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161 14 My Trips to the Unknown Maki Al Nazzal My friends always told me that I must flee Iraq for Jordan, or even for Europe, after all I had been through in Fallujah, Ramadi, and Baghdad . “Man, you are wanted by every killing group in the country,” my friend Faris always said to me. For each and every job I undertook , I became a target for many groups; I have been a UN worker, a foreign NGO staff member, a humanitarian aid worker in Fallujah, and a media servant, not to forget my role in the negotiations with all major players, including the US army and government. Nevertheless, I decided to stay in Iraq and face my destiny, just like any other Iraqi living through the mess of occupation. I stayed and worked through four years of occupation. My flat in Baghdad—supposedly a safe haven for me away from Fallujah complications—became dangerous when the sectarian killings began, as the death squads were very active in the area. I had to take maximum precautionary measures just to go see my second home in Baghdad. I came into the building through a different gate every time and sometimes I had to wear a dishdasha (long traditional garment). The parking lot attendants joined the militias and started giving them information about those who represented “good targets.” The electrician, the grocer, and many others turned out to be Mahdi army captains and lieutenants. A friend of mine called me one day and told me to watch an interesting program on Al Jazeera documentary. It was Joe Wilding’s A Letter to the Prime Minister, where I appeared at the clinic in Fallujah criticizing the April siege and the killing of civilians there in 2003. 162  Maki Al Nazzal Many people called and told me to leave Baghdad immediately and to arrange for my family to flee as soon as possible, as that interview could have put my and my family’s lives in jeopardy. I stopped going to Baghdad and took my family to our grandmother ’s home. My first wife (I have two) would occasionally, especially when she felt any danger at her mother’s home, stay in the Baghdad flat. One morning she woke up and found a note, written by the Mahdi army, telling us to leave the flat or my family and I would be killed. Whoever wrote the note did not forget to call me a Ba‘thi, a Wahabi, and a dirty dog from Fallujah; all the names that meant certain death. Our neighbors—who were Kurds, Shi‘i, and Mandaean—were infuriated by the threat and told my wife to stay, under their protection. But we all knew that no one could protect a family targeted by the militias, especially given that the Iraqi government and US army clearly supported these militias. I told my wife to rent a van and pick me up in Fallujah on her way to Amman. I had to wait on the highway at Sichir, north of Fallujah, for my wife and two little children. I realized that it was a very dangerous situation—as US army convoys always passed by and shot civilians in their cars or walking on the highway—but I had no other choice. My fears were not imaginary: I saw a convoy start shooting at a family in a pickup truck that moved just off the highway. There were bullet casings all around me and others who were nearby. My heart almost stopped when I saw the bullets making many holes in the pickup and I heard the children stop screaming. I waved to the soldiers and shouted while running to the pickup. I heard the soldiers, with their big machine guns on the Humvee, telling me to stop, but I kept running toward the pickup truck. People who had taken shelter screamed at me to go back, but I could not think of anything but the safety of the children and their parents. I do not know if the soldiers heard me shouting that I was a doctor and if they saw the family in the truck, but a huge sense of relief passed over me when I heard their convoy moving away. In fact, it was a miracle. Although the bullets made dozens of holes in the truck, none of the passengers were injured. I took the shocked children out [3.135.190.101] Project MUSE (2024-04-19 07:30 GMT...

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