Five Miles, Uphill Each Way

Iraqi boy working his way down the dusty road past the blast walls.

Kids are resilient; Baghdad’s maybe more than most. They continue on with their childhood as if nothing in particular is happening around them. Every evening there’s a soccer game in the dirt lot down the street from the villa. Kids of all ages run back and forth in the brown dust kicking at what may have been a soccer ball a decade ago. Gunfire can be heard in the distance; police cars wail, security teams pass by in heavily armored cars. The game goes on. It’s all so very normal.

In the mornings children walk hand-in-hand to school, book bags slung over their shoulders, laughing with their friends. It’s surreal in a way. Children move off to the side as a heavily armed police convoy crashes down the road, machine guns and assault rifles protruding in every direction. The kids are unfazed, and continue on their daily journey.

I wonder how many American families would allow their children to walk to school each morning, picking their way through a war zone. I remember my father telling me how he used to walked to school, five miles, up hill each way, through the New England snow. I gotta tell you Dad, I’ll pick snow any day over mortars and sniper fire.

Street Incident

Iraqi father and daughter standing atop their roof overlooking the neighborhood street below.

As we were driving out of the villa yesterday morning we passed a group of road workers standing around waiting to begin their work; shovels, rakes, dusty clothing, nothing out of the ordinary. In less than a second one of the workers raised a camera phone and snapped a picture as we went by. The world changed at that moment.

Our cars stopped in a storm of dust and one of our Iraqi security guys leapt from his car towards the guy with the phone. Heated words in Arabic were exchanged; we were stopped in the middle of the road, exposed, outside of our profile. In a flash escape routes were calculated, hands rested on readied weapons, clients were given orders, it became very tense and uncomfortable.

The Iraqi police rushed from down the street and grabbed the guy with the phone. We sped away in the dust, breathing deeply.

Wreckage

Walking along the dusty neighborhood streets.

There's wreckage everywhere you look in Baghdad, mostly buildings that have been destroyed by blast or fire. In the famed Green Zone several ornate palaces that have been destroyed by U.S. precision munitions can be seen; exterior walls ripped open allowing pedestrians to peer into the collapsed ruble of history.

Cars are the only rarity among the street wreckage. If the wheels will still turn an Iraqi will find a way to utilize an abandoned automobile. I’ve seen gutted cars converted into horse-drawn carts, made into houses, and of course used to conceal bombs. The only cars that are of no use to Iraqis are the remains of car bombs, those that have been pushed off the side of the road. They are, however, of use to me. Every time I pass one of the blackened skeletons I'm reminded to me to be wary of it’s still concealed brother.