions simply disappearing into the pockets of war profiteers. Who hasn’t read about the extraordinary military waste, about piles of American food, non-stop electricity, running water – anything and everything to keep soldiers as far away from the realities of a war. That in the face of Iraqis who still have intermittent electricity (6 non consecutive hours a day by last reports), poor sanitation in many areas, and streets too dangerous to walk. Or women who now have to cover their heads for fear of a fundamentalist wave, after 30 years of secular living. Who isn’t concerned about the extraordinary number of Iraqis killed that the US still refuses to count (“It would let the enemy know how successful he’s been” one Col. Told me), or the number of soldiers committing suicide, plagued by PTSD or becoming homeless once they return. These stories are out. I’ve read them – even written some – and I didn’t have to look very hard. But no one seems to care.
Everyone is concerned there are no “good” stories coming out of Iraq and that also is untrue. I’ve read (and also written some of these) plenty of warm and fuzzy accounts. But the overarching impression I was left with is that Iraq is more dangerous than before. More Iraqis are being killed and detained with little evidence. They are still without work, unless they are “lucky enough” to get a US job, which is often a death sentence in itself. Terrorists are being pulled to the region as a bee to honey, eager to kill Americans for their rites of passage. To those who argue they are in Iraq so “their kids don’t have to be,” I say that terrorists wouldn’t be here in these numbers were not for you – and they would not multiply were it not for the opportunities you are giving them. And if you left, I believe they would also leave for lack of a target rich environment. The thought that this war will “get rid of terrorism” is absurd. It is endless. Meanwhile, young soldiers are tired and angry and taking out their frustrations on people for whom they have little compassion, nor any desire for understanding. They just want to go home – alive, or more critical: sane. Of course there are exceptions. I met dozens of extraordinary soldiers at every level who truly believe in their mission (a fundamental problem as I see it) and are working tirelessly on micro level projects hoping to improve the lives of Iraqis in some small way. But if the fundamental premise is not working – if Iraqis still cannot live in peace then I don’t believe that all the clean sewers or hours of electricity in the world will solve things. It will help, to be sure, but it will not solve the problem of Iraq. What will? Training Iraqi police and army is a good start. It should be done quickly and the US should get out to be replaced by a multinational peacekeeping force. This is the way I see it and some Iraqis I spoke to were aghast. “The US cannot leave, not now. Only when there is peace and we are nowhere near that,” said one. All Iraqis want is a strong leader who will reinstall security and get rid of crime. They want someone who will kill a robber or murderer, put his head on a stick and let it rot in the middle of town to serve as an example for all to see. I was given this same scenario by several different people, all eager for a return to, well, “better times”. What they wanted was a return to dictatorship. To Saddam, but not Saddam. Just like Saddam. “Anyone who says we should have Democracy now is wrong,” said one Army General. “We must have order first, and then we can have freedom.” Imagine the irony of our legacy: We invaded a country that posed no threat to us, destroyed a secular and prosperous society, albeit run by a brutal dictator, created a state of such chaos and danger that people actually wished for the dictator’s return. In the meantime, we wait to see if the great democratic experiment will not result in a fundamentalist Shiite government where women are veiled, multiple marriages allowed and honor killings considered part of the culture. It would be funny if it weren’t so true.

About that vote

2005-02-09T07:19:00.000-08:00

I had a kind of visceral response to some of the critical pieces I read following Iraq’s elections last Sunday, and felt that so many talking heads failed to honor a most amazing event. Of course the election was not perfect. How can any election being held in a militarily occupied country be without flaws? But this election was not about Americans or even so-called Democracy. It was about Iraqis.

Sunday’s election was to me like a religious pilgrimage with millions of Iraqis defying threats of death and violence to venture into the war-ravaged streets of Iraq and cast a ballot. Coming from the United States where people don’t vote because they’re afraid of missing the next episode of Survivor, it was extremely powerful to witness a person afraid for his or her life entering a polling station all the same. Watching masses of people walk down a desolate highway 20 kilometers just to vote, it is difficult to argue with anyone who calls the event a great success.

It was indeed a success.

Make no mistake, this election was far from ideal. It isolated a section of the population; pushed candidates backed by coalition forces but unknown to many Iraqis; and allowed pundits in the US to make political hay, as it has been doing for three years, in the face of thousands of Iraqi and American lives lost. In many ways it resembled our own flawed process.

But for much of Iraq it was an election. It was about Iraqis choosing, that simple and monumental act of making a decision and having a voice. They didn’t necessarily know whom they were voting for or even what– but more important was the symbolism of the act. And the statement, to both Americans and terrorists, that they wanted their country back.

“We want an end to this,” said one man jutting his chin towards a passing American convoy. “That is the only reason to vote.” Even before the election, campaign posters touted the benefits of voting as a mean of getting the US occupiers to leave and uniting Iraq.

One soldier heard it repeatedly: “Anyone is excited about anything they think will help us leave earlier… They don’t want us here and we don’t want to be here. But if we left now, I don’t think they’d make it to their second election.” And this is where Iraq’s ambivalence is strongest (and perhaps the timeline most confused) because as much as the Iraqis hate being occupied, in equal measure they fear civil war and terrorism if the US leaves too soon.

Though with the garrison buildup across Iraq – new concrete foundations and housing structures, improved walkways and home decorating – a near departure seems extremely unlikely. President Bush has said he would leave if requested by the new Iraqi government, but even that request is questionable. And the interim Iraqi president already said US forces are needed to maintain security. How long is that? No one knows, but it shouldn’t be long as far as I’m concerned. The Iraqis have proved they can protect themselves. Now they need a return of their country.

I do see a danger that despite the ambivalence Iraqis feel about American forces, their prolonged post-election presence may eventually be regarded as yet another promise broken.

Last Sunday’s vote was also a test of wills, a kind of good versus evil in the showdown over Iraq. Iraqi and American officials are still scratching their heads over the relatively low level of terrorist attacks and neither side has any illusions that “the enemy” is gone. But neither is there any doubt that the less than expected violence was due to US and Iraqi efforts. Just months ago, tales of officers fleeing at the first sign of attack were rampant and the stream of violence against Iraqi Police cast doubt whether they were ready to stand on their own against such a formidable enemy. So preparation and training leading up to the election was immense and ultimately joined members of the Iraqi Army, the Iraqi National Guard and the Iraqi Police, factions that beforehand openly voiced distrust and dislike of one another. These entities were reinforced from the outside with logistics like food, water and uniforms, and inside from unifying with fellow countrymen to defend their own country. If America destroyed so many of Iraq’s national institutions, such as the army, this was a first step in trying to build it back up.

The seeds of cooperation have been sewn but only time will tell if these groups will continue to work side by side. The bleaker prospect to me is that the entire strategy, complete with new weapons and ammunition, is the beginning of a re-baathification process.

Many Iraqis hardly had a sense of who was running aside from the US-chosen Prime Minister Ayad Allawi or the Shiite Coalition party supported by Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani. Votes are still being tabulated but if Allawi’s party gains support in the elections, it is not just because of his relationship with America; in many cases it is because of his relationship with Saddam Hussein. America sees the former CIA employee who spent much of his life outside Iraq’s borders as a good secular leader in Iraq, particularly for those who fear an extremist religious influence, most likely from Iran. But many Iraqis support Allawi because of his tough stance on crime and his reputation as a brutal thug who once worked for Saddam Hussein and the Mukhabarat, Iraq’s intelligence Agency.

“At least Allawi says he will take care of criminals and not let them out of prison as the police do now. He is strong,” said Anan Husseini, his finger still stained days after the election. “Strong” seems to be the most oft repeated phrase in reference to Allawi and there is no confusion as to what that means.

And why wouldn’t they want an iron fist? One of Iraqis’ greatest issues has been and will continue to be security. Allawi is not Saddam Hussein but to some Iraqis he may be the closest thing to maintaining defiant order in Iraq.

While women were the first to vote and some of the strongest advocates I interviewed, others also boycotted the day because they feared a return to a fundamentalist society where women – who did not generally wear veils under Saddam’s regime – could be forced to cover themselves entirely. This fear cannot be underestimated and as the popular Shiite party seems to be far in the lead of vote counts, the fundamentalist question is still a large unknown.

There is no way to accurately predict the long-term impact of Jan. 30 elections or how members chosen for the National Assembly will choose to craft a constitution. (And just wait for that Kurdish story to begin unfolding!) But let those who defied terror to vote have their day. Honor Iraqis for their continued patience and resilience in the face of an ongoing and seemingly never-ending war, and remind Americans that their role in this new Iraq should be solely and entirely, as guests. And that the terms “freedom and democracy” – whatever that may mean to the Iraqi people – will carry little weight if they still lack jobs and electricity and risk their lives taking their children to school, or even leaving their homes to buy bread.

Update:

Remember my former translator Nadeem, the Iraqi rock star who made the Baghdad Project possible, not to mention my safety and sanity throughout? Well, his visa finally came through and he’s on his way to the UK! I was of course incredibly sad to miss a final visit with him here in Iraq but amazed and overjoyed that his dream is coming true. I’m so happy for you, Nadeem, and wish you the best.

Iraq Election - January 2005

2005-02-04T11:26:00.000-08:00

Here are some images from the election, which I will say again was extraordinary. I'm hoping these photos will be somewhat different than those you've seen.

Much of the reason the election was a success was due to long planning meetings between the Iraqi Police, National Guard and Army, and US forces. Here the Col. goes over a breakdown of neighborhoods in western Baghdad asking which group and how many individuals will be where.

At night soldiers patrolled neighborhoods with their high tech night vision lenses.

The day before the elections people were celebrating their choice of candidates.

Voting started out slowly then picked up by mid morning and stayed consistence all day long.

Shortly after 8 a.m. the first suicide bomber hit outside a polling station.

The image above was quickly replaced by this most amazing sight: hundreds of people, some barefoot, walking 20 kilometers to a polling station.

Some were singing and dancing...

One man carried a dove of peace.

"Our older people behind us," said one man. "They are slower but they are coming."

Apparently the first person to vote was a woman.

This Sunni woman explains the ballot to her 80-year-old father, a former General in Saddam Hussein's army.

Some thought that the black ink used to identify a voter would be a mark of death. Instead, people were proud to show it. All day and for days following, people would raise their blackened fingers and smile.

After voting was completed the ballots were taken in vehicles like this groovy schoolbus to a big warehouse to be counted.

Col.Mohammed, head of the Iraqi National Guard 303 Battalion, congratulates his men after the election.

But the battalion was not unscathed. Here a man mournes the loss of a fellow guard.

There were lots of celebrations following the election. This one for Col. -- now General -- Mohammed's promotion. In the back of the room (in this blurred image) are the minister if defense and Col. Faisal who also gave troops for the election.

Col. Faisal also wanted to celebrate, this time to honor his friendship with the US Col and the successful completion of the elections. We took a raincheck on dinner.

There have been almost 1400 U.S. soldiers killed so far in this war and more than 10,000 wounded, not to mention thousands of Iraqis. Each man killed is a husband, a father, a son and a dear friend.

Anyone who supports this war should have to attend each and every one of these ceremonies, this one for two young men were killed by IEDs.

Platoon members share a last goodbye.

One can only hope that sometime in the future, the killing, the violence, the struggle for basic amenities and lack of employment will come to end, and Iraqis like Sa'arah and her two brothers can live in peace.

How did I imagine I could be anywhere else for this day?

2005-02-02T11:00:00.000-08:00

It was only 4:45 a.m., a time when mere mortals should still be asleep and only chickens greeting the day. “All Americans in your boots!” barked Col Infanti. Apparently, it was time to get up.

Then glancing down at my slit eyes: “I’m getting dirty looks from the civilians,” he joked as he reentered the hallway. By 5 a.m. we were all in the first of several daily briefings at the police station where we had spent the night on little green cots packed like sardines in a dank room. This first briefing was to review the last 24 hours of violence and operations, and to prepare for various scenarios in the coming day. The previous day there was a total of 28 attacks by AIF [anti Iraqi forces] across the western operating area of 10th Mountain Battalion, up in almost every neighborhood from the day before. Still, there was nothing catastrophic, nothing that hadn’t been anticipated, except maybe a few details, one of which called for a clarification request: “Is that true that AIF approached on horseback?” “Affirmative, sir.” In another instance AIF rode around to polling places threatening people not to vote by loudspeaker. “Now that’s creative: horseback and loudspeakers…” Col. Milley said.

The officers review various threats, issues and points of concern: AIF could use wheelchairs, ambulances, large women (!) and even Iraqi Police (IP) vehicles packed with explosives: At least three IP vehicles with the official security sticker had already been stolen. Then to test security, an Iraqi went downstairs to see if he could acquire a sticker. $15 was the going price.

Milley explains, and rightly so, that his main concern is friend or foe identification hoping to avoid to any accidental friendly fire. Then he says that if anything happens it’s going to be before noon to intimidate voters, so we haul on our protective gear and hit the road.

By 6:50 a.m. we’re on the road, cutting through a thick morning haze and sharing the desolate highways only with other humvees, Bradley fighting vehicles, and police, as the driving ban is in effect. The stillness is eerie until a caravan of white Suburbans speeds by, most likely delivering election officials. It’s about 6:55 a.m. and the polls open at 7.
We go to a bridge at a large intersection and wait. There is no news of anyone going to the polls and just before 8 a.m. we hear our first large explosion. Everyone is quiet waiting for a report. A sense of momentary dread descends. What if you throw an election and no one comes?

When a report crackles over the radio that a woman waiting in line says she wants to be the first woman in Iraq to vote, we erupt in cheers. And a woman no less!
Soon reports of voters across the Baghdad area are trickling in, as are instances of violence. At about 8:20 a Sudanese national with explosives strapped to his stomach tries to enter a polling station in western Baghdad. He is stopped by an Iraqi police officer and detonates himself killing the officer and blowing unrecognizable bits of body parts across the street. His intact head sits outside a wire barrier just feet from the dead officer. An unexploded hand grenade lands nearby.

Gunfire begins to ring out and soon there explosions – a lot of them. Eight to ten booms - maybe mortar rounds, rockets, and IEDs - fall somewhere in Baghdad. My heart sinks for the second time and I actually feel a bit of fear. Could this really be the day of fire threatened by Islamic extremists?

After assessing the incredibly grizzly bomber scene we head back to our bridge perch and wait. Voters are still streaming to polls despite the violence. This is normal to them; it is more of the same. A soldier reports some groups of people walking down the highway. They say they’re going to vote. Soon the group thickens and the soldier puts out a call for water. “Sir, we may want to get a bird up for a view of this.” We decide to head over.

Hundreds and maybe thousands of voters, mostly men wearing dish dash robes and plastic sandals, are walking from the town of Abu Ghraib whose own polls were closed, 20 kilometers eastwards to polls in Hooriya and Ghazaliya. Many were dancing as they walked and chanted “God is great’ and ‘God prays for Mohammed.’ Few of them had any water; one held a wrinkled copy of his voter registration form in his hands. One man had no shoes; another carried a pigeon – a dove of peace, he said.

“We are walking all these miles because we are tired of the old regime and we want freedom and democracy,” said 40-year-old Ali Masen, who said that many of these men from the town of White Gold in Abu Ghraib had organized ahead of time to walk together to the polls. “Our older people are in the back. They are slower, but they are coming.”

One woman, alone with her black robe flowing and a bottle of water in her arms walked by, pulling her abaya further over her head as she passed a group of male soldiers. The translator said he wouldn’t talk to her. It is too impolite for a man to speak with a woman, he said. I kept from hitting him and let her pass, a black dot in a sea of men going to vote for the first time.

Back in the vehicle we heard of two other suicide bombers, and several more small arms fire and mortar attacks.

We head to a polling station in Shula, a predominantly Shiite area. Men and women emerge wiping their stained finger with a piece of Kleenex. A husband and wife stand on either side of an old woman and hold her hands as they walk out from the gates. Inside, there is a line of people signing up to vote and several people in the process of doing so. Already there have been nearly 1000 people here to vote, says Mohamed Hasin a lawyer working at the site. In front of us one woman gently folds her ballot in several pieces and then drops it into a clear plastic ballot box.

“I voted from the bottom of my heart and for all my family. I am so happy,” said 57-year-old Rafidah Fatheh Shaab. “I was not afraid. Today I even skipped breakfast so I could pray for all Iraqis -- and even Americans—to have freedom and prosperity.”

Then she held up her hand to show a blue stained finger, the official mark that she had voted. “It has been black in Iraq since 1963 and today the sun is shining,” she said, smiling.
Americans haven’t seen so many smiles and waves in a long time and everyone is self-congratulatory. Freedom, baby. That’s what the Col. keeps telling people who approach him, and those who insist on thanking the Americans for helping in this election. “It’s you guys doing the work. You’re the brave ones,” the soldiers respond.

On the way to the next polling station we hear that 14 people have already been killed. It’s only 11:30.

The next poll stop is empty but pollsters say that almost a hundred have already voted.
They have official looking white badges -- and stained fingers.

Outside, explosions resound across Baghdad, more IEDs, mortar rounds, grenades, and small arms fire, including rockets, but the officials barely notice. They are eager for me to take a photo of the plastic ballot boxes half full with folded pieces of paper.

Ultimately, more than 40 people will die on election day and up to 75 will be wounded. Though extraordinary by itself, in Iraq, and especially on this long awaited day, these numbers are small. It’s the results of amazing cooperation between Army, National Guard and Iraqi Police forces.

We continue patrolling, mostly in Shiite areas and see the streets slowly turning into a carnival atmosphere. Kids are playing soccer on the streets, men and women walk down the sidewalks or share stories in doorways. They stop to watch the passing patrol and for the most part share smiles and enthusiastic waves.

I am riding in a four-humvee caravan with soldiers and a team from Fox news. The Col. is incredibly generous in letting us stop at the stations for interviews, though there is certainly self-interest: obviously he wants America to see what we’re seeing, hear what we’re hearing.

Despite the violence, voters streamed to the polls in relatively small but consistent numbers throughout the day, with a turnout of up to 90% in some Shiite neighborhoods, and about 40- 50% in some Sunni areas in western Baghdad. Overall election officials said about 60% of 13 million registered voters showed up at the polls.

As predicted, Shiite turnout was much higher than for the minority Sunni population, as Shiites make up nearly 60% of the country’s 26 million people. They were expected to gain a significant powerbase in this vote for a 275-member National Assembly. Sunnis make up 20% of Iraq’s population and had been told by some of their leaders not to vote. Some heeded the Fatwa, some didn’t.

At the next poll we find a 25-year old Sunni woman helping her 80 year-old father into the polling booth. She wears snug western clothes and speaks perfect English, and she’s eager to talk about voting.

“My father was a General in the Iraqi Army and this is the first time for Iraqis to taste freedom,” said 25-year-old Dr. Zeena Hassam, who is a doctor working in Kurdistan. Hassam said she and her father paid no attention to calls for a boycott. The day is too important and the waiting was too long, she said.

“It is the duty of every Iraqi to vote. We are Sunni, and my relatives and my friends, we all know it is our duty, and it is our honor.”

The Sunni boycott, and especially the threats and terrorism, may have frightened off some voters, but others weren’t fazed.

Aerial imagery apparently caught voters spitting on and kicking the remains of a suicide bomber as they entered their polling station. Other Iraqis waiting in line in Sadr City came under a mortar attack that hit a man in his leg. They helped the injured man then got back in line to vote, election officials reported.

“Of course we are afraid, but we must do this. We walked for two miles and my husband is sick. We have been preparing to vote for a long time and my son made sure we were here before polls closed,” said Suna Sharif as she left a voting station with her son and husband. I asked her she voted for but her husband quickly cut her off. “We don’t talk about that.”

Coming from a place where people avoid voting for fear of missing an episode of “Friends”, it was extremely moving to see so many people challenging threats of death to have their voices heard. They walked to the polls in groups and alone, with entire families in tow, sometimes holding hands. Men wore robes, traditional Dish Dash, and several were in formal suits. Most women covered themselves in full abaya; some wore western clothes. I could have stood outside a single polling place and photographed all day, it was so incredibly powerful. But there was much to review and we never stayed long at any one place.

By late afternoon the Col. starts talking about ballots and securing the stations. Reports are coming in that some Iraqi forces are leaving their posts. We quickly head to some stations to make sure everything is secured. Then to an area warehouse to make sure ballots are being delivered. This would be the next target in any effort to discredit the election – and it still may be. Reports are already coming in of tens of thousands of voters not getting ballots in the northern areas of Mosul and Samarra.

Back at the central command center, which has been set up in an Iraqi Police station in town, people are excited as they send in reports across Baghdad of Iraqis voting. Then one commander haltingly reports a C-130 plane crash, maybe two, no one knows for sure. There is no need for a rescue mission he says carefully; from the descriptions of the crash only recovery and body bags are necessary. The mood plummets in the room. Within the hour we learn that it was a British c-130 and by the next morning we find that ten people have died.

By nightfall, reports of ongoing attacks were still pouring into the central command station. Focus was turned to protecting ballots and the days ahead, and helping police forces who were to continue securing polling sites through the night. Everyone was tired, as the majority of officers and soldiers had been camping out and working nonstop for about four days already.

The police chief from downstairs took a moment from his organizing to show off his stained finger and asked for a photo with the Col. An officer with the Iraqi National Guard joined him, holding his blue index finger in the air. We all took photos to remember the moment. In the background the radio crackled out reports of more IEDs and small arms fire attacks, polling stations being breached and more wounded and killed.

Still, the violence level is less than expected and by the next morning everyone is left wondering where the car bombs, rumored to have entered Baghdad by the dozens for the elections, may be, if they exist at all. And if they do exist, but weren’t able to detonate during the election because of the increased security measures, then when and where will they make their next appearance?

###

And then there were elections

2005-01-26T11:48:00.000-08:00

I call it going from zero to one hundred in a matter of five minutes and a mile long dusty road. Leaving Log Base Seitz and arriving at the 10th Mountain Division headquarters down the road you may as well have been visiting a new country. The 10th Div is run by Col. Mark Milley, a tough-talking Bostonian who is as wicked smart as he is fierce.

He believes entirely in The Cause and is exceptionally articulate in sharing his view. Problem is, I think he wants people to believe just as strongly by the time you leave him, and for me that’s just not possible. As I’ve told the Col. “We’ll just have to agree to disagree, sir.” But I’m not sure he agrees.

Milley leads from the front, as they say, which means he is constantly doing “battlefield circulation” or going on patrols through the streets of Western Baghdad. He says he likes to check on his men and see for himself the workings on the city’s streets, which appears to earn him huge respect from his soldiers, and also from some Iraqis with whom he meets. My initial impression of the Col. is that he is quite skilled in dealing with Iraqi people, the result of many years and many missions in foreign countries, most recently in Afghanistan. Many of you have heard me speak in the past of inexperienced and frightened soldiers creating terrifying situations for both themselves and the Iraqis around them (much less the journalist on the sidelines witnessing the whole mess). The sheer terror of some of these kids can – and often does- inspire the very situation they’re afraid of. But Milley does none of that. He hears that Iraqis are upset at soldiers evading all traffic rules and running ramrod through intersections, so he asks his men try to follow traffic; he is calm and confident, shows respect and listens to the people around him, and as an avid reader of history and military strategy, has an amazing historical context. You may not always agree with him but you will invariably respect him.

Traveling through the streets of Baghdad, seeing familiar sights and watching citizens go about their lives as usual, is a welcome difference from Log Base Seitz. But it does bring its own… elements, which I won’t detail here.

People say that two things you should never witness being made are laws and sausage; I would add to that, elections.

The most interesting part of this embed experience is witnessing the interaction with Iraqi Police, National Guard and US military as they prepare for the January 30 election. The process is amazing but not exactly clean. I have been witnessing the logistical part, which includes one of the most important aspects of the entire event: security.

The military has been predicting an upsurge in violence around the elections, and today may be the first mark of this, but it will be the first. I say this because if you listen to Fox News you would think the entire country has been one bloody explosion for weeks on end. But up to now it’s been no more or less than usual. This isn’t a good thing, but I’m speaking relatively to put things in perspective. But today was different. Today there were two large VBIEDs (car bombs) with a total of nine casualties and one death; 4 ieds (improvised explosive devices) were discovered and control detonated;1 ied detonated, no casualties;1 grenade attack; 5 small arm fire attacks; 1 Iraqi civilian killed; and one weapons cache found, in the area of western Baghdad. Other areas experienced a similar 24 hours, including a marine helicopter crash that killed 36 people. Still, men and women are working overtime to organize for the elections, placing thousands of Iraqi Police and guardsmen at the polls. They see this event as a turning point in history, though a turn in which direction, we can’t tell.

I have agreed not to write about much of the strategizing that I’ve witnessed until after the election, but suffice it to say that the process has been remarkable – and remarkably frustrating, given the different factions attempting to come together for this election. My writing will stay pretty general compared to the last trip, much to the dismay of some friends. Sorry guys.

But I don’t have as much time to write as I thought I might have given the daily outings with various units in different parts of Baghdad. Still I did manage to pull together a story on the basic structure and process of these elections, more because I was so incredibly confused and couldn’t seem to find anyone who understood it all. The story, I might add, is no longer whether or not these elections will go forward; they will. The unknown is how they will proceed. I’ll keep you posted. Other Iraq stories are running in the Santa Fe New Mexican and Alternet.

BAGHDAD, Iraq -- These days I ask every Iraqi citizen I see the same question: “Rah Tsowit?” “Are you going to vote?” The responses that surprised me most were from people who said they had no understanding of who was running or how the process works. At first I thought perhaps the individuals couldn’t read or didn’t have access to television, -- which would make sense considering it entails electricity of which there is only about 6.5 intermittent hours a day. So I went to another source… and then another. The truth is, I found very few people who understood the system completely so I made it my mission to figure out how exactly– or however exact one can get in these parts –this extraordinary election is going to work.

My first realization is that unless one has direct access to an Iraqi election official who is camped inside the International Zone, it’s difficult to get a full sense of what on earth is going to happen here. I compiled this information from a variety of sources and some of the information here may be well-known. If you’re familiar with the entire process, congratulations, you know a great deal more than roughly 27 million Iraqis.

The January 30 election in Iraq is being run by the Independence Election Commission in Iraq.

It was decided that Iraqis, aged 18 and over, will choose a 275-member Transitional National Assembly and 10 provincial councils. This law-making entity will choose its own president and two deputies and then will draft the first constitution, to be completed by August 2005 and ratified the following October. National elections are scheduled to be held in December 2005; the specific form that system will take will be decided upon and outlined in the new constitution. Voters in the northern Kurdish region will also select a new regional parliament.

There are currently 107 (111 by some reports) different parties, or lists, running in the election, designated on the ballot by entity name, symbol and number. This includes nine coalition parties, 71 straight ticket parties (Sunni, Shiite, etc.) and 27 brave individuals. This number could change as people drop out, join with other coalitions or are killed. Each list has anywhere from 12 to 275 individuals whose names are indicated -- or not – totaling more than 6,000 candidates. Many members have kept their names off of any election material for fear of retaliation/assassination. When and if voters will discover the identities of those in various parties is still a mystery. Seats in the National Assembly will be allocated depending on percentage, i.e. if a party gets 25% of the vote, its members will fill 25% percent of the seats, starting at the top of the list. Twenty-five percent of candidates are required to be female.

Some parties are well known such as the Supreme Council for Islamic Revolution in Iraq (SCIRI) led by Abd-al-Aziz-Muhsin Mahdi al-Hakim; and some, well, I can’t find anyone who knows what the Homeland Gathering or the Loyalty for Iraq Coalition might be.

Two of the parties being more closely watched simply because of name recognition and status of the individuals would be the National Accord (330) whose leader is Dr. Ayad Allawi, Iraq’s current Prime Minister, and the Iraqi Unified Coalition. The coalition, or # 169, which is strongly Shiite and supported by Grand Ayatollah Ali Al-Sistani, is expected to be very successful.

Fourteen and a half million people are currently registered to vote in Iraq, the majority of these names taken from the food ration distribution list used by Saddam Hussein, which is considered to be highly accurate. The location an Iraqi went for food ration cards will generally dictate where he or she will go to vote, though specific polling locations have been kept secret even a week before the election for security reasons. Each voter will get black ink marked on his hand to ensure he votes only once. This is yet another concern to many Iraqis who would like to vote but fear being identified as one who has voted.

The two most prominent Sunni organizations still opposing the election are the Iraq Islamic Party and Association of Muslim Scholars, which have adhered to their decision to respectively withdraw and boycott the elections, claiming it will be illegitimate and a tactic to extend the occupation in Iraq. Some Sunnis asked for a deadline of US withdrawal as a condition of participating in the election, but no withdrawal date has been given. Their fatwa, or edict, has been resonant with many local Sunnis, though as the election nears and a postponement seems unlikely, Sunnis are realizing they may not be represented in the new government if they do not participate. For example, Adnan Pachachi, head of the Independent Democratic Grouping, with both Sunni and Shiite members, is somewhat reluctantly abandoning his call for a postponement and is instead now calling on all Iraqis to vote.

Safety is still a major concern of Iraqis wanting to vote, though not as much as most media would have you believe. Other concerns, such as a lack of trust and understanding of the process are more serious.

According to polls taken by an independent Iraqi polling group in recent months, an average of ten percent cited security concerns as their reason not to vote, while up to 29% cited a lack of trust in the process and another 49% had other concerns. Their findings, though far from scientific, shed light on some general trends regarding the elections.

The Iraqi pollsters went door to door in every sector of the country, conducting 30-35 minute interviews with between 4,200 and 5,000 people for the survey below. The most recent survey was conducted in January of this year.

Do you plan to vote in the upcoming elections?

NO - 4% in Aug. compared to18% in January
DON’T KNOW - 3% in Aug. compared to 10% in January
YES - 93% in August compared to 72% in January.
89% of Sunni Muslims said they would vote last Aug. compared to 47% respondents in January.
96% of Shias said they would vote in August compared to 86% in January

Intent to Vote:
If you’re not planning to vote, why? The first number is from respondents in September of 2004; the second number is from January 2005.

Because of security situation: 11- 7% said (52% of Sunni and 45% Shia cite security reasons)
Don’t trust the process: 29-22%
Don’t know the candidates: 11-10%
Because of the presence of the multinational forces 16-4%
Other reasons: 7% to 49%

When Iraqis go to vote, what do you think they will be voting for?

Prime minister: 6%
President: 18%
Don’t know/no answer: 31%
Parliament members: 33%
Candidates from political parties, which will provide Transitional National Authority members: 11%
Political Parties: 1%

Proportion that understands the election concept: 45% in January compared to 18% last November and 36% in December with no significant different between sects in terms of understanding.

Election Security:
Which would make you feel safe when you go to vote?

Iraqi Police near the polling stations: 14%
IP and Iraqi National Guard only: 35%
IP, ING and Multi National Forces: 12%
No security at all; it invites attacks: 11%

I can’t imagine how the average Iraqi is going to figure all this out; then again, US citizens, whose average voter turnout is 44 percent, can’t even educate themselves about two or three candidates, just imagine if we had 107 choices.

In the meantime, life seems to be put on hold, everyone waiting ‘ba’ad al-intikhabat’ meaning, ‘after the elections’, as one Arab news outlet noted. Events, meetings, business contracts and other decisions of import are being pushed aside, all in anticipation of this hopeful and somewhat ambivalent day, January 30.

Next the Iraqi people will begin the wait for the results of their first democratic election. This at least is something we know a thing or two about, though Iraqis have proven to be far more patient than we could ever imagine being. How long with those results take? Couldn’t tell you. Some are estimating around two to three weeks, but there’s no way to know for sure. Perhaps just the act of voting, that nebulous and unknown concept brought into known proportions, will be enough for now. Either way, it is a beginning. Whether it is a beginning of peaceful democracy or a starting shot for civil war is another unknown. We can only hope, for the sake of Iraqis, that it is the former.

The un embed... or so I thought

2005-01-19T03:09:00.000-08:00

Call it the rules—did you know soldiers are not allowed to smoke and walk at the same time? —or perhaps the fact that I had to watch an otherwise reasonable young man consume first a family-sized jar of mayonnaise, puke, and then join in on an economy sized mustard chugging contest. Or maybe just the closer than close monitoring of every word I wrote on my blog (wondering why there are no posts?), in articles and soon I wondered if in emails as well. Then I got a sniff of freedom. I escaped for two days into the arms of the Al Hamra hotel in downtown Baghdad and visited with an old colleague. I got in a few real conversations with real live Iraqis, including Nadeem and Yazin, from the babe squad!! slept the first night in weeks without wondering if mortars would come through my roof, and realized I couldn’t ever fully go back. In other words, I’m leaving my embed. Can’t do it. I’m out – at least for a while. I mean, I’m critical enough without having to edit my own words and I’ll say it again: anyone who says the embed experience doesn’t affect one’s work is flat. out. lying. Doesn’t mean the work isn’t good, important or done with integrity; just means it’s affected.

Plus, I have been neglectful, I admit it, and for reasons I can’t really go into right now. But I’m going to be more communicative from here on out because I suppose you’d like to hear a thing or two about Iraq. Yeah, and so would I. In fact, I’m so curious about what’s happening in this country, leaving my embed during the elections is my only hope of actually getting some information. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve learned immense amounts about the embed process, about the good folks of the 515 in New Mexico, and some not so good folks; I’ve seen extraordinary military waste and lavish living and I’ve hit my head against the absurdity of rules. I’ve seen the amazing hard work of hundreds of National Guardsmen and reservists, many of whom are here against their will and at great personal sacrifice (backdoor draft? You betchya). I’m awestruck just witnessing first hand the machinations of the military machine; observing good people stuck in ridiculous situations; unit cohesion and the lack thereof; devotion to God because if it wasn’t God that kept that piece of shrapnel an inch away from my head, I don’t know what was. And then the dramas: Watching couples late at night emerge from bunkers, conexes and from behind latrines; hearing any number of personal stories, some of which will be chronicled eventually, I promise. Men strutting their stuff in the gym while women circle like vultures over roadkill; a medic center that works with pinpoint accuracy and smart folks who can call a spade a spade. I’ve enjoyed a kind of obvious protection, eating good food, having hot showers and sleeping in a comfortable bed with an endless supply of DVDs. I have even enjoyed the completely nonsensical, idiotic remarks made by kids with no thinking capacity of their own, mostly because it’s my morbid fascination to see that these thought processes actually exist (more on this to come). I’ve especially enjoyed conversations with people who are really thinking deeply about and questioning what they’re doing here and wondering if their legacy will prove beneficial to the people of Iraq. And there are a lot of those here. Many of these people are older, more thoughtful and often have served in other wars. My favorite response came from a newcomer to Iraq, a sixty something Vietnam vet and current National Guardsman from Kansas. Given the repeated comparisons between Iraq and Vietnam, I asked him if he saw similarities between the two wars and if so what they might be. He pointed his plastic fork in my face and said, “Are there similarities? Yeah, and Edwin Star said it best: ‘War! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. I’ll say it again. War! What is it good for? Ab-so-lut-ely nothing.’”

Then he put his fork down and excused himself as he left the chow hall.

On that note, here are some casual shots of my life here at Log Base Seitz, where a large signs hangs over the maintenance company doors reading, ‘Welcome to Mortaritaville.’

Two days after I posted this and was nervously arranging my departure to downtown Baghdad - the Red Zone - I got a note that I was accepted with the 10th Mountain division down the road at Camp Victory. I thought about completely erasing the post I had previously written, then decided that it is a good indicator of my extreme internal struggle and ambivalence with the embed process. I began with an embed because I wanted to see and understand the military maneuvering from the inside, but mostly because it was the only relatively safe way for a journalist to work in Iraq. I had no idea at the time that I would have NO interaction with Iraqis, that the situation here had turned so drastically away from the Iraq I discovered last year that I would be as isolated as the military itself, held prisoner inside the walls of my own making. This has been profoundly depressing for me and has impacted my work (or lack thereof) in numerous ways. And yet I want to find a way to make it work. Because of their involvement with some of the electoral process (council meetings, patrols, etc) I think the 10th MNT will offer me a kind of view I’ve been waiting to see with no success since I arrived here in December. As the elections are just over a week away I will try for far more frequent postings.

There are a few other aspects that are influencing my decision to try another embed, despite my ambivalence. During my brief time downtown, I discovered with no surprise that my old translator is working full time with someone else. He is someone I trust implicitly and trusting your Iraqi contact is essential these days. I know he would help where he could, but it would limit my desire and access to do anything outside the hotel walls. I had asked my translator to try to find another friend, Hussein, the air force pilot who took me into his home and family last year, and for whose children I had packed a bag of toys. Hussein’s email had been closed and I had no phone number that worked. We had no luck tracking him down until I read days later that he and a French journalist had just been kidnapped. I was devastated. And, though it’s not new, it made me realize just how much risk these people take to help us as journalists. yes, it is because we have become friends, but mostly because their country is destroyed and this is one of the ONLY remaining jobs around that pays anything. Other jobs include police work, whose reputation is as a kind of mafia training for shake downs of innocent and some not so innocent people. The police are trusted less than the politicians these days – and the danger to them is far greater. But again, it is a job, one of the few. So in asking friends to help me gather stories it puts their lives at risk that much more. And even when covering myself with a hat, a scarf and a full abaya, I am a western female with light skin who does not speak Arabic. I have taken the personal risk to come here and do this work, and translators are responsible for taking their risks, I know. But if anything happened to my dear friend because of his association with me, I’m not sure I could live with myself. So it is with a heavy heart but also with eagerness that I proceed to my next station. The few people I’ve already met from this unit have been wonderful.

And I guess a note about the photos because I’ve gotten a comment. I have chosen some photos for now to show the sheer absurdity of some of my days here but also because I would rather my worried friends and family see me struggle with the strangeness, say, of my first facial (yes, it was my first, and for those who know me I’m sure you got a chuckle) than the strangeness of some other things I’ve witnessed here. All in due time…

Log Base Seitz

2005-01-17T11:22:00.000-08:00

And now a few snap shots from life at Log Base Seitz.

At Camp Victory there's a huge PX, a Wal-Mart like store where you can buy anything from TVs to shoes to toothpaste to food and magazines. And these lame shirts. ;)

Though the shot is blurry (and I thought I had trouble focusing), it does give a good sense of the dining facility where we all spend the majority of our time, and the group of New Mexicans with whom I spend much of my time. The guy in the green hat is the Commander of Log Base.

A view of beautiful Log Base Seitz with the town of Abu Ghraib in the distance (being patrolled by Blackhawks). The tiny logistical base at one point supplied 1/3 of Baghdad with anything from food and water to ammunition and fuel. The maintenance shop filled more than 10,000 orders in one year, including the uparmoring of more than 3,000 vehicles (to the tune of $25k a pop).

Just south of Abu Ghraib at sunset. Hopefully an indicator of things to come, the silver lining that is.

People from Abu Ghraib burn their garbage at night. We burn our garbage during the day, which makes the air over the base toxic, oh, pretty much round the clock.

And there are mortar attacks! This dud in the right hand corner flwe directly into the staff HQ cutting the communication wires seen to the left. Luckily it did not explode.

In one day we had four separate mortar attacks. This unexploded ordnance is waiting to be gathered. And how does one pick up UXO? "Very carefully," I was told by a wise man. "Like a little newborn baby."

Given the frequency of mortar attacks at Log Base Seitz, you learn quickly that bunkers like this one, which are sprinkled throughout the base, are your friend.

I started out taking daily walks when I arrived at base but given the air quality (see above) and frequency of mortar attacks (see above), I familiarized myself with the MWR, or recreation center. Given the amazing amount of food on this base, it's a place I should undoubtedly be spending more time. But why would I do that when there's...

Twister!

... or ladies' night at the med center. yes I was humiliated, but every journalist knows that sacrifices must be made in the pursuit of sources, and joining in was a condition for me to take photos.

Preparing for one of my rare and cherished trips off base, this time with the 245th.

At camp Taji, about 20 minutes to the north, there is what they call the bone yard, where Russian tanks from Saddam's army have been left to die.

There a very few Iraqis allowed on Log Base Seitz. The handful who have been hired for such jobs as cleaning, sweeping or filling sand bags are closely monitored.

The Embed Equation

2004-12-30T22:56:00.000-08:00

It’s taken a while to write because I’m just not sure what to say these days. I’m embedded with the 515th National Guard unit in Iraq, stationed at Log Base Seitz, a 2.5 square mile patch of dirt just west of the Baghdad airport. There are 625 people at this base, 55 of whom are New Mexican. The base is mostly logistical, dealing with supply issues and transportation, supporting the war effort from “behind.” Only there aren’t any behind and front lines in this war, so Log base is in the thick of it. Things have been quiet since I arrived and talk is of the next imminent attack, wondering where it will be and hoping it won’t be as bad as some, as the unit has already lost six people with dozens more injured. The calm days make people almost more nervous than when there are attacks, because, as one NM guardsman put it, “At least when they mortar you, you know they’re executing a plan. But when it’s quiet you know they’re plotting.”

The other reason for the delay in writing is that I have to admit I sunk into a kind of depression after the Tidal wave hit. I wasn’t able to tear myself away from CNN reports and feeling progressively more sad and helpless as the death figures rose. I even spoke to the People bureau about sending me over, but they sent a staffer from London instead. I felt a bit better after interviewing the Sri Lankan kitchen workers and talking to the commander about taking up a collection for their families. The other depression was realizing that I wouldn’t be working with, much less seeing, Iraqis on this trip. Even contacting the friends I met here in the past feels like it puts them in danger.

The worst times are when I stand and listen, over the generators, trucks and soldier noise, to the call to prayer outside the base walls. I can’t reach that Iraq right now, and I know that no one inside could even understand why I would want to. “Sometimes that call to prayer is so angry,” said one soldier who saw me paused in front of the chow hall listening to the faint call. They have no understanding of Iraqis or Iraqi culture outside of framing them as killers and “heathens.” And why would they? For the most part, the only Iraqis they have a chance to encounter are trying to kill them. In turn, Iraqis see Americans as people who hate them. This is what breaks my heart most, and why I think we have a very long road ahead of us.

When I first arrived the unit was on Amber alert, which meant we had to wear full body armor and helmets everywhere. The heightened security followed the attack on Mosul, plus they had “credible intel” that suggested a holiday attack was imminent. This made for an absolutely exhausting first few days. But as time went on I got used to it and by the time we were relieved from wearing our armor on base, I decided to keep mine on. I’ve gradually loosened my own requirements but donned full gear for my first venture back to the Green Zone, which I did with a unit delivering medical supplies to the hospital there. The place is an absolute fortress, even moreso than last year. Concrete barriers line almost every road and checkpoints run throughout. The US embassy and its annex have completely taken over Saddam’s huge palace and I not only couldn’t get in but couldn’t even get near to ask a visa question. “They’re treating you like a foreigner, aren’t they?” said one soldier who accompanied me on my short jaunt. I had to smile.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.
It was Captain Chris Garcia from Santa Fe who picked me up at the airport the day I arrived. He grabbed my arm as I passed and asked if I was indeed “Ms. Pollon, the reporter.” He admitted later that my helmet gave me away. I bought the piece of equipment for $130 my last night in Turkey. The transaction not only cost me an arm and a leg but almost cost me my flight; I made the plane five minutes before gates closed. But the moment I walked onto the C-130 I began to get comments: “Ma’am, where exactly did you get that?” They called it a training helmet, plastic, worthless. Once I arrived on base, and the men knew with whom they were dealing, the comments got even more ruthless: I could use it for a washtub or even a pisspot. The helmet couldn’t stop rain, one Sgt. told me, much less mortars. It became a piece of show and tell in the commander’s office. All in good fun they’d say. And it was, particularly after they offered me a replacement helmet for the duration of my stay.

Capt. G warned me that the Lt. Colonel of the base, Richard Rael, could be a prankster but that he could also be pretty rough when it got down to brass tacks. “I like things to be relaxed here,” the commander told me at our first meeting, “but I’ll come down hard if someone gets out of line or breaks the rules.” Sounded good to me, so we were off to a good start. In fact, we’ve all taken to each other to each other extremely well. It’s definitely a nice and interesting experience having a bit of New Mexico – accents, habits, expressions – here in Iraq.

The “beaners”, as they jokingly call themselves, pretty much stay together as a unit, and when Christmas came around, I felt I was invited into the quarters of a tight knit family. Dinner was a round of red chile enchiladas, carne adovada, sopapillas and beans and rice. Food hadn’t tasted so good in weeks! One of the most striking things I noticed about the unit is that the men, though crude at times (stress relief, I know), have a warmer, more friendly way of dealing with each other. They joke and prod like the best of them (throw Christmas trees at each other and pack each others’ beds with crushed Pringles, etc), but there’s a sweetness that I don't often see from white boys in the military. It’s been a saving grace. In general, the folks here have been incredibly kind to me and sometimes I forget that our outlooks on life, politics and this war can be vastly different.

The head of the medical team is still one of the coolest people out here. She’s the Wisconsin ball buster I mentioned last time who can criticize a rule when she finds it absurd (Every once in a while she reminds me of Monica, so Obviously, I love this gal.). No one would dare challenge her though, because when the casualties come in she runs the tightest ship around, and at Log Base Seitz, dealing with casualties is unfortunately a big part of the experience. So, yeah, about those mortars…

Log Base Seitz was established when relations between Americans and Iraqis were still good enough that soldiers wandered into the town of Abu Ghraib for supplies, they ate in Iraqi restaurants and talked to Iraqis on the streets. Those days are long gone. Now the logistical base is considered by some disgruntled soldiers as a mortar magnet and a buffer zone for the much larger Camp Victory right next door. People have asked to be moved into the perimeter of nearby Camp Victory but apparently there’s no room on the enormous base. So instead, the supply group has suffered 84 separate mortar attacks, with more than 60 wounded and as I said, six dead. Their delivery convoys have experienced near daily attacks, some as minor as small arms fire and as major as IEDs, rocket grenade launchers and land mines. (An article on this is next in line.) Colleagues had warned me about the lack of distinction between rear and front line these days in Iraq. Here at Seitz, it’s pretty clear. But as I said, I haven’t seen any of it, and with some luck, never will.

I haven’t yet settled into a rhythm here, or found a focus for my longer-term projects. In the meantime I’ll wait, witness and take notes.

So here’s wishing everyone a happy and PEACEFUL New Year.

Post Partum Blues and The Next Step

2004-12-23T03:14:00.000-08:00

So the Rumi festival is over and I'm in that post partum depression, a mixture of sadness that all the new friends are going their separate ways (I'll make it to Iran one day, but don't know when and the situation will be different) and total exhaustion, plus a bit of nervousness about the road ahead. Part of me is sorry not to join the foreign traveling band and head up to Cappadoccia-- that wild volcanic city - and another is trying to get into the right mind frame to catch a plane the day after tomorrow to Kuwait and a flight into Baghdad two days later. And to make matters worse, I can't find a darn hotel for less than $120 in Kuwait!! So it's a mixture, and I'm always grappling with whether travel is really Doing anything or whether it's valuable, apart from my own momentary entertainment. Yes, I want to write but every time I think I have a sense of how to frame it, another angle opens, more depth enters and I feel completely overwhelmed and underprepared.

The day Rumi united with his beloved was a totally emotional day full of prayer and intensity, WAY too much sugar and not enough rest. It’s a very special day to Sufis, especially in Konya, and the museum where his tomb is stored was packed with worshippers weeping, praying and reciting poems. There was a single line of worshippers that ran through the stalled crowd much as a stream works its way through sand. In time I found myself in a small eddy directly in front of the tomb standing quietly. An old woman next to me saw my contemplation and said something sharply to me in Turkish. She could have been admonishing me for not having a headscarf for all I know and I was in no place to fight. But when I looked down at her she gently put her hand on the side of my face. I closed my eyes and out of nowhere began to weep. I took the woman’s hand and held it until I could stop crying. Then I leaned down, kissed her cheek and made my way back into the stream. From there a strange series occurred: A woman from Turkey sought me in the crowd and wanted me to come meet a spiritual teacher from Istanbul. A woman from Iran who was giving out Iranian money and candy to celebrate the wedding took me in her arms and held me as I began to cry some more. One man whose music I had listened to the night before, and who had given me several rings broken from his drum, found me to tell me he had dreamt about me, and that we had been traveling together. Then there was poetry (when it got too passionate the guard came to quiet things down.) then music, food and ceremonial goodbyes.

I’m guessing that it’s the nature of such a festival to have strange, powerful connections that come and go in an instant and that my experiences were a few of hundreds of similar exchanges throughout the week. At least I hope so. The next day my back felt brittle and sore and my brain fried. But what a beautiful festival. I'll certainly be back here and can't wait to reunite with this crazy band of pilgrims, whoever they may be.

My Istanbul transit
Ahh…so this is what everyone was talking about when they waxed on about Istanbul!
The streets are filled with people, the energy is great, and the night skyline is one of the most beautiful I’ve seen anywhere. And this was just night one. My first short tour was given by an Israeli photographer I met in Konya and in whose roommate filled pad I might stay once I return to Turkey. Plus the folks might want to join me for both Turkish and tango classes. Que suerte. Despite transportation difficulties and a pretty high cost of living, I think I could get to like this place quite a bit. I’ll be back here after the holidays sometime and will investigate every crevasse and corner, but right now other adventures are calling.

Christmas in Baghdad
It wasn’t exactly the way I had planned, but somehow I’m spending Christmas in Baghdad. It was the Los Angeles Times article that did it, the one that led with the line, “No one spends Christmas in Istanbul.” It went on to describe a cold, dark city where restaurants closed early and the streets were bare. It was completely wrong I later found – Istanbul is always bustling and though they don’t celebrate Christmas per se, New Years is a huge celebration -- but it was too late. I had already called the New Mexico National Guard and asked if I could embed. They were so enthusiastic I thought they would put me on a plane themselves.
So now I write this from Kuwait, where I’m staying in a high-rise apartment with some contractors I met on the flight from Istanbul. Everyone is Iraq-bound or just emerging and we all share stories of the incredible ineptitude of the reconstruction so far. One thinks the problem is that there’s not enough capitalism, another that there’s too little optimism. We all agree there’s too much bureaucracy for effective people to get anything done.
Dean is a former banker and reservist who was called to action last year and ended up running the finances for most of southern Iraq. After leaving the service he decided to return as a private contractor and is now in his newest incarnation as a hostage negotiator since a colleague “went missing” near Basra. Negotiation may be a bit premature, he admits, as they have yet to hear a word about the Turkish businessman from a Veery wealthy family. Johnny just came in from the southern town of Samawa where he’s building a power plant for a Texas company using Iraqi labor. He’s off to meet his wife in London for the holidays and couldn’t be happier. The apartment they all share—these two and a couple others -- towers over the bay opposite the heart of Kuwait City. It’s beautiful and glitzy, just like the city. That is, at least on the surface, though cost and my own exhaustion is keeping me from exploring a bit more. This country is insanely rich from oil and prices are to match. It’s not exactly the backpackers destination and Dean laughed when he saw me change only $50 for the night. “You haven’t been in these parts for a while have you?” In fact the exchange is about $4 US for one Kuwait Dinar and it flows and flows and flows. The mighty dollar is not very mighty here! Yet here I am hanging out and watching bad movies while overlooking a sparkly bay scene. We - myself and the contractors - all wait for our next moves and compare severity of our pre-flight jitters. Mine are exceptionally strong. When the news announces the explosion near Mosul that seems to have killed 22 people and wounded more than 50 we sit in silence and wait for our program to continue.

The next morning I take a brutal, rollercoaster flight (they called it "avoidance tactics") into Baghdad airport where I’m picked up by two New Mexico National Guardsmen from the 515th Command Supply unit, my military escorts for the next month or so. We arrive at Log Base Camp Seitz, northwest of Baghdad and just below the town of Abu Ghraib. I’m right away ushered into the office of commanding officer Jose Rael, a Santa Fean and one of the more down to earth military personnel I’ve met in Iraq. He briefs me on some ground rules, namely no pictures of wounded, then gives me a brief tour around the base before it gets dark. My favorite stop: the medical emergency center run by a group from Madison, Wisconsin (with a Green Bay Packers flag center wall). The head physician’s assistant is hysterical and invites me to “ladies night” on Christmas Eve. I can already tell this will be a very different experience from last time.

So now I sit on a skinny bed in my own comfortable room near the commander’s headquarters and feel the walls shake as helicopters pass overhead and the skies moan as Bradleys patrol the surrounding area. I’m excited to be back here and eager to work. But I miss the Iraq I was first introduced to and the people I once easily visited. This time around there won’t be any walking in the streets – or even leaving base at all. There will be no Iraqi food or music or culture because this place hardly belongs to Iraqis anymore. It belongs to Americans, so this is the story I’m here to write.

Photos of Konya

2004-12-21T06:24:00.000-08:00

I'm starting with images of dervishes because this is first on my mind, followed by some photos of Istanbul. Plus, I'm in a fancy apartment in Kuwait using ethernet so I'm taking advantage of technology I've neither had until now nor expect to have for the next month.

Thirty-five of these dancers did Sema every night in Konya.

The youngest of the troop, an 11-year-old boy, had to take some breaks while watching the higher initiates.

After a session the group would bow and move to the outskirts. Then they would begin again.

Rumi poems hang over the streets of Konya.

I spent a lot of time inside a rug store sipping tea and looking out at this mosque. Just behind it is the museum with Rumi's tomb.

The beautiful, exceptional tomb of Mevlana.

Even more than places, it is the people along the way that make my travels special. These are my partners in crime in Konya: Manuel (R), a French anthropology student studying pilgrimages and Victor (L), an anthropology student from DC (the only other American!) studying music. Thank you both. And yes, I look possessed, but I promised Victor I'd use the shot where his eyes were open.

My Iranian partners in crime inside the Mevlana Museum on the day of his wedding. From left to right: Mohamed, Babak and Naser. The beautiful Shima and her mother had to leave a day early.

This strangely suggestive practice was first used to cure those with mental and physical problems (I took no offense that they wanted me to try it!). By placing your teeth on the end of the Turkish Saz and closing your ears you experience the most amazing surround sound with the vibration reverberating throughout your body.

Fifteen years after first learning about it, Z finally makes it to the Aya Sophia in Istanbul!

The Aya Sophia was a church for more than 900 years before it became a mosque which leads to this strange mixture of iconography. Archeologists are still working to uncover all of the amazing Christian mosaics.

After a whirlwind day of sightseeing my dear friend Dilek and I ate lunch overlooking the Bosphorous. Thank you Ahmet, Dilek and Melis for everything.

I'm headed to Iraq tomorrow for the holidays (yes, I know this sounds odd. I have more info on this coming soon) and it might be a bit before I have the technology to post photos again. Until then I'll try my best to keep you all posted. Happy Holidays!

Whırlıng through Konya

2004-12-15T23:47:00.000-08:00

Though I arrived in Istanbul I can hardly say I’ve seen the city. I was picked up by the driver of a good friend I met in Iraq last year and shuttled to his beautiful apartment on the “Asian” side of Istanbul. The other side of the Bosphorus, the strait that connects the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara, is what they call the European side – and no one will let you forget it. Ahmet’s wife Dilek and I formed an instant friendship and I didn’t leave her apartment much after that, aside from a whirlwind tour of the Aya Sophia, Blue Mosque, Topkepi Castle and the Cistern (my favorite). Any descriptions will have to wait. Because the Rumi Festival in Konya, Turkey is the real purpose of this trip and from this everything else follows.

Come, come, whoever you are
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come even if you have broken your vow
A thousand times.
Come, yet again, come, come.
--Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi
It’s the refrain I’ve been hearing all week, words from Rumi, the 12th century Persian mystic poet whose death and life I’ve traveled across land and ocean to celebrate. They say 200,000 of us – pilgrims, tourists and the just plain lucky -- come to Konya every year to mark Rumi’s death on December 17th, 1273, a very holy day in the Sufi religion when Rumi united with God.
To followers he is Mevlana, The Guide, and his body lies in the Mevlana Museum, formerly a Dervish lodge, in the center of town. More than a million visitors come to pay respects at the enormous tomb, which is shrouded in gold cloth and has a turban like covering marking the headstone (similar to the hats that dervishes wear). Muslims from around the world, but primarily from Persia and Turkey, pray at the holy shrine. Hundreds were seated along the hall, some crying, praying and others reading his poetry. Another room holds his relics. And yet another held modeled dervish scenes and art. Even passing by the closed door at night garners a bow and a prayer from worshipers.

There are concerts and lectures every day but I found them practically impossible to find until late in the week, and then the famous whirling dervishes who dance nightly and often in the afternoons. This latter performance is purely tourism as people from Konya will tell you, as the dancers “all come from Istanbul.” But who can complain of commercialism when it’s all about spreading the word of universal acceptance and love? Even I made my way to the “show” every chance I got. Plus the merchandising is fabulous: There are tchochkes touting poetry of love and God, mugs with the image of Rumi, Shams and whirling dervishes; banners with poems hang from the street lamps and pilgrims can be found singing and reciting poetry in the street (at least the group I found!). Even a cabbage patch was planted in the image of a whirling dervish.

They say that Rumi was born in Afghanistan but at the time of his birth in 1207 that site, Balkh, was actually a part of Iran. And they say that Rumi died in Turkey but that site, Konya, was also part of Iran. He wrote in Persian and claimed himself as Persian but still Turkish and Afghanis (I am told) claim him for their own. But come, come everyone, it’s the phrase of the day, the night, or during afternoon tea. Be you Christian or Muslim, Jewish or Atheist. There is room for everyone, friend.

I’ve been adopted for several days by a group of young Iranians, one of whom even speaks English. It’s amazing to land in a city where it’s incredibly difficult to find an English speaking person. I’ve judged people in the past for landing in a country without knowing a word of the mother tongue and yet here I am. Nada. The rug dealers are the most multi linguistic so I spend a lot of time visiting with them. Otherwise interviews have been a challenge, to say the least, much less finding a bathroom or ordering a bottle of water.

My quest to find one organizer to interview in English about the festival resulted in an hours long adventure to get me a press pass. The task involved no less than 11 “tourism police” officers, five culture officials, four others from the governor’s office and finally the governor’s own press chief who was ultimately taken away from preparations with the prime frinkin minister to come and grant me an “all access” press pass to all dervish events. I love being a journalist! My favorite moment, a surreal scene that anyone who has traveled will appreciate, was while waiting in the governor’s office for some official to figure out what to do with this random American – seemingly the only one in Konya - who was sitting before them. It appeared all the officials (including my three police escort team) were at wits end when we finally decided to take a rest, drink some chai and watch a bit of the movie Three Amigos, with Steve Martin and Chevy Chase, in Turkish. I finally got my press pass but the funniest part is that I never found an organizer who spoke a word of English! Still the experience was worth its weight in gold.

Zeliha’s Durga
I’m fortunate that in Turkey there is a common name very similar to mine: Zeliha, which is what all the Turkish people now call me. (It’s a huge leap from Zulig, or something, that I got in Iraq so I’m happy being Zeliha - pronounced Zelie-ha).
I met my Iranian friends when I interviewed them at the Sema, which is the celebration of Whirling dance. They were so extraordinarily passionate I instantly fell in love and knew I had to see more of them. Take Babak, for example, who is the most passionate of the bunch and eager to share his spiritual examination. He is beautiful and loving and breaks into tears each time he recites Mevlana’s poems, which Iranian children learn in school. A discussion, say over breakfast in the hotel, goes something like this:
“But who IIISS Shems?” said in a desperate, pleading voice with hands raised, fingertips clenched together. “The answer? He is so, so big,” he says grasping for an appropriate English word, but I’m not sure he would find one even in Farsi. Shems (Mehmet Shemseddin Tebrizi) literally was Rumi’s teacher, companion and his greatest inspiration. Persians believe that Shems surpasses Rumi in the spiritual hierarchy and that Rumi alone saw Shems’ greatness. To followers, Shems is everything, and everything is compared to him. Babak’s friends tease him and try to help with the explanation. They point to his eggs and joke, “This breakfast is nothing compared to Shems.” But they’re only half joking because they too are here with God – and Shems - on their minds. Shems was supposedly killed by Rumi’s followers who were jealous of their relationship. But according to Babak, many believe that Shems never died, much in the same way that Jesus is said to have moved to southern France and shacked up with Mary Magdalene. In fact a professor Babak knows in America swears he saw Shems on the street in Seattle. The man took himself to the Hospital he was so overcome with love, Babak said.

That night they invited me to a real life version of ecstatic prayer meeting in the Sufi religion. There must have been 200 of us smashed into a single hot, sweaty airless room, beating drums, singing, screaming, crying and dancing to the point of total ecstasy - or passing out, which in many cases is the same thing. It was a profoundly powerful experience and one that I hope to repeat.

In another hotel the next night, Iranians played drums, a kind of guitar (whose name is a complete mystery to me) and created their own kind of prayer meeting until late midnight.

This week has included a mystic music festival with a group from a different part of the world playing each day. One day was Azerbajan, the next day Turkey and another – by far the greatest juxtaposition – a French/African gospel group. They say it’s the first gospel to play in Turkey, but maybe they meant Konya, as the Konyans certainly didn’t know what to do with them. Imagine a 13-member rocking gospel group singing their hearts out to Jesus and the audience for the most part sitting in stunned silence. There were of course the exceptions: a group of European Sufis in the front row who all held hands and furiously rocked back and forth in their seats. And then there was us, a motley group of westerners doing our own Baptist revival of sorts just behind the Sufis. Turkish television couldn’t get enough of us and I’ve heard from more than one person that they saw us on the evening news.
Now for those of you who may think we were going against custom here, I will beg to differ as I’ve seen a side of Konya I didn’t think existed.
I was convinced to attend a concert of a Turkish/Canadian trance music star named Marchan DeDe. He played in a ballroom at the Hilton hotel outside of town because, ok, there aren’t many music venues around here. The friend who talked me out of another night of dervishes said I needed to see how the young people were celebrating Rumi. Indeed the fusion of generations was worth a night of study.
The Hilton Hotel shoots out of a barren landscape about a half hour outside of town. It’s a four star complex with a lounge, bar, discoteque and even bowling alley for those who can’t to be away from indulgent western amenities while visiting Konya. The place was packed with young, hip kids sporting tight jeans, halter tops and all with a cell phone/camera attached to an ear. There also were a lot of Muslim girls with their heads covered and a handful of boys who were flat out drunk as alcohol was being sold in the hotel lobby.
The concert was an amazing mix of drums, horns and electronic music with the ney, a flute, video imagery and a female dervish from Canada whirling on stage. As the music thumped, the crowds started dancing, screaming with excitement as the beat quickened. One of the most interesting mixtures was during a trance song with the strangely sexual chorus “feel my drum” beating hypnotically. The crowd started jumping up and down like a single amoeba, and two girls wearing scarves next to me started yelling “Allah! Allah” to the sound of the beat. Thirteenth century Sufism was indeed meeting 21st century youth.

I must say, I LOVE Konya. I think I expected a small village of wandering shamans in the mountains, but in fact Konya is a bustling town of a million people with a university and lively street scene. To all those who described the town as conservative and fundamentalist I’d have to argue that it’s pretty secular. Which doesn’t mean beer flows from local taverns; it’s a dry town where alcohol is available only in select stores and any public consumption is forbidden. And the only disco is at the Hilton (where we heard a pretty rousing Turkish version of Gloria Naylor’s I Will Survive the other night). But the people are exceptionally kind and I feel completely safe wandering the streets at just about any hour. The Iranians have also been so kind and generous I’ve taken to calling them the freaky friendlies. They’re so nice it’s eerie (yes, It’s been a while since I’ve left the US).
Photos wıll follow but thought you all should know that my health is holding steady despite a steady intake of bread of chicken fat and my teeth haven’t yet turned black from the dozen cups of black tea I’m offered every day.

Off to the Middle East!

2004-12-01T14:08:00.000-08:00

Now you've really done it. All your support of me and The Baghdad Project
has planted a seed -- and it's irreversible. I've decided to head back to
the Middle East to cover first the Rumi festival in Konya, Turkey, then more
of the story in Kurdistan, and then... Well, as we all know the Middle East
is and will continue to be full of stories, and independent reporting will
be as essential as ever.

Z interviewing last year in Iraq (2003)

This first trip will be exploratory: I'll be searching for an attractive
base from which to cover the area, possibly Amman, Cairo, Beirut, Istanbul,
or even Teheran, and will begin documenting, among many things, The Faces of
Islam.

I leave next Tuesday (Dec. 7th) and the first trip will be relatively
short (four months). I suspect I will be embedding with the military as early as Christmas and will send more news from Camp Victory.

I'm in major training on the fact and function of "Blogging" so I will be
able to keep everyone informed of my work on the ground. And I promise I
won't include the kind of details I did in my Iraq dispatches last year. I
scared myself half to death reading them recently, so I can just imagine how
they must have come across to concerned friends on this side of the pond. My
sincere apologies!