Dependence Day

July 4th marks a very important anniversary for me. Two full months without a beer. I'm getting very thirsty!

I haven't been able to post much lately because my computer broke last week. Luckily, it was after I'd filed almost everything from this trip. And I kept all my photos on their original memory cards. But it makes uploading more photos and writing essays almost impossible.

I've been trying to leave Iraq for three days now with little luck. The air is full of sandstorms and ground convoys to Baghdad are all but nil for the time being. I'm expecting more luck on Sunday. Today's visibility is about one city block, I'd say. Taji isn't the worst place to be stuck. There's a building full of computers and movies; my room had a double bed; and there was fresh cantaloupe for breakfast. Still, I'm getting tired and feeling like I'm stuck in a Bill Murray movie without a sense of humor.

Happy Fourth to everyone. I'll update more when I can.

Salon

I saw a woman getting a facial today. I’m not making this up.

I went to the women’s center in Adhamiyah, where women and children gather by the dozens each day to talk, rest and learn. The center is in a large house and each room offers a different skill – computers, sewing, beauty. One woman was showing how to style hair for a wedding. Another was teaching how to take correct measurements for clothes. And one, sure enough, was putting a face mask on another.

This was my first experience in Iraq where the women far outnumbered the men. A few male soldiers and State Department officials were there. The rest of the group was women, including me and two female officers. The women’s center opened last fall with a state department grant. An Army officer made a visit to see if she could direct some military reconstruction money their way. I think, too, she was curious. We all were.

There were obvious differences between meeting with a bunch of men and meeting with a bunch of women in Iraq. Less cigarette smoke and better treats. More talking and arguing. Less effective air conditioners and reliable power.

A woman called Faten runs the center. She wants to do many things – give women a safe place to go, help them divorce abusive husbands, teach them skills so they can make a little money. Many women are widows after the last six years of violence. Widows get a subsidy from the government, but it’s not the same as having a husband with a job. She offers a matchmaking service for those who want it. At the same time, she tries to help women evict their husbands while keeping their houses. The house, that shelter, is everything. With no income and no man, where would the woman and children live?

“She picked me up off the streets,” one women said, crying. Her husband went mad, she said, selling the house possessions and beating her on the street. Faten got her a lawyer. The husband is out and the woman is in her house. Now she’s trying to learn to read. Another woman said she learned how to make hamburgers. She wants to sell them out of her home. Others are learning to make toothpick holders, knitted purses and decorative frames. “There is only one Faten in all of Iraq,” they said.

Faten’s boss was also there. She’s a lawyer and a local political official who oversees five such centers in Baghdad. She recently got an award from Hillary Clinton and Michelle Obama. She also picked a fight with Faten in front of the military officers and state officials. Faten operates like a caseworker, bringing women into the

center and giving them lessons they can use. Her boss wants these women to be empowered. Faten wants them to earn money, not bruises.

Later, I asked the translator about the argument. “I don’t like her at all,” he said of Faten’s boss. She

talked down to everyone and was jealous of the attention Faten gets. He also said he’d never seen anything like the women’s center. He’s lived in Baghdad his whole life.

p.s. I love the alphabet primer. My favorite letters are j, k, and x.

What grows in Hussaniyah

The soldiers thought that Hussaniyah would be the foulest place I’d ever been. It wasn’t. But it was pretty beat up.
















This little city northeast of Baghdad holds about half a million people, I’m told, though that’s a little hard to believe. Still, it’s crowded, bordered by a cemetery and palm trees on one side and the major north/south highway and Tigris River on the other. That means one thing. Sewage.
Trash, as I’ve said, it nearly everywhere here. But it’s the sewage that takes your breath away.

















People, as best I can tell, live on a combination of septic tanks and municipal sewage systems. Those underground pipes, if they exist, leak. The tanks haven’t been emptied regularly for years. In larger cities, ironically, there are still furrows that run down the center of most alley ways. These ruts take away rainwater in the monsoons and house water the rest of the year. When I’ve tromped through Baghdad in May and June, they’ve always been wet.
















In towns like Hussaniyah, the need for drinking water mixes terribly with the sewage problems. Just as people splice electrical lines overhead to power their homes, they tap into the buried water pipes below ground that, of course, are right next to the sewage pipes. All this backs up everywhere, including on the streets. It’s common to see puddles in towns like Hussaniyah. It hasn’t rained in months.
















Still, people live and gardens grow. We ran across a few gorgeous ones on an early morning patrol. The flowers and leaves were covered in dust leftover from a sandstorm a week earlier.
















One garden even had small hens wandering through it. Another women was out sweeping her stoop at about 7 a.m. It was honestly hard to tell where she had begun and where she would stop.

Take me to the River

On Monday, I got picked up for a ride to Istaqlil. It’s an area almost directly north of Baghdad along the eastern side of the Tigris, filled with farms and irrigation canals. We took the river road up into the countryside. Date trees and other crops, including mums and marigolds, were on the far side of the road. A row of mansions were on the river side. The soldiers I was with drive on this road all the time, and they’ve learned where the really big houses are. We rounded one bend to find a palace looming over the river, a middle eastern Hudson Valley. They looked like summer homes, resorts for the rich. Nearer the road, some of the farmers sold drinks and produce from makeshift stands.The military is working here to restore the canals that pipe water over thousands of acres in the Istaqlil farmland.

The captain I was with took me to a water pump station Monday because the project was a success. A new underground power line would power three transformers to late the water pumps run 24 hours a day, if needed. The project would restore water to some farms that had been dry for six years. The pumps also provide water to a small village. Right now, they get drinking water about every three days.

Yet on Monday, the water pumps were still. A substation that powered the pumps was off, and the one transformer that normally worked was silent. The buried power line had made it to the water pump station, but it had yet to be hooked up to the three transformers. The electrical worker was waiting for official word from his boss before doing the work. Meanwhile, more than a dozen local residents and farmers were there to complain about the lack of electricity and water. The man who runs the station said the crowd of complainers was normal.

I’ve noticed one thing during this trip in and around Baghdad that I didn’t see during the past two trips – nurseries. I don’t know if it’s an east/west thing (in 2005 and 2007, I was west of the Tigris). I don’t know if it’s a recovery thing. I don’t know if I just wasn’t paying attention. Whatever the case, an abundance of plants are for sell now in Eastern Baghdad and its suburbs.

This water pump station irrigates many of those nurseries, I imagine. But the woes at the station are as meandering as the canals that flow out from it. The electrical station that powers the water pumps is down to one transformer, which needs to be replaced. The river itself is very low. And the canals?

One farmer came in to the pump station Monday morning to talk about his canals. He said they are overgrown and need clearing, or the water will have nowhere to go. He’s asked the government of Iraq for help with no answer. He needs a few thousand dollars to rent a backhoe. The captain I was with didn’t have the authority to start a canal cleaning project. The farmer left with no answers.

Pretty girls

I went on a couple of joint patrols this week with U.S. and Iraqi soldiers. Starting in July, all patrols in the cities are supposed to have equal numbers of Americans and Iraqis, with the Iraqis in the lead. Joint patrols are common enough, but they usually come at the Americans request and on the Americans timetable. Under the new rules, if the Iraqis don’t have enough manpower or don’t feel like patrolling, the Americans can’t go.

Different units are having differing levels of success to prepare for the change. Generally, the U.S. and Iraqi units working together for a few months are doing better. But as most U.S. troops pull out, some are simply relocating inside Baghdad. In some cases, that means soldiers are moving to new bases and getting new Iraqi partners. That leaves them a short time to build relationships with the Army they are supposed to depend on come July 1.

I felt some of that frustration this week as I watched some American soldiers practice Iraqi-led patrols with their new partners. In both cases, it took some pushing and insisting to get the Iraqis ready, with an officer, to go out the door. In the end, they got them rolling. In the end, both times, the Iraqi soldiers decided to patrol where the pretty girls are.

We went to the college town in Rusafa, a section of Baghdad. They walked around at lunch time, when the young men and women stopped for fruit smoothies and hamburgers and tea at a collection of restaurants. Most of the women wore scarves of jeweled colors with tight, long-sleeved shirts and tight jeans. A few women were bare-headed, talking with friends.

Both patrols were short. After about an hour, the Iraqis would say they had another mission. In one case, they left us on the street without going back to base. The soldiers I was with couldn’t do much about it. The Iraqi Army has its own orders and its own missions to follow.

This can't be good

Just a quick reminder of bigger and worse things going on. I was in Yarmouk in 2007 and went to the hospital. It was not a fun day.

Raining Mud

If you add it all up, I’ve probably spent about a month inside Baghdad. I mean inside – riding or walking the streets where less than 7 million people now live. I’ve been to hospitals, government offices, jewelry stores, bakeries. Finally, on Monday, I got to go to a market. Finally, I felt like I was in the city.

After lunch (lunch time, I mean; I don’t think I ate lunch) a battalion colonel took me for a three-mile walk through the markets of eastern Baghdad. The temperature was more than 110 degrees, though with the humidity and the lack of a breeze, I was told later that it was more like 120 degrees. (It’s not a dry heat; it’s a hot heat, in case you were wondering.)


We went at a pretty good clip, too fast for me to take enough photos. At one point my small stride and frequent stops to take photos got our group, the tail end, separated from the commander. That part of the market was covered and cavernous, a narrower and dirtier version of the grand bazaar I saw a couple of years ago in Istanbul. We’d lost each other for a few minutes. A quick radio check made for a quick reunion.



The markets sold everything – X-Boxes, high heels, apricots, fish, lentils, Post-its, turmeric, cherries, underwear, bags, hoses. It was late in the day, after 2 p.m., and most were closing for the day. That was lucky, I think. I’d hate to be there in a crowd.























These open markets have been targets for car bombs and suicide bombs since the violence began in 2003. Many groups try and track the numbers of civilians killed in Iraq since 2003. Some put the number at more than 100,000, but it's really hard to know. It's hard to rely on some police and military reports; in other cases, it's hard to count the bodies in a place where burial is done on the same day as death. It's also hard to define civilians in a place where it's still hard to define the enemy. It is clear, though, that many have died buying tomatoes, chickens, eggplants and bread. The violence has slowed in the past few weeks, but some are worried. As the Americans pull back from the cities, some fear the violence will increase again. No one knows for sure what will happen.
















Before the market, we walked through old Baghdad were we saw the city’s first post office, from 1921. After, we went into a muhallah. Iraq groups living areas together in rectangular grids full of a few streets and alleys. Each of these boxes is a muhallah with its own number for addresses and identification. Boulevards and businesses fill some muhallahs. Others are networks of narrow alleys with low-slung houses, much like Beijing’s hutongs. After the market, we walked down one of these alleys.

Children and parents came out to see what we were doing. Some of the adults laughed at us – I imagine we looked pretty outlandish in all our gear on their little alley. We walked in a staggered single file, with an open sewage dividing the path. Kids ran around in sandals or barefoot.
























The last time I was on an alley like this was in 2005 with some Iraqi Army soldiers. I’d wanted to a walking patrol with Iraqis for a story. The U.S. soldiers I was with gave me loads of warnings on the way. Don’t get surrounded by the Iraqi soldiers. Don’t walk on their left side; they don’t use safetys on the guns and they may go off. Don’t get too far away from any American soldier. It was nerve-wracking and hot, and served no real purpose except to make us all sweat.























It’s hard to remember that now. I’ve been on bases this summer where Iraqi and U.S. soldiers share the same driveways, the same motorpools. They visit each other’s offices without appointment, and in some places, the Iraqis are allowed in the U.S. command centers. No one has mentioned any warnings about kidnappings or ambushes, at least among Iraqi Army soldiers. I’m still not sure if trust is the right word, but everyone seems much more comfortable around each other.
















After our walk, and me drinking three huge bottles of water, we went to a community soccer game. The commander I was with just needed to make a stop-by. He took off his Kevlar helmet while he watched they boys play. As we sat there, it began to sprinkle. Rain, or at least rain clouds, isn’t unheard of in the summer. But I had forgotten how it rains in June in Baghdad. The drops have to fall through the sand in the air. By the time the water hits your arm, it’s already turned to mud.

Night at the bakery

Tuesday night I went cruising in Rusafa with a platoon from Charlie Company. They are one of two patrols that go out nearly every day, usually twice a day. They roll in the early morning, before daybreak, and again at night, after dinner. They’re looking for “rocket man,” the name they’ve given to the unknown guys who are launching rockets from Rusafa westward into the Green Zone. Two went in on Sunday night. One landed inside, one out. Three Iraqi citizens were injured.

After four weeks in Iraq, these are the first soldiers I’ve met who are actually looking for the bad guys. It’s like the old days of 2005. They ride around in Humvees without fancy stuff like headset radios. They keep their body armor and their helmets on. Their weapons are “red,” bullet in the chamber, when they leave base. Believe it or not, this doesn’t always happen when soldiers leave base anymore.

Rusafa is a fancy place, relatively speaking. It’s an old Baathist Party neighborhood where some of the former ministry officials and anointed ones under Saddam once lived. It’s just east of the Tigris River and is surrounded by poorer neighborhoods that have some of the largest open markets in the city. It’s also right next to Sadr City. Now Rusafa’s residents are still upper middle class – teachers, lawyers, doctors, business owners. The main boulevards are tree-lined; at night, businesses and homes are lit up with a combination of grid and generator power.

The platoon’s job is to talk with local residents and business owners about any suspicious activity. To launch a rocket into the Green Zone, the rocket man needs a space about half the size of a soccer field. There are many open lots to pick from in Rusafa. The guy can drive up, place the launcher (which has been pre-calculated for degree, angle, etc.), turn on the 15-minute timer, and leave. Like the soldiers, the rocket guys do reconnaissance and change their plans to achieve their goal. Three weeks ago, a rocket went off sometime between 9 and 10 p.m. and killed someone in the Green Zone. The ones on Sunday went off at about 5 a.m.

On Tuesday, we followed a couple of tips on suspicious cars in fields and stopped to talk to a few neighbors, some who have been interviewed before. Most offered us refreshments, water or tea or apricot juice. We had four Iraqi Army soldiers with us, and the lead sergeant did most of the interviewing. He tried to talk with them inside the people’s courtyards, rather than on the streets. He gave them fliers with phone numbers for tip lines. They said they’d call if they saw anything.

We were on our way to check out another field when one of the U.S. soldiers spotted something. “Are those donuts?” he said over the radio. We stopped to investigate. They weren’t donuts, but savory rolls sprinkled with sesame seeds and a little salt and sugar. The men inside were still baking loaves of diamond-shaped bread, which people stuff with vegetables, falafels and meats. I once had a lamb sandwich in one of those loaves in 2005, and I still think it’s the best thing I ever ate in Iraq. They had sweet breads and candies, including a palmier-looking thing that consists of nothing more than spun, baked sugar. They gave me one and I took a couple of bites. It was like chewing condensed cotton candy.

The bakery owner came out, a man in his 50s in western clothes. He and the platoon leader talked a long time. The owner said Iraq still needs lots of help. The lieutenant agreed. “We broke it,” he said. The Iraqi man shrugged him off. They talked about marriage and kids. They talked about violence in the neighborhood, which was nil, the baker said. They talked about how long the Americans should stay, and whether the baker had any thoughts on the June 30 deadline for U.S. troops pulling out of the cities. The baker said the Americans should stay longer because the Iraqi government is corrupt. The officer, 24, urged the baker to vote.

The Iraqis may get another vote very soon. According to the current security agreement between Iraq and America, the people must approve the timeline of withdrawing troops. If the approval fails, the withdraw automatically would be on a one-year deadline. That’s not what the baker wants. It’s not what the men want who live next to the field where, three weeks ago, a guy launched a rocket.

Later Tuesday night, we went by the field that was the launch site from three weeks ago. There were a handful of Iraqi soldiers sitting on folding chairs, in full gear, waiting. One even had working night-vision goggles, something I’d never seen on an Iraqi soldier. Neither had the lieutenant, who stopped to see if they really worked. (They did.) The field was now lit up in one corner with a circle of fluorescent lights. The lieutenant suspected the guy who runs the neighborhood’s generator – an Iraqi government employee – probably set up the lights as a means of self-preservation. When something goes wrong, an easy suspect is anyone who works for the government, the officer said.

The Iraqi soldiers who were standing guard had company. Three or four of the street’s residents were sitting outside on folding chairs. They said they didn’t have enough electricity to watch the night’s soccer game. They also said they sit outside often to see who comes driving down their street. On the night of the attack, the Iraqi Army got there in time to detain the two guys who set the rocket. They weren’t quick enough to stop the launch. The lieutenant thinks it’s unlikely the rocket men will use this field again. It’s got too much attention now.

He talked with the men who were sitting outside. It was a similar conversation. These guys with their big houses and clean streets want the Americans to stay until things are more stable. They like the soldiers on their corner, but they’re uncertain of the Army’s capability. The Army was stronger before the invasion, they said. They also talked about whiskey and girls. They invited us in for a drink. One, who spoke some English in a British accent, wanted to trade his sunglasses for mine. A quick-thinking U.S. soldier said they were prescription and I couldn’t give them up.

The lieutenant said the night was typical. Everyone was nice and inviting. No one had any tips on the bad guys. He’d like to change up his routine, so that he’s out at different times throughout the day or overnight. But others want them out at the times the Green Zone most often gets hit, so there’s no way to change the schedule. The rocket men have caught on as well. The other platoon was hit Monday night with an EFP, a hand-assembled bomb that can slice through truck armor. No one was injured.

On a good note

On Monday, I went to two small base closings in Eastern Baghdad. On the way out of one, the commander wanted to show me a local school under renovation. The United States is paying for the improvements – windows, walls, paint, plumbing, electricity, a garden. It’s less than $200,000. A local Iraqi contractor is doing the work.

I’ve been to a few schools in the past few years, both decaying and renovated. I once wrote about a newly opened school that was blown to bits. So have many, many other reporters.

Here, though, was something surprising. This looked like a place that actually would welcome kids. Each room had a different theme – ocean, sports, Mickey Mouse. The auditorium, bright orange, had a stage and lighting. There were indoor toilets, and when it was all said and done, they would work.

Iraqi schools operate roughly on the same schedule as western schools. By fall, kids will be in these classes. It seems unlikely that this school will blow up. But it’s still too soon to tell.