Iraq: Disturbing Images in my Head

And so with another sigh I read an article in the Guardian entitled 'A very private war' on the hire of private companies which provide security services to American individuals and interests, and how more often then not, they hired locals to do a lot of their dirty work, and worked under no jurisdiction, American or Iraqi. As I read that, two images sprung to mind, a pot bellied, tatooed, sleeveless t-shirt clad, lobster burnt caucasian at the HSBC Bank in Amman, Jordan and a weathered Iraqi interpreter who had worked with the American arm forces whom I had met in Malaysia.

When I first saw the former in July 2006, I let prejudices and too many Hollywood blockbusters override my better sense because I immediately felt repulsed by this man and if anyone had been looking, I'm sure it would have shown on my face. I had immediately assumed that he was one of the many independent contractors hired for either security or construction (judging by the pot belly - it would be the latter) to work in Iraq. I was pretty sure I was right as I know for a fact a large number of expats working in Iraq held their bank accounts in Amman where it was safer. I felt disturbed then, because I figured he was one of the many who was benefitting from the destruction of Iraq.

I then thought of the Iraqi interpreter. He told me that he was forced to work for the American armed forces because he could not work anywhere else including Jordan as they were at one time clamping down on illegal immigrants from Iraq. He was in Malaysia to seek a job and get refugee protection. He insisted on showing me all his photos with the armed forces and the certificates they had awarded him - hoping that it would eventually help him get resettled in America. If only he knew that none of these made any difference and perhaps in his heart he did as he had already been turned away by the American embassy.

From there my mind trailed to a moment back in 2003 in Hyatt Hotel...once again in Amman, when a friend broke news to me that the US was about to attack Iraq and that in preparation to prevent escapes into Jordan, the Jordanian military had lined up their tanks all along its border with Iraq. When I heard this I broke down crying for this act of betrayal by a member of the Ummah.

I then remembered meeting the lovely family of Mercy's Iraqi ex-staff, namely his 80 plus year old parents, in Damascus, Syria in July 2006. As they fed us with so much delicious food, and presented us with gifts (for me a galabeyah and a trinket box), his father, who was a lecturer in Baghdad during Saddam's reign, told of the glory days of Iraq and how he could not believe he had to see Iraq in its current state in his dying years. When I asked the ex-staff why he doesn't continue living in Syria, he answered because my mother and father's home is Iraq.

My mind switched from the old to a youth named Mustafa whom I shared a staircase as a meagre means to protect ourselves and his family in Baghdad in 2003 when the exploding bombs sounded too close for comfort and as the windows in our building shook but did not break. With frightened eyes he stared at me and signalled to me while moving his hand across his neck as if to say we were all going to die. I wonder where he is now.

From a a child in Baghdad to Iraqi children in Malaysia sometime this year. I was in a detention camp for illegal immigrants to do some work when I looked up from where I was sitting to see a family of Iraqis - a mother and a father in their late 30s, two boys between the ages 8-12, and a baby age 1-2 with flat curly locks, behind bars, waiting for their turn to call somewhere - perhaps home, perhaps their embassy, perhaps anyone who would listen. I remember I subsequently gave a big sigh as I turned away and continued my work.