Death of a Nation?

Sadr City piece in WT

Here's a Pulitzer-sponsored piece from Sunday's Washington Times.

Leaving by land

This wasn't the best trip for blogging, since it was much easier to work than it was last year. (Less time locked in hotel means less time for blogging.) On the bright side, we have about 50 hours of video to sort through and edit.

               

All the rooms are full at the Bourj Babel Hotel outside of Basra. Every guest is there to visit a family member inside of the US detention facility at Bucca.

At 3:30 AM minivans take them out into the the desert where they wait at the first gate until it opens at 7 AM.

There is no electricity and the town is dark. Oil flares light the sky. Bucca burns on the desert floor like an alien city.

Our driver to Basra was playing this song on the trip.

The Hospitality of Thieves

Today, the newspapers plant their flags on a mountain of corpses and a city of walls.

She empties her lungs.
Capillaries blossom red. Color leaks back into lips.
They move, but our ears are still ringing.
Brace against the door frame for a secondary blast
and pray that it never comes.

For five years, we let the asphalt burn our feet,
breathed in the smell of sewage and blood,
and waited for
     a spring full of tulips,
     a black shirt stained with salt,
     a red kaffeiya and coal black eyes. . .

In the lobby, he smiles while his hands fidget with the room keys
'When I saw him bleeding from his chest,
I swear I forgot how to speak - in Arabic and in English. . .
my only son. . . I am an old man now. . . he was all I had.'

'They own the land, and now we are their guests on it.'

...

Today, on the edge of Amara.
Flies swarm around the desk.
He buckles his belt.
Prison tattoos curl around his wrist and a shadow clouds his forehead.

Yesterday, on the edge of Falluja.
The same room with the same old men.
Nicotine teeth, gold watches and pearl handled revolvers.

It is, at least, a safe place to sleep.

After five years, we have lost even this - even the clarity of death.
Nothing left but the hospitality of thieves.

KPFA morning show

I was on KPFA's morning show yesterday talking about the situation in Baghdad. Listen here.

Press TV interview

You can watch my recent interview with Press TV (the Iranian government-owned English language satellite channel) here.

Interestingly, HR 1308, proposed in June, would make Press a terrorist organization.

Iraqi Army in Sadr City Prayer Space

The Iraqi Army built a base in the outdoor space where 7,000 Sadr City residents pray every Friday.
This Friday, they posted snipers on rooftops and checkpoints around the mosque.
The Jeish al Mehdi tried to keep worshipers from confronting the soldiers.

Winning the war?

The most amazing thing to me on this trip has been the ability to visit places I haven't been able to go since 2006, and in some cases, since 2005. It stirs memories, good and bad, but the most striking things are the physical changes (and in some cases, lack thereof) in Baghdad as the war drags on through its fifth year.

Anything is better than civil war

A hot summer, even for Baghdad.
The Tigris drops. Sea grass under the bridges.
'Are you a river?' asked Al-Sayyab, 'or a forest of tears?'

They only found 83 bodies last week.

Rebar and concrete husks punched through by rockets.
Facades wrapped around hot air and broken furniture.
A hundred miles of concrete, and the wooden stock, warn smooth under his hand.

Exhale, and count the beats against his wrist.
Once more before we die - a lungful of Anbar's fine dust, and a mouthful of Tigris water. . .
'If I could, I would drink the whole river.'

16 buried in shallow graves
40 ripped apart by car bombs
18 in suicide attacks
9 by small arms fire

These years taught us calculations we never should have made:

A dictatorship is better than an occupation, but anything, anything is better than civil war.

Amman-Baghdad

The buses have all gone. We are left alone with the oil stained pavement and the taste of cardamom.

Amman - when will you deserve your pale white stone, your thin air and your two million refugees?

Mercenaries grow old here, skin hangs to muscle and bone. Oily stares that hope for nothing.

Our black wing passes over the crescent moon. We dive into the darkness of Baghdad.