The Trip To Iraq: Part One

This is the first of my posts about my trip to the Middle East. I was going there to find and write news articles about the good work Americans were doing there. The escalating violence in Iraq cut my trip short.

On Nov. 18, I returned from the Middle East, a few weeks ahead of my scheduled return on Dec. 14. My six-week stay in Kuwait, Turkey and Iraq revealed unexpected twists in an adventure that tested my mettle. I wouldn't have missed it for anything.

I had called the Iraqi embassy in D.C. to ask about obtaining a visa. Entering Kuwait wasn't a problem, but I knew that it could be difficult to get an Iraqi visa. The man I spoke with in D.C. told me that I could apply for the visa at their embassy in Kuwait, so I left the states thinking I would be in Kuwait no more than a couple of days while they processed my visa. The wait was lengthier, so instead of twiddling my thumbs in Kuwait, I tagged along with a group of people I had met who said they were aid workers on their way to Turkey.

Having never been to the Middle East, I thought I'd try to see as much of it as I could in the short time I'd be there. The opportunity to see Turkey wasn't something I wanted to pass. I took off with the Europeans, thinking about a trip that I thought would make me feel like Lisa Ling on the hunt for a thought-provoking story.

We arrived in Istanbul, and while some members of the group were loading the truck with supplies, I walked a few feet away from them. One of the women, who seemed to have some authority in the group, was talking to a man who, I think, was in charge of the building that housed the supplies. They were speaking Italian, and because I'm fluent in Spanish, I could follow a good deal of the conversation. If I understood them correctly, they weren't taking on supplies for aid work; they were loading provisions for the insurgents in Iraq. There was a chance that I didn't understand the conversation correctly, but it wasn't worth my life to stick around. Because they were loading the truck, I had my duffel bag with me. I quietly walked away from them, leaving my camera that was still in the truck. Although I stuck out in the crowd of people in that part of Istanbul because of the military duffel bag on my back and my distinctly American clothes, I was away from the group who had possible ties to the insurgents. I found my way to the American embassy.

The Iraqi consul in Kuwait told me he would e-mail me when he received my visa, so I thought I'd explore Turkey while I waited for the news. As a journalist, I'm not shy in pushing my way around, and I found transportation to a village near the Iraqi border. I was interested in the Kurds and their long-standing opposition to Saddam, so I thought it would help my research if I could interview them.

The village didn't have electricity or running water and was the home to about 100 Kurds. Although I grew up in a poor family, and I had visited even poorer relations in Mexico when I was a boy, I wasn't prepared for the emotional poverty. The Kurds are a brave people who fight relentlessly for their culture and identity. For about a week, I stayed with a family who would bring their goats into the house for the night. The animals were valuable, too valuable to be left outside where predators could prey on them.

One evening during my stay with the Kurdish family, they showed me an exquisite chest that was probably a couple of centuries old. Upscale antique dealers in the United States would have salivated over it, but the Kurds didn't regard it as a treasure. Instead, they valued an article inside. One of the daughters pulled out a Tshirt that bore the logo of an American football team. Through our limited communication skills, I discerned that a relative received the shirt from an American during the Gulf War in 1990. They valued the garment that was worth about five cents in the United States and put it back in the chest that was worth several thousand dollars in an American market.

In Part Two I'll write about my stay with the Kurds.