Iraq War Grief Daily Witness (photo) Day 27

Coming Home
An Iraq Correspondent Living in Two Worlds
by Dahr Jamail

It isn’t an accident that, after 11 weeks, only as I’m leaving again, do I find myself able to write about what it was like to come home — back to the United States after my latest several month stint in Iraq. Only now, with the U.S. growing ever smaller in my rearview mirror, with the strange distance that closeness to Iraq brings, do I find the needed space in which the words begin to flow.

For these last three months, I’ve been bound up inside, living two lives — my body walking the streets of my home country; my heart and mind so often still wandering war-ravaged Iraq.

Even now, on a train from Philadelphia to New York on my way to catch a plane overseas, my urge is to call Iraq; to call, to be exact, my interpreter and friend, Abu Talat in Baghdad. The papers this morning reported at least four car bombs detonating in the capital; so, to say I was concerned for him would be something of an understatement.

The connection wasn’t perfect. But when he heard my voice, still so far away, he shouted with his usual mirth, “How are you my friend?” I might as well be in another universe — the faultless irreconcilability of my world and his; everything, in fact, tied into this phone call, this friendship, our backgrounds… across these thousands of miles.

I breathe deeply before saying a bit too softly, “I just wanted to know that you’re all right, habibi.”

The direct translation for “habibi” in Arabic is “my dear.” It is used among close friends to express affection and deep trust.

It’s no fun having a beloved friend in a war zone. I’m all too aware now of what it must be like for loved ones and family members to have those close to them far away and in constant danger… It’s no way to live. Having spent so many months in Iraq myself, I finally have a taste of what my own loved ones have been living with.

While bloody Iraq stories are just part of the news salad here for most Americans — along with living and dead Popes, Michael Jackson, missing wives-to-be, and the various doings of our President — I remained glued to the horrifying tales streaming out of Baghdad and environs. I emailed Abu Talat and other friends constantly to check on their safety in that chaotic, dangerous land I’d stopped being any part of.

Trying to live life here with some of my heart and most of my mind in Iraq, which is endlessly in flames, has felt distinctly schizophrenic. It’s often seemed as if I were looking at my country through the wrong end of a telescope even as I walked down the streets of its well functioning cities, padded through a coffee shop where everyone was laughing, relaxed, or calmly computing away, or sat for hours in a room that possessed that miracle of all miracles — uninterrupted electricity.

I ask Abu Talat if the most recent car bombs were close to his home. “There have been 10 car bombs in Baghdad today, habibi, at least 30 people killed with over 70 wounded. Iraqis are suffering so much nowadays. It’s becoming unbearable, even for those of us who have known so much suffering for so long.”

This time I find, to my amazement, that I’m wiping back the tears and forcing back the crazy desire I’ve been unable to dodge all these months to return to Baghdad. Right now. This second. That old pull to plunge back into the fire, despite the obvious risk. To be with my close friend, in solidarity, in a place that, absurdly enough, seems more real to me now that this one somehow doesn’t. To be there on the front lines of empire, able to see, without blinking, without all the trimmings, the true face my country shows the world.

“Please stay safe habibi, and I will see you soon,” I tell him as my train approaches New York where I am to catch my flight.

“Insh’Allah — God willing — I will stay safe and will see you soon, habibi. Insh’Allah,” he replies.

Then he quickly tells me there’s gunfire nearby. He has to go. I wait for him to hang up first. It’s a kind of ritual. Only then do I push the button on my phone, set it down, and leave Iraq once again for this country of mine where I’ve never quite landed.

Just beyond the train window, trees and houses race past as we speed along. I watch the peaceful American countryside zip by, knowing Abu Talat, having just dropped his wife and children off at her father’s for safety, is trying to make his way home through streets filled with fighting and criminal gangs, the constant threat of more car bombs in the night, and a military cordon around his neighborhood. He is concerned that his home will be looted if he isn’t there, and feels it’s worth the risk to return to his neighborhood to guard his belongings, even though the area has been sealed off by American soldiers.

I’ll check in with him again later…obsessively… to see if he’s in one piece at the other end of the invisible phone line that still seems to connect us, along with all my other friends there. Of course, it’s just a regular day for him in Baghdad, and another irregular, out-of-body experience back here, where, with every long-distance chat, the duality in me seems to grow more extreme.