Staying put

Nermeen Al-Mufti doesn't have the heart to leave her motherland

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Baghdad is not a safe place to live, and yet I still find the idea of emigration disturbing. Many relatives and friends have left. I no longer correspond with or phone them. They have their new lives, and I only have stories of suffering to tell.

Sometimes one has to travel for one reason or another. On my last trip I came back to Baghdad by plane. This was last winter, and the sky was cloudy, greyish. I couldn't see anything on the ground.

This time I decide to travel by road, to see what is going on on the ground in Iraq, perhaps to find a reason why I should leave.

I leave home at 5am. For the first time since the occupation I see Baghdad in the early morning. Haifa Street, where I live, looks tranquil. Four men are crossing the road to the mosque for the dawn prayer. We pass by Al- Allawi area, where the main bus terminal is located. About 15 "brave" men congregate in front of Fateh Café. Before the occupation, this area was crowded day and night, and dozens of restaurants and coffeehouses were open around the clock. The "brave" men stand near a sizeable billboard sign bearing a picture of Baghdad as it used to be, along with the caption: "Let's restore to Baghdad its former glory and joy."

We congregate near Al-Liqaa Square. The square is named after a beautiful sculpture designed by the Iraqi artist Alaa Bashir. The vehicles leaving to Jordan assemble here and form convoys that travel together for protection from "friendly" fire, abduction, and attacks. I and my friends have rented three GMC vehicles. We start on the highway at 6am, on 7 September. Minutes later, not having left Baghdad yet, we pass a fuel vehicle that has been attacked and burned. The smell of burning gasoline fills the air. The driver, now a charred skeleton, is affixed to the seat. Coming in the opposite direction was a GMC vehicle returning perhaps from Jordan. It was hit in the same attack and the bodies of its three occupants lay on the ground. I see no policeman on site, no national guard, not even a "multinational" American soldier. We don't stop, no reason to risk questioning or attack.

After a while, the sun rises, casting the sky in beautiful shades of colour. For a moment, I almost forget the war, but how can I? The car proceeds on the highway. At about 7am, we approach Fallujah. All roads to that city have been sealed off, except for the highway. A helicopter gunship is shelling the city, the smoke of its missiles billows in our direction. Minutes later, we're among dozens of cars and trucks that have stopped after a US tank and two Humvees closed the road. The helicopter continues to bombard the city. Another helicopter appears, flying low, and we hear gunfire. We stand still for over 45 minutes. A peasant from Fallujah is waiting, distraught. He starts talking to a driver about the intensive shelling that has targeted the city for days and left dozens, mostly women and children, dead.

"They are punishing Fallujah because it refused to receive them with open arms right from the beginning. We were against Saddam, but we are also against occupation and injustice." I ask the peasant about the suffering of Fallujah and whether the population is resentful of the fighters. "At some point in the past, the Fallujah inhabitants asked the Arab fighters to leave the city, and they have left. Yes, we suffer from the continued shelling and we're tired, but it's not over yet. In previous statements, they said they were fighting the rebels. But each time, we have funerals for women and children. No one knows how long the shelling would last."

The cars begin to move after the tank and two Humvees have left. We start to drive, then US soldiers appear and make us stop again, for a shorter period. We drive on again, only to be stopped by a US tank shortly afterward. An explosive charge has gone off and hit a Humvee and an Iraqi truck. The driver of the truck was injured. This time, the Americans allow those who want to take the dirt road to leave the highway. We take the dirt road. US tanks seal off the bridge connecting the highway with Fallujah, the bridge which has been the site of repeated attacks on American forces.

The road is uneventful from that point on. We don't stop, but merely slow down, at Iraqi police checkpoints. Hours later we arrive at Tarabil, the Iraqi checkpoint. The visas are processed quietly and quickly. No one asks to search our bags. The installations and buildings at the checkpoint bear the mark of war and destruction. A mural depicting the former president is still clearly visible, despite some attempts to efface it. A marble pedestal which used to carry a statue of Saddam on horseback now carries only the remainder of horse legs.

We leave the Iraqi borders and pass by a camp created by the Jordanian authorities and the UN for non-Arab refugees who escaped from Iraq. The refugees, including Iranians, have been living in the desert on the borders for the past 18 months, since Baghdad fell. The refugees live in difficult weather and living conditions. Children are playing football. One of them has saved some drinking, or perhaps washing, water to plant sunflowers in front of his tent, just to feel alive. A number of women stand at the water tank bearing containers. Men stand in front of a small tent- turned-café. We enter the Karamah checkpoint on the Jordanian border. Dozens of small and large cars await passport control and search. In the right lane, Iraqi trucks stand in line, bearing the shells of Iraqi tanks and military vehicles, a hurtful sight. Considerable metal objects are being exported from Iraq as scrap.

We complete the paperwork and the passport officer sends us off with kind words, but earlier he has complained that some travellers carry forged Iraqi passports. A few kilometres from the borders we come across another camp built by the Jordanian authorities and the UN for Arab refugees from Iraq.

The journey from Baghdad to Amman ends by dark. Amman is its same old self, clean and modern. I feel the lump in my throat. Why has the former government been so bent on war? Why did it bring about the destruction and occupation of Iraq? Why have the Iraqis turned into paupers despite the country's riches. The first thing I do in Amman is hear the news of the abduction of the two Italian aid workers, Simona Pari and Simona Torretta, from the Bridge to Baghdad organisation, an organisation that helped Iraqis repeatedly in the years of sanctions, took many sick people and children for treatment in Italy, and led demonstrations against war and occupation. I wonder again. What is happening in Iraq? Who is to gain from abducting those who help the Iraqis? Who is to gain from abducting journalists and killing them and muffling the voice of the country?

I get out my papers to go back to Iraq. Once again, I can't persuade myself to leave Baghdad. My son has just called me to say that our flat on Haifa Street had been hit by bullets and missile shrapnel, for the second time in a month.