- Important Side Note: For those of you with the audacity
to write to me claiming it was a legitimate target because "American
officials assumed it was for military purposes" just remember Protocol
1 of the 1977 Geneva Conventions, Part IV, Section 1, Chapter III, Article
52: ... 3. In case of doubt whether an object which is normally dedicated
to civilian purposes, such as a place of worship, a house or other dwelling
or a school, is being used to make an effective contribution to military
action, it shall be presumed not to be so used. (Like that would matter
to you anyway)
-
- http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com/ Baghdad Burning ...
I'll meet you 'round the bend my friend, where hearts can heal and souls
can mend... Sunday, February 15, 2004
-
- Dedicated to the Memory of L.A.S. So Happy Valentine's
Day although it's the 15th. It still feels like the 14th here because I'm
not asleep it's the extension of yesterday.
-
- Do you know what yesterday marked? It marked the 13th
anniversary of the Amiriyah Shelter massacre- February 13, 1991. Can you
really call it an 'anniversary'? Anniversary brings to mind such happy
things and yet is there any other word? Please send it along if you know
it.
-
- February 12, 1991, marked one of the days of the small
Eid or 'Eid Al-Fitr'. Of course it also marked one of the heaviest days
of bombing during the Gulf War. No one was in the mood for celebration.
Most families remained at home because there wasn't even gasoline to travel
from one area to the next. The more fortunate areas had bomb shelters and
people from all over the neighborhood would get together inside of the
shelter during the bombing. That year, they also got together inside of
the shelters to celebrate Eid Al-Fitr with their neighbors and friends.
-
- Iraqis don't go to shelters for safety reasons so much
as for social reasons. It's a great place to be during a bombing. There's
water, electricity and a feeling of serenity and safety that is provided
as much by the solid structure as by the congregation of smiling friends
and family. Being with a large group of people helps make things easier
during war- it's like courage and stamina travel from one person to the
next and increase exponentially with the number of people collected.
-
- So the families in the Amiriyah area decided they'd join
up in the shelter to have a nice Eid dinner and then the men and boys over
the age of 15 would leave to give the women and children some privacy.
Little did they know, leaving them behind, that it would be the last time
they would see the wife/daughter/son/fiancé/sister/infant
-
- I can imagine the scene after the men left at around
midnight- women sat around, pouring out steaming istikans of tea, passing
out Eid kilaycha and chocolate. Kids would run around the shelter shrieking
and laughing like they owned the huge playground under the earth. Teenage
girls would sit around gossiping about guys or clothes or music or the
latest rumor about Sara or Lina or Fatima. The smells would mingle- tea,
baked goods, rice comfortable smells that made one imagine, for a few seconds,
that they were actually at home.
-
- The sirens would begin shrieking- the women and children
would pause in the midst of eating or scolding, say a brief prayer in their
heart and worry about their loved ones above the ground- the men who refused
to remain inside of the shelter in order to make room for their wives and
kids.
-
- The bombs fell hard and fast at around 4 a.m. The first
smart bomb went through the ventilation, through the first floor of the
shelter- leaving a gaping hole- and to the bottom 'basement' of the shelter
where there were water tanks and propane tanks for heating water and food.
The second missile came immediately after and finished off what the first
missile missed. The doors of the advanced shelter immediately shut automatically-
locking over 400 women and children inside.
-
- It turned from a shelter into an inferno; explosions
and fire rose from the lower level up to the level that held the women
and children and the water rose with it, boiling and simmering. Those who
did not burn to death immediately or die of the impact of the explosions,
boiled to death or were steamed in the 900+ º F heat.
-
- We woke in the morning to see the horrors on the news.
We watched as the Iraqi rescue workers walked inside of the shelter and
came out crying and screaming- dragging out bodies so charred, they didn't
look human. We saw the people in the area- men, women and children- clinging
to the fence surrounding the shelter and screaming with terror; calling
out name after name searching for a familiar face in the middle of the
horror.
-
- The bodies were laid out one beside the other- all the
same size- shrunk with heat and charred beyond recognition. Some were in
the fetal position, curled up, as if trying to escape within themselves.
Others were stretched out and rigid, like the victims were trying to reach
out a hand to save a loved one or reach for safety. Most remained unrecognizable
to their families- only the size and fragments of clothing or jewelry indicating
the gender and the general age.
-
- Amiriyah itself is an area full of school teachers, college
professors, doctors and ordinary employees- a middle-class neighborhood
with low houses, friendly people and a growing mercantile population. It
was a mélange of Sunnis and Shi'a and Christians- all living together
peacefully and happily. After the 13th of February, it became the area
everyone avoided. For weeks and weeks the whole area stank of charred flesh
and the air was thick and gray with ash. The beige stucco houses were suddenly
all covered with black pieces of cloth scrolled with the names of dead
loved ones. "Ali Jabbar mourns the loss of his wife, daughter, and
two sons"; "Muna Rahim mourns the loss of her mother, sisters,
brothers and son"
-
- Within days, the streets were shut with black cloth tents
set up by the grief-stricken families to receive mourners from all over
Iraq who came to weep and ease some of the shock and horror. And it was
horrible. Everyone lost someone- or knew someone who lost several people.
-
- My first visit to the shelter came several years after
it was bombed. We were in the neighborhood visiting a friend of my mother.
She was a retired schoolteacher who quit after the Amiriyah bombing. She
had no thoughts of quitting but after schools resumed in April of 1991,
she went on the first day to greet her class of 2nd graders. She walked
into the classroom and found only 11 of her 23 students. "I thought
they had decided not to come" I remember her saying to my mother in
hushed tones, later that year," but when I took attendance, they told
me the rest of the children had died in the shelter" She quit soon
after that because she claimed her heart had broken that day and she couldn't
look at the children anymore without remembering the tragedy.
-
- I decided to pay my respects to the shelter and the victims.
It was October and I asked the retired teacher if the shelter was open
(hoping in my heart of hearts she'd say 'no'). She nodded her head and
said that it was indeed open- it was always open. I walked the two short
blocks to the shelter and found it in the midst of houses- the only separation
being a wide street. There were children playing in the street and we stopped
one of them who was kicking around a ball. Is there anyone in the shelter?
He nodded his head solemnly- yes the shelter was 'maskoon'.
-
- Now the word 'maskoon' can mean two different things
in Arabic. It can mean 'lived in' and it can also mean 'haunted'. My imagination
immediately carried me away- could the child mean haunted? I'm not one
who believes in ghosts and monsters- the worst monsters are people and
if you survive war and bombs, ghosts are a piece of cake yet something
inside of me knew that a place where 400 people had lost their lives so
terribly- almost simultaneously- had to be 'haunted' somehow by their souls
-
- We walked inside and the place was dark and cold, even
for the warm October weather. The only light filtering in came from the
gaping hole in the roof of the shelter where the American missiles had
fallen. I wanted to hold my breath- expecting to smell something I didn't
want to but you can only do that for so long. The air didn't smell stale
at all; it simply smelled sad- like the winds that passed through this
place were sorrowful winds. The far corners of the shelter were so dark,
it was almost easy to imagine real people crouching in them.
-
- The walls were covered with pictures. Hundreds of pictures
of smiling women and children- toothy grins, large, gazelle eyes and the
gummy smiles of babies. Face after face after face stared back at us from
the dull gray walls and it felt endless and hopeless. I wondered what had
happened to their families, or rather their remaining families after the
catastrophe. We knew one man who had lost his mind after losing his wife
and children inside of the shelter. I wondered how many others had met
the same fate and I wondered how much life was worth after you lost the
people most precious to you.
-
- At the far end of the shelter we heard voices. I strained
my ears to listen and we searched them out- there were 4 or 5 Japanese
tourists and a small, slight woman who was speaking haltingly in English.
She was trying to explain how the bomb had fallen and how the people had
died. She used elaborate hand gestures and the Japanese tourists nodded
their heads, clicked away with their cameras and clucked sympathetically.
-
- "Who is she?" I whispered to my mother's friend.
"She takes care of the place" she replied in a low voice. "Why
don't they bring in someone who can speak fluently- this is frustrating
to see" I whispered back, watching the Japanese men shake hands with
the woman before turning to go.
-
- My mother's friend shook her head sadly, "They tried,
but she just refuses to leave. She has been taking care of the place since
the rescue teams finished cleaning it out she lost 8 of her children here."
I was horrified with that fact as the woman approached us. Her face was
stern, yet gentle- like that of a school principal or like that of a mother
of 8 children. She shook hands with us and took us around to see the shelter.
This is where we were. This is where the missiles came in this is where
the water rose up to this is where the people stuck to the walls.
-
- Her voice was strong and solid in Arabic. We didn't know
what to answer. She continued to tell us how she had been in the shelter
with 8 of her 9 children and how she had left minutes before the missiles
hit to get some food and a change of clothes for one of the toddlers. She
was in the house when the missiles struck and her first thoughts were,
"Thank God the kids are in the shelter" When she ran back to
the shelter from her house across the street, she found it had been struck
and the horror had begun. She had watched the corpses dragged out for days
and days and refused to believe they were all gone for months after. She
hadn't left the shelter since- it had become her home.
-
- She pointed to the vague ghosts of bodies stuck to the
concrete on the walls and ground and the worst one to look at was that
of a mother, holding a child to her breast, like she was trying to protect
it or save it. "That should have been me" the woman who lost
her children said and we didn't know what to answer.
-
- It was then that I knew that the place was indeed 'maskoon'
or haunted since February 13, 1991 it has been haunted by the living who
were cursed with their own survival.
-
- Important Side Note:For those of you with the audacity
to write to me claiming it was a legitimate target because "American
officials assumed it was for military purposes" just remember Protocol
1 of the 1977 Geneva Conventions, Part IV, Section 1, Chapter III, Article
52: ... 3. In case of doubt whether an object which is normally dedicated
to civilian purposes, such as a place of worship, a house or other dwelling
or a school, is being used to make an effective contribution to military
action, it shall be presumed not to be so used. (Like that would matter
to you anyway)
|