The City of Ghosts and Sand Storms: Trip to Baghdad

Baghdad April 9, Baghdad International Airport:
Our morning flight from Amman to Baghdad was postponed to the afternoon. Then while on the jet we were told the flight might get canceled, I prayed it would. I kept telling myself I’m crazy for traveling at such a bad time. It’s been a crazy week after some relevant calm in Baghdad for months. This past week over 200 were killed more than twice as many injured, Al Qaida declared responsibility for the bombing against the Iranian, Egyptian and German embassies, no one came forward on the 5 apartment buildings. The flight wasn’t canceled and the pilot told us we were about to take off. when he said his name on the speakers I couldn’t hold back a small chuckle; I turned to the man next to me “hehe our pilot’s name is Jihad.”

Frank was an older gentleman, an American contractor and retired military man from Florida and a pure Republican. With us being mostly at odds when it came to war and how things were managed in Iraq and the US’s intentions towards Iraq, we had quite an interesting chat. He could tell I was anxious at takeoff and landing and thankfully got my mind off them with his chat. When we were close to Baghdad my heart began to race, we got totally submerged into red-brown clouds; we were encountering a ‘mild’ sand storm by Baghdad standards. We landed, wished each other luck when went on our very separate ways.

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When I stepped out of the airport my heart began racing again with fear, sadness, nostalgia and extreme love and hate for Baghdad. There was a small roundabout with grass and roses. It had been watered and the pavements hosed down to wash the sand off. The smell of sand, wet grass, roses and a faint diesel smell from the generators and something else I couldn’t quite detect that smelled like home. It made the air feel like it had a flavor and texture that made Amman, with its landscape of clean new apartment buildings, feel like a chemically enhanced tasteless apple, smooth shape at but tastes like cardboard when you take a bite.

My fear grew as we drove off, me and two other co-workers both Iraqi. I noticed we were all clutching to our cell phones like they were our lifelines. “How long will it take us” one of them asked. “Oh it depends on the explosions” our driver said casually. I felt a kick in the stomach. Everyone and everything looked suspicious, every car moving or parking felt like it could explode. Streets were dirty and full of holes. It seemed the government was slow in fixing the roads after explosions, this was not the case until I left in 2005. Houses were covered with a uniform of beige that looked like it came from not just one sandstorm but years of them. Houses inhibited and deserted all looked the same, neglected and in need of maintenance. I was on full alert, not because I thought I could spot a bomber nor because I could do anything about if I did spot one, but because I wanted to maximize my vision taking all of Baghdad in, my eyes were like wide scope lenses capturing everything. We got to Al Rasheed hotel. The taxi could only drop us across the street, we had to carry our suitcases and walk across and into the maze of concrete walls and checkpoints before reaching the hotel. My suitcase had wheels, it tipped to its side twice while I was rushing across to plunge into the maze where it was safe. After all, Al Rasheed hotel hosts diplomats and expatriates and Iraqi officials, all of whom fit the profile of jackpot targets. I need to be behind a concrete wall if a bomb explodes.

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To enter Al Rasheed Hotel, we went past the 8 check points. The first was Africans, they were terribly flirty. Then we got to a Kurdish check point, they carried my suitcase after I played the damsel in distress card. At the next check point were the Nepalese. that is where dogs got to sniff our bags for explosives. I love dogs and I’m not a traditional Muslim. My co-workers were disgusted at dogs sniffing their clothes. Muslims consider dogs to be unclean. At the last check point – Iraqi – I saw a sign that read ‘please remove any copies of the Quran (Muslim holly book) before putting the bags in the cage. Here dogs sniffed our suitcases from outside the cage without physically touching them. You could see how the Islamic culture was represented at this check point but not at the earlier Nepalese one.

Rasheed Hotel was empty and washed out. There was a romantic paining by Widad Al Orfali where Baghdad depicted with peacock feathers, mosque minarets and other romantic details. I find her too fancy and prefer the real reflection of Iraq with its innate aggressiveness that I know Iraq to have. Give me a sculpture from someone like Faik Hassan, give me a work of art that will slap one in the face with violence and noise! Damn it that’s what Iraq is made of, you romantic decorative softies! Then again, we don’t want to scare off the “tourists”i guess the feathers have to stay.

I called my mother and my sister to tell them I made it to the hotel and was safe. So how is it? My sister asked. I said its fine, I’m on the 13th floor and have quite the view. ‘Step away from the window you idiot’ my sister yelled. ‘why?’ ‘Because of bombs stupid! Last time aunt what’s her name stayed there a bomb shattered the windows of that entire front’ ‘nah I think the 13th floor is too high up for bombs’ I dismissed her fears. I wanted to wash off a whole day of airports and check points. I stood under the shower, note to self, next time wait to see what comes down first, before it pours down on you. A reddish brown mud came down. It cleared after a few seconds and I continued to shower. There was the odd looking tap coming out of the wall with a steel plate drilled in the wall above it that said 'press here for chilled water'. We never drank bottled water in Iraq before 2003. I wondered where the pipes led to, where would the chilled water have came from? Does it go downwards towards one massive source for the entire hotel? Or from room to room where there's some refrigerator on each floor? Needless to say, it was now covered with rust. Room service guy was offering his “services” at 2 AM. I shoved furniture behind the door because the only lock on the door could be unlocked with a master card. I got over that and ignored the funky smell of the bed sheets. I slept like a baby, I was that tired.

First thing I did when I woke up was walk to the window. The windows looked like they’ve not been cleaned in years. I tried to open them but they were sealed. I looked out at the city. The Green Zone was to my right, traffic to the front and left. The Salhea apartment buildings were ahead. I remembered the last time I was there. Duraid lived there with his wife. He had insisted on putting up his rock band posters on the living room walls, much to the protest of his wife. Last time we met he was telling me what a bad idea it was to join the English broadcasting radio station because Uday Saddam managed it. He was shot dead years ago for working with CNN. His widow is now living in some far eastern county, as far as she could possibly be from Baghdad. There were lots of new compounds and junk yards with lots of damaged cars and trucks. The scene reminded me a lot of the Valley of Ashes from Fitzgerald’s American classic ‘The Great Gatsby’. Except I don’t think Fitzgerald would have visualized billboards with faces of men with haggard looks and scruffy beards named as terrorist and calling for their arrest. I don’t think he would have visualized all the Islamic propaganda as green flags flapped on ministry buildings, green is for Shia Muslim. I was especially depressed about how far Islamic propaganda had taken over the city when, on our way out of the airport, I saw a large sculpture with a man dressed in a traditional Islamic garb standing and a women sitting by his knees covered in a abbaya or chadour. This does not represent Iraq! This doesn’t represent me! I hated it. On top there was scrip that read ‘no to injustices and dictatorship.’ What the hell do you call that then!

I got dressed carefully. I remembered in the old days Rasheed hotel had cameras in every room. The brother of a friend of mine was a small time officer in the Iraqi intelligence. He told us once he knew guys who use to turn on the cameras on newly weds. I wondered if those cameras still existed.

I walked to the breakfast area ‘Rayhana Café.’ It was empty and the food was cold. There were cold hotdogs like they were just defrosted. The omelets were oily and cold. The tea was great though, I had two cups and bread and jam. I sat with a lady from the Prime Minister’s office, ex or current I did not ask. She lives at the hotel. Her daughter is studying journalism in the UK and was doing an internship with the BBC. She was very proud of her and all she talked about. My father thinks the new government is all a bunch of ignorant riffraff. I thought of him at that moment. The last time I was at ‘Rayhana Café was in the late 1990s when a couple of my father’s European friends stayed there. The food was good, the place was totally packed with Europeans and there was A LOT of Iraqi Intelligence officers around. She left and I sat alone looking at the tall palm trees, the sun coming in, the African and Nepalese security guards are laughing at something, the large beautiful fountain with a theme from A Thousand and One Nights gleaming with the water trickling down. This could be a very pleasant place. Baghdad is so beautiful.

I sat and waited for our security escorts in the lobby. The furniture was the same from 18 years ago just washed out. The windows were fractured from explosions but intact, some had been shattered and replaced with wooden planks. There was a pub that looked like no one stepped into to it for the past few years. it was so quiet and covered with dust. It made me feel lonely. I thought it made a great setting for a horror movie with ghosts or zombies.

Our security escorts arrived to take us into the Green or International Zone. We hopped into the car and cruised through the maze of concrete walls, ruined palaces and barricaded buildings with sand bags and bricks, nothing but sand and silence. We got to the conference center where there were lots of armored cars and hunky security guys with big tattoos. A girl’s got to love conferences in the Green Zone!

With Baghdad being ever the absurd city, the US owned conference facility has Saddam’s initials in the carving on the ceiling all across the room. I sat down with a smirk on my face, because it felt absurd. I didn't like Saddam but to have his initials on a facility owned by occupation was just too funny. Years ago reaching the moon would have been easier for me than to set foot into a place as exclusive as one of Saddam’s villas. ‘Did you see Saddam’s bed room?’ a co-worker asks all exited. It was an average room with a high ceiling and a bad ostentatious taste. It was all the folks at work could talk about and they talked about it until the repeated reference to Saddam's bed room became kinky then redundant.

The night before our travel back to Amman, I sat in the lobby because staying in my room felt too depressive and I was trying to keep my mind off tomorrow’s ride to the airport. I was scared again. The lobby was full of men and only one other woman. There was a Sheikh sitting to my left talking loud on the phone about money trying to catch my attention. As much as I was enjoying the attention I don’t think I want to have dinner alone in this environment. I hated to eat alone so I just went to bed. I couldn’t get a wink of sleep, I was anxious about tomorrow’s trip. The road to the airport is known to be one of the most dangerous.

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Our driver showed up in his beaten up Hyundai. We take this crap while my boss gets into an armored vehicle. Maybe we Iraqis are a dozen a dime, maybe we are. The driver was on the phone the entire time checking with other drivers where there were shootings, bombings, check points and so on to avoid traffic jams. It almost sounded like he was going to abduct us, I wasn’t that paranoid, he just sounded that way.

We crossed the first few check points and made it close to the airport building. There were Iraqi and African women where we were inspected. I could not tell from the accent where in Africa they come from, I admit to be ignorant to the tens of cultures of Africa. I do find it surreal to find them in Baghdad. They feel so out of place. We went back to the taxi and waited for the bomb sniffing dogs. On the other lane were the cars leaving Baghdad International Airport, or BIAP for short, former Saddam International Airport. I realized as I was leaving Baghdad, and because they more visible at BIAP, that it was totally taken over by privet security companies. I saw very few Iraqi police and army at the airport and I had not encountered a single US military personnel. Is this the plan for US withdrawal from Iraq, remove the marines and replace them with privet security companies. What is their accountability? Where would their chain of command lead? Which government if at all would be held accountable if they go postal on a group of civilians?

On the other lane was a convey of an Iraqi security company or so the name implied. The security guys were Iraqi, American and African. They were armed to their teeth. I could tell because I saw them put their weapons back on. How many weapons can you wear on your hips, thighs and ankles! Standing in between these big armed hulks with short trimmed hair and tattoos, was a skinny smiley civilian. He was American and looked like he worked for State Department or maybe a privet business company. His haircut, neatly pressed trousers, white shirt and watch all gave that impression. Minutes after they drove off we heard machine guns. “they must be aiming at that American convey” our driver said. Thank god we made it this far I thought.

When we finally reached the main building by the arrival gate we said good bye to our driver. I felt a mix of relief and guilt. I was very glad I arrived safely at the airport but I felt sorry for the driver. He picked up his cell phone again and started asking other drives about that shooting. I would have been most depressed if I had to turn back. I can only imagine how he must feel ferrying people to safety, to this portal out of this hellhole called Iraq then heading back into hell.

On the plain I pulled out a silver pendent I bought from a gift shop at Al Rasheed. It was at least 50 years old and had a scene from the marshlands in the south of Iraq. I felt nostalgic the minute the flight took off, how psychotic of me. How I love and hate Iraq.