IRAQ: HOMECOMING - by Lisa Haisha
Twenty-two hours of flying. Ugh! Ashley, a woman I met on the plane,
and I are exhausted after finally arriving in Jordan. Next comes an
eighteen-hour bus ride from Amman to the Al Rashid Hotel in Baghdad,
Iraq. 
Forty hours to get to a country, another world. You see we cannot
fly directly to Iraq because the airport is prohibited from operating
due to the U.N. sanctions in Iraq. Ashley asks me to refresh her memory
as to why we chose
to visit a third-world country likely to get bombed again within the
month. What possessed us? Our answer was simple: to find our roots.
My father was born in Baghdad; my mother is from Virginia. They met
while my mother ushered my father to a seat in a theater house in Detroit,
Michigan in the late fifties. And I also want to shoot a documentary
here. And, Ashley is a native Iraqi. She wants to reconnect with her
place of birth. She now lives in Michigan and works as an immigration
attorney.
After sitting in a simple outdoor restaurant eating falafel and hummus in Jordan for about an hour while waiting for our guides to figure out our transportation, we board the hand-painted red bus. To make a long ride short: eight hours of desert . . . more desert . . . then more desert . . .watching the sands shift. Ah, yes—we also have two television sets for the thirty passengers riding the half-filled bus and Arabic music playing non-stop. Most people try to sleep or pass the time chatting with a friend. Ash and I, who got to know each other better during our long plane ride, are chatted out, fried, and ready for peace and quiet. We decide to crash for a few hours.
Sunrise. We wake to mile after mile of blinding heat and arid grasslands, bleached by the sun's furnace. We pass the rare stone restaurant, and later, pull into a small gas station to use the restroom, get something to eat, have a chance to stretch.
As we disembark, we see a couple of boys goofing around and snacking on dried fruit, waiting for their parents. We approach them and ask questions. Ash interprets for me. I flip on the video camera, ask their names. They seem excited to see a video camera and to talk to foreign people. Giggling like children everywhere who believe they have been discovered by Hollywood, they are glad to answer: their names are Abdul and Ahlem. They ask our names; we tell them.
"Have you ever met an American before?" I ask.
Their eyes widen, ”No way. Really? Americans?” Then their faces grow tense as mother storms towards them and shoos us away. As she pulls them away by their collars, they keep looking over their shoulders to get a last glimpse of us, alien creatures they’ve only heard about—Americans they may never see again.
We’re back on the bus. Hours pass. I daydream about all the stories told and cautions given about the “bad, desperate Iraqis." I wonder if those boys were Muslim or Christian. My father is Chaldean, a Christian. Chaldeans represent only two percent of Iraq. I fall into a trance born of staring for so many hours at the desolate region. Later I take out my camera. But how long can you videotape the same view?
Finally, we arrive at the Iraqi border, then the Embassy to check
in. We get to go through the VIP section because we're traveling with
the expatriates (a group of about two-hundred native Iraqis who meet
in Iraq every two years to discuss ways to help the country and lift
the embargo). I'm told to hide my video camera because they might confiscate
it. I stash it in the bottom of my luggage. 
In
the waiting room, still worried they might find something wrong with
our documents and take us captive, we remain quiet and on best behavior
as we glance around the room. Two floor-to-ceiling posters of Saddam
Hussein are plastered to either side. The other two walls bear smaller
photos of Saddam. Family pictures, showing Saddam the loving, doting
father; Saddam the grandfather, Saddam the family man and man of the
people.
One of the marshals comes over to inspect my passport. He asks me how I'm doing. Okay, I reply, except for being tired and starving. Do they have any food? Surprised by my answer, he shoots me a look I couldn't quite read, but no verbal response. He hands back my passport and moves to the next person, then the next … then disappears.
Ten minutes later the marshal returns, carrying a hot cup of tea and two hard-boiled eggs with toast that he sets in front of me. I'm shocked, but others only seem curious. I wonder for a moment whether the food might be spoiled—or even poisoned. Some of my fellow travelers urge me not to eat it, not to trust. But my growling stomach trusts just fine, and helps me past such paranoia. I devour the meal and get several refills of fresh mint tea from the kind marshal.
Feeling refreshed and satisfied, safer and more confident, I pull out my video camera and ask if I can videotape this room. He looks at me strangely again, looks around; other officials are busy. "Okay, he says, but just for a few minutes." Then he actually volunteers information, telling me that we have another hour or so to wait (we’ve already been there about two hours so far). I start my video camera and begin taping all around the room. I tell the marshal that I expected Iraqi officials to be harsh, and that my friends back home might be disappointed if I don't capture something dramatic. So I ask him if he can act mean to me on camera. He laughs, kisses his fellow marshal on the cheek. They are amused, laughing with each other. Great. Real helpful, I say. That will scare the daylights out of my friends back home—show them how I braved the Iraqi military. So I ask him to entertain me, to show me around. The marshal says, "Come!" I follow.
He gives me a personal tour of the grounds—shows me an ornate
gazebo where they take breaks and eat their meals outside. Then he shows
me a small but functional kitchen and a den with a television to help
pass the time when they're not working. 
He
answers most of my questions, sharing with me the deep pain and suffering
that he has endured since the invasion of Kuwait. He lost two brothers,
his father, and part of his left foot. He still suffers sleepless nights
filled with terrifying dreams. I feel so sad. He is such a gentle soul.
A half hour later I return to my relieved-looking friends.
Soon we’re on the road again, officially in Iraq. If we had any doubts, the posters and sculptures of a smiling and waving Saddam plastered on every block would be a good hint. Finally, smelly and drained from hours in the bus, we pull up to the Hotel Al Rashid, “The finest hotel in the world” — at least, once upon a time. A doorman says "Welcome" and holds out his hand for a tip, which we give him. In order to enter we walk over a mosaic of George Bush Sr. growling like a monster, embedded in the ground right outside the front door entryway, like a doormat. Under his picture are the words: Bush is criminal. People who don’t like Bush stomp their way through the door, smashing his face as much as possible. Others ignore it and walk over it; still others, like me, politely try to jump over it.
The expatriates are arriving—two hundred from all over the world. The lounge boasts a huge carpet and scattered pillows for guests. An Iraqi man offers us tea and dates—both delicious. With a half-hour wait ahead of us, we relax in the lobby. On the wall I see a sign that says, “Go home with an Iraqi Date.” Under the sign sits a long table covered with boxes of dates for sale. I’m glad they still have a sense of humor.
Soon, one of our group leaders passes out Iraqi dinars he has exchanged for our U.S. hundred dollar bills, and tells us our rooms are ready. We meet our local guide, who will serve as our translator and driver. He immediately begins reciting information about me and my family – where my dad was born, grew up, schools he went too – the research they do on foreigners is amazing (and a little scary). They say they will take us to those places if we want. They repeat the same process with Ashley. We thank him and tell him we will call when we need him.
In the elevator, the operator pushes our floor button and holds out his hand for a tip, we comply again, and I silently remind myself to have tip money handy. When the elevator door opens we find a "floor man" sitting behind a desk. He asks our room number and by the time he holds out his hand, I already have the tip ready. He points to our room. When we reach it, all our spare change is gone, finally hits us. We realize that if we are going to be here for the three weeks we’d planned, we had better not leave our room too many times—or ask many people for the correct time or directions — because each human interaction seems to involve tipping. We’ll have to carefully schedule our visits to the lobby or hotel restaurant or we’re going to be broke in a week.
As we scout out the room we start to grasp how the local people must live—it’s terribly depressing. This once thriving city, formerly one of the most prosperous in Middle East, plunged to third-world status within about three months after the invasion of Kuwait. I feel sucked into their misery; I can sense the sad state of innocent people without power, living in a society controlled by Saddam the "Strongman."
We pour out our Iraqi dinars onto the bed. With this exchange rate, Iraq is a bargain shoppers dream and a chance to at least help the local economy a bit if we have any money left after tipping. A full tank of gas here costs less than a U.S. penny, and the educated upper class earn about three U.S. dollars a month. Our wad of dinars, it looks like a small fortune, like we robbed a bank—we have nearly 5,000 25-dinar notes (about 1,800 dinars for a buck). We were told to pay for our purchases in wads of 100 25-dinar notes.
It's getting hot. We try to turn on the air conditioner but it doesn’t work. The television gets one station, reception fuzzy. The radio is broken. I go into the bathroom to shower and prepare for the evening festivities. This once magnificent hotel has no hair dryer. I call room service and they bring one up. They ask me to please hurry because every resident of the hotel must share this dryer. It looks ten years old, and brown around the opening from overuse. I do my best to hurry.
I have to remind myself that this was their five-star hotel, the best in Iraq, the best they could offer—where journalists and dignitaries stay. They don't have much anymore, but they need their dignity and don’t want sympathy. Still the hands reaching out for tips, the pleading eyes, speak silently of their desperation.
We hear a knock on the door. We weren’t expecting anybody and we were told not to answer the door to a stranger because many people get robbed in their rooms. I spy through the peephole; it's our floor man. I’m armed with my video camera as Ash opens the door. He asks us for pills, any kind. Please. His wife gets headaches and pains in her stomach once a month. Ash gives him a couple Tylenol tablets and a few Midols. He is appreciative but wants more. We inform him that someone else in the group is carrying the medicines. He thanks us and moves on. We experience the same ritual with several other hotel employees (As it turned out, near the end of our trip Ash got a headache, reached for the Tylenol bottle and found it empty. She checked all her other bottles of various herbs and personal medications—all empty. Each day, we guessed, the maids had taken a few pills, thinking we wouldn’t notice. After a couple of weeks, they were gone. Oh well – they probably needed the medicines more than we did).
Two days have passed. I'm sitting in Sudi’s home (the aunt of a friend of mine), taking a last sip of the strong Turkish coffee. “Now turn your cup upside down and make a wish," says Sudi. She has deep-set green eyes, framed by tiny lines that reveal her sixty-three years. I close my eyes and I think of a wish. After I open my eyes we sit in silence for about three minutes. I feel her energy through her hands, grasping mine. Then she lets go and slowly turns my cup over, looks inside and tilts the cup towards me. She shows how the coffee grounds have formed shapes along the bottom and sides of the cup.
“What does the cup say?” I ask.
Without taking her eyes off the cup, she speaks in Arabic as if reciting a prayer. Then she turns her eyes to me. Her gaze pierces me. “Yourself, you lie to. You enjoying freedom and create, but work no good. Doesn't satisfy. Not good." She gazes at me intently and pauses. Then— "You know this, yes?"
I start to defend myself. She silences me with a loud, “Shhh.” Now, I begin to feel my body releasing the bullshit "story" I had created to help me survive in that world. I think what an actor/celebrity friend of mine said to me a few months ago: “Los Angeles is a place to rape and pillage, then to get out before it’s too late.”
Sudi speaks again in Arabic, and I study her face. She points to the cup. “Look here.” I notice a clump of coffee grounds that looks like a Bodhi Tree and near it, a speck of grounds. She continues, “Not all bad. Someone watching over you; someone love you very much and know real you. Tree meaning safety and peace. Keep person in your life. And bah, everyone else no good. Get rid of them. Pay much attention to you. Travel alone is good for you until you have something to offer your family and your work.”
Sudi pours me a glass of cool water. I gulp it down and look around the room. It appears infused with energy—all of it, the wine-colored Turkish rug on the floor, the beaded lampshade, dirty walls. Who would have thought that here, in Iraq, I would be getting a psychic reading that could potentially change my life.
As if in answer, Sudi says, "Iraqi people, we strong inside because we doing nothing alone, always with God. And family, everything." She puts her hands on her heart.
I smile because I understand. I have felt so alone. It’s good to be reminded that we’re never alone; that it's impossible. I only have to ask, with love, for what I want.
“I wish you Baghdad, happy time," Sudi says. "Iraq, beautiful history. Afraid, no! Also, remember having Iraqi people know you. Don’t just collecting memory from them, give them memory of you. They need good American memory. Don’t be afraid.”
I try to remember her words as Ashley and I head for ancient Babylon, and then to Mosul.
We just knock on a stranger’s door, say that we are from the United States, and ask if we might interview them. They consent only because they say they want Americans to know how much they hate us and how much they love Saddam. In their small dwelling, their only visible possessions are a tiny rug, a small television, and a picture of Saddam. They also have blankets on a shelf for the parents and nine children to sleep on in their one-room home. Despite their expressed animosity towards The United States, and even though they have so little, they bestow on us one of the father's and eldest son’s only possessions, a set of‘ worry beads, saying, "Nobody leaves our home without a gift in their hand.”
Although the town of Mosul is small, it has a charm like many small towns, with all the essentials right there—one can find the ice cream man, the Catholic Church (because this is a Christian area), friends and family a short walk away. How different from Los Angeles, where people routinely drive for an hour or more to work, a restaurant, or movie theater, and where few of us even know our immediate neighbors.
Ash and I visit the Christian church and several orphanages. I ask a priest how he feels about Saddam Hussein. He put his fingers to his lips and leads us outside to the middle of the street. Out in the open he tells us, "Don’t ever talk in a building; the walls have ears." I listen intently as I look at the infamous walls. He continues, “Please be careful what you say in public places, even in your hotel room. Please, otherwise an accident might happen.” I look deeply into his sad eyes and understand his words and his concern. I thank him as we head back into the Church.
If Mosul was a gem-in-the-rough, Babylon was a crown of jewels resting next to the banks of the Euphrates River, about fifty-five miles south of Baghdad. The word Babylon means “gate of God” – and so it was, an extraordinary city. I felt like I had walked into the Bible, or ridden there on a magic carpet into history. A guide walks us through the enormous, ancient baked-brick walls embossed with colored enamel figures of animals originally painted in the sixth century BC. We pass through what was once “The Gate of Ishtar” and the procession street of ancient Babylon, flanked by massive sculpted animals. Everything is of a monumental scale here, appropriate to the history and mythology embodied in Babylon at its height.
After two weeks of polite formality, I start to get punchy. At a dinner with one of Saddam’s top dogs (who will remain nameless for his safety) and seven others big-wigs including journalists, charity workers, and politicians, I ask the top-dog his "honest views about Saddam and his policies." Looking shocked that I, an American woman, would ask such a stupid question; he replies simply, "He's a good man."
" I don't believe you," I say, taking a bite of falafel.
He immediately shoots back, “Saddam is misunderstood.”
“ What about Uday, his son?”
“ Uday is very smart, went to the best universities—a good boy.”
“ I heard his hobby is raping women. Is that true?”
He laughs nervously, “No, just rumors.”
“ That’s good to know," I respond, and since I’m on a roll, ask him to introduce me to Uday. “I understand that you’re meeting with him tomorrow. I'd like to interview him.”
He almost spits up his food. “Not unless your father gives us permission,” he replies, collecting himself.
“ I’m an adult. I no longer need my father's permission."
" Here you do."
" Are you concerned that Uday might hurt me? You’re introducing me to Tariq Aziz and vice-president Ramadan. Why not Uday?”
He changes the subject. I notice that the restaurant is empty except for our small group. This place is a fancy one, reserved for politicians. Ash wand I are there only because we are part of the expatriate's group. Everyone knows we are intervieing people and gathering information for a documentary we want to make, so they treat us with special courtesy and consideration. It bought us special courtesy and consideration.
But I never do get to meet Uday.
The next day we walk along the dismal corridors of the Saddam Hussein Hospital in the center of Baghdad. Ashley remains with me, steadfast. The sounds of women crying and chanting fill the hallways. We pass room after room of broken or rundown equipment and hospital employees dressed in smelly, dirty uniforms, torn and riddled with holes. We explain to a nurse that we are with the expatriates (which tends to open doors) and ask a nurse if we can have a tour to gain more first-hand knowledge of Iraq. We have seen the harrowing news accounts and want to discover how much is propaganda and how much is true.
The nurse, Laila, glad for our interest, makes a quick call and asks us to wait in a tiny room they consider a lobby. It contains a few dirty metal chairs and trash on the filthy floor; we opt to stand. While waiting we notice a cute little girl about six years old, spying on us. Her hair is unkempt and her ratty dress looks like it has been her only outfit for years.
A man in a white jacket arrives and introduces himself as best he can in broken English. He is a surgeon. He will gladly give us a tour if we will spread the word about the terrible conditions here and please encourage our government to lift the embargo. We agree. I ask him about the little girl. She is the daughter of one of the nurses, he tells me.
So the tour begins. The first room has eight beds lined up against yellowed walls. A crying mother sits by the bedside of a ten-year old girl in a rusty, creaky hospital bed with old torn sheets unwashed since a little girl next to her died two weeks earlier. She has bedsores, bug bites, and flies on her face. We flinch at the stench of death, the filthy floors, and the broken windows through which cold breezes blow. Ashley and I shiver; we can't imagine what the child must feel like. She has only days to live—but she's one of the lucky ones with a bed. Admission to an Iraqi hospital in these times usually amounts to a death sentence, although the doctors and nurses do the best they can without medicines or machines or enough staff.
Before we leave, the little girl, the nurse's child, appears again in the hallway. I give her a T-shirt from Hollywood. Her eyes gleam as she recognizes that name so magical in much of the world. She seems uncomfortable accepting the gift. Her mother passes and I ask if it's okay. She thanks me. The girl gives me a warm hug and tears run down her cheek as she watches us, two travelers from another world of comfort and wealth and freedom, walk out the door.
I feel an ache in my heart. Ashley and I hold hands and feel closer. Although we have only known each other a few weeks, we feel like sisters. We’ve not only been sharing intimate experiences and learning about our ancestry together but we’re sharing a bed, make-up and bath water. I feel lucky to have her here. I love her. Travel makes one bond with others much faster than in our ordinary lives.
Entire generations of Iraqis have known nothing but war and famine. A great many are maimed and emotionally and psychologically impaired. The once-great metropolises have sunk to third-world levels of suffering. The Old Iraq, known as The Paris of the Middle East, is nothing but a memory of the elders. The country has little hope of recovering soon because the children are weak and have had the light in their eyes beaten out of them.
Once one of the best-educated people in the Middle East, Iraqis now suffer from lack of educational supplies and money, and much energy and time is spent just trying to survive. Our visit has been like a trip back to more primitive times. I’m not even sure whom to blame for all this suffering. But the common people are the victims. As heart-rending as this experience is, it makes me better appreciate our American freedom and constitutional rights to carve out a life at least in the direction of our dreams. In Iraq, the dreams have died.
Coming home, coming back to life and to hope, has made me rethink my priorities.
A week after our return to the U.S., Iraq was bombed again by the Clinton administration during the Monica Lewinsky scandal.