By Sheila Provencher
Electronic Iraq, 01 November 2005.
We sat in Musa's* living room in the Palestinian compound in Baghdad. I had
been here several times before, always to hear a sad story or to meet a sick
Palestinian child who had difficulty getting treatment at Iraqi hospitals
because of his nationality. A few months ago, three brothers in this
community were detained by Iraqi commando groups, tortured, and forced to
confess to crimes they did not commit. The confessions were aired on a
popular Iraqi TV show called "Terrorism in the Grip of Justice," in which
often bruised men, before being put on trial, describe the terrorist acts
they have allegedly committed.
When am I? Wasn't the fall of Saddam's regime supposed to signal the end of
state-sponsored torture?
Another time, Musa told us about a relative of his who was detained by Iraqi
forces and whose dead body turned up later, marked by burns, drill holes,
and evidence of torture by electricity. "I cried so severely that day," Musa
said. "And this could happen to so many families. I felt like I was a cup of
water, overflowing, and I decided to do something to help these families."
He began interviewing people in the community who had lost relatives to the
Iraqi security forces. One was an elderly widow whose husband was detained,
tortured, and killed. Musa also collected statements from two hundred
Palestinian families, asking them to write on the backs of their
food-rations cards to prove that the statements were legitimate. The
statements ask the UN for help in finding refuge in other countries.
Musa described their plans. "We hope to travel with about seventy families
to the Syrian border," he said. "I made contact with the UN in Syria, and if
we can get to the border, maybe they can help us gain entry."
Then came the invitation. "We want CPT to come with us, to help us get
through the Iraqi checkpoints," he said. "If the Iraqi National Guard (ING)
soldiers see a busload of Palestinians, they will detain us. But if they see
a foreign human-rights group with us, they will let us pass."
What to do? The road to Syria, according to our Iraqi colleagues, was
fraught with danger. "It is lawless," said one translator. Bandits, thieves,
maybe terrorists have free reign. But this is what CPT is
about--accompanying people, especially when our foreigner status allows us
to "get in the way" of violence and provide some measure of safety.
"We will go with you or without you," Musa said. But by then we all wanted
to go.
It took some days of decision-making, but in the end we decided to send
three CPTers on the bus. I felt afraid. Here I thought I might get out of
this country alive, and now I might not. But I knew, deep inside, that these
people were my brothers and sisters. If they were going to take the risk,
then I wanted to be with them.
We talked about various possibilities with Musa and the people. Our
foreigner status might help them get through the ING checkpoints, but if the
bus was attacked by bandits in the desert, our foreigner status could be a
huge liability.
"We will be responsible for each other," said Musa. "You can help us get
through the checkpoints until we reach Ramadi. After that, if there is
trouble on the road, we will protect you with our bodies as human shields."
And so our family prepared to travel.
Exodus
In the wee hours of October 4, I heard the "clang clang clang!" of someone
walking the streets, beating a metal drum to call people to eat the pre-dawn
meal. It was the first day of Ramadan, the beginning of the month-long fast
for the world's Muslims. I, Maxine, Bob, Beth, and Tom had slept at Musa's
house, to be ready to set out first thing in the morning.
The night before, we had learned that many of the families had opted out of
the journey. The Palestinian ambassador had told Musa that if the bus
traveled, he would call the Iraqi National Guard (ING) to stop it. Most of
the families were afraid. I felt afraid too, but we had promised, and we
decided to go through with the plan as long as any families wanted to take
the risk.
For the first time in months, I was dressed like a foreigner--blue jeans,
long shirt, and bright red CPT hat. We hoped that when the ING saw
foreigners, they would let us through. When I got on the bus, the first
thing I realized was that the families included several small children and a
grandmother.
There was Mustafa and Noor, a young couple newly married. Omar and Huda held
their one-year-old baby, Hussain, the fattest little one I had ever seen!
Hajia, Huda's elderly mother, accompanied them. Sitting across the aisle was
Mohammed and Amira and their two children: Ali, age 13, and Do'a, age 8. The
largest family included the children of Idrees and his wife, Samia: Rivkeh,
13, Alaa', 12, Isam, 8, and little Emir, age 1. Three single men, including
Musa, Abdullah, and Ahmed, made the group one large "family" of 19 refugees.
I and Beth and Tom joined them with our young Palestinian translator
Ibrahim, as well as Sami, an Iraqi American and member of Muslim Peacemaker
Teams.
We waited for an hour before the bus pulled out into Baghdad traffic. It was
tense. Would we even get out of the city? One half-hour later, at the
checkpoint on the outskirts of Abu Ghraib village, we got the answer. An ING
soldier ordered the bus to pull over. When the door opened, he asked for the
passports of everyone on the bus. "What should we do?" I asked Ibrahim.
"I don't know!" he replied, afraid that if the soldier knew they were
Palestinians, he would detain them. Sami was too far away to translate. I
don't know how I did it, but I stood in the bus's door, showed my U.S.
passport to the soldier, and said in Arabic, "I'm part of a human-rights
organization. We are with these people, and we know them. They are good
people, there is no problem." He looked at the passport for a minute, then
nodded and waved us on.
The rest of the journey was like a dream. As we passed Fallujah, Sami called
a sheikh we know there and told him about the trip. He wished us a blessed
Ramadan and asked us to visit Fallujah again soon. After Ramadi, we
foreigners put on Muslim dress and blended among the families. Little Do'a
sat next to me and chattered away in Arabic, most of which I could not
understand. Baby Hussain stuck his tongue out at anyone who made faces at
him.
Musa, who is an artist, sat in the back of the bus with his sketchpad. He
showed me the drawing later: a human being with one eye open and one eye
closed, mouth gagged, hands and feet tied and chained to the ground. "This
represents Palestinians in Iraq," he said. "They are trapped, they cannot
move or speak. And some of them are asleep, not willing to try to change
their situation. But some are waking up, that is why one of the eyes is
open."
Some of those who woke up have chosen to seek refuge beyond the warzone. It
is too soon to tell if this exodus will reach a promised land. It is too
soon to tell when the sojourn in the desert will end.
What Did You Bring?
When we reached the Iraqi border, we met with an immigration official,
because some of the Palestinians did not have proper travel documents. "I
can't help you," he said.
Sami took him aside and told him about Muslim Peacemaker Teams. "I have an
I.D. card here," Sami said. "It shows that I belong to a humanitarian
organization. You do not have such an I.D. card, but this does not mean that
you do not have a heart for humanity."
"OK, I will do what I can," said the official. "But I cannot promise that
the Syrians will help you on their side of the border." It was like magic:
instant brotherhood. Musa kissed him on the cheek, a traditional gesture of
friendship in the Middle East.
At the Syrian border, the reception was cold. The immigration officer simply
could not grasp what three Americans, nineteen Palestinians, a translator,
and an Iraqi were doing in his office. "This is a hoax!" he declared,
sweeping the Palestinians' documents from his desk. "Maybe we would let you
in as a humanitarian organization," he addressed those of us from Christian
Peacemaker Teams, "if you brought us something useful like medicine or food
or supplies. But you bring us this??!!"
I wish that official knew what treasures we had brought. There was Samia and
Idrees and their four children, and the story of why they took this drastic
step. "We've been harassed in Iraq," Samia told me the next day. "One
morning at 3 a.m., Iraqi soldiers barged into the house, looking for someone
named Saddam. They dragged my husband half-dressed out of the house. They
pointed a gun at my daughter's head. They began shooting at the house. From
time to time, they come back. This has happened more than three or four
times. Life for us is too difficult. Sometimes we only have enough food for
breakfast." Their littlest one, one-year-old Emir, had diarrhea on the trip
from Baghdad. I watched as his father mixed together a salt solution to
prevent dehydration and spooned it gently into the baby's mouth.
There was Mustafa and Noor, the young married couple newly in love. "Every
time there is a bomb, the authorities blame the Palestinians," said
Mohammed. "There are checkpoints, and if I show my I.D. which says I am
Palestinian, they could arrest me. One of my friends was arrested following
an explosion, and they released him after forty days because he had done
nothing. He was hurt while he was detained--his leg is paralyzed now.
"Also, residency is a problem. I was born in this country, but I have to
renew my residency every two months. It takes all day, and the office is a
dangerous place; there have been attacks there. If we do not get into Syria,
I will stay here [in no man's land] and never go back," he said. "I left my
job. We left our house. We left everything."
There was Musa, the young man who led the group. "My one aim and purpose is
to save this people," he said. "Most of the people who have risked this are
very poor. They are counting on us for a solution."
Courage. I wish that the Syrian official had realized the treasure present
in this community.
As it was, he banished us all back to Iraq. But we went outside and camped
on the sidewalk, in no man's land, for the night. All I had was a sheet, but
Noor gave me a sleeping pad, and Musa insisted on giving me a blanket. I
slept with the women in a flatbed truck, open to the stars.
In the desert, the stars are so bright you can see the Milky Way.
Borderlands
After a night under the stars, the hard reality of life on the sidewalk of a
border crossing hit us all too soon. Desert in all directions, by 8:15 a.m.
we were already beginning to bake in the sun. A truck driver took note of
the women and children and moved his truck so that it cast a swath of shade
over the 50 meters of sidewalk we occupied. The babies gurgled. More trucks
roared past, shrieking brakes and horns. The smell of tar and gasoline hung
in the air. We waited on the sidewalk, bags strewn around, to see what would
happen next.
My Christian Peacemaker Teams colleague Beth and I used the time to
interview more of our fellow travelers. Abdullah, 44, with prematurely white
hair, calm eyes, and a prominent nose carried himself like a dignified
general despite slight paralysis from a shrapnel injury he suffered during
the bombings of the first Gulf War. One of the few single men in the group,
he told us that he had spent the entire past year within the Palestinian
compound in Baghdad, afraid to leave his neighborhood for fear of getting
stopped and detained by the Iraqi National Guard (ING).
"I have seen the raids, the torture, and the detentions; and I was afraid it
could happen to me," he said. "I saw one Palestinian man who has
psychological problems walking in the compound one day. The ING captured
him, put a bag over his head, and brought him to the middle of the compound,
where they beat him for 15 minutes in front of everyone. They beat him with
their hands, boots, and rifle butts. The people did nothing, because the ING
were too many and they have guns and we don't [it is illegal for
Palestinians in Iraq to own guns]. If we resist, the first people to get
hurt will be the women and children.
"If I cannot get into Syria, I'll stay here on the border. I don't even need
to get into Syria specifically; I just want a solution. I want the United
Nations to take care of us." [UNRWA, the United Nations office that is
charged with caring for Palestinian refugees worldwide, has not been in Iraq
since the UN headquarters was bombed two years ago.]
In between interviews, we actually did take calls from various UN offices.
The UNHCR (United Nations High Commission for Refugees) office in Syria
called most often. They were especially worried about the children and said
that they would try to provide material aid soon but that they could not
help us gain entry into Syria.
In the midst of all this, a Syrian immigration officer approached. Oh no.
They know we did not go back to Iraq. What now? By some miracle, perhaps
because we internationals were present, perhaps because the UN knew about
us, the Syrian officials did not deport us back to the Iraqi border.
Instead, they moved us into a small stone hut, about 10 meters x 7 meters,
next to a guardhouse at the border's gate. Its window looked out onto the
raw desert.
That was our home for the next two days. The men slept outside, as there was
barely enough room for the five women, seven children, me, and Beth to lie
down. I slept scrunched up in the fetal position every night, the stone
floor softened only by the thin pad that Noor insisted I use. One morning at
6:00 a.m., a truck roared by so loudly that I was convinced the men had been
run over. The women and children jolted upright as if there had been an
explosion, which, I am sure, they thought there had been. The men were fine.
But the constant cacophony of horns, brakes, swirling dust, and shouts made
Tom comment one evening, "I think Hell must sound like a truck stop."
We prayed and waited for the UN and for tents. Never did I yearn more for
the readings from Scripture to come true:
"God found them in a wilderness,
A wasteland of howling desert.
God shielded them and cared for them,
Guarding them as the apple of his eye." (Deut 32:10).
Citation: Sheila Provencher. "Preparing for Exodus," Electronic Iraq, 01 November 2005.
Original URL: http://electroniciraq.net/news/2190.shtml