River: One year after the US takeover - April 9, Iraqi 'National Day' or Occupation Day

One Year Later - April 9, 2004
Occupation Day
April 9, 2004

Today, the day the Iraqi Puppets hail "National Day", will mark the day of the "Falloojeh Massacre"… Bremer has called for a truce and ceasefire in Falloojeh very recently and claimed that the bombing will stop, but the bombing continues as I write this. Over 300 are dead in Falloojeh and they have taken to burying the dead in the town football field because they aren't allowed near the cemetery. The bodies are decomposing in the heat and the people are struggling to bury them as quickly as they arrive. The football field that once supported running, youthful feet and cheering fans has turned into a mass grave holding men, women and children.

The people in Falloojeh have been trying to get the women and children out of the town for the last 48 hours but all the roads out of the city are closed by the Americans and refugees are being shot at and bombed on a regular basis… we're watching the television and crying. The hospital is overflowing with victims… those who have lost arms and legs… those who have lost loved ones. There isn't enough medicine or bandages… what are the Americans doing?! This is collective punishment … is this the solution to the chaos we're living in? Is this the 'hearts and minds' part of the campaign?

A convoy carrying food, medication, blood and doctors left for Falloojeh yesterday, hoping to get in and help the people in there. Some people from our neighborhood were gathering bags of flour and rice to take into the town. E. and I rummaged the house from top to bottom and came up with a big sack of flour, a couple of smaller bags of rice, a few kilos of assorted dry lentil, chickpeas, etc. We were really hoping the trucks could get through to help out in the city. Unfortunately, I just spoke with an Iraqi doctor who told me that the whole convoy was denied entry... it seems that now they are trying to get the women and children out or at least the very sick and wounded.

The south isn't much better… the casualties are rising and there's looting and chaos. There's an almost palpable anger in Baghdad. The faces are grim and sad all at once and there's a feeling of helplessness that can't be described in words. It's like being held under water and struggling for the unattainable surface- seeing all this destruction and devastation.

Firdaws Square, the place where the statue was brought down, is off-limits because the Americans fear angry mobs and demonstrations… but it doesn't matter because people are sticking to their homes. The kids haven't been to school for several days now and even the universities are empty. The situation in Baghdad feels very unstable and the men in the neighborhood are talking of a neighborhood watch again- just like the early days of occupation.

Where are the useless Governing Council? Why isn't anyone condemning the killings in the south and in Falloojeh?! Why aren't they sitting down that fool Bremer and telling him that this is wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong??? If one of them were half a man or even half a human, they would threaten to resign their posts if there isn't an immediate ceasefire… the people are enraged. This latest situation proves that they aren't Iraqi- they aren't here for the welfare of the Iraqi people.

The American and European news stations don't show the dying Iraqis… they don't show the women and children bandaged and bleeding- the mother looking for some sign of her son in the middle of a puddle of blood and dismembered arms and legs… they don't show you the hospitals overflowing with the dead and dying because they don't want to hurt American feelings… but people *should* see it. You should see the price of your war and occupation- it's unfair that the Americans are fighting a war thousands of kilometers from home. They get their dead in neat, tidy caskets draped with a flag and we have to gather and scrape our dead off of the floors and hope the American shrapnel and bullets left enough to make a definite identification…

One year later, and Bush has achieved what he wanted- this day will go down in history and in the memory of all Iraqis as one of the bloodiest days ever...

Occupation Day - April 9, 2003
The last few days, I've been sorely trying to avoid a trip down memory lane. I flip the channel every time they show shots of Baghdad up in flames, I turn off the radio as they begin to talk about the first few days of occupation, and I quietly leave the room as family members begin, "Remember how…" No, I don't *want* to remember some of the worst days of my life. I wish there was some way one could selectively delete certain memories as one does files on a computer… however, that's impossible.

Today, I'm letting my mind wander back to last April quite freely. April 9, 2003 in particular. The day our darling Puppet Council has chosen to represent our 'National Day'… the day the occupation became not a possibility, but a definite reality.

The day began with heavy bombing. I remember waking up at 5 a.m. to a huge explosion. The hair almost stood on my head. We were all sleeping in the living room because the drapes were heavy and offered some small security against shattering glass. E. instantly jumped up and ran to make sure the Klashnikov was loaded properly and I tried to cover my cousin's children better with the heavy blankets. The weather was already warm, but the blankets would protect the kids against glass. Their older daughter was, luckily, still sound asleep- lost in a dream or nightmare. The younger one lay in the semi-dark, with eyes wide open. I sensed her trying to read my face for some small reassurance… I smiled tightly, "Go back to sleep…"

After a few more colossal explosions, we all knew sleep would be useless. It was still too early for breakfast and no one was in the mood anyway. My mother and I got up to check the bags we had packed, and waiting, by the door. We had packed the bags during the first few days of war… they contained some sturdy clothes, bottles of water, important documents (like birth certificates and ID papers), and some spare money. They were to remain by the door in case the ceiling came crashing down or the American tanks came plowing through the neighborhood. In either case, we were given specific instructions to run for the door and take out the bags, "Don't wait for anyone- just run and take the bags with you…" came the orders.

Our area was one of the more volatile areas. We had helicopters hovering above, fighter planes and explosions. An area just across the main street had been invaded by tanks and we could hear the gun shots and tanks all night. My mother stood, unsure, at the window, trying to see the street. Were we supposed to evacuate? Were we supposed to stay in the house and wait? What was going to happen? E. and my cousin volunteered to ask the neighbors their plans.

They came back 5 minutes later. E. was pale and my cousin looked grim. Everyone on our street was in the same quandary- what was to be done? E. said that while there were a few men in the streets in our immediate area, the rest of Baghdad seemed almost empty. We negotiated leaving the house and heading for my uncle's home on the other side of Baghdad, but my cousin said that that would be impossible- the roads were all blocked, the bridges were cut off by American tanks and even if we were lucky enough to get anywhere near my uncle's area, we risked being shot by a tank or helicopter. No, we would wait it out at home.

My cousin's wife was wide awake by then. She sat in the middle of her two children and held them close on either side. She hadn't spoken to her parents in almost a week now… there were no telephones to contact them and there was no way to get to their area. She was beyond terrified at this crucial point… she was certain that they were all dead or dying and the only thing that seemed to be keeping her functioning was the presence of her two young daughters.

At that point, my mind was numb. All I could do was react to the explosions- flinch when one was particularly powerful, and automatically say a brief prayer of thanks when another was further away. Every once in a while, my brain would clear enough to do some mindless chore, like fill the water pots or fold the blankets, but otherwise, I felt numb.

It was almost noon when the explosions calmed somewhat and I risked going outside for a few moments. The planes were freely coming and going and, along with the sound of distant gunshots, only they pierced the eerie silence. My mother joined me outside a few minutes later and stood next to me under a small olive tree.

"In case we have to leave, there are some things I want to be sure you know…" she said, and I nodded vaguely, studying a particularly annoying plane we were calling 'buggeh' or 'bug', as it made the sound of a mosquito while it flew. We later learned it was a 'surveyor' plane that scanned certain areas for resistance or Iraqi troops.

"The documents in the bag contain the papers for the house, the car…" I was alert. I turned to her and asked, "But why are you telling me this- you know I know. We packed the stuff together… and *you* know everything anyway…" She nodded assent but added, "Well, I just want to be sure… in case something happens… if we…"

"You mean if we get separated for some reason?" I finished quickly. "Yes, if we get separated… fine. You have to know where everything is and what it is…" By then, I was fighting hard against tears. I swallowed with difficulty and concentrated harder on the planes above. I wondered how many parents and kids were having this very same conversation today. She continued talking for a few moments and seemed to introduce a new and terrible possibility that I hadn't dared to think about all this time- life after death. Not eternal life after death- that was nothing new- but the possibility of *our* life, mine and E.'s, after *their* death.

During the war, the possibility of death was a constant. There were moments when I was sure we'd all be dead in a matter of seconds- especially during the horrific 'shock and awe' period. But I always took it for granted that we'd all die together- as a family. We'd either survive together or die together… it was always that simple. This new possibility was one I refused to think about.

As we sat there, she talking, and I retreating further and further into the nightmare of words, there was a colossal explosion that made the windows rattle, and even seemed to shake the sturdy trees in the little garden. I jumped, relieved to hear that sound for the very first time in my life… it was the end of that morbid conversation and all I could think was, "saved by the bomb".

We spent the rest of the day listening to the battery-powered radio and trying to figure out what was happening around us. We heard stories from the neighbors about a massacre in A'adhamiya- the Americans were shooting right and left, deaths and looting in the south… The streets were unsafe and the only people risking them were either the people seeking refuge in other areas, or the looters who began to descend on homes, schools, universities, museums and governmental buildings and institutions like a group of vultures on the carcass of a freshly dead lion.

Day faded into night… the longest day of my life. The day we sensed that the struggle in Baghdad was over and the fear of war was nothing compared to the new fear we were currently facing. It was the day I saw my first American tank roll grotesquely down the streets of Baghdad- through a residential neighborhood.

And that was April 9 for me and millions of others. There are thousands who weren't so lucky- they lost loved ones on April 9… to guns, and tanks and Apaches… and the current Governing Council want us to remember April 9 fondly and hail it our "National Day"… a day of victory… but whose victory? And whose nation?