It really is difficult to understand what is happening lately. We hear about talks between Americans and Iran over security in Iraq, and then the American ambassador in Iraq accuses Iran of funding militias inside of the country. Today there are claims that Americans killed between 20 and 30 men from Sadr's militia in an attack on a husseiniya [Shiite religious centers named after the imam Hussein, the grandson of the Prophet Mohammed] yesterday. The Americans are claiming that responsibility for the attack should be placed on Iraqi security forces (the same security forces they are constantly commending).
All of this directly contradicts claims by Bush and other American politicians that Iraqi troops and security forces are in control of the situation. Or maybe they are in control -- just not in a good way.
They've been finding corpses all over Baghdad for weeks now -- and it's always the same: holes drilled in the head, multiple shots or strangulation, like the victims were hanged. Execution, militia style. Many of the people were taken from their homes by security forces -- police or special army brigades. Some of them were rounded up from mosques.
A few days ago we went to pick up one of my female cousins from college. Her college happens to be quite close to the local morgue. E., our cousin L., and I all sat in the car, which, due to traffic, we parked slightly farther away from the college to wait for our other cousin. I looked over at the commotion near the morgue.
There were dozens of people -- mostly men -- standing around in a bleak group. Some of them smoked cigarettes, others leaned on cars or pickup trucks. Their expressions varied -- grief, horror, resignation. On some faces, there was an anxious look of combined dread and anticipation. It's a very specific look, one you will find only outside the Baghdad morgue. The eyes are wide and bloodshot, as if searching for something, the brow is furrowed, the jaw is set and the mouth is a thin frown. It's a look that tells you they are walking into the morgue, where the bodies lay in rows, and that they pray they do not find what they are looking for.
The cousin sighed heavily and told us to open a couple of windows and lock the doors -- he was going to check the morgue. A month before, his wife's uncle had been taken away from a mosque during prayer -- they've yet to find him. Every two days, someone from the family goes to the morgue to see if his body was brought in. "Pray I don't find him ... or rather ... I just -- we hate the uncertainty." My cousin sighed heavily and got out of the car. I said a silent prayer as he crossed the street and disappeared into the crowd.
E. and I waited patiently for H., who was still inside the college, and for L., who was in the morgue. The minutes stretched and E. and I sat silently -- small talk seeming almost blasphemous under the circumstances. L. came out first. I watched him tensely and found myself chewing away at my lower lip, "Did he find him? Inshalla he didn't find him" I said to no one in particular. As he got closer to the car, he shook his head. His face was immobile and grim, but behind the grim expression, we could see relief. "He's not there. Hamdulilah [Thank God]."
"Hamdulilah." E. and I repeated the words in unison.
We all looked back at the morgue. Most of the cars had simple, narrow wooden coffins on top of them, in anticipation of the son or daughter or brother. One frenzied woman in a black abaya was struggling to make her way inside, two relatives holding her back. A third man was reaching up to untie the coffin tied to the top of their car.
"See that woman -- they found her son. I saw them identifying him. A bullet to the head." The woman continued to struggle, her legs suddenly buckling under her, her wails filling the afternoon, and although it was surprisingly warm that day, I pulled at my sleeves, trying to cover my suddenly cold fingers.
We continued to watch the various scenes of grief, anger, frustration and, every once in a while, an almost tangible relief as someone left the morgue having not found what they dreaded most to find -- eyes watery from the smell, the step slightly lighter than when they went in, having been given a temporary reprieve from the worry of claiming a loved one from the morgue.
About the writer
Riverbend is the pseudonym of a young Iraqi woman who has been blogging from Baghdad since 2003. Her book, "Baghdad Burning," was published by Feminist Press in 2005.
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