Three Days in Iraq

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: We’re in Alexandria, Egypt for a few days; we’re planning to take the train back to Cairo tomorrow.

Three Days in Iraq

As soon as the wheels touched the tarmac, I turned on my phone and opened the map, curious about what was nearby. The first dot that popped up was Abu Ghraib.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to see, but it wasn’t that. Definitely not that.

The next morning, when our driver was threading the SUV through Baghdad’s morning traffic chaos, we passed a Starbucks. I wasn’t expecting that either. Definitely not that.

We spent three nights in Baghdad. For those of you who know us in real life and suspect that I am in some way coerced into this wacky lifestyle by my husband’s strong personality, please be assured: it was MY idea to go to Baghdad. All mine. One hundred percent. And I LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT.

I’m writing this at the breakfast buffet of our hotel in Cairo, which is jammed to the gills with tourists; most seem to be part of a college alumnae group from somewhere in the American Midwest. I haven’t asked. I’m busy doing some heavy emotional work in my head. I’ll be processing our Iraq visit for a long while—perhaps the rest of my life, or at least until I go back. I think I may have left a little piece of my heart in that dusty craziness.

In lieu of a cogent essay, which is beyond me at this point, I give you a list of impressions.

—When we stepped off the plane, the jetway was full of men wearing suits (and no masks). Both of those facts set a tone for our visit: people dress in Iraq. None of this ‘office casual’ business. Also none of this Covid business. I guess when your country is recovering from a war, a pandemic is just another bump in the road.

—We had pre-booked a greeter/driver from our hotel, something we’ve only done once or twice before. He didn’t show, so Lee jumped into the insanity at the passport desk and managed, while I found a chair and waited. I was grateful for my abaya—all the little old ladies who were also waiting managed to make me feel welcome just by smiling.

—Security. You can’t imagine the security. To get into our hotel, three cars at a time were admitted to a blast-proof concrete chute, where drivers were required to turn off the ignition, open the hood, the trunk, all doors, and wait in the car. IDs and faces were scrutinized. Dogs sniffed for bombs. Then we were allowed to pass; we had to do this every time we went in. When we exited our taxi, we had to go through another round of airport-style security, putting our bags on the conveyer and walking through the x-ray machine. I actually got used to it, and used the time to do the daily Wordle, or just kept chatting.

On the roads, there are checkpoints everywhere, and they mean business. Our guide requested that I cover my shoulders and stop talking every time we passed through one, which seemed like every half hour, sometimes more. Several times we all four had to get out of the SUV and go into the guard hut while our passports were scrutinized and phone calls flew back and forth, debating whether we should be allowed to continue. We always were, with smiles and welcome.

—Everywhere, there are tanks, and armored personnel carriers, and other big warlike vehicles that I have never seen before, rumbling down the road, parked along the highway, massed around checkpoints. Sandbagged gun emplacements, which I have seen before, except these are staffed, and have actual guns pointing out. All the time. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live in an environment where the visual threat of violence is just the air you breathe, all day, every day. I mean, there was a sign by the door of our hotel that said “No weapons allowed beyond this point. No body armour allowed beyond this point.” That is so far beyond my life experience that it took my breath away.

—And yet: it never felt like menace. I never felt uncomfortable or frightened or nervous. On the contrary, I felt cared for. We had a guide and driver; two charming, smart, funny young men. Heydar and Mohammed—they are friends from childhood. Over the 25 hours that we spent together, we developed a level of trust that allowed all of us to ask—and answer—difficult questions.

—Everywhere we went, every person we met (and we met a lot), without exception, welcomed us to Iraq. Outside of Baghdad, in the countryside and smaller towns, people lined up to take photos with us (I’m not exaggerating). Women shoved their babies and toddlers at me. Restaurant owners fell all over themselves to feed us, welcome us, make sure we were happy. I think it’s noteworthy, also, that every single one asked where we were from, and not once did the word ‘American’ change the atmosphere. I suppose Heydar was careful enough to stick with areas of the country that were safe and unlikely to resent our nationality, but even he can’t control the narrative completely. We wound up in at least two restaurants (and that Starbucks!) that he had never been to before, because Princess can be kind of high-maintenance. Even in those places, we were welcomed like royalty.

—After the first day (when we saw the Ziggurat of Ur and the remains of Nebuchadnezzar’s palace, where the Hanging Gardens of Babylon once were), I told Lee it felt like we were standing in front of a fire hose of hospitality. We weren’t there long enough for me to really understand it: Arab culture is undeniably (with the caveat of in my experience) the most hospitable in the world, but this was extreme even by those standards. We went into a bakery around eight o’clock the first evening, on the edge of downtown Baghdad. It was a massive, 24/7 operation; Heydar said there is always a line, around the clock, and I believe him. It was packed like a Kroger the day before Thanksgiving. No, scratch that: it was more like squeezing through a mass of bodies to get close to the stage at a BTS concert. Fifteen minutes later, the owner had plucked us out of the chaos, and we were sitting on a quiet private balcony looking down on it all, with a crazy platter of baklava—a gift.

—At restaurants, when we finished eating and had made a complete mess of plates and napkins and breadcrumbs, we just got up and moved to a clean table. Then tea and/or dessert was served in the fresh(ish) space. I felt like the Mad Hatter, insisting we all move over one place because I want a clean cup.

—Breakfast in our hotel was fantastic. As a matter of fact, all the food we had was fantastic, and way too abundant. After three days of eating, I felt like an overinflated blimp. The guys got a little misty talking about various dishes, so clearly food is a point of pride and pleasure. We were sincerely enthusiastic.

—Heydar realizes, quite rightly, that the ancient palace of Nebuchadnezzar is one of the country’s highlights, so at that site, he handed the reins over to a third-generation Babylonian guide who has trained in archaeology (and mechanical engineering). He was born a year before I was; he looks at least fifteen years older than me. Once he asked an American soldier not to steal ancient bricks from the palace, and the next day a helicopter came for him. He was held in prison for a month, accused of trafficking in antiquities. Both of his forearms are still crooked, where they were broken by the handcuffs. He told me about his grandfather working on the site with German archaeologists in the 1920s, and about his new grand baby. As we walked through a patch of trees, outside the palace walls, he picked some tiny yellow flowers and gave them to me. On the hill above us, we could see the hulking remains of one of Saddam Hussein’s palaces.

—Then he walked us through the empty shell of Saddam’s palace; a village was razed so that the new palace could stand taller than the ancient dynastic seat. The extravagant beauty of the building was apparent, even under the graffiti. Lee took a picture, and accidentally disturbed some bats that flew away, squeaking their displeasure. Our sweet guide demonstrated the acoustic illusion of the throne room; everyone who appeared before Saddam stood in one particular spot to click their heels together, and the sound was amplified around the room. Neat trick. Creepy building.

—I decided (since the whole crazy idea was mine to begin with) that we should stay in the top-rated hotel in Baghdad. It was way, way more expensive than our usual budget, but I wanted the best security, and the best chance of everything working properly. While the security was indeed great, the rest was … not so much. Internet was sketchy at best; AC was turned off for the winter, and the room was—well, let’s say it’s a good thing we were exhausted, and not there very much.

But I’d totally go back for that breakfast.

—Heydar and Mohammed are both engaged to be married in the next six months, and we spent a lot of time discussing potential honeymoon destinations. Bali, Turkey, Greece, and Egypt are on the list. Heydar is planning to take a two-week trip with his bride, and I suspect it will be lovely. Both men seem thoughtful and frankly, romantic.

—Late in our time together, I finally worked up the nerve to ask, point-blank, how Iraqis feel about the American invasion of their country. The answer was, as you might expect, complicated. In a country of 40 million, there were 40 million realities, and probably 40 million opinions.

Obviously, these are just snapshots of our experience. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to turn them into a narrative that makes sense. But maybe not; it’s possible that there is no good sense to be found in the rubble of war.

Take care,

Lisa

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