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Mr. Munir still maintains a hopeful smile despite his son’s detention in Abu Ghraib.
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Of
all the hell I have seen in Iraq, one of the most sublime
experiences throughout my time spent amongst Iraqis during this
brutal occupation has been the gift of bearing witness to their
unbreakable dignity and pride.
One
of the first experiences I had with this was upon checking into
a hotel in war-torn Baghdad last November. The sign outside the
hotel had four stars on it. Inside, while quite clean, the décor
was that of decades past. Yet it was obvious that each day the
staff went to great lengths to maintain the place, the service,
and their pride.
The
first person I saw inside was an old, plump Iraqi
man—stereotypical looking mustache, short grey hair, larger
nose—who worked as a bellman. But the hotel had few guests,
because the economy was, and is, shattered.
He
was standing in the lobby wearing his tidy, but out of date
uniform—black pants, white shirt, black bow tie, shiny black
shoes. He was staring out the door, waiting... waiting for a
better time, or a return of the better times in the past.
Yet
so dignified. He, to me, symbolized Iraqis today. He held his
job with honor, and insisted on carrying my heavy backpack up to
my simple room.
There
have been so many instances of seeing the integrity, dignity and
honor within Iraqis; it is impossible to write them all down.
So, I shall mention some of the more profound.
After
a day of visiting the main hospital in Sadr City and talking
with doctors about their lack of medicine, lack of electricity,
lack of supplies and other ongoing difficulties, a translator
named Hamid and I picked up some food and started driving back
to the hotel.
Keep
in mind this was on a day that started with a huge car bomb that
killed 13 people in central Baghdad.
We
saw yet another group of Humvees and soldiers near a fuel
station. As we passed them in the blazing heat, Hamid shook his
head. He was pro-invasion, but now he is doing his best to cope
while watching what is left of his beloved country disintegrate
with each passing day. I told him I think Iraqis are amazing…
for all they have dealt with, and now this, and how do they go
on?
“Each
day we know it is up to God to decide if we will be spared from
a bomb. We Iraqis have no choice but to take it day by day,”
he calmly explained.
That
he does, showing up promptly and working with a professionalism
that is rarely matched anywhere else in the world.
This
same spirit has shown itself even under the most extreme
circumstances.
Each
day the staff went to great lengths to maintain the
place, the service, and their pride. |
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I
interviewed a kind, 55-year-old woman who used to work as an
English teacher. She was detained for four months, in as many
prisons: Samarra, Tikrit, one in Baghdad and of course, Abu
Ghraib. She was never allowed to sleep through a night; she was
interrogated, not given enough food or water, no access to a
lawyer or her family. Verbally and psychologically abused.
But
that isn’t the worst part. Her 70-year-old husband was
detained and beaten to death. That took 7 months.
She
cried as she spoke of him… as were my translator and I.
“I
miss my husband,” she said as she stood up and spoke towards
the room, “I miss him so much.”
She
shook her hands as if to fling water off of them, then held her
chest and cried some more.
“Why
are they doing this to us?” She didn’t understand what was
happening—two of her sons were also detained, her family
completely shattered. “We didn’t do anything wrong,” she
whimpered.
After
a short time my translator walked out towards the car to leave;
it was already too late to be out—well past 10 p.m. She asked
us to please stay for dinner, in the midst of thanking me for my
time, for listening, for writing about it all. I was utterly
speechless.
The
same dignity showed itself at the gates of the infamous Abu
Ghraib torture-infested prison.
Men,
women and crying children congregated at this dire patch of
barren earth, expressing bewilderment and outrage at their
continuing inability to visit or gain information about loved
ones held inside.
Sitting
on the hard-packed dirt in his white dishdasha, his
head-scarf languidly flapping in the dry, hot wind, Lilu Hammed
stared at the high walls of the nearby prison. It was as if he
was attempting to see his 32-year-old son Abbas through the tan
concrete.
He
sat alone, his tired eyes unwaveringly gazing upon the heavily
guarded Abu Ghraib. When my interpreter asked him if he would
speak with us, several seconds passed before Lilu slowly turned
his head to look up at us.
“I
am sitting here on the ground now, waiting for God’s help.”
Lilu
stared at the high walls of Abu Ghraib, as if he was
attempting to see his detained son through the tan
concrete. |
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His
son had been in Abu Ghraib for 6 months following a raid on his
home that produced no weapons. He had never been charged with
anything. Lilu held a crumpled visitation permission slip in his
hand that he had just obtained, which allows for a reunion with
his son on the 18th of August.
Yet
another profound example occurred last April, when I was driving
home past the Abu Hanifa mosque in Al-Aadamiyah, a mostly Sunni
area of Baghdad. Throngs of people were crowded about the
mosque. Small trucks outside were being loaded with bags of
food, boxes of bottled water, and death shrouds for the martyred
people of Fallujah during the heavy fighting there. The people
of Aadamiyah, in solidarity with the people of Fallujah who were
under siege by the US military, were gathering supplies to
attempt to get them inside the city which was sealed off at the
time.
Omar
Khalil, speaking with great conviction, told me, “This is
Islam! We give all of this aid on our own. We are calling for
more trucks, because we already have five lories full of
supplies.”
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Iraqis in Adhamiya donating blood for victims of US aggression throughout Iraq. |
Meanwhile
the loudspeaker from the nearby mosque was giving instructions
as people frantically loaded bags of potatoes, rice, flour, and
other foodstuffs into the trucks. Each time a truck was loaded
another empty one pulled up and began to be filled.
Salam
Khasil, with tears in eyes, told me loudly, “All Muslims have
one heart. We help each other no matter what. We want the
Americans to leave Iraq. It is the right of a people to be free
in their own country. We are all one now—Sunni and Shia!
Kerbala, Najaf, Shu’ala, we will help them all.” He pointed
to what I estimated to be at least a thousand people crowding
towards the mosque and said, “All of these people are coming
to give blood to help their brothers! We will send it to Sadr
City, and to anyone else who needs it!”
I
began walking into the mosque and a man named Khalil pulled me
aside and passionately said, “This is the second Halabja! This
is worse than what Saddam did in Halabja! Where is the freedom?
Saddam did Halabja, but the Americans are doing a greater
Halabja now” (Halabja was the horrendous gassing of the Kurds
by Saddam, estimated at 10,000 deaths).
He
then looked me in the eye and firmly said, “Why are 60
innocent people in Fallujah killed because four Americans were
killed there? If the American Army wants to stay in Iraq, you
must kill all of the Iraqi people!”
Inside
the mosque a huge group of men were yelling, “There is no god
but Allah!” over and over, the powerful chanting echoing
throughout the huge mosque. I held my camera up to film a clip
and my hands shook from the adrenaline. The energy in the mosque
was coursing through me. Women were crying, the men yelling in
solidarity with their embattled countrymen in Fallujah. The last
sentence Khalil told me flashed to mind, and I believed it while
in Abu Hanifa, standing amongst the crowd of shouting men,
thrusting their fists into the air over and over.
“It
is the right of a people to be free in their own
country.” |
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After
this rally, people were pushing their way to the blood bags, and
men sat in small groups while doctors jabbed needles in their
arms. Men furiously pumped their hands while their blood flowed
into the bags on the ground.
Later
that night, the blood of Al-Aadamiyah was trying to make its way
into the veins of bleeding Iraqis in Fallujah, Ramadi, and
elsewhere where it flowed throughout Iraq during that time.
Another
example of the extreme tolerance and dignity of Iraqis is shown
through yet another man dealing with his son being held in Abu
Ghraib.
The
crinkles near his eyes from decades of smiles failed to hide the
sadness of his eyes. His hope and love for America had turned to
a despair he was unable to express.
“I
want to talk to an American general or judge,” said Nihad
Munir. “I will give them my guarantee that my son is innocent.
I will tell them that if he is not, then they can take me.”
His
son, Ayad Nihad Ahmed Munir, was detained from their home during
another of the middle-of-the night home raids the US military is
so fond of conducting in occupied Iraq. That was on September
28, 2003. Ayad remains in Abu Ghraib today, and his father has
not been allowed to visit him, despite trying everything he can
think of to do so.
Of
course, as usual, Ayad, married with three children, wasn’t
charged with anything.
Mr.
Munir carried his small, brown satchel, which holds copies of
paperwork, the fruits of his months of futile attempts to break
down the untouchable barrier that bars him from seeing his son.
He
has visited America. His dream is to return there again someday.
“I’m a 65-year-old man; do you think I’m too much a
dreamer?” he said with a hopeful smile. I told him, “Of
course not… where are we without our dreams?”
I
tried not to cry as I told him that… because in Iraq, for
Iraqis today, for Mr. Munir, this is all he has right now.
“I
had a brother in Michigan who I so wanted to visit in the 70s...
but he died,” he continued while pulling out a copy of his
sons’ passport to show me a handsome photo of the detainee:
“I visited America, I know Americans are very friendly
people.”
His
soft, kind voice hid his anguish. While distraught with the
actions and behavior of the US military in his country, he still
separated this from the populace of the country that produced
it.
Smiling
gently, he added, “See my hope? I still want to go to
America.”
The
talk with Mr. Munir softened the anger I had felt towards
the injustice slammed in my face every day here. |
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But
the brief interlude of dreams dissipated as the reality at hand
set back in. He showed me a form he had filled out from the
Islamic Party—another useless document in getting contact with
his son.
Then
the letter signed by tribal sheikhs that he wrote last January,
when the CPA was granting the release of some prisoners if their
tribes swore to be responsible for any crimes the freed
detainees may commit. Another useless document.
His
despair returned, “We are lost! Our Iraqi lawyers are useless,
because to the American military here, everything is about US
security.”
With
gracious thanks, he shook my hand for making the time to visit
with him. “I am so grateful for you for talking with me about
my son.” His other hand was placed upon mine, which he
continued shaking, “Anything you can do will be most helpful
for us.”
The
talk with Mr. Munir softened the anger I had felt so often
towards the injustice slammed in my face every day here. The
gentleness of his soul, despite his “critical time,” as he
called it, touched the deep sadness that lies beneath the false
exterior of anger that usually covered it.
The
rest of that evening I was sad. I thought of how beneath the
fury of the fighting of Fallujah in April lay a bottomless ocean
of sadness here. Under the bloodshed and fighting that rages in
the south even now, there is unfathomable grief.
Driving
back home with my older translator, I phoned my parents and told
them I loved them. We laughed some, they spoke with my
translator in parental solidarity, and we laughed a little more.
I
hung up the phone and stared at the silhouettes of palm trees,
the stars, the sliver of moon, and breathed deep so as not to
cry… because of Mr. Munir.
“Do
you think I’m too much a dreamer?”
Nagem
Salam
is
an American journalist of Lebanese descent who has worked in
Iraq for a total of four months since the Anglo-American
invasion of spring 2003. His articles focus on Iraqis and how
the occupation of their country affects their daily life.
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