This is Iraq:
The US Occupation Army Raid
The animals will break down the doors if they arent
open in three seconds and then theyll be all over
the garden and house
last time they pushed the door
open on poor Abu H. three houses down and broke his
shoulder
J. was fully changed, and over her
jeans and sweater she was wearing her robe. It was cold.
My aunt had dressed too and she was making her way
upstairs to carry down my three-year-old cousin B. I
dont want him waking up with all the noise and
finding those bastards around him in the dark.
Twenty minutes later, we were all assembled in the living
room. The house was dark except for the warm glow of the
kerosene heater and a small lamp in the corner. We were
all dressed and waiting nervously, wrapped in blankets.
T. and I sat on the ground while my aunt and her husband
sat on the couch, B. wrapped in a blanket between them.
J. was sitting in an armchair across from them. It was
nearly 4 am.
Meanwhile, the noises outside had gotten louder as the
raid got closer. Every once in a while, you could hear
voices calling out for people to open a door or the sharp
banging of a rifle against a door.
Last time they had raided my aunts area, they took away
four men on their street alone. Two of them were students
in their early twenties- one a law student, and the other
an engineering student, and the third man was a
grandfather in his early sixties. There was no
accusation, no problem- they were simply ordered outside,
loaded up into a white pickup truck and driven away with
a group of other men from the area. Their families havent
heard from them since and they visit the morgue almost
daily in anticipation of finding them dead.
There will be no problem, My aunt said
sternly, looking at each of us, thin-lipped. You
will not say anything improper and they will come in,
look around and go. Her eyes lingered on Ammoo S.
He was silent. He had lit a cigarette and was inhaling
deeply. J. said hed begun smoking again a couple of
months ago after having quit for ten years. Are
your papers ready? She asked him, referring to his
identification papers which would be requested. He didnt
answer, but nodded his head silently.
We waited. And waited
I began nodding off and my
dreams were interspersed with troops and cars and hooded
men. I woke to the sound of T. saying, Theyre
almost here
And lifted my head, groggy with
what I thought was at least three hours of sleep. I
squinted down at my watch and noted it was not yet 5 am.
Havent they gotten to us yet? I asked.
Ammoo S. was pacing in the kitchen. I could hear him
coming and going in his slippers, pausing every now and
then in front of the window. My aunt was still on the
couch- she sat with B. in her arms, rocking him gently
and murmuring prayers. J. was doing a last-minute check,
hiding valuables and gathering our handbags into the
living room, They took babas mobile phone
during the last raid- make sure your mobile phones are
with you.
I could feel my heart pounding in my ears and I got
closer to the kerosene heater in an attempt to dispel the
cold that seemed to have permanently taken over my
fingers and toes. T. was trembling, wrapped in her
blanket. I waved her over to the heater but she shook her
head and answered, I.... mmmm
n-n-not
c-c-cold
It came ten minutes later. A big clanging sound on the
garden gate and voices yelling Ifta7u [OPEN UP].
I heard my uncle outside, calling out, Were
opening the gate, were opening
It was
moments and they were inside the house. Suddenly, the
house was filled with strange men, yelling out orders and
stomping into rooms. It was chaotic. We could see
flashing lights in the garden and lights coming from the
hallways. I could hear Ammoo S. talking loudly outside,
telling them his wife and the children were
the only ones in the house. What were they looking for?
Was there something wrong? He asked.
Suddenly, two of them were in the living room. We were
all sitting on the sofa, near my aunt. My cousin B. was
by then awake, eyes wide with fear. They were holding
large lights or torches and one of them
pointed a Klashnikov at us. Is there anyone here
but you and them? One of them barked at my aunt.
No- its only us and my husband outside with
you- you can check the house. T.s hands went
up to block the glaring light of the torch and one of the
men yelled at her to put her hands down, they fell limply
in her lap. I squinted in the strong light and as my
sight adjusted, I noticed they were wearing masks, only
their eyes and mouths showing. I glanced at my cousins
and noted that T. was barely breathing. J. was sitting
perfectly still, eyes focused on nothing in particular, I
vaguely noted that her sweater was on backwards.
One of them stood with the Klashnikov pointed at us, and
the other one began opening cabinets and checking behind
doors. We were silent. The only sounds came from my aunt,
who was praying in a tremulous whisper and little B., who
was sucking away at his thumb, eyes wide with fear. I
could hear the rest of the troops walking around the
house, opening closets, doors and cabinets.
I listened for Ammoo S., hoping to hear him outside but I
could only distinguish the harsh voices of the troops.
The minutes we sat in the living room seemed to last
forever. I didnt know where to look exactly. My
eyes kept wandering to the man with the weapon and yet I
knew staring at him wasnt a good idea. I stared
down at a newspaper at my feet and tried to read the
upside-down headlines. I glanced at J. again- her heart
was beating so hard, the small silver pendant that my
mother had given her just that day was throbbing on her
chest in time to her heartbeat.
Suddenly, someone called out something from outside and
it was over. They began rushing to leave the house,
almost as fast as theyd invaded it. Doors slamming,
lights dimming. We were left in the dark once more, not
daring to move from the sofa we were sitting on,
listening as the men disappeared, leaving only a couple
to stand at our gate.
Wheres baba? J. asked, panicking for a
moment before we heard his slippered feet in the
driveway. Did they take him? Her voice was
getting higher. Ammoo S. finally walked into the house,
looking weary and drained. I could tell his face was pale
even in the relative dark of the house. My aunt sat
sobbing quietly in the living room, T. comforting her.
Houses are no longer sacred
We cant
sleep
We cant live
If you cant be
safe in your own house, where can you be safe? The
animals
the bastards
We found out a few hours later that one of our neighbors,
two houses down, had died. Abu Salih was a man in his
seventies and as the Iraqi mercenaries raided his house,
he had a heart-attack. His grandson couldnt get him
to the hospital on time because the troops wouldnt
let him leave the house until theyd finished with
it. His grandson told us later that day that the Iraqis
were checking the houses, but the American troops had the
area surrounded and secured. It was a coordinated raid.
They took at least a dozen men from my aunts area alone-
their ages between 19 and 40. The street behind us doesnt
have a single house with a male under the age of 50-
lawyers, engineers, students, ordinary laborers- all
hauled away by the security forces of the New
Iraq. The only thing they share in common is the fact
that they come from Sunni families (with the exception of
two who I'm not sure about).
We spent the day putting clothes back into closets,
taking stock of anything missing (a watch, a brass letter
opener, and a walkman), and cleaning dirt and mud off of
carpets. My aunt was fanatic about cleansing and
disinfecting everything saying it was all Dirty,
dirty, dirty
J. has sworn never to celebrate
her birthday again.
Its almost funny- only a month ago, we were
watching a commercial on some Arabic satellite channel-
Arabiya perhaps. They were showing a commercial for Iraqi
security forces and giving a list of numbers Iraqis were
supposed to dial in the case of a terrorist attack
You call THIS number if you need the police to protect
you from burglars or abductors
You call THAT number
if you need the National Guard or special forces to
protect you from terrorists
But
Who do you call to protect you from the New Iraqs
security forces?riverbendblog
Goodbye Allan, In Sorrow for a Good
Friend.....
When Jill Carrol was abducted, her Iraqi
interpreter had been killed. He was shot in cold
blood in Al Adil district earlier this month,
when they took Jill Carroll... They say he didn't
die immediately. It is said he lived long enough
to talk to police and then he died.
I found out very recently that the interpreter
killed was a good friend - Alan, of Alan's
Melody, and I've spent the last two days crying.
Everyone knew him as simply 'Alan', or
"Elin" as it is pronounced in Iraqi
Arabic. Prior to the war, he owned a music shop
in the best area in Baghdad, A'arasat. He sold
some Arabic music and instrumental music, but he
had his regular customers - those westernized
Iraqis who craved foreign music. For those of us
who listened to rock, adult alternative, jazz,
etc. he had very few rivals.
He sold bootleg CDs, tapes and DVDs. His shop
wasn't just a music shop- it was a haven. Some of
my happiest moments were while I was walking out
of that shop carrying CDs and tapes, full of
anticipation for the escape the music provided.
He had just about everything from Abba to Marilyn
Manson. He could provide anything. All you had to
do was go to him with the words,"Alan- I
heard a great song on the radio... you have to
find it!" Andhe'd sit there, patiently,
asking who sang it? You don't know? Ok- was it a
man or a woman? Fine. Do you remember any of the
words?
Chances were that he'd already heard it and even
knew some of the lyrics.
During the sanctions, Iraq was virtually cut off
from the outside world.We had maybe four or five
local tv stations and it was only during the
later years that the internet became more
popular. Alan was one of those links with the
outside world. Walking into Alan's shop was like
walking into a sort of transitional other world.
Whenever you walked into the store, great music
would be blaring from his speakers and he and
Mohammed, the guy who worked in his shop, would
be arguing over who was better, Joe Satriani or
Steve Vai.
He would have the latest Billboard hits posted on
a sheet of paper near the door and he'd have
compiled a few of his own favorites on a
'collection' CD. He also went out of his way to
get recordings of the latest award shows-
Grammys, AMAs, Oscars, etc. You could visit him
twice and know that by the third time, he'd have
memorized your favorites and found music you
might be interested in.
He was an electrical engineer- but his passion
was music. His dream was to be a music producer.
He was always full of scorn for the usual boy
bands - N'Sync, Backstreet Boys, etc. - but he
was always trying to promote an Iraqi boy band he
claimed he'd discovered,"Unknown to No
One". "They're great- wallah they have
potential." He'd say. E. would answer,
"Alan, they're terrible." And Alan,
with his usual Iraqi pride would lecture about
how they were great, simply because they were
Iraqi.
He was a Christian from Basrah and he had a
lovely wife who adored him- F. We would tease him
about how once he was married and had a family,
he'd lose interest in music. It didn't happen.
Conversations with Alan continued to revolve
around Pink Floyd, Jimmy Hendrix, but they began
to include F. his wife, M. his daughter and his
little boy. My heart aches for his family- his
wife and children...
You could walk into the shop and find no one
behind the counter- everyone was in the other
room, playing one version or another of FIFA
soccer on the Play Station. He collected those
old records, or 'vinyls'. The older they were,
the better. While he promoted new musical
technology, he always said that nothing could
beat the soundof a vintage vinyl.
We went to Alan not just to buy music. It always
turned into a social visit. He'd make you sit
down, listen to his latest favorite CD and drink
something. Then he'd tell you the latest gossip-
he knew it all. He knew where all the parties
were, who the best DJs were and who was getting
married or divorced. He knew the local gossip and
the international gossip, but it was never
malicious with Alan. It was always the funny
sort.
The most important thing about Alan was that he
never let you down. Never. Whatever it was that
you wanted, he'd try his hardest to get it. If
you became his friend, that didn't just include
music- he was ready to lend a helping hand to
those in need, whether it was just to give
advice, or listen after a complicated, difficult
week.
After the war, the area he had his shop in
deteriorated. There were car bombs and shootings
and the Badir people took over some of the houses
there. People went to A'arasat less and less
because it was too dangerous. His shop was closed
up more than it was open. He shut it up
permanently after getting death threats and a
hand grenade through his shop window. His car was
carjacked at some point and he was shot at so he
started driving around in his fathers beaten-up
old Toyota Cressida with a picture of Sistani on
his back window, "To ward off the
fanatics..." He winked and grinned.
E. and I would stop by his shop sometimes after
the war, before he shut it down. We went in once
and found that there was no electricity,and no
generator. The shop was dimly lit with some sort
of fuel lampand Alan was sitting behind the
counter, sorting through CDs. He was ecstatic to
see us. There was no way we could listen to music
so he and E. sang through some of their favorite
songs, stumbling upon the lyrics and making
things up along the way. Then we started
listening to various ring tones and swapping the
latest jokes of the day. Before we knew it, two
hours had slipped by and the world outside was
forgotten, an occasional explosion bringing us
back to reality.
It hit me then that it wasn't the music that made
Alan's shop a haven- somewhere to forget problems
and worries- it was Alan himself.
He loved Pink Floyd:
Did you see the frightened ones?
Did you hear the falling bombs?
Did you ever wonder why we
Had to run for shelter when the
Promise of a brave, new world
Unfurled beneath the clear blue sky?
Did you see the frightened ones?
Did you hear the falling bombs?
The flames are all long gone, but the pain
lingers on.
Goodbye, blue sky
Goodbye, blue sky.
Goodbye. Goodbye.
(Goodbye Blue Sky - Pink Floyd)
Goodbye Alan...riverbendblog.blogspot
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