BAGHDAD — During the 1980s a thirteen-ton armored Winnebago
would have been more likely to be the punch line to a scene
featuring obsessive weapons aficionado Eugene Tackleberry in any
one of the Police Academy movies than a reality. It
becomes considerably less humorous or fanciful, however, when
you’re about to board one to travel from Baghdad International
Airport to the International Zone (formerly the Green Zone) on a
road that has alternately been described as “ambush alley” and “the
road of death.”
The Rhino leaves in the dead of night. The departure time
changes daily and remains undisclosed until shortly before rolling
out. Hours beforehand, a motley crew of reporters, defense
contractors, soldiers, embassy employees and a slew of Baghdadis
who work on base gather and wait either reading or watching the
Pentagon Channel. One of the “simple rules” of the waiting area is
“no sleeping on the furniture,” a rule which, after a few hours and
a television program on the benefits of washing one’s hands, became
increasingly less simple to follow.
Eventually an officer assembled that evening’s riders for an
operational briefing. We’re instructed to turn off all our
electronic devices, especially cell phones, any of which can
trigger Improvised Explosive Devices buried along the road. We’re
told in very specific terms that failure to do so could wind up
killing all of us. I scan the faces of my fellow travelers and hope
they pay more attention to this request than the average theater
full of moviegoers.
The call to load up finally comes and bleary-eyed we accept it
gladly. Defense contractors have their game faces on and are
cracking jokes left and right. Everyone else is laughing nervously
or is silent or is making petty small talk. Everyone wants to looks
so brave. We avoid the real issues at hand because…Well, because
what’s the point? Once on the Rhino it’s out of your hands. I
imagine a lot of passengers are silently repeating the same mantra
I am in my own head: Attacks are down 70 percent on the airport
road. Attacks are down 70 percent on the airport road. The
Rhino’s job is to protect us from that last 30 percent. The
knowledge that “perfect” remains unperfected in this world weighs
heavily, however.
AHEAD OF THE RHINO the night rolls out with an intense durability
usually found in rural areas, giving no indication that a city with
a population of more than five million lies not far ahead. Through
the ultra-reinforced window I can see the gunner of the Humvee
leading the convoy swiveling quickly back and forth atop his
vehicle, searching for last minute threats, exposing himself to
those threats with a brazen fortitude that is difficult to imagine.
Sometimes a small spotlight tracks potential targets, giving a
glimpse of the gnarled underbrush from whence so many terrible
things can spring.
Suddenly the Rhino stops, leaning slightly as it rests in what
for it must be a minor crevasse, but would likely break the axle of
a car. Even in one of the most heavily armored vehicles known to
man, surrounded by military escorts, fear begins to set in.
One beat passes. Two beats. Ahead of us the Humvee gunner drops
into his vehicle and the top slams closed. The lights all go out.
Three beats, four beats. The Rhino driver tosses his ball cap on
the dashboard and grabs his helmet. The armed guards grip their
tricked out M-16s all the more tightly. Four beats, five beats.
Silence descends and for the next ten minutes a tension grows like
a fast moving fungus in a Petri dish, uglier by the moment.
Somewhere behind me a quiet prayer is recited. I close my eyes and
think of my wife and dog studying law together on the couch, his
paw on her huge tax law tome. We’re waiting for something that
never comes. The lights go back up and the convoy rumbles back to
life.
I breathe a sigh of relief. The contractors are joking again. A
twenty-something girl starts loudly reminiscing about her college
days. All is back to normal. Then I notice that the look on the
faces of the Iraqis, unchanging through the short ordeal, resigned
to whatever was to come, and guilt burns in my cheeks. Most of
these men are likely headed to much more dangerous destinations
than I, homes in suburbs of Baghdad that may or may not be out of
the line of fire on any given day. And unlike me, they cannot leave
the theater of battle anytime they choose.
At that moment the weight of just how unfair and cruel this
world is weighs upon me more heavily than my 40 pounds of body
armor. One of the Iraqis looked over at me and smiled a smile so
brief that its authenticity could not be questioned. I wondered:
How could this man who life had dealt such a dire, terrible hand
show such warmth toward me, a tourist in his misery; an American
civilian, who hit the jackpot the day I was born. History has
played upon my life with the light brushes of a fortuitous feather.
For Iraqis, it has been more like a ball-peen hammer.
THE RHINO PULLS INTO ITS staging area in the International Zone.
It’s suddenly chaos as Army men order all of the passengers to
unload the huge baggage truck that followed us. For some reason my
fellow travelers seem surprised the operation doesn’t run as
smoothly as American Airlines and the shouting doesn’t do much to
streamline the process. Soon enough, though, the bags are lined up
and we’re herded into a large room to wait while dogs sniff our
bags for explosives.
Statistically, it’s probably no surprise that I have survived
the journey. But secretly, in my heart of hearts, I feel lucky,
however irrational that may be.
As I cued up for a bottle of water, I got knocked around a bit.
It need not be sugar-coated. Many of the Iraqis I have met so far
have been distant or rude. But more than a few have shown
extraordinary kindness, as well. I caught the eye of the man who
smiled at me on the Rhino, and he smiled again, more broadly this
time, as he became more comfortable with me.
The dogs finish their job. I wait for my escort. The Iraqi gets
on the bus. I’d like to think we, or two others similar to us,
might one day soon be able to meet again on more equitable and
pleasant terms. But the road seems far, far too long sometimes.
Let’s hope this week is another step toward an Iraq of equal rights
and prosperity, because, aside from any political disagreements in
our affluent homeland, the suffering here is real.
