My first three weeks here were long. After a good run in Ramadi, I landed in Fallujah with a sore throat. By the next day it worsened into a sniffling head cold until I finally had to call in sick to the Marines. It’s a little embarrassing telling the Marines you’re sick and can’t work, but it was all I could do. I postponed an embed and stayed in my trailer at Camp Fallujah for a couple of days, blowing my nose, eating three squares a day and drinking water, and getting caught up on stories. The trailer even had internet service, so all things considered, it was a good place to convalesce.
Then I moved westward, spending a few days in Habbaniyah before flying further out to Al Asad, a huge air base in the middle of nowhere. Bases like Al Asad are flight hubs, and I was to connect to another helicopter that would take me toward the Syrian border. On the way to the flight line (a journey that usually involves a long, long walk carrying all my gear) I twisted my ankle twice. The flight ended up being cancelled, and after my dinner that night, I could barely put weight on my foot. There was no swelling or bruising, so I figured a night of rest would help. It was a setback, though. If I can’t carry my own gear, I can’t work. I can’t make it someone else’s responsibility to make sure I can climb into the helo. I limped to the medic station to get a couple of ice packs. They checked me out, sent me off with a bandage for support and instructions to take ibuprofen and keep it elevated. The doctor on duty even came in for a minute to oversee the medic’s check. I slept with my foot propped on a pillow and tossed and turned most of the night, both from the throbbing and from worrying about whether I would be able to move around the next day.
As I figured, the pain subsided quickly. My foot was still tender, but I could walk without worry. I made it back to the flight terminal only to find out the day’s journey was cancelled again. All this cancelling and waiting is normal, especially when it comes to flights to remote areas, like the western border. The weather and maintenance problems play havoc with schedules, and the guys around me had been waiting four days to get to the same place as me. I decided to cut my losses and head back to Baghdad, where the weather was better and flights are more common. It was a good decision. About 16 hours later I was back at the press center in the Green Zone, lightening speed by military travel standards. And I heard a few days later that people in Al Asad were still waiting for a flight out to the border.
I arrived in Baghdad about 2:30 a.m. last Friday, nearly a week ago. The travel mishaps meant I missed a couple of days reporting out west, and the early journey to Baghdad meant bad timing for my push down south, the second part of my assignment here. That meant waiting around at the press center in Baghdad for a few days, just about the worse situation that can befall a journalist here.
As one command sergeant major told me, journalists at the press center are like construction workers who stand in Home Depot parking lots before 7 a.m. You need a roofer? I’ll go. You going on patrol? I’ll go. He’s right: We’ll take any assignment to get out of the room. It pays off, cause that’s how I got to cover the boxing tournament my first weekend in country. Luckily, they liked the story and adopted me for a couple more days. They showed me their patrol area, which includes the Baghdad zoo and a former Baathist neighborhood just outside the government-heavy Green Zone. They also took me to Yarmouk Hospital.
The hospital is a collection of buildings and dormitories that serves the Sunni-dominated neighborhood. No hospital is a luxury in Iraq, but this one is doubly tragic. They believe they have been purposefully slighted by the Shia-led government and the hospital’s ability to treat people has dwindled to almost nothing.
The patients are also scared to seek treatment there, because they feel it’s a target for Shia insurgents. Whether their fears are justified or exaggerated almost doesn’t matter. The reality is that people who finally come to Yarmouk Hospital are desperate. “You come here, you come to die,” the military interpreter said. The emergency room is an empty room with beds and curtains and open windows, flies buzzing around. It looks almost exactly the same as the critical care unit, except there it’s quieter. The patients are beyond talking. No where did I see even the simplest medical tool, not an intravenous drip in sight. The hospital has some power from generators, but none from the grid. We were there on Sunday, when the entire neighborhood had been without running water for three days. “It’s better than it was,” the battalion commander I was with said. “What’s better?” I asked. “It just is,” he said, and I believed him.
Even in death, there is no relief at Yarmouk. There is no morgue refrigerator, so bodies wait in the backyard for their families to come. On Sunday it was at least 110 degrees, and four families were due for pickups. The Army unit I was with just got responsibility for the hospital and its neighborhood about six weeks ago, and they’re starting to steer some money there. Their first mission includes getting a refrigerator and an incinerator to dispose of hospital waste. The battalion commander has discretionary money to spend on projects like these, and he thought he’d be able to get the fridge in a couple of weeks. It doesn’t need to be terribly big. In Iraq, tradition requires that families bury their dead before sundown on the day they die. It’s a great sign of disrespect to miss that deadline. It’s one of the reasons the numbers of people killed at market bombings vary so much. Families take away their kin before the police or army can count the bodies. The U.S. military is sensitive to the tradition too, and do their best to collect evidence and turnover what’s left of suicide bombers to their families.
Outside the hospital, there was more life. The small market included a couple of vegetable stands, also teeming with flies, a man selling sheep, two bakeries, and a simple hardware store. One man was bricking up an empty storefront. As he mixed the mortar, the commander stopped as asked him what kind of store he would run. He said, quite happily, that he plans to sell ice cream.
Then I moved westward, spending a few days in Habbaniyah before flying further out to Al Asad, a huge air base in the middle of nowhere. Bases like Al Asad are flight hubs, and I was to connect to another helicopter that would take me toward the Syrian border. On the way to the flight line (a journey that usually involves a long, long walk carrying all my gear) I twisted my ankle twice. The flight ended up being cancelled, and after my dinner that night, I could barely put weight on my foot. There was no swelling or bruising, so I figured a night of rest would help. It was a setback, though. If I can’t carry my own gear, I can’t work. I can’t make it someone else’s responsibility to make sure I can climb into the helo. I limped to the medic station to get a couple of ice packs. They checked me out, sent me off with a bandage for support and instructions to take ibuprofen and keep it elevated. The doctor on duty even came in for a minute to oversee the medic’s check. I slept with my foot propped on a pillow and tossed and turned most of the night, both from the throbbing and from worrying about whether I would be able to move around the next day.
As I figured, the pain subsided quickly. My foot was still tender, but I could walk without worry. I made it back to the flight terminal only to find out the day’s journey was cancelled again. All this cancelling and waiting is normal, especially when it comes to flights to remote areas, like the western border. The weather and maintenance problems play havoc with schedules, and the guys around me had been waiting four days to get to the same place as me. I decided to cut my losses and head back to Baghdad, where the weather was better and flights are more common. It was a good decision. About 16 hours later I was back at the press center in the Green Zone, lightening speed by military travel standards. And I heard a few days later that people in Al Asad were still waiting for a flight out to the border.
I arrived in Baghdad about 2:30 a.m. last Friday, nearly a week ago. The travel mishaps meant I missed a couple of days reporting out west, and the early journey to Baghdad meant bad timing for my push down south, the second part of my assignment here. That meant waiting around at the press center in Baghdad for a few days, just about the worse situation that can befall a journalist here.
As one command sergeant major told me, journalists at the press center are like construction workers who stand in Home Depot parking lots before 7 a.m. You need a roofer? I’ll go. You going on patrol? I’ll go. He’s right: We’ll take any assignment to get out of the room. It pays off, cause that’s how I got to cover the boxing tournament my first weekend in country. Luckily, they liked the story and adopted me for a couple more days. They showed me their patrol area, which includes the Baghdad zoo and a former Baathist neighborhood just outside the government-heavy Green Zone. They also took me to Yarmouk Hospital.The hospital is a collection of buildings and dormitories that serves the Sunni-dominated neighborhood. No hospital is a luxury in Iraq, but this one is doubly tragic. They believe they have been purposefully slighted by the Shia-led government and the hospital’s ability to treat people has dwindled to almost nothing.
The patients are also scared to seek treatment there, because they feel it’s a target for Shia insurgents. Whether their fears are justified or exaggerated almost doesn’t matter. The reality is that people who finally come to Yarmouk Hospital are desperate. “You come here, you come to die,” the military interpreter said. The emergency room is an empty room with beds and curtains and open windows, flies buzzing around. It looks almost exactly the same as the critical care unit, except there it’s quieter. The patients are beyond talking. No where did I see even the simplest medical tool, not an intravenous drip in sight. The hospital has some power from generators, but none from the grid. We were there on Sunday, when the entire neighborhood had been without running water for three days. “It’s better than it was,” the battalion commander I was with said. “What’s better?” I asked. “It just is,” he said, and I believed him.
Even in death, there is no relief at Yarmouk. There is no morgue refrigerator, so bodies wait in the backyard for their families to come. On Sunday it was at least 110 degrees, and four families were due for pickups. The Army unit I was with just got responsibility for the hospital and its neighborhood about six weeks ago, and they’re starting to steer some money there. Their first mission includes getting a refrigerator and an incinerator to dispose of hospital waste. The battalion commander has discretionary money to spend on projects like these, and he thought he’d be able to get the fridge in a couple of weeks. It doesn’t need to be terribly big. In Iraq, tradition requires that families bury their dead before sundown on the day they die. It’s a great sign of disrespect to miss that deadline. It’s one of the reasons the numbers of people killed at market bombings vary so much. Families take away their kin before the police or army can count the bodies. The U.S. military is sensitive to the tradition too, and do their best to collect evidence and turnover what’s left of suicide bombers to their families.
Outside the hospital, there was more life. The small market included a couple of vegetable stands, also teeming with flies, a man selling sheep, two bakeries, and a simple hardware store. One man was bricking up an empty storefront. As he mixed the mortar, the commander stopped as asked him what kind of store he would run. He said, quite happily, that he plans to sell ice cream.
3 comments:
Great details, Teri. Glad you're feeling better and the ankle's healing. I've got a bunch of summer book recommendations for when you get back!
It's such a pleasure to read your essays. The descriptions provide valuable insights and are eagerly anticipated. But the personal insights and wit you sprinkle throughout are the most arresting of all.
Thank you so much for allowing me this opportunity to learn. Stay safe and keep a few kernels of the love and admiration here at home in your knapsack as a talisman.
Ice cream parlor! The economy is improving. Who would ever think about a zoo story? How clever you are, Teri. Maybe Baghdad will get donated animals from the US too. I am amazed CNN did not pick up that story. Just wait, ice cream, zoo and boxing, someone will knock on your door.
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