Shhh… Top Secret Info Included, and What WMD’s?

Once upon a time, not too long ago there was a king whom lived in a palace in Aqaba, which lay on the outer coast of the Red Sea. Aqaba was a beautiful, hot land; temperatures were around 40 degrees C on the beach. In Aqaba there was a man, whom was named “Bickram” (not his real name), who was an important figure in the Iran-Iraq war and Gulf War I days.

All of the above is true and what I write below is true as well. None of this is a fairy tale (or horror story).

It is Friday and today we are getting together with Bickram. He has asked that his real name not be used for safety reasons. We have just gotten off the bus that brought us to Aqaba. It took us nearly four hours to reach the city. The majority of the ride was through barren desert.

Once we arrive, instead of meeting Bickram, “Sundi,” whom is a close relative of Bickram, meets us. Scotty doesn’t seem to mind, but I can see that Brandon and Mickel are clearly bothered. Jay is not with us as he decided to spend the day with some friends. We meet at a small bar in the hotel Movenpick, which is currently the one and only five star hotel. The Saudis have pumped hundreds of millions of dollars into the tourist industry here. Soon the town will be extended deep into the desert valley beyond.

Sundi informs us that Bickram is not feeling well and is in desperate need of rest. We don’t argue as it would do no good, and Scotty needs to talk to these people in order to get the story. As it turns out, we do not get much time with Sundi; an hour at most. He does not feel safe being out and about; after I hear what he has to say, I do not blame him.

After ordering a round of drinks, we sit and Sundi immediately starts telling us about Uday Hussein. He had met the man before the first Gulf War. According to Sundi, Uday was “dim-witted” and his head seemed to be full of “blandishments and praise from those around him;” so much so, that he believed he was invincible.

“In Iraq he was, but if he was placed in a bar room brawl anywhere else, then he would be on the floor in a second, begging for mercy.”

We are only thirty minutes into our conversation when Sundi suddenly waves to a good-looking, older man who just entered the bar. He wore a dark blue suit and sunglasses.

“Palace security,” Sundi informed us. “Someone from the palace must be here. Either that, or this guy’s on vacation.”

We later find out that about 20 percent of those staying in the hotel were secret police.

Great.

Around 10 AM Saturday morning Bickram’s driver picks us up. He takes us to a newly built apartment complex, which is built for engineers in Bickram’s new business. When we arrive, Bickram is waiting. He looks tired and worn out, but he readily welcomes us… from his chair.

Sundi is there too.

We talk about !@#$ and ##!$# and #!@#% and other things not blogable -- Bickram has lived many lifetimes in one -- and then he orders shwarmas. He tells us he knows where the Weapons of Mass Destruction are in Iraq.

"He had them alright, but they were all destroyed in this place @#@ kilometers @#$# of Baghdad."

We ask where exactly, in which place.

"Ohh," he signs. "You journalists, always wanting something, always using this." He taps his nose. Soon he is fast asleep in his chair, like Old Brown the wise owl in Squirrel Nutkin. After awhile we leave titillated but with nothing solid, except for the shwarmas swirling in our maadooteht.


It is Sunday and we are finally back in Amman. We missed the last bus and instead had to take one earlier this morning. It was a long trip back, one I hope I never have to take again. But it is nothing like the journey that is ahead of us.

I slept for the next four hours. I can't seem to get enough lately; the same goes for my travel mates. There's so much noise everywhere--the horns honking at all hours of the night, the muezzin from the minarets, the hotel neighbors who blast televisions refusing to sleep, the loud music on the four hour bus ride to and from Aqaba.

"Do you think there's any peace in Iraq?" I ask Scotty, hoping that even in a country at war I'll be able to sleep regularly.

We leave for Iraq soon--in the next day or two. We have yet to work out the details of how we'll travel. From Amman it is a twelve-hour journey to Baghdad.

Jay tells us that, "It's not like the states where you have rest-stops every few miles. You want to be well when you travel."

The next morning Jay speaks to some friends and arranges a ride for Scotty and I. Mickel, Brandon and Jay will follow soon afterwards. A driver will pick us up at sunrise the next morning, as he is already heading that way anyway. A few hours later the others will leave with another man whom has some business in Baghdad as well.

We’ll stop on the border of Jordan-Iraq and then we will race at 150 km for 12 hours, non-stop. It's about 320 kilometers or so of barren wasteland between Amman and the Iraqi border. Our driver, Mundep, didn't want to lose any time getting there, just in case there were any hassles from passport control.

I feel like we are in the Subaru Primal Quest Race, only somehow, I think this just might be a little more extreme.

The majority of our money will be left with Mickel and the guys, as well as some of the equipment. It is agreed that the likelihood of both vehicles getting attacked (blown up) is less likely; only one vehicle is thought to make it. Mundep tells us that we should be fine; he used to travel back and forth weekly. He insists that it is all talk and no real action, but I can’t help but be afraid. We also spread out our valuables just in case we are robbed. If we both make it across then we will have all of our supplies, if not, at least one group will be able to continue with out original reason for coming here.

Since leaving, Mundep has been to Baghdad fives times in the last few months. This does little to restore my faith that we will be safe. Especially when he tells me about the one time he did have a problem. He was traveling with a convoy when the car in front of him was shot at--bandits tried to pull the car over without success.

"Don't worry," he said. "Everything will be fine."

And all I can think is, great… we’re going to die.

There will be no more cyber tunnels from this point on, so posts will be far and few. From here on out we will be relying solely on our satellite modem, which we have connected for the first time last night in Aqaba. The satellite is in the southern sky, so hopefully we will get a room that faces south. We will be posting our blog and pictures via the stars-thuruya- next time, which hopefully will be in a day or two.

Until then… here we go!

History Lesson

Our first day in Amman we slept for the majority of the day as our bodies still believed we were in California. We woke later that night, ready to head out and start the first of many meetings. Scotty had already set up a dinner conference with Mohamed, who would help bring us up to speed, as well as give us a run down of the area.

We met at a small café in downtown Amman. As we entered I noted that there were about five men sitting around a table in the corner playing poker. I will later find out that they are exiled Iraqis, Chaldeans and Jordanians. They are seated by the balcony, as it is a clear, beautiful night. A pot of hot tea with mint sits in the center of the table, half empty. They are smoking, which strikes me as weird, but then I am from California where no one can smoke inside, unless it is their home. But these men smoke without restraint from a long freestanding pipe called a nargile.

Scotty, Brandon, Mickel and I follow Jay inside and through the small restaurant; we head toward the balcony where we sit and quickly order some hot tea and cold Pepsi. Jay tells us that we have to make a distinction between hot and cold, otherwise we will almost always get a warm drink. He also warns us against water, saying we should make sure all water comes from a closed bottle, and it is better to just buy water at a store, that way we know what we are getting.

Cars move quickly along the busy streets below us. The men sitting near us continue to smoke. And every now and then a man from the café comes out of the kitchen with a shallow bucket and tongs and offers burning chunks of tobacco. If someone accepts, he will set it gently on the screen which sits atop the pipe. I notice that one of the men closest to me has just accepted a fresh chunk of tobacco. I watch as he inhales and then looks out over the street, the city, seemingly a nothing. But the look in his eye says differently.

A television hangs from a corner in the room. The news is on. Of course it is, this city, this area, is in a war and it must be better to experience it over the TV then see it upfront and personal. Images of George Bush and other high US officials flash across the screen. Some of the men playing poker stop to look up for a second, but their attention is returned to the cards in their hands within a moment. This is nothing like I expected it to be. I thought there would be bombs going off all the time and dead bodies piled up on the roadsides. Maybe even a good shooting or two. But no, none of that existed tonight.

Deciding that now is better than never, I get up and head over to the men, intent on asking them if I can photograph them. Only a few of them acknowledge me when they agree to my request. The others either ignore me or wave me off, dismissing me from their presence. The ones who did agree are impatient with me and become angry when it takes me too long to switch out my lens.

“Finished?” One of the men asks in broken English. I have only gotten one or two pictures at this point and already my nerves are wrecked. He snickers and his mates laugh as well while holding their cards close to their faces. The man whom asked has his hair slicked back and a few errant strands of silver have escaped the gelatin cap. His face is white, almost as white as me. I shrink away at his harsh words, suddenly unsure of myself. I only snap a few more pictures; I leave myself no time to get over my own thoughts and feelings and instead focus on nothing other than the men playing cards.

The thing is, it is not the men whom I am interested in, nor the shot. It is the connection that I see to one another; there is a depth in their dark eyes. Unfortunately there is no time for me delve any deeper. I quickly thank them and return to my friends with only a soft-focused photograph of a man holding his cards while looking at me through the lens with some callous feeling (maybe resentment).

By now it is early evening. The sun is slowly dipping lower and lower. They sky is saturated with deep hues of blue, all darkening with each passing moment. A cool breeze swishes past as we continue to sit on the balcony.

Beside us, a large Jordanian leans on the rail, hovering, eaves-dropping. His name is Shak and he asks me whom I work for. He looks tired, but alert, perhaps too much tobacco. Perhaps something else.

"You here to cover the things happening in Iraq?" he asks. I come to find out that Shak studied in Egypt for a while. He spits as he talks. I ask him what Jordanians think of the death of Saddam's sons and the entrapment of their old leader.

"You mean Uday and Qusay? I cannot speak for all Jordanians," he says, bringing his fat hand to his big chest. "I can only speak for myself. It is a good thing, yes. They committed many crimes. They were bad people. They are no good for Iraq."

Shak asks me my name.

"A Russian name. Are you Russian?" he asks. I nod, waiting on pins and needles for the coming words that will likely be thrown at me. But Shak surprises me. Instead of cruel or mean words, he asks me my religion. I lie and tell him I'm Buddhist (not a complete lie, but not the truth). Oh, he says, but looks confused.

"Bush," he says, when the news on the television switches to something about Al Jeezera again. That is all he says about that.

He asks me if I go to the movies, if I like football (soccer).

"I like Sylvester Stallone," he says. "Do you like Indian movies?" he asks. "Do you get Indian movies in America?"

He is full of questions.

"How come Americans don't like football? Every body in the world likes football, except the Americans."

When we leave the diner, we take a taxi up the hill to a theatre staging a popular play called Us, Shock and Saddam. The play is a well-known lampoon about the relationship of the Arab world--the politicians and the common people--to Saddam, to the US attack on Iraq and the reactions among their political leaders. The play was set in cafes around various Middle Eastern countries. The men on one side of the room represented the people who easily digest the propaganda being transmitted to them, the other side represented a more critical view.

One actor appears in a box--the television prop--in the back of the stage, the commentator for Al Jeezera bringing the latest news. The main actor for the play is a boisterous turtle-faced man who plays retired U.S. General Jay Garner, Yassar Arafat, Hosni Mabarek and Saddam Hussein perfectly. No government or interest was spared criticism in this play. One scene that brought much laughter, but was difficult to watch, depicted an ignorant Iraqi interrogator with three captured American soldiers who didn't understand his English. The Iraqi carried a fake gun. He hit the American soldiers on the back of the head and the players acted terrified.

"I don't know, I don't understand," one said.

"Next time, before they send you back here, your army should train you to speak English," the Iraqi interrogator said. The audience roared at the punch line.

Our first day here was more full than I could've imagined, despite feeling tired and jet-lagged. We talked to a number of Iraqi exiles about the latest news. We found out what their hopes and dreams were for their country. In just a day, from the poker cafe to the theater to an Iraqi restaurant in a smoky alleyway at midnight, I've heard many different viewpoints, many opinions, many stories about who people are, and how they've been affected watching their country be destroyed, by Saddam, by all the war.

Some want to forget and start over, some don't have a place to return to and want to immigrate to America where there's opportunity. But so many Iraqis--like the Babylonian who spoke so passionately with his friends hanging off his shoulders supporting him outside the Iraqi restaurant where we ate a plate full of charred chicken and grilled vegetables close to midnight as kittens meowed around our feet--just want to return home.

Tomorrow we head for Aqaba on the coast.

Great Illusions/Delusions and Insomnia

Ever have one of those nights where no matter how tired you are, no matter how much your body cries out to sleep, you just can’t seem to grasp it? I am having one of those nights.

It is a little after 3 A.M. on the morning of our new flight plan. Tomorrow we leave for Amman. We will not arrive until the next day sometime around 10 A.M., which is about two days from now. Anticipation, trepidation and good old curiosity hang thick in the air. I can tell that the others are up as well, but none of us dare intrude; we are too deep in our own thoughts.

And Scotty is piss drunk.

People deal with emotions in very different ways, and if drinking your thoughts into oblivion works for you, I say go for it!

“Don’t leave.” I turn and stare at my best friend and ex-boyfriend. His eyes are pleading with me. I thought he had gone to sleep long ago. After meeting up in Richmond, which is only a short drive from D.C., it was decided the group would stay with Wes at his home, instead of grabbing a hotel. Now I am rethinking that decision. I am rethinking a lot of things.

I merely stare at him. He knows that in the morning Scotty, Brandon, Jay, Mickel and I will still leave for Amman and, ultimately, Iraq. He, and I, also knows there is a good chance one, if not all, of us will not return. But I can’t think like that; if I do then death is almost certain.

“Hey, you know me, I’m carefully stupid.” He shakes his head and pulls me closer. I kiss his cheek, right at the corner of his mouth and he smiles, though I know he is still not happy. I can feel his eyes still watching me as my mind begins to wander. For the most part I think about everything I packed. I go over the list again and again making sure I have everything. Leaving for another country, a country that is very much deep in war, is frightening enough, but finding out I didn’t bring enough of the only type of soap I will use, or lotion I love, or any other crazy life necessity that cannot be found in said country, and suddenly everything is beyond bad.

As a woman in Iraq, I will have to be polite and respect their views of women and how they should dress and act, even if I do not agree. That said, I have brought plenty of conservative clothes. Most women in Iraq dress extremely conservatively. I doubt I will go that extreme. For example, a very conservative woman might wear a long black garment called "abayah" that covers her body from the shoulders down to her feet. Under this cover she could be wearing a traditional Arabian dress in full body length with long sleeves or she could be wearing the latest style from an internationally known designer. In addition to the abayah, a very conservative woman would also wear a face and head cover while some others would not.

I will not go that far, but I definitely will not disrespect the people by wearing shorts, skirts, or anything else that is revealing, which will include tank tops and short sleeve shirts.

Along with the correct type of clothes I have also brought about 50+ bars of soap as I doubt Dr. Bronner’s is sold at any retail outlet in Iraq. Next is sunblock. As I have said, I am a cracka’. Meaning, I am damnnnn white. I glow under black light.

Literally.

Back to the list. I have wet wipes, gum, hair scrunchies, lots of toothpaste, and about 20 2Gig cards for my camera, along with a laptop and transfer/card reader, so we can dump all pictures onto the hard drive and upload them onto a server when and if we have a good enough internet connection. This way we will definitely have backups. I also brought 3 SLR cameras, 2 crummy digital cameras and my Canon EOS-1D Mark II with a broad array of lenses. This is my baby.

Cigarettes, the international form of money. We each brought around 20 packs knowing that these would serve as our best bet for gaining trust and acceptance into certain areas.

Finally I brought some reading material. As I am limiting myself to 2 bags, at most, I had to keep my book selection was limited. Thin paper backs won out above all else.

Next stop, JFK. From there we will fly to Frankfurt, and finally we will arrive in Amman. Our hope is to reach Iraq by the middle of the week, Thursday at the latest.

Despite all my anxieties, I slept fairly well on the plane to Frankfurt. When sleep evaded me I thought about what lie ahead for us. What would we really end up doing? I knew what Scotty wanted to happen, but wanting something and actually getting it are totally different things.

Brandon, Mickel and Jay seemed just as nervous, especially Jay. I could only imagine what must be going through his mind. This will be the first time he has gone back to his home since he left back in the 90’s. I know all too well how hard it is to return to a home that often does not want its inhabitants to leave. Russia always give my family and I trouble. I do not doubt Iraq will react in the same manner. Remember, dictators think alike.

Mickel has a wife back in California. She is 4 months pregnant. She is also very upset about Mickel’s decision to join us; I would be just as mad. Brandon has a girlfriend of almost 6 years waiting for him back in Seattle. Their relationship has been rocky, but they always seem to find one another. I say he loves her, but he will never admit it. Maybe this trip will give him that push and he will discover his true feelings.

Scotty, on the other hand, is passed out. He drank himself through the first part of the flight, nursing his hangover from the previous night. I smile as his head lulls to the side, coming to a rest on my shoulder. The smile slips from my lips as he starts to drool on me, and my cashmere sweater.

Oh hell no…

I pull my shoulder away and snap it back into place, effectively ramming it into his forehead. Oops, he woke up. Doesn’t look too happy either. No skin off my back.

A few hours later we are in Frankfurt. Our flight has been delayed and we now have a three-hour layover. We are only a few hours away from Amman, Jordon, which will serve as our point of entry into Iraq. My mind is bustling with activity as it attempts to figure out what I have exactly gotten it into. First and foremost I imagine a country that is severely in the depths of chaos. There will be exhausted Iraqi’s whom are weary from the war. And then there will be the American soldiers whom will be battling a mixture of emotions. I know if I was a soldier I would feel as though I was an alien placed in a whole new world. I would be tired of the heat, the constant fighting, the bickering, the fear—not only fear of attack, but of everything around me—tired of always being on guard.

Images from the news only reinforced my beliefs of what I thought I was about to see. I expect to immediately see burned cars, bodies, and tanks chassis’ along the sides of the road. The heat would obviously be unbearable. The people would be despondent about their ruined, war-laden country, however they would remain strong, insistent that Iraq was still salvageable.

Questions also flitted through my mind.

Who would I trust?

How will I photograph and take notes and write about everything that I see when I know that I will want nothing more than to close off and react as any human would when placed in this position: to protect yourself. Fight or flight.

At least with CIVIC we had some level of protection. The people knew we were not there on some religious crusade or to even save them. We were simply there to try and make their daily lives better; to stop the growing mortality rate. Above all else, we really were there for the children.

It is midway through our flight from Frankfurt to Amman that my mind really starts to spin out of control. I can feel myself slowly slipping away, trying to escape what it believes is my maker. I wish I could tell myself not to worry, that everything will be okay, but that would be stupid and I would only be feeding myself a lie. Instead I stare out the window and attempt to even out my breathing. My eyes close momentarily as the words of my monk friend float over me, effectively calming me, acting as a balm to my frazzled nerves.

If only Jerry was here with us, after all, no one would hurt a monk.

Actually, no. Not Jerry. If only those kung fu monks were with us. Now that is protection.

We head toward the dying light that is slowly rising from the horizon. A stunning band of orange, red and yellow slowly dissolves into the indigo sky that stretches into the great beyond. Banks of clouds roll past looking like immense waves that freeze solid the moment they crest.

Despite the calm that the sky shows, there is a lot of turbulence and even more apprehension among the people of the plane. We watch in agony as the emergency light blinks on and off next to the emergency door. The pilot comes on over the intercom and suggests we “buckle up.” A moment later the plane suddenly drops. My stomach drops with it.

We don’t fall far. But the hush that falls within the cabin is enough to show that everyone is just as afraid as the next person. The pilot doesn’t even try to explain.

One of the flight attendants comes and fiddles with the blinking light. She smacks it hard with the palm of her hand. For a moment it turns off. The entire cabin exhales a sigh of relief. But our joy is short lived as the light re-illuminates.

Great.

The flight attendant shrugs, gives everyone a smile and returns her attention to the soft drinks she was attempting to serve.

Luckily nothing happens.

I was lucky and was able to fall asleep for the majority of the flight. When I woke up, Scotty was in the bathroom puking—the attendant had refused to give him any more liquor. I turned and stared at Brandon, Mickel and Jay. The three were cuddled together, sleeping. Too bad all my cameras were packed otherwise I would have definitely taken a picture.

Outside it is murky. There is a beautiful crescent moon just above us, its silhouette etching through the overcast sky.

With all its serpentine streets and boulevards, the city looks like a nest of asps that has been set on fire. It is an extremely beautiful and exciting vision. We land and queue up at the cambio for some Jordanian Dinar. The American dollar is weak no matter where you go. It's .70 Dinars to the dollar and 10 JOD for a visa into Jordan.

We are asked no questions at passport control. The nicely coiffed guard is more intent on stamping our passports with the right amount of desk rattling force, it seems, than knowing our business in Jordan. This strikes me as more than a little strange. Traveling from California to Washington, D.C. we were asked more questions, and we are all American citizens. Somehow this system seems a little off.

As we arrive at the baggage claim an army of red-jacketed boys greets us. They offer to collect our luggage. Jay does not answer (I think it is because he is nervous) and I am left to tell them no. They all agree, however, not a moment later, one of them -- Kahtaan -- shows up behind me with a cart and so much swaggering cheeriness that I break down. We don’t need to be killed or thrown in jail just yet.

We end up giving him 6 JOD for getting us through customs so easily. Supposedly the guard is his uncle. We simply roll past. Kahtaan also helps us arrange a taxi ride to the Shmeisani district. Our hotel it is conveniently located across from the Shmeisani Safeway Shopping Center, which comes complete with Internet cafes.

The moment we leave the airport and get our first real glimpse and smell of Amman, we all recoil. All of us except Kahtaan.

Kathy Griffin was right when she said this place smells like a fart.

My god.

As we finally lie down in our beds, we hear the cry of the muezzin. It must be 11:30 in the morning (1:30 A.M. in California), but again, I can't sleep. After so much planning and waiting, we are here at last. My mind is racing, however one thought is prevalent among all else.

I have never been as scared as I am right now.

What’s so Great about Being Arabic… Weird Memories of a Time Past Long Ago

Our flight plans changed last minute, not that I really minded. Originally we were going to take a redeye to New York and from there make our way toward Iraq. Right before we were to leave Scotty received a call and was informed that we had one more addition to our team, a native Iraqi whom would help us integrate with the natives, hopefully. “Jay” lived in California, but was in Washington, D.C. for business. I was happy to have him aboard, as it would mean we would have one more person who would be able to speak Arabic. That definitely took some of the pressure off me.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder how he would view me. Scotty insisted that Jay was Americanized, but that did nothing to assuage my fears. I know all too well how Iraq men look upon women, especially Jewish women. Jay and I could have our own little war going on between us, which would not help nor be beneficial in any shape or form to this trip. Drama was not something I wanted to deal with on a personal level; I could deal with it over seas while working, but having to put up with some guys crap on my own team did not sound all that alluring.

At the age of 38, Jay immigrated over to America. The Gulf War would start soon after. The company he worked for relocated him to Virginia where a new plant would soon open. Coming from Baghdad, Jay was surprised at the southern lifestyle and the people that occupied the area; it wasn't the best fit. After 5 years, and after gaining quite the nest egg, Jay was able to move onwards and upwards. He now owns his own company and resides in California, but was in Washington D.C. for a conference.

America is also his new home.

For a while Jay moved about, living in Europe, China, and even Canada where a majority of his business took place. But nothing compared to California and the freedom he felt America gave him.

Upon arriving in D.C. we decided to do some sight seeing as Jay would not be able to leave until later in the afternoon after his conference. We met him for breakfast. He seemed nice, and for the most part he did not seem to hold any type of grudge toward me, even when he found out I was Jewish. However his reaction to finding out that I was studying mechanical engineering did little to forge a friendship between us. His belittling comment of, “Well, aren’t you liberated,” caused my temper to flare, as well as my glass of water to accidentally fall into his lap.

Oops.


Having been born in Russia and moving to America, and more specifically the east coast, at such a young age, I really identified to the area. I remembered spending time in D.C., seeing all the main tourist attractions and learning as much as my tiny brain would allow. My parents let my brother and I roam about at our leisure. To some this might sound as though my parents neglected my brother and I, but looking back at the wealth of information that was made available to us, I can’t help but thank my parents for their lacks daisy approach to parenting. I feel my brother and I learned far more than most children ever do; it was we who sought out the museums and memorials instead of the parents dragging their children to said places. As a result my brother and I were granted an unparalled education that to this day has stuck with us.

Scotty, Mickel and Brandon relied on my memory to get us around D.C. Mickel wanted to see the Lincoln memorial. While a tourist trap and definitely not the most important thing to see, I relented and saved my catty, sardonic remarks, opting instead to lead the way and grant Mickel his wish to see the memorial. After all, this very well could be our last time in the US and who was I to stop these men from seeing such great structures.

It was muggy out, as could be expected of most summer days back east. As I looked around I smiled to myself, internally laughing at what I saw before me. The tourists looked tired, weighed down by the sweat that clung to their bodies; the heavy heat and humidity causing many to seek shelter in any buildings that offered air conditioning. But I thrived. I could already feel my skin clearing up as it cherished the feel of the excess moisture. This was my home, my element.

A storm was brewing and soon thunder and lightening would illuminate the sky as the afternoon shower drenched the area.

As we approached the monument I noticed, with little enthusiasm, the advocates of the armed forces sitting in tiny booths and covered by even tinier umbrellas. Their voices clamored loudly over the general din of the area, offering the sale of buttons, bumper stickers, even shirts, so as to show your support for the troops, support for Bush.

I was not about to go near them.

“Fucking lunatics.” I smiled over at Brandon. Obviously I wasn’t the only one to harbor such feelings.

As the guys climbed the stairs to the monument I continued past the booths, the crying people, and the general hustle and bustle. I made my way onto the concrete platform that gave me a wonderful view of America’s greatest conceptions, the strip mall. A laugh bubbled from deep within me as I sadly shook my head. Just in the distance stood the Washington monument.

My mind flooded with images and sound blurbs.

Planes. Fire. Bombs. Death.

It all played out in my mind in slow motion. A hijacked airplane diving toward the monument at speeds that were unstoppable. Since 9/11 I often thought of such things. I guess you could call it a syndrome, of sorts. Anytime I see a plane I wonder what it would look like if it suddenly just exploded; would I be able to deal with seeing something so horrible? Would I cope? How did so many others do it when I surely believed I would not?

I heard the guys behind me and suddenly the images in my brain changed. I now saw Martin Luther King Jr. The crowd of hundreds of thousands bellowed and cheered as he sang out the poetic words of “I have a dream…” words that never seemed so true.

I do have a dream, as so many others do. But what price will I pay to achieve it?

His words rang loudly in my mind, far louder than Lincoln’s famed “Four score and seven years ago…” speech that so desperately whispered from behind me within the memorial.

I always did identify with black people, despite my cracker status.

Turning, the four of us walked back toward the Lincoln memorial. Mickel wanted me to tell him about it; he insisted that I must have some insider info as I did come from these parts. I laughed.

“Well, over on the side, there is a little machine that you can insert a quarter in,” I started as I pointed off to the side of the monstrous statue of Lincoln. “Anyway, when you feed the machine, Lincoln will pick his nose.”

Obviously I spoke a little too loudly, as a second later I over heard a small boy asking his parents for a quarter.

God bless our youth.

Scotty laughed. Brandon frowned; how dare I say such tasteless things.

Making our way through the site, I noted the pungent stench of the stagnant air within the memorial. It was one reason I wanted to stay away. That, and staring at fat men in sweaty t-shirts did not seem all that appealing. I watched as families posed in front of the monument, my mind once again wandering back to my childhood. We never took pictures like that; it was always separate.

Maybe I did miss out on some things.

As we started to depart I overheard a man telling a group of children how Lincoln had single handedly liberated the slaves.

Bull hockey.

Yet another lie that the west coast was telling their students. Travel to any school within the east coast and you hear a completely different story.

One of the children raised his hands and asked what a slave was, and why they needed to be freed. This is when I really got a good laugh, for the man turned and smiled up at the statue, then returned his gaze to the children before telling them that slaves were black people who once had to work without pay( he failed to mention the fact that white people also owned them) and that they were freed for the same reason the US was helping to free the Iraqi people.

Give me a break.

Preparations, Getting Wild with Press Credentials, and Saying Goodbye

Ah summer, a wonderful time that most people cherish; a period known for people taking off to exotic lands and relaxing. So when Scotty called me up and asked if I wanted to head to Iraq for a month and a half, I must admit I wasn’t exactly sold on the spot. I had been thinking of heading to back to Russia, or maybe France, heck, I was even considering trekking through parts of Africa.

It did not take Scotty much to convince me to tag along. For some reason a chance to run around Iraq taking pictures and writing about it seemed like the ideal situation for a summer vacation. Only, replace summer vacation with a chance to get my ass capped, as my friends in Compton would so lightly put it. Still, I jumped headfirst at Scotty’s request for my company. After finding out I would get to help his team capture images I really could not resist. Though, taking pictures of potentially gory and tragic times wasn’t quite my idyllic situation, or genre, I was willing to give it a go. Still, why couldn’t Scotty call me when he was at the Olympics snapping away? Didn’t he need my help then? Freakin’ a, man.

Having previously spent a little over three weeks in Afghanistan after the war first started, I knew exactly what I was getting into. Granted I was there on a purely voluntary basis, and I was not taking pictures, rather helping the people and children learn to integrate into life. They needed to learn the basics; things that we normally take for granted such as brushing their hair and teeth, or washing themselves. To some it must seem like a stupid task, something that should not be needed. However, when I first landed and met the people, I was astounded at what I saw. Sally Struther’s pictures of starving, malnourished people with flies on their faces didn’t even start to capture the true image that was before me (I will include a link to my previous images from that trip). It really was devastating and I was immediately relieved that I had agreed to travel with Moshgan to the country and to help CIVIC (Campaign for Innocent Victims in Conflict). So heading to Iraq, while not an ideal vacation to some, was really hitting the nail on the head for me; it fulfilled my need to see and experience this war.

Being one of the only people in the group to be able to speak Arabic, I was going to be a huge asset to Scotty, Brandon and Mickel. I immediately started brushing up on my language skills, figuring I would probably need to be ready to defend the three of us if anything, and I mean ANYTHING, came up between us and anyone from the country. I was also the only the one in the group to have dual citizenship. With my Russian paperwork, I would likely either encounter one of two scenarios: one, they would be more accepting as I was not just “another American” coming to do whatever, or two, they would hate me even more because of past squabbles. After all, one dictator never likes there being another dictator in his or her way.

According to Scotty I needed to get press credentials, otherwise getting into the country was going to be near to impossible, unless I somehow snuck in (very, very unlikely). Unfortunately, getting press credentials is about as hard as entering the country. As my flight itinerary was already set, and coming up extraordinarily quickly, I had to work fast, and no one was being exceptionally helpful.

Upon calling Centcom about said press credentials I learned a few very important facts, as well as determining factors that contribute to me receiving my credentials. It should be known that there is a public affairs staff in Baghdad that works the phones around the clock, so trying to speak with someone towards the end of their shift is near impossible; they have dealt with enough and don’t care much to help those last few people attain whatever it is they might need. Once I was able to get a slightly less-than-unenthused person on the other side of the line, I nearly jumped for joy. I spoke with a staff member who sounded bored, at the very least, while informing me that it took at least three days to process any requests for press permits. It was not until he heard that my team would be traveling by Route 10 that he started to perk up. If you don’t know, Route 10 is a highway that takes you from Amman to Baghdad via Fallujah. Suddenly he was very interested and his tone became stern, almost authoritative. He advised that we find “another way,” that is, unless our story desperately depended on us traveling that road. He then continued to tell me that we should instead head through Kuwait or, even better, wait.

Wait till when?

Just wait.

Well then, color me surprised.

I continued to question him, asking if we should maybe try to head in through the south as it might be a safer route. He laughed. He continued to laugh. I really did not understand what I had said that was so hysterical. I know I am funny, but I was fairly sure that was not a joke.

Upon composing himself, he informed that hardly anyplace within Iraq was “safe.” This is where I laughed; he growled. What? I didn’t make a funny and he laughed. He did make a funny and I laughed and he gets angry?! Maybe Iraq isn’t for me; their humor system is thrown way out of wack.

When I asked about Baghdad he reported that in that very instant that I asked, he had heard people shooting off rounds just outside his office. He compared it to that of the streets of Oakland after a Radiers game gone wrong.

Wonderful.

His final wish to me was to have God on my side and told me that I should steer clear, as the less time I spent in “Indian” country, the safer I probably would be. Funny, right as he said that I heard people shooting off rounds just outside my apartment in Sacramento.

When I called later, to confirm a few details, I got to speak with yet another man. This one wasn’t as much of a comic. He was far more sardonic and sounded sleep deprived. He insisted that what the last guy had told me was wrong. A moment later he joked that should I want to make some money on the side, I could bring some clear packaging tape or, if I really wanted to be professional, I could bring a laminator and set up just outside the airport; hmm, maybe eBay has a need for press credentials. When I asked about the shooting from a few days before he grumbled something under his breath, made a noise that sounded like a laugh, and told me that it was more than likely that some of the boys had gotten rowdy and decided to let off some steam by shooting at the ceiling.

“It can get kind of wild here.”

Great.

My family was less than enthused to learn of my latest “scheme,” as my father so angrily put it. But I wasn’t going to be discouraged. I knew that they were simply worried that something bad would happen. As my parents scolded me, I remembered how when the war had just broken out my mother had declared that if Bush even dared to put me in the army she would personally box me up and send me to Canada, or better yet, back to Russia. I smiled at the memory, savoring her tone compared to the one she was currently using. Didn’t they understand why I was going?

But you are only 23, they would counter. You could die. Be shot, killed.

A lot of people are shot, killed, murdered. At least I will be doing something noble.

No. You are doing something stupid.

There was no use trying to convince them; their minds were set. My father was the worst. He didn’t understand why I was being so stupid. First going to college instead of marrying, as was expected of me, and now this?! Hadn’t I fulfilled my need for danger and adventure when I was in Afghanistan?

Hardly.

I explained that I would not be with the army, that much. Scotty and Mickel were hoping to actually run around with the other side.

WHAT?!

Okay, so that was probably the wrong thing to say, especially to my parents, but they might as well know the truth, after all, they probably would be reading this (Hi Mom, Dad, Bro!).

My brother was a little more accepting. He and his soon-to-be-wife simply shared a look before shaking their heads and asking me if I was serious. Once I convinced them that I was indeed serious, they told me to be safe and call them if I needed anything. Really, ANYTHING. I asked for a boob job, just to test them and see if they would stick to their word.

No dice.