It was clear now what I should do. I began to talk to the so-called “human shields.” I asked them, “Have you asked the people here what they want? Have you talked to regular people, away from your ‘minder,’ and asked them what they want?”
I was shocked at the response. “We don’t need to do that; we know what they want,” was the usual reply before a minder stepped up to check who I was.
With tears streaming down my face in my bed in a tiny house in Baghdad, crowded in with ten others of my own flesh and blood — all exhausted after yet another day of not living but existing without hope — I had to admit to myself that I was wrong.
I then began a strange journey to do all I could to let the world know of the true situation in Iraq.
Carefully and with great risk, not just for me but most of all for those who told their story and opened up their homes to me, I did my best to tape their plight as honestly and simply as I could. Whether I could get that precious tape out of the country was a different story.
Wanting to make sure I was not simply getting the feelings of Assyrians, a long oppressed minority, I spoke to dozens of people. What I was not prepared for was the sheer terror they felt at speaking out.
Over and over again I was told, “We would be killed for speaking like this.” Without exception — from a former member of the army to a person working with the police to taxi drivers to store owners to mothers to government workers — the message was the same: “Please bring on the war. We are ready. We have suffered long enough. We may lose our lives but some of us will survive. For our children’s sake please, please end our misery.”
On my final day there I saw the first signs of impending war. Sandbags began appearing at various government buildings, but the solders putting them up and then later standing within the small circle they created gave a clear message they could not dare speak.
They hated it. They despised it. It was their job, and they made it clear in the way they worked to the common people watching that they were on their side and would not fight.
What of the people’s feelings toward the United States and Britain? Those feelings were clearly mixed. They had no love for the British or the Americans but they trusted them.
“We are not afraid of the American bombing,” I heard. “They will bomb carefully and not purposely target the people. What we are afraid of is Saddam Hussein and what he and the Baath Party will do when the war begins. But even then we want the war. It is the only way to escape our hell. Please tell them to hurry. We have been through war so many times, but this time it will give us hope.”
The Guard and the Videotape
The final call for help came at the most unexpected place — the border. Everything was going well until suddenly the border guard asked if I had any money. We had been carefully instructed to make sure we carried no more than $300 when we returned, so I began to open up the pouch that carried my passport.
Suddenly the guard began to pat me down. “Oh, no” I thought. “It’s all over.”
We had been told of what happened if you got caught with videotape, a cellular telephone or any kind of electronic equipment that had not been declared: At the very least a trip back to Baghdad, a likely appearance before a judge, and in some cases 24-48 in a holding cell.
