As the plane begins its descent, I prepare for the worst. Shortly before my journey had begun, I had read in Time magazine that the approach to Baghdad International Airport involved a tight, corkscrew dive from high altitude. As the dive began, so the article's author said, people began crying out for God to save them from crashing into the ground. But to my relief, our descent is instead a series of lazy circles, and as the little plane floats down, instead of gripping the armrests and preparing to meet my maker, I peer intently at the flat, rust colored landscape rising up slowly to meet us.
I see the Tigris River winding through the heart of Baghdad, tightly packed rows of squat, brick and plaster buildings overspilling its banks. I think of how this mighty river had been the birthplace of civilization -- how it had flowed past the oldest of those civilizations, Sumer, whose inhabitants had called it the Indigina, or 'swift river' and who had laughed and cried and buried their dead along its fertile shores. Today, bodies of those murdered in Iraq's sectarian and other mindless violence bob to the surface of the Tigris, where they are pulled from its waters by police boats and passers by.
An Iraqi, whom I shall call Ahmed, tells me that these bodies are unusually heavy and that it takes four or five strong men to hoist them from the river. When he told me this, I thought of Stalin's victims, some of whom after being murdered, were buried in mass graves along the banks of rivers where the frigid temperatures eventually entombed them in permafrost. Sixty years later, as the rivers naturally undercut their banks, some of the corpses broke loose and floated free. Those who retrieved them said they were as light as a feather--they had been dessicated and were often well preserved. In the cases when Stalin's men liquidated whole villages, no one was left to remember the dead.
Iraq's victims usually reappear quickly, plunging families into a traumatizing, raw grief. Unlike Stalinist Russia's, Iraq's killers, lacking the coherence and manpower required to erase history, almost always leave someone behind.
As the Tigris disappears behind us, we sink towards the runway. A few minutes later, and with a gentle bump, the little plane touches down and rolls to a stop. I am in Baghdad, Iraq.
I walk out of the airplane and into the blazing sun. Though the airport is sprawling, I see only two other commercial aircraft parked on its tarmac. At the bottom of the passenger ramp stands a handful of men carrying Ak-47s and machine pistols. They look us over intently, then direct us towards the terminal. I had been told that Baghdad Airport is, by Iraq standards, safe. Nevertheless, I walk in a zig-zag towards the terminal entrance, in the hope that a sniper lurking in the flat expanse surrounding the airport, will find me a difficult target.
I enter the airport and walk past more gunslingers. I see that, for its size, the passenger terminal of Baghdad International Airport is virtually deserted. A scattered group of Iraqi and foreign civilians, American soldiers and contractors and security officers appear to be aimlessly milling about. The terminal's clumsy, depressing Soviet-style decor helps create a feeling that I have stumbled into a purgatory. There is weight here. It reinforces my feelings of disconnection.
I pass through customs and sit down to await my escort into Baghdad's International Zone (IZ) or Green Zone, as it is colloquially called. A heavily armed security team is to meet me here and drive me to my destination down the so-called Highway of Death, an eight mile stretch of road leading into the heavily fortified Green Zone where the seat of Iraq's young government toils. I scan the terminal looking for the team, realizing that they have no idea what I look like. No one holds a sign with my name on it and as I grow mildly impatient I begin thinking of other ways to reach my destination. I can think of none which are not without considerable risk.
I borrow a genteel American soldier's phone and call my contact in Baghdad. She tells me to stay put. Within minutes, I am appoached by two members of the team who will escort me. Both are friendly and both exude an air of relaxed confidence. I walk with them toward the armored passenger car we'll travel in. Once there, one of them pulls a Kevlar vest over me and fastens its Velcro straps. It is heavy and bulky and mildly restrictive. I think of the soldiers here who must suffer through wearing one in the hot sun for hours on end, day after day.
(I will not further describe in detail the methods nor the materials my protectors used to keep me safe during the drive into the Green Zone. Others must pass that way.)
After adjusting my Kevlar vest, I clumsily slide into the back seat of the sedan. As we pull away from the curb, I begin making mental preparations in case of disaster.
The sedan swings onto the Highway of Death and the tension level inside it inches up. I know there are basically three ways to be murdered on Iraq's roads. There is the road-side bomber, who plants explosives in the deep night and in the day detonates them with a garage door opener or cell phone. There are the sectarian death squads, common criminals and lone executioners, who after boxing-in a car, will snatch its passengers for ransom or to torture them, or to kill them on the spot. Then there is the car bomber; the religious fanatic who thinks that, at the push of a button, he will reap an eternity of carnal delights under God's approving eye. He prowls the roads here looking for cars that betray their passenger's social status or nationality. When he spots a vehicle he thinks might be carrying government officials or Americans or Europeans, he will floor the accelerator, pull even with his target and then vaporize both it and himself.
It is much safer to travel Iraq's road in a jalopy than in a Mercedes or BMW or new, American-made SUV.
As we traverse the Highway, I spot several vehicles that are perfect targets, boldly highlighted by the sea of rolling wrecks that surround them.
Within thirty minutes we approach one of the main security gates leading into the Green Zone. Heavily armed American soldiers are guarding it. They look tense and focused. There are no smiles. A few months back, a massive car bomb detonated here. Its driver had managed to slip the car through between two other vehicles. I had seen video of the attack. In it, a small, beat-up white sedan rolls up to the gate. A U.S. soldier in combat gear walks to the car's passenger side. He looks into the side window.
His last acts on this earth are to raise his hands as if to say, "no!" and to take two, frantic back- steps before the white car explodes.
After viewing that video a second time, I thought of the terrible whiteness of Melville's whale.
As we pass through the gate and into the Green Zone, I am looking behind us.
Once inside the entrance, my guardians tell me that we are safe. Minutes later, we pull up to the house I will be staying in. I open my door, slide out of the car's cool interior and into an immediate, blowtorch sun.
After extracting myself from the Kevlar vest encasing my upper body, I retrieve my luggage, shake the hands of my jovial British angels and bid them good luck. I introduce myself to the smiling, Fijian gunslingers guarding the entrance door to the house, then walk into the home's quiet interior.
In three days I have hardly slept. Now, there are two things keeping me from finally falling into the arms of Morpheus: the unfamiliarity of my surroundings and a desire to explore them.
I want to know if what I have heard about this place is true.
