November 6, 2007
For the past week, I’ve been traveling through Iraqi Kurdistan — the “other Iraq,” as the region touts itself. It is a semi-autonomous region mostly populated by Kurds. It has its own government, much like a state does in the United States. It flies its own flag and has its own militia.
Folks here are not Arab. They are Kurds, a proud population that speaks its own language and has long been proud of its ethnic identity. Saddam Hussein had oppressed them, even using lethal gas against the people here.
This is a place that reveres the United States and is thankful for the U.S. role in liberating the region during the 1991 U.S.-led war.
Kurdistan is indeed the other Iraq. It is a different world.
Wide avenues were alive with traffic. Police stood at their posts, waving through taxis at intersections — not columns of armored vehicles. Sidewalks teemed with people, who strolled happily along shops and boutiques or sat at sidewalk tables enjoying meals.
There were few blast walls to be seen, particularly in Sulaimaniyah, the region’s second largest city.
The capital of Irbil is touted by the regional president as the New Dubai.
The region is certainly booming. Cranes tower in cities but also in unexpected places — including seemingly desolate places where multi-story buildings are popping up in areas where there are seemingly more sheep than people.
I was up in the Kurdistan region to cover the brewing crisis at the Iraqi-Turkish border, where a rebel Kurdish group, the Kurdistan Workers’ Party, or PKK as it is known by its Kurdish initials, has taken up arms against the Turkish government. (Read stories here and here.)
The United States has been feverishly trying to dissuade Turkey from launching a full-fledged military incursion into Iraqi soil to root out PKK fighters, perhaps as many as 3,500, who use Iraqi soil to train and orchestrate cross-border attacks. (Read the story here.)
Covering the story is a challenge.
I brought along one of our security guys, who speaks Arabic, Kurdish and English. We also have a stringer in Kurdistan, who speaks Arabic and Kurdish, but not English. Our driver, who is usually a teacher, spoke some English.
We attempted numerous times to visit a PKK camp — but were told we would be welcomed when tensions subsided. The closest we got was meeting up with a fighter controlling a smugglers’ trail at the Iraq-Iran border. There is a bit of sympathy for the PKK in these parts — if not for its tactics, but for its goal of Kurdish solidarity. (Read the story here.)
Regional security forces also kept us away from many villages. So we had to find other ways to get to the story.
Kurdistan is the only place of stability in Iraq, and the United States doesn’t want to open a new front of instability in Iraq, where the U.S. military still has its hands full.
Instability wouldn’t be good for the economy. (Read the story here.)
The day before President Bush met with the Turkish prime minister in Washington, the PKK released eight Turkish soldiers it had been holding captive. (Read the story here.)
After the meeting in Washington, signs were hopeful that Bush headed off a major Turkish incursion.
But stay tuned.
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October 25, 2007
The response to one of my earlier posts, headlined “Simply Simpatico,” caught me off guard — further evidence of my naivete when it comes to the blogging world. My modest blog about my experiences in Iraq — that I assumed would only garner interest among family and friends — caused quite a stir.
By the way, this blog was never sanctioned by my employers, The Sacramento Bee and the McClatchy Co. It was meant to be a private blog that chronicled my experiences in Iraq and a way for me to express my personal thoughts. Again, it was meant for friends and family — to save me the trouble of responding to every e-mail I would get. I should have made this blog private — and judging from the response I’ve gotten, I should consider such a move.
Yes, I’m obviously new to blogging. Sometimes I share too much. The blogosphere has reacted and pointed out my folly. Yes, I can be pushy. Arrogant, too. I can also be wrong.
Consider this my apology.
Overwhelmed by the e-mails, many of them vitriolic, I initially edited the post, then blocked further comments. Finally, I took down the site. Unfortunately, my actions were yet another faux pas, I was told; I should have left up the post and created a new one to share my reactions and issue an apology.
Yes, I am getting well-deserved criticism. But surprisingly, not all of the subsequent e-mails I got were vitriolic. Some were thoughtful. A few gave good advice.
There are many fine men and women serving in Iraq. There is no doubt about that. I’ve spoken to quite a few of them in my brief time in Baghdad. They have done their best to help many of us do our jobs. It is an environment that is extremely stressful and challenging.
The soldier at the checkpoint to whom I referred to in my earlier blog was doing his job. That much I do know. I was trying to do mine. In the end, he let me and my security guy in — after rightly taking the necessary steps to verify our identities.
For that I should have been thankful. My blog should not have upbraided the soldier. My personal reflections — ramblings, if you will — about the incident should have been kept private.
Perhaps any future incarnation of this blog should be private, too.
[NOTE: I'm leaving for an assignment, so there will be a delay in putting up new posts. Thanks for your understanding.]
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October 24, 2007
I’ve never met Sahar Issa, one of our local Iraqi journalists. She’s been in New York enjoying some time off and accepting an award from the International Women’s Media Foundation on behalf of six Iraqi women who’ve worked in the Knight Ridder and McClatchy Baghdad bureau. The organization on Tuesday bestowed its Courage in Journalism Award to Issa and her colleagues. Issa continues to work for the McClatchy Baghdad bureau.
Her speech was moving, so moving that The New York Times reprinted it in its entirety as an editorial.
The following is her speech, as posted on the McClatchy Web site:
By Sahar Issa | McClatchy Newspapers
On behalf of the six Iraqi women of McClatchy’s Baghdad Bureau, it is a great honor for me to stand here today.
To me, this award means that my colleagues and I have succeeded in what we set out to do; and that our voices have carried, through war, through death and sorrow, through sleepless nights and fear driven days in an effort to reflect the picture of our country as we see it, and of our people as only we can truly know them.
To be a journalist in violence ridden Iraq today, ladies and gentlemen, is not a matter lightly undertaken. Every path is strewn with danger, every checkpoint, every question a direct threat.
Every interview we conduct may be our last. So much is happening in Iraq. So much that is questionable. So much that we, as journalists, try to fathom and portray to the people who care to know.
In every society there is good and bad. Laws regulate the conduct of the society. My country is now lawless. Innocent blood is shed every day, seemingly without purpose. Hundreds of thousands have been killed for seemingly no reason. It is our responsibility to do our utmost to acquire the answers, to dig them up with our bare hands if we must.
But that knowledge comes at a dear price, for since the war started, four and a half years ago, an average of about one reporter and media assistant killed every week is something we have to live with.
We live double lives. None of our friends or relatives know what we do. My children must lie about my profession. They cannot under any circumstance boast of my accomplishments, and neither can I.
Every morning, as I leave my home, I look back with a heavy heart, for I may not see it again – today may be the day that the eyes of an enemy will see me for what I am, a journalist, rather than the appropriately bewildered elderly lady who goes to look after ailing parents, across the river every day. Not for a moment can I let down my guard.
I smile as I give my children hugs and send them off to school; it’s only after they turn their backs to me that my eyes fill to overflowing with the knowledge that they are just as much at risk as I am.
So why continue? Why not put down my proverbial pen and sit back?
It’s because I’m tired of being branded a terrorist: tired that a human life lost in my country is no loss at all. This is not the future I envision for my children. They are not terrorists, and their lives are not valueless.
I have pledged my life – and much, much more, in an effort to open a window through which the good people in the international community may look in and see us for what we are, ordinary human beings with ordinary aspirations, and not what we have been portrayed to be.
Allow me, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to reach out. Help us to build bridges of understanding and acceptance. Even though the war has cast a dark shadow upon your nation and mine – it is never too late.
I thank my bureau chief and our editors for retaining a high standard of balance and credibility, and I thank you all for being here today.
Good Day.
(I wrote another story on the Turkish-Iraqi border crisis. Read it here.)
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October 23, 2007
(NOTE: This post was previously edited, then removed. By doing so, I was informed, I have violated blog protocol. I have reposted it in its entirety, with the caveat that it was reproduced using a post from another blogger who had preserved my original post.)
Lima is beautiful in the spring, when it’s not too hot, I was told. Machu Pichu is a must see, too.
My visits to the Green Zone are always a joy when I pass through checkpoints manned by Peruvian troops, with whom I have established a rapport. Sure, they are sticklers for rules, but unlike Ugandan troops — who have the warmth of armed robots — the Peruvians are simply simpatico.
They are a friendly group with easy smiles. They’ll chat you up while being frisked — a pad down with benefits. They’ll engage you in conversation once they discover you speak their language.
The experience isn’t nearly the same with other multinational forces. The Ugandan troops are often terse. While not mean, their reticence often makes one feel like one of the many sheep being herded through Baghdad’s many checkpoints.
The Americans, however, are the absolute worst. I had a testy exchange Tuesday with an American soldier at an entry checkpoint into the Green Zone.
Most of my entries into the Green Zone had been by car. I was running late to cover a news conference (because one of my security folks was late for work), and we decided to take a short cut through the Green Zone, instead of driving all the way around to get to the Iraqi foreign minister’s office. We had no trouble getting in. (Read the story here.)
We parked the car, and I headed out of the Green Zone (along with one member of my security staff) to attend the news conference. Getting out is seldom ever a problem.
When the news conference was over, we headed back.
That’s when trouble started.
At the first check point, a pair of Ugandan soldiers asked for identification. We showed our military-issued badges. Unbeknownst to us, we were supposed to be carrying an additional form of ID.
He asked for a passport. I told him I didn’t have it on me. (The advice is to lock up your passport once in Baghdad and never take it out until departing.) He asked for another form of ID, and I replied that I didn’t have anything else.
The American soldier assigned by the U.S. military to oversee this particular checkpoint came over to investigate the problem.
He asked if I had a driver’s license on me. I told him I didn’t have one. He looked incredulous. Why would I need a driver’s license in Baghdad; I wouldn’t be driving, I told him.
He took offense at my response.
Then he looked at the second ID of my companion. It was a badge issued by our newspaper. He said it wouldn’t do. Besides, he asked, what is Knight Ridder?
“I never heard of it,” he said. He probably would have never heard of McClatchy, either. (We use Knight Ridder because it already had a bureau in Baghdad before the chain was bought by the McClatchy Co.)
I explained that it’s one of the largest newspaper companies in the United States. It owns the Miami Herald, The Sacramento Bee, the Kansas City Star.
“I know the Miami Herald, he said. I used to live there. But I never heard of Knight Ridder.” He began to chuckle, pronouncing the company as Knight Rider. Perhaps his chuckles stemmed from memories of the 1980s television show “Night Rider.” He then seemed to mock us.
We couldn’t call for an escort, because he wouldn’t let us switch on our cell phones. (Cell phone batteries need to be removed at most checkpoints.) If we wanted to use our cell phones, we would have to make the far walk beyond the barricades and razor wire. We would have to put ourselves in danger by standing out in the middle of downtown Baghdad where I could become a potential target. (As required, I was wearing my body armour, despite the heat.)
With nothing to lose I decided to get pushy.
I asked him how he could not possibly know that Knight Ridder was one of the country’s largest newspaper chains. I told him that we’re bigger than the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Los Angeles Times.
“I’m from Atlanta. I only know the Journal,” he said.
“I thought you said you also knew the Miami Herald,” I retorted.
“We’re bigger than the Journal,” I replied. “You never heard of Knight Ridder?”
He didn’t want to be embarrassed. He already looked irritated. He asked me if I knew the number of the military’s media office.
“I would if you’d let me switch on my phone,” I snapped. “What’s the use of these media badges if people like you aren’t going to honor them? Is this for nothing? Why don’t you call? That’s your job, isn’t it?” I made it known that I was jotting down his name.
My security man was struggling with a smirk on his face. He knew my plan. I was going to bully my way back into the Green Zone.
The man with the gun glowered as I continued my barrage of protests. The Ugandan soldiers were oblivious to the commotion, despite the growing line behind me.
The American soldier called another soldier on his radio to ask if he had ever heard of “Knight Ridder.”
To my relief, the voice said that, yes, Knight Ridder is one of the country’s biggest newspaper companies, that it owned many of the country’s largest newspapers.
The soldier in front of us explained the situation to his colleague. The voice on the other side suggested that we be let through, that the media office would only instruct him to simply confirm if the pictures on our media badges matched the ones on our shoulders.
When you’ve got nothing to lose, I told my security officer, you do what it takes. He nodded in agreement.
Posted in Iraq 197 Comments »
October 22, 2007
Some of our Iraqi staff were rattled Monday. An Iraqi broadcast journalist working for Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty was apparently abducted on Monday and the corpse of her driver recovered.
I had never met the reporter, even if she worked out of the same hotel as our bureau.
Across the street, an employee of another media organization, which is trying to keep the news quiet, has been missing for four days.
I didn’t know any of this at the time I asked one of our local reporters if he felt comfortable going to Sadr City to do some reporting on a follow up to Sunday’s U.S. raid. (Read my follow-up story here.) He said he was not, that he was advised by some of his sources to stay away. The situation was too volatile.
I didn’t push.
Some of the staff think they could be the next target. Or it could be me. But then, again, we could be letting paranoia get the better of us. In truth, a little paranoia helps keep you on guard.
I’m preparing to leave for the Green Zone for a news conference with Turkish and Iraqi officials over the brewing tensions in Kurdistan. I will have to put on my bulletproof vest and bring along a bit of trust that I can depend on my drivers to get me where I’m going, that they won’t turn their back on me, that they won’t sell me out.
When you’re in a war zone, it’s about wondering who you can trust, who has your back.
————–
It was a challenging day. I knew what I needed to do, but it is difficult to cover a war via telephone. I was looking to capture the drama — or the melodrama, some may accuse — of the aftermath of a U.S. raid that is fomenting resentment in an area that is already a cauldron of anti-American sentiment.
Our local Iraqi staff is an earnest, hardworking group. But sometimes I struggle to apply my standards as an American journalist. I have expressed skepticism over reporting, pushing staff to confirm and verify, and always working to advance the story beyond that of the competition.
When I can, when interview subjects can adequately converse in English, I conduct interviews myself as I did yesterday with a close adviser of Muqtada al-Sadr. Speaking the local tongue would certainly help.
As I become more accustomed to my role and tasks, I will have to shift my strategies. I may, for example, use my local reporters as interpreters while I conduct interviews myself.
Yes, I am a pushy American. So far, my new friends have accommodated my Jekyll-and-Hyde style — laid back one minute and a tad demanding the next.
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October 21, 2007
BAGHDAD, Iraq — Jenan understood the story that was already being composed in my mind. I was after vivid descriptions that could, if warranted, paint a scene of chaos, anger and grief.
During a predawn raid on Sunday, U.S-led forces had descended on Sadr City, a volatile section of Baghdad, in search of the leader of a rogue Shiite militia. At first, the military said it had killed six insurgents and insisted that none of the casualties were civilians.
But Iraqi police had a different story. They said 13 had died, including one woman and three children. Iraqi television showed scenes of carnage and of grief. It showed doctors treating victims, young and old, and mourners surrounding a coffin.
Jenan, a Shiite member of our staff of local reporters, went to work to track down witnesses. She spoke to at least two by telephone. But I pressured her for more. I wanted an interview with a doctor. I wanted quotes from some of the injured, maybe even words that captured the anger and grief of the family of the dead.
She said the best recourse would be to go out to the scene, and that she would do it.
I paused.
She insisted that she knew the neighborhood, that it would be no problem for her. It was a Shiite neighborhood and no harm would befall her. She said she needed to get to the truth amid a clash of information from the U.S. military and local authorities.
She wanted to go to the scene and see for herself. Her instincts were that of every good reporter.
But the reality undermines our quest for truth: Since the start of the war in 2003, at least 119 journalists have died in Iraq, nearly 100 local journalists.
Jenan knows first hand of the consequences. A close friend, an Iraqi reporter for CBS News, was killed five days after being abducted from his home in late August.
Ultimately, it is up to us to decide how far we will take our quest for the truth. In has nothing to do with courage or fear. It’s about a mission.
I told her I would leave it up to her — after she consulted with our office manager and security consultant. In no circumstance would she go alone. She would be accompanied by a driver.
The office manager said he would not stop her, neither would our security adviser — if she felt strongly enough that she would be safe. I told her that if she had even the smallest doubts, I would forbid her to go.
Our security adviser, in a hushed voice, reminded her of her close friend. The memory shook her. She confessed her doubts, that she was not as familiar with the area as she had earlier professed.
The decision was settled, we all agreed: She would not go.
We would have to gather the details by telephone. We would have to write around what we could not get. You can read the story here.
In the end, the military increased the number of dead. The raid, the military said, killed 49 insurgents. The military insisted that none of the casualties were civilians.
In an odd twist, Iraqi police stuck with the same number of dead, although increased the number of injuries. The discrepancy left many questions.
We will ask those questions. And we can rest assured that we will still have Jenan to ask them.
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October 20, 2007
The day started promising. I was up on time, felt refreshed from a long, restful sleep. it was the first time I had more than four hours of shuteye.
It turned out to be another wasted day, another day of frustrations. It was a hellish day of hurrying and waiting.
Saturday was my second attempt at joining troops for an embed southeast of Baghdad, where troops have been trying to quell Shia extremists. By the end of the day, it was my temper and frustration that needed quelling.
We arrived outside Camp Victory a few minutes early, in time for my 7:15 a.m. rendezvous with a public information officer with the U.S. military who had been arranging my embed. The guards at the checkpoint, however, would not let me through without an escort. I was told to wait across the street.
I phoned the PIO who got the guards to allow me into the security screening area staffed by Ugandan soldiers, who are sticklers for procedure — despite the PIO’s efforts to save me the inconvenience of being searched and x-rayed.
When we arrived at the helipad waiting area and reservations center, which is housed under a huge air-conditioned tent, things were already bustling. About a dozen of us were headed to FOB Hammer, a military outpost outside of Baghdad.
The wait wasn’t long before we were told to proceed to the tarmac, where we presumed our copter was waiting.
It hadn’t yet arrived, and the long wait began.
More than a dozen copters came and went. Our copter was on its way, we were told. An hour passed. Then another. We were told that our copter was experiencing a problem, but would soon be on its way. At one point, we were told it was in flight, and the ground crew were perplexed as to why it had not yet arrived.
I called the PIO who had booked me on the flight. He said the copter had already arrived and departed as scheduled, and that the ground crew hadn’t informed us. The ground crew said that wasn’t the case, that mechanical problems had grounded the flight.
Each side stuck to its claim. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking. The PIO told me to stay put. I sensed that the PR folks really wanted to get me with the troops so I could write something glowing about their mission.
My frustrations were welling. I repeatedly called the PIO to get him to explain to me why I’ve been wasting my day at the airport. I did not hide my irritation. My words were terse, some of them concisely kept to four letters.
By 3 p.m., I was absolutely livid. The PIO’s apologies were profuse. I ordered an end to his efforts to get me on an embed. I’d rather return to the hotel, where I could try and salvage the day by rustling up a daily.
My security team, however, was indisposed and could not make the 10-mile trip to the airport, along what is called the Highway of Death.
I was told to see if I could spend the night. The PIO said I could be flown to the media center in the Green Zone, where my security team could pick me up. The flight, however, wouldn’t be until after dark — which meant I could not be picked up by my security team. I would not ask my security team to risk driving through Baghdad at night.
I would have to sleep at the media center, where bunks were available for stranded journalists.
Earlier in the day, I had e-mailed my editor in Washington that the embed was a bust, that I felt as if I had been spinning my wheels in the few days I’ve been in Baghdad. I have had no bylines — although several stories are underway — and we’ve been missing important stories.
But he told me to relax. Everyday I’m here, he said, I will learn something.
Posted in Iraq 4 Comments »
October 19, 2007
It isn’t everyday the publisher of my newspaper convenes a meeting in the newsroom. So when I read the e-mail on my company account about one of those meetings yesterday, my interest was piqued. I sensed something big was happening.
I began e-mailing colleagues about what possible news would be dropped on us. Was the publisher making the trip downstairs to inform us of layoffs, buyouts or some other economic calamity that is befalling our paper and the rest of journalism?
Thanks to the Internet, I never feel that far from home, even if I’m halfway around the world. My fingers raced over my laptop keyboard.
I wanted news.
What I got was a bombshell: My paper’s executive editor, Rick Rodriguez, had resigned because of differences with his boss, our publisher.
It was devastating news. Rodriguez was responsible for hiring me at The Bee — almost on the spot — nearly two years ago. Just two months ago, I stepped into his office to tell him that I had recommitted myself to journalism, thanking him for his continued support and interest in my career. He knew I was contemplating leaving journalism.
That heart-to-heart in August, made my trip to Baghdad possible. Within days of expressing my interest in covering the war, he had secured the opportunity for me.
As I bounded out the door on my final day at The Bee, he wished me well. I wish him the same.
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October 18, 2007
BAGHDAD, Iraq – I awoke from an hour’s slumber at 5 a.m. to prepare to join U.S. troops southeast of the country’s capital, in one of Iraq’s so-called buffer zones. I wiped away the crust from my lower eyelids and dragged myself into the shower.
I dressed, still bleary eyed. We were supposed to be out the door by 5:30 a.m. to make a 6 a.m. rendezvous with a military copter in the Green Zone.
I attended to last-minute details, and hastily put on my bulletproof vest. Whenever leaving the heavily guarded hotel compound, we are always to wear our vests.
We bounded out in the darkness. Our driver used the light from his cell phone to inspect the undercarriage of our armored Mercedes. Our chase car followed as we drove through a maze lined with concrete barricades and rifles.
We thought 30 minutes would be enough time to make it to the Green Zone. When we approached the Fourth of July Bridge, the span that separates the Green Zone from bomb-devastated neighborhoods, we hit the morning’s first roadblock.
The private keeping watch over the bridge said the span would not open until 7 a.m. He directed us to another route, requiring us to drive by shops and parked cars, any of which could be laden with explosives.
Our alternate route, we quickly learned, would also remain closed until 7 a.m.
The media officer’s voice was thick and groggy when I roused him from bed with a phone call. My trip would have to be rescheduled. The copter and crew who were to shuttle me to my destination, of which the specific location was still unknown to me, would have to depart without me.
Few things are seldom easy in Iraq. Careful planning can be undone by the smallest of oversights.
Unbeknownst to my security officer, Kevin, and the military media officer who helped arrange my embed, the rules of entry into the Green Zone had changed. Military personnel could come and go 24/7, but civilian traffic was now prohibited to mostly daylight hours.
Certainly, the botched plans were an inconvenience. In a war zone, oversights could lead to more than mere inconvenience. There were four lives out on the road that morning – mine and those of my security officer and two drivers. Who knows what else was out there.
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October 18, 2007
BAGHDAD, Iraq – The man with the gun placed his fingers to the corners of his eyes and stretched them apart as another soldier inspected my U.S. passport.
“Chino,” said the first soldier.
“No,” I replied. “Yo soy Filipino.”
The second soldier chuckled as he listened to the playful dialogue.
“No, Chino,” the first soldier insisted with a laugh, again using his fingers to use his own face as a caricature.
“No soy Chino,” I reiterated.
“Tu, eres Mexicano?” I asked, turning the tables on him. I knew he was from Peru, as were the dozens of troops manning the entry into the Green Zone’s civic center, where I was to apply for my media credentials at the Combined Press Information Center run by the U.S. military.
The second soldier smiled appreciatively, mocking his comrade. He shook my hand. The first soldier motioned me to approach. He extended his hand for a shake and I accepted it gladly.
At several other checkpoints, I bantered freely with the Peruvian soldiers, who were spectacularly polite.
Standing in one line was a group of men who I was confident were of Filipino descent. Indeed they were. They were in Iraq as contract workers. I told one “kumusta” – hello – as he passed. He replied in Tagalog. I asked from where in the Philippines he was. I learned that his native language was Ilocano, like mine.
We conversed for a while, then went our separate ways when the security process was over.
The visit to the Green Zone was a mostly pleasant one. The trip, which began with the ordeal of putting on a bulletproof vest and going through ominous bombed-out streets, lifted my earlier jitters.
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I'm a newspaper reporter for The Sacramento Bee, where I write about anything and everything -- from wayward whales, forest fires, the military and anything that can be topped with a byline. My current assignment: a tour of duty in Iraq for McClatchy Newspapers.
