Barefoot in Baghdad (4 page)

I felt a rush of excitement at the idea that I could be a part of a positive change, but this was followed by a rush of exhaustion. The time for change was long overdue, but it would have to wait until the next morning. I needed to get some sleep.

***

Three days later and five pounds heavier from Uncle Fahad’s excellent food, it was time to bid him good-bye. It was hard to leave. Uncle Fahad had reminded me of Iraq’s legendary hospitality. Each night we feasted in his garden on traditional Iraqi meals. From kafta (a grilled ground meat and vegetable dish) and kebabs to amazing biryani rice dishes, I could not remember when I had last enjoyed such scrumptious dinners. We would end the night with him smoking on a Cuban cigar and me puffing away at a shisha (a water pipe with flavored tobacco).

My days were filled with excursions to nearby neighborhoods, where I began an initial assessment of community needs in and around the city. I could not have asked for a better guide than Zainab. Her rich experience in working with women in war-devastated areas, coupled with the fact that she was an Iraqi national, made her an Iraqi treasure incarnate. Because we stayed with Uncle Fahad for a few days, we were able to delay being dropped into the whirlwind expatriate life of soldiers, journalists, government workers, and foreign aid workers that was emerging. We were able to experience Iraq in a raw and unadulterated form.

I did not want to leave Fahad, but I knew I could not continue to impose on his warm hospitality. Zainab’s trip inside her homeland was short. Her main objective had been to help me get started, and she was due to leave for Amman the next day.

My next destination was the hotel I would call home for the next month. Mark, the logistics officer for Women for Women who had preceded me into the country, had reserved a room for me. He pointed out that by staying at the hotel for a month, we could take our time in scouting out a house for me to rent. We could make sure we found a good place. He was waiting outside Uncle Fahad’s with a driver to accompany me to the hotel.

There was still no word on my luggage. I would have to be creative with recycling the three outfits I had bought at Mansour, an affluent Baghdad neighborhood lined with shops boasting the latest Turkish fashions. I wasn’t so worried about my clothes, however. Medication for my back had also been in my suitcase.

Two years before, while horseback riding at the Pyramids in Cairo, I had been thrown off my horse when a donkey-drawn cart came around a corner and startled my horse. The horse reared up, and I fell off. Apparently, the damage from my fall was nothing compared to the damage I did to myself by immediately getting back on the horse and continuing to ride. The result was chronic pain in my lower back. It tends to act up after long trips. I was in desperate need of my muscle relaxant.

Uncle Fahad came out to bid me farewell. “Do not be stranger. Just cause Zainab is leaving does not give you reason to
disabbear
from me.”

I promised to stay in touch.

***

On the way to the hotel, Mark and I passed my favorite landmark in Baghdad—the statue of Kahramana. Situated in the middle of a traffic circle at the intersections between Karada Dakhil (the inner district) and Karrada Kharij (the outer district), Kahramana was built in the 1960s, inspired by the story of Ali Baba and the forty thieves from
A Thousand and One Nights.
I love the statue for many reasons. The fact that it was built nearly four decades ago was a testimony to the talent of all Iraqi artists. Most impressive of all was the fact that the heroine of the story was a woman. No other Arab country showcases a contemporary work of art that depicts a female heroine in the middle of their streets.

I asked the driver to slow down so I could get a picture, but when I realized there was no water in the fountain, I told the driver to keep going.

When there was water in the fountain, it flowed from Kahramana’s jug into a row of forty jugs below. The cascading water gave the statue its grandeur. I did not want a photo of Kahramana without the tumbling water.

Ten minutes later we pulled up to the Sultan Palace Hotel, near Al Tahariyat Square. The hotel was a fusion of Arab, Oriental, and Western designs. The light brown brick building reminded me of Georgetown townhouses. The brickwork stood out in contrast to the rectangular wooden geometric art carvings that marked each floor of the hotel. A red triangular gazebo served as the entrance to the hotel. It looked more appropriate for a Buddhist temple than a Baghdad hotel. The eight-foot-tall wooden doors also incorporated the geometric artwork, a popular Arabesque design, which carried over to the hotel interior.

“Electricity is almost one hundred percent dependent on the hotel generator,” Mark said as he handed me my key. “ If I were you, I would take the stairs, not the elevator.”

Not a problem. After all the good food at Uncle Fahad’s, I could use the exercise. My room was on the sixth floor, and by the time I got there, I was completely out of breath. But the hike up the stairs was worth it. The room was spacious, with a television and a small refrigerator. I could ask for nothing more.

Mark had arranged a dinner with some of our hotel neighbors. When I arrived downstairs, I found him with three other men and a woman. He introduced everyone. They were all from a wide range of nongovernmental and U.S. nonprofit organizations. Most of them had arrived in Baghdad a month before. Everyone was nursing a glass of beer.

I ordered a Diet Coke from the bar and was relieved when it arrived. I am addicted to the stuff, and when I lived in Iraq in 1997, Diet Coke had been almost impossible to get. Looking around the hotel restaurant, which was smattered with people from all nationalities, I could see in stark detail that Baghdad was a very different city. In 1997 it would have been impossible to see this kind of diversity outside the UN compound.

When we headed toward the hotel lobby, I began mentally drafting my first mass email to my friends and family. I couldn’t wait to describe everything I had seen this week: the city, the women, the program we were starting. Most of all, I couldn’t wait to tell them that I had been right all along. Everything was going to be just fine.

Although life in Iraq instantly grew on me, it would be misleading to say I quickly grew on the new Iraq. I desperately fought back the feeling that I was the odd woman standing. It all started when Mark introduced me to our three national staff members.

Without any programs established, our staff consisted only of a local logistics team: Yusuf, Fadi, and Mais. Since we did not have an office space, the first time I met them was in the hotel restaurant. Mark had arrived a month earlier to narrow down our choices of where to base the office. We were to make a final decision in the next few weeks.

The three staffers stood in a line, looking at me as if I had landed from outer space. I reached out to shake their hands. All three appeared to be frozen in place, and then they shook my hand awkwardly and gave me tight, forced smiles. The look of disappointment on their faces was obvious, although I didn’t know its source.

I tried to break the awkwardness by asking a few questions. They mumbled answers, looking more annoyed than comforted. Mark must have sensed the tension, and he began to ramble on about the great work that Yusuf, Fadi, and Mais had done over the past few weeks.

I jumped in to try to break the ice again. “Well, that’s all good. But at the end of the day it’s still a bit odd. Women for Women, and all I see in front of me are four men. We are going to have to change that.”

The moment would have been less painful if I had slammed into an iceberg. The three continued to look at me with blank stares. I tried to fumble my way through my awkwardness by reassuring them I was only joking and very much appreciated their hard work. I only made things worse, and for the next few days I felt like a clumsy freshman on the first day of high school. Later I learned that the three men had been promised an opportunity to work with an American woman. Instead, their boss looked a lot like an Iraqi woman.

I drifted out into the hotel lobby, and I could hear the three of them arguing over which of them would get to remain with Mark—the real American.

***

The first to take pity on me was Fadi, a twenty-nine-year-old college student studying business and trade at an evening school. He was a Catholic from Basra, a major metropolitan city in southern Iraq. His parents had moved to Baghdad when he was a child, and he had spent most of his adult life here. Since Fadi had to work during the day, he had been trudging through college for the last eight years, although he was now in his final year. His English was very weak, and he was keen to practice with a native speaker.

For the first few days I spent most of my time traveling in Fadi’s
Flintstones
-esque car, a battered beige Iranian-made four-door Peugeot. With dents on the side door and hood, it looked as if it had just emerged from a stampede. When I first saw the vehicle, I didn’t think it could move. But Fadi reassured me that it was in perfect shape despite its looks. With the Iraqi sun beating down on me, I only had one question: did the air conditioning work? He promised me it did.

We were heading to a meeting in a hotel near the affluent Jadrieh neighborhood to attend a coordinating meeting for a new initiative called the NGO Coordinating Council in Iraq (NCCI). Mark didn’t give me much of a briefing on what the meeting was about, but I figured I didn’t really need one. It was all in the name. The NGOs were going to try to coordinate their efforts. As I remembered from my experience in Afghanistan, such a simple task was one of the more painful I had endured. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

As we drove, Fadi asked questions about my background, and I answered him as directly as possible. He was very lighthearted, and his easygoing style instantly made me comfortable. I found myself opening up to him and telling him about the family drama that had preceded my arrival in Iraq. I could feel his guard coming down as he began to share similar family stories with me. He started playing tapes of famous Arabic singers, asking me what my favorite song was. I explained to him that I hardly listened to any Arabic songs.

“Okay. I have the perfect song that you will definitely know. It is very old.” He popped in a tape and an Arabic woman’s voice came pouring out over a Spanish beat.

I shook my head and smiled.

Fadi shot me a skeptical look. “Are you telling me you do not know Elissa?”

I chuckled at the disbelief in his voice. It was as if I hadn’t heard of the pope. I shook my head again. Next thing I knew, Fadi slammed on the breaks.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

“Where have you been?” Fadi replied as he shook his head disapprovingly. “You don’t know Elissa? Where have you been? Even we Iraqis know Elissa. And we have been cut off from the rest of the world.”

I instantly bent over with laughter. Not only was he shocked, he was offended. I quickly learned why. Elissa was Fadi’s favorite singer, and he had followed her career passionately since she first appeared on the Arabic music scene. She was a big shot in the Arab world and arguably one of the most well-known Lebanese singers. It was beyond his comprehension that I hadn’t heard of her. I reiterated that I never listened to Arabic music, that I was more into hip-hop and alternative music.

Fadi launched into a speech about how music was the unifying form of communication across cultures. He asked me to write down my favorite singers. I obliged: Mary J. Blige, Eminem, Sean Paul, Rage Against the Machine, and Nirvana. If music was the great unifier, though, I had a feeling my iPod wasn’t going to be much of a bridge.

Fadi pulled up in front of the hotel, his car looking out of place next to the huge white SUVs parked outside. He said he’d be back for me in an hour. The meeting was in English, and since he would not be able to understand what was being said, there was no reason for him to stay.

***

I entered the small conference room where the meeting was being held. There were at least fifty people sitting around a group of tables that had been arranged in a square. I looked for a familiar face. There was none, so I sat in the first empty seat I found. I was ten minutes late, and the meeting had already begun. Introductions had been made, and the group was discussing the first agenda item. The chair was proposing a joint letter to the U.S.-led Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA). Since the coalition forces had toppled the former Iraqi government, they were required by international law to provide governance in the interim. Since the CPA was the transitional authority established to govern Iraq, NCCI argued the joint letter should be addressed to them and signed by all the NGOs. Copies of the letter were being circulated.

I quickly glanced through the letter. It was unbelievable. The letter was extremely harsh and antagonizing, not to mention poorly written. It was clearly written by a non-native English speaker. The letter repeatedly referred to an illegal war, invasion, and the CPA as the occupying power. A long list of demands followed. I had no doubt that if the letter were to make it to the desk of a senior CPA official, it would land in the trash shortly afterward.

There was nothing in the letter’s content that I disagreed with. In fact, I wholeheartedly agreed with the main message. Iraqis were waiting for the promise of a better life to be fulfilled. They were being cooperative because they believed the CPA would deliver on that promise. The coalition forces were in a race against time to show tangible improvements and thereby maintain Iraqi support. The crux of the promise lay with the U.S. forces being able to improve personal security and public service for the majority of Iraqis. Time was crucial, because the blistering summer heat, which averaged around 110ºF, had already begun. The services outlined in the letter—access to food, clean water, and electricity—were the minimum standards. Yet, as written, the letter would probably never be read.

I raised my hand and diplomatically tried to point out the problem. I also offered to help with the rewriting. Immediately, however, the chairman, a Frenchman, shot down my suggestion. “The point of the letter is to be strong,” he said. “Those bastards are here illegally, and it is not a choice to make life better, it is their mandate.”

I looked around to see almost everyone around the table nodding enthusiastically. Only in a war zone would profanity in a formal meeting seem normal. I shrugged and explained I would not be able to sign the letter as it was currently written.

“Of course you will not. You are an American,” he retorted.

“It has nothing to do with my being American. It’s because I am a professional,” I replied, realizing just how American I sounded. “Like I said, I agree with everything in the letter. I just don’t agree with the approach.”

I was frustrated with the fact that this Frenchman was so easily dismissing my concerns. He clearly labeled me the moment he heard my accent. I wasn’t trying to be an obstacle; I was trying to ensure the letter would have an impact on the decision makers.

An older woman sitting at the back of the room and opposite from me stood up. She identified herself as Margaret Hassan, head of Iraqi operations for CARE, a UK-based humanitarian organization. Margaret reiterated the same point I had been trying to make, and she also emphasized that her organization would not be able to sign the letter as it was. She also offered to help redraft the letter. Although she did not get the same brusque retort from the Frenchman that I received, she did not manage to change their minds.

In the end, the group voted to send the letter with a few grammatical adjustments. The abrasive tone would stay. I was fuming.

***

I went out to the parking lot and found Fadi faithfully waiting. He could see that I was upset and asked me what was wrong. I gave him a quick summary of the meeting. He laughed and told me this was typical. Iraq was divided between people who were pro-war and anti-war, with all Iraqis falling in between the cracks.

I could understand that the world had polarized into the same political divisions, but I was disappointed to see it in the development and humanitarian sector as well. As a relief worker, who could be a supporter for war? But the debate in my mind was moot: the war had happened and people were suffering. Now, what were we going to do about it?

I was angry at the insinuation that my judgment was distorted because I was an American. I also couldn’t help but feel irritated that I had been singled out among the group. I had been looking forward to a feeling of solidarity with people who were in the same field. Instead a flippant Frenchman pounced on me.

We began to drive back to the Sultan Palace Hotel. While we were driving, Fadi took the keys out of the ignition and handed them to me.

“Open the
chakmacha,
” he instructed.

“How the hell did you do that?” I asked, staring at the keyless ignition and amazed the car was still running. “And what the hell is a
chakmacha
?”

“My car is very special. This is just one of its many tricks,” Fadi grinned. He pointed to the glove compartment in front of me. “That is the
chakmacha.
”

I opened the glove compartment, and he reached over and pulled out a tape. He popped it into the car stereo. A second later Mary J. Blige’s “Family Affair” was blasting.

“I made you a tape,” Fadi said, looking very proud of himself.

While I was at the meeting, Fadi had run across the street to one of the many bootleg video and music stores. Based on my list, he had the disc jockey at the store make a mix tape for me.

I was thrilled. It was such a thoughtful gesture. I found myself forgetting about the meeting and grooving with Mary J. Blige. I asked if he liked the music.

Fadi flashed an award-winning smile. “I am Catholeek. How can I not like someone named Mary?”

I laughed. At least Fadi had grown to accept me.

The question remained, would anyone else?