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.