Latino Reporter Talks about His Beat in Baghdad
Carlos Al-Fulani

When I landed in Baghdad, a team of armed guards picked me up at the Saddam Hussein International Airport (I’m sorry, Baghdad International Airport), a huge airport, but almost completely deserted. An Egyptian engineer who flew in with me from Jordan said that it had been one of the busiest airports in the region.

Here danger lurks everywhere: kidnappings, bombs, and particularly gringo soldiers (very nervous), Iraki soldiers (even more nervous) and the rotten private security guards, who are aggressive and abusive. If you get too close to a convoy on the road, you’re apt to be shot full of lead.

I had let my beard grow out before I left, and bought second hand clothes, so now I look like any old Arab. People stopped me twice on the street in Amman to ask for directions, so I know I look like a local. My security team – six scary guys in two cars who carry submachine guns – congratulated me on my new look and said it would be easy to protect me.

When you first see Baghdad, it looks like any crowded third world city, with tacky houses, potholes, uneven sidewalks, and trash all over the place. One difference is that its full of skeletons of buildings blown out during the war, and everything is covered with a centimeter of dust from the constant and brutal sand storms.

A lot of the businesses are closed because the power’s out, but even so, I didn’t see many street vendors or beggars. I did see quite a few men dressed in dishdasha (the pyjama-like full suit) and women dressed in abayas (the long, black dress that shows only their eyes). Other than that, the people could be the same you would find in any Latin American main square.

Traffic is wretched, made worse because the gringos have closed off several central streets for security reasons, and because the military (gringos and Irakis) close off the streets often when they round people up.

On top of this, since the end of the war there’s been a deluge of used cars entering the country. Saddam left, and now anyone with a little money stashed under his mattress can buy a car – and have the privilege of sitting in traffic and standing in line for hours --worst case -- for days, to buy gas. There’s a shortage of gas because most of it’s exported, but there are also issues with the pumps in the gas stations that don’t always work, on account of the many power outages.

I’m staying at one of the best hotels in the city, built in the eighties. It’s got three perfectly round pools; the largest is 50 meters in diameter. The hotel used to belong to Uday Hussein, Saddam’s sadistic son. Except for its size, the hotel looks like a backwater hotel built by the Ministry of Tourism during Velasco’s dictatorship. And everything has to be locked up, because the housekeeping crew are as rapacious as crows.

Our office has an excellent view of the north shore of the Tigris River. Through binoculars I can see Al-Mustansria, the medieval university where the creator of algebra was housed – the same guy on the front of the textbook – Algebra de Baldor – who I knew so well, because I failed algebra my junior year.

The great advantage to this place is that it’s very safe – the owner is a Sunni Arab, and the hotel is full of South African and South Korean mercenaries who walk around the lobby and the restaurant armed to their teeth. We’re next to a telecommunications tower that belongs to the government, guarded by Iraki soldiers. And the gringos’ “Green Zone” is only a few blocks away.

Even so, all foreign reporters are strictly prohibited from leaving the hotel without their security escorts. We have a very professional team of Arab reporters who are able to go out and who do all the reporting, while we write up their information. We also call the U.S. army and go on “embedded” missions. But in all honesty, the Iraki reporters here are our eyes and ears.

This is the first time I’ve been to a country where I can’t read or speak a word of the language. It’s really frustrating, particularly because the locals want to talk to me and I can’t respond. Of course, when they ask me where I’m from, I always say I’m Peruvian, for security reasons.

Plus, any kidnapper with a bit of smarts would know that Alejandro Toledo’s government wouldn’t be able to pay much ransom for me, don’t you think?

(Carlos Al-Fulani is a pseudonym for a reporter currently in Baghdad who wishes to remain anonymous, for security reasons. This column comes from a personal communication with a staff member of Hispanic Link News Service. Any response can be sent to editor@hispaniclink.org)

© 2005, Hispanic Link News Service
08/07/05
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