Walking
The Streets Of Baghdad
By Dahr Jamail
Electronic
Iraq
21 January 2004
After
being in Iraq nearly two months now, it struck me how much people can
adapt to even the most trying situations. In Baghdad, a place that is
the front line of a low-grade guerrilla war between insurgents and the
occupation forces, daily life for 6 million Iraqis goes on.
When I first arrived
here, my head spun with the inherent security dangers. Suicide car bombs,
resistance attacks on occupation troops in the streets, mines, bombs-a
bit of a departure from my life in Anchorage, Alaska. My biggest concerns
there are icy roads, avoiding moose on the roads and whether or not
my car will start after a night of minus 30 degree temperatures when
Im going to meet some friends for coffee.
And it dawned on
me, while walking from my hotel to meet a friend to discuss writing
a story about the work being done by her peace organization, how odd
it is that I've grown accustomed to this dangerous situation. Going
about business in this situation is a stressful proposition, to say
the least. For it is not just about business when every walk down the
street can be about life and death.
Yet this has become
normal to me now, and I worry about that as this cannot possibly be
good on my psyche. It is not without concern about what this has done
to my danger threshold that I feel relatively comfortable walking around
the streets of Baghdad.
I've learned to
avoid the loose dirt and garbage piles that are so abundant along the
noisy, congested streets of central Baghdad. It is always better to
walk along concrete, rather than tromping across loose bricks or piles
of rubbish, as these are often places where the powerful Improvised
Explosive Devices, are hidden.
The sound of a rumbling
bus behind me has come to mean a US Humvee Patrol, with soldiers manning
large machine guns perched on top, scanning the buildings for potential
attackers. I try to avoid these when possible, as the civilian casualties
from an IED explosion and then the return fire of the American's often
outnumber that of the intended targets.
I walk up to a bank
to exchange some of my US dollars for the new Saddam-free Iraqi Dinars,
and without thinking automatically raise my arms and turn around to
be frisked for weapons. With the usual utterance of shukran ("Thank
you"), I stroll inside to do my business amongst more armed guards.
Carrying on down
the street, I pass a petrol station with the usual long line of mostly
beat up orange and white Passats parked along the road, awaiting their
ration of fuel. Razor wire spirals across the ground in front of the
filling station, while armed Iraqi police monitor the entry, allowing
a car with an empty tank in every so often.
On the corner I
smile at the usual congregation of what I think are Iraqi secret service
personnel...plain clothed men, and one woman with ear pieces for communication
and satellite phones, closely watching all the traffic which passes
by.
200 meters past
this is the Sheraton and Palestine hotel complex. The two tan monoliths,
each with chunks blasted out of their exterior by rocket attacks, loom
over a perimeter of concrete blocks stood on end to deter suicide car
bombers. Mangy dogs walk past them, pawing small garbage piles where
they can reach past the security razor wire.
I am searched for
bombs or weapons by the Iraqi security guards at the first gate and
again to enter the compound. US soldiers stand by, their nervous eyes
watching every person who approaches.
The approach takes
me down another row of tall concrete blocks, shielding me from potential
suicide bombers, as well as a view of the muddy waters of the Tigris
River. The barrel of a large M1 American tank is the last deterrent,
as I turn left and enter the lobby of the Palestine Hotel.
Once inside, it
is a surreal experience. I take a seat in a plush chair to wait for
my friend as soft music fills the lobby, echoing off the marble floor.
Press personnel stroll by with their flack jackets and helmets, walking
from the elevators out the front door past the guards.
Meanwhile I see
several journalists in one of the bars. This seems a common coping mechanism,
for many of the journalists in my own hotel tend to congregate in one
of the rooms to toss back the drinks while discussing the goings on
of another day in occupied Baghdad. Booze is obviously not too difficult
to come by in Baghdad these days, for westerners and soldiers alike
are spotted purchasing it secretly around the city. I know this by walking
by a small bar near my hotel when I go to pick up my bottled water every
few days.
The visits I make
to visit people about the stories I write are limited to the daytime,
for everyone knows the streets are dangerous after 9pm, and not just
from looters and criminals. Just last week a journalist friend of mine
was robbed by Iraqi Police just a few blocks from our hotel.
But life goes on
here, all of us adapting to this most curious situation, whether we
like it or not.
Dahr Jamail is an American freelance journalist and political activist
from Anchorage, Alaska.