Iraqi Journal: by Scott Wright

1. Make Straight a Path in the Desert

A few weeks ago, I made a decision to visit Iraq, and join a delegation of Voices in the Wilderness, a Chicago-based group that has organized more than 50 delegations since 1996 to advocate for a lifting of the deadly United Nations sanctions in Iraq. I decided to go because it seemed quite possible that our country would go to war with Iraq very soon, and I wanted to do whatever I could to join my voice with others and to seek peace. I went because I had seen too much suffering and too many people die in the eight years I spent working with refugees and displaced people in El Salvador in the 1980s. I recall Archbishop Romero's words to a foreign journalist just weeks before Romero's assassination: "Don't forget, we are people, and we and dying and fleeing to the mountains."

I returned to the United States from El Salvador on the eve of the first Gulf War, and since that time have heard friends testify to the pain and suffering of the Iraqi people due to the destruction of water purification and sewage treatment plants; the negative impact of 12 years United Nations economic sanctions on the health and nutrition of the Iraqi people - especially the children; and the cancer-producing affects of depleted uranium used to increase the destructive capacity of U.S. weapons in that war. Those testimonies helped to put a name, a face and a story on the suffering of the people.

Now I was ready to see for myself.

I had also heard first-hand the testimony of several of the people who traveled to Iraq in December as part of a religious delegation. Sheila's question to the Chaldean Archbishop in Basra, "How do you cope?" and his answer, "We pray with open hands." Kathy's image of meeting people on death row, not knowing if any of them would be alive if the U.S. goes to war with Iraq. Roy's question, "How can we bomb a people that we just prayed with?"

I also went as the father of a four-year old daughter. In the weeks leading up to the delegation, I had seen young U.S. military personnel traveling on Greyhound buses, on their way to military bases and perhaps war in the Middle East. I had seen pictures in the newspapers of young soldiers taking leave of their families. I thought of my own father going off to war in 1944, at that time the father of two small children. And I thought of the Iraqi mothers and fathers, and imagined their anxiety for their children over the impending war.

"War no more, war never again." We cannot repeat those words enough. We need to hear those words more often, especially from our religious leaders. We need to make those words our own, and bear witness to them. And we need to say, with John Paul II, "War is a defeat for humanity."

As we begin this journey, I make my own these words from a Dominican friend: "We see the world with eyes open, the eyes of Christ and his Gospel; with an open heart that embraces the world with the very compassion of God; and an open mouth that calls us to proclaim to the whole world what we see and embrace in God. In this way, the reign of God is very near."

We set out overland from Amman, Jordan. Our path through the wilderness, and the monotony of the desert landscape, is broken by the occasional glimpse of Bedouin sheepherders and their tents. The double-lane highway is busy with large trucks transporting oil. At the border we see a few families and their children leaving Iraq for Jordan. A small girl with beautiful eyes glances our way, curious to see 12 strangers like ourselves. As she goes to sit in her father's lap, I wonder what he is thinking, his face reflecting the uncertainly we all feel as we wait to cross the border.

As our three car caravan passes through the final border check-point, there is a sense of relief as well as anxiety. The first step of our journey is complete. We have reached out destination. We close our eyes to catch a few hours sleep the remainder of the journey. Occasionally I glance out at the star-filled sky, and think of Martin Luther King's words: "The stars never shine so bright as on a dark night." The beauty and solitude of the desert night envelops us in darkness as we await the dawn and we pray for a miracle of peace. After 15 hours, we arrive under the cover of darkness at our small hotel in Baghdad near the Tigris River, the city wrapped in silence.

2. The Humanitarian Consequences of the Sanctions and the War

The next morning we arise to meet the rest of the team. Volunteers from all walks of life, old friends, people who have been here since last October, and others planning to stay "until there is peace." Our first visit is to the offices of UNICEF. In 1999, UNICEF published a report on the impact of sanctions, citing the figure of 1.2 million people who had died in Iraq since the sanctions were imposed after the first Gulf War in 1991. Of that number, 500,000 were children under five who died from preventable diseases. Because of the concern about "dual use," using products imported for civilian use for military purposes, Iraq has been unable to rebuild much of the water purification and sewage treatment plants. Currently, more than $5.2 billion in contracts are on hold for that reason.

The country director tells us that over the past decade, Iraq has had the worst rate of infant mortality - 160% decline -in the world - worse than any African country devastated by AIDS, and even worse than Rwanda. The statistics are staggering, but we can still not imagine what that means in terms of real children whose names and faces we hear and see. While infant mortality rates have improved in recent years, a "humanitarian crisis" - the director's euphemism for a war - would make the situation of children in Iraq even more precarious. More than 70% of the population currently depends on government rations, and a war would certainly disrupt that distribution system.

In a confidential report leaked to the international press in December entitled "Likely Humanitarian Scenarios," the United Nations predicts that "unlike the progression of the military intervention in 1991, a future confrontation is expected to develop beyond the preparatory, and relatively short, aerial bombardment of the infrastructure, towns, and cities into potentially a large scale and protracted ground offensive, supported by aerial and conventional bombardment. The resultant devastation would undoubtedly be great."

Citing the World Health Organization, the report continues: "It is also likely that in the early stages there will be a large segment of the population requiring treatment for traumatic injuries, either directly conflict-induced or from the resulting devastation. Given the population outlined earlier, as many as 500,000 could require treatment to a greater or lesser degree as a result of direct or indirect injuries."

UNICEF estimates that "children under 5, pregnant and lactating women, and internally displaced persons will be particularly vulnerable because of the likely absence of a functioning primary health care system in a post conflict situation. In the center and south it is estimated that these groups represent a total caseload of 5.2 million people, 4.2 million under 5, and one million pregnant and lactating women, plus a further two million internally displaced persons."

I cannot help but think that knowing these potential consequences of war, to decide to bomb and invade Iraq is equivalent to a death sentence for thousands if not tens of thousands of innocent Iraqi civilians. Already on September 14, President Bush signed the National Security Presidential Directive 17 that states: "The United States will continue to make clear that it reserves the right to respond with overwhelming force - including potentially nuclear weapons - to the use of chemical, biological or nuclear weapons against the United States, our forces abroad, and friends and allies."

Baghdad is a city of five million people. Press reports have it that "overwhelming force" means 400 to 800 cruise missiles will be used a day to defeat the Iraqi government. But what about the 25 million Iraqi people we are proposing "to liberate." How many of them will die in the cruise missile attacks or, God forbid, a nuclear attack? The words of Martin Luther King seem all the more urgent today: "The choice is not between violence or non-violence. It is between non-violence or non-existence."

3. To Look into the Eyes of a Dying Child

Later in the afternoon we visit the Al Mansour Pediatric Hospital and meet with the director, Dr. Luay Kasha. He graciously receives us. I have the impression of somebody who has met with groups like ourselves many times before, and come to expect that not much may be done to relieve the situation; but holding out hope that something might tip the balance. Dr. Kasha tells us that because of the sanctions, essential medicines are not available. "Boxes of medicines are fine," he tells us, "but what we really need is for the sanctions to be lifted."

What is even more devastating, according to Dr. Kasha, is a five to sevenfold increase in the rates of cancer since 1991, contributing to a dramatic rise in congenital malformations, low-weight babies, spontaneous abortions, ectopic pregnancies, and a variety of cancers, including leukemia in children. He believes the increase in cancer is directly related to the depleted uranium, used by the United States in the first Gulf War to create warheads able to penetrate the heavy metal armor of Iraqi tanks. Depleted uranium has contaminated the air, the sand and the water, particularly in the south around Basra, where much of the fighting occurred in 1991. And it is here to stay, with a half-life of 4.5 billion years, equal to the age of the earth.

We ask Dr. Kasha if there is any message he would like us to take back to our people. "Go and see for yourself," he replies, and points us in the direction of the children's cancer ward. Two residents and a nurse accompany us to the ward. Words cannot adequately describe what we encounter: only silence and compassion, vulnerability and shame as we meet the children dying of cancer and their distraught mothers at their bedsides. I bring a few stuffed animals from my four-year-old daughter to give to them.

One little girl, Rana, sits up and hugs her doll, a shy smile breaking forth beneath her sad eyes. Another child, perhaps four-years-old, lays silently in bed, her mother beside her. "She's terminal," one of the doctors tells us. I ask the doctor her name. "Noor," he replies. "It means light." Across the way another little girl sits up in bed, next to her mother. "Her name is Imani," the doctor tells us. "It means faith." Sister Rasmiyah, the nurse, shows us into another room filled with bright colorful pictures. "These were made by the children," she tells us sadly. "By children who have died." We depart in silence, grasp a mother's hand or lay our hands gently on the children's head.

We are like Thomas, placing our hands in the wounds of Christ. And the eyes of the children and their mothers silently ask, "Now do you believe?"

Our return to the taxi is silent. I try to remember each child's face and name, already engraved on our hearts. There is nothing we can do or say that will make a difference. The children are dying. Their mothers are grieving. But this visit is like no other I have experienced, because in all likelihood, these children are dying from cancers produced by depleted uranium warheads used by our government. We are not simply witnesses to the crucifixion of these children, we have helped drive the nails into their hands and feet. We have plunged the spear into their mother's sides.

According to doctors in the south, 40% of the population of Basra may contract some form of cancer in their lifetime. And now we face the imminent prospect of still another war using depleted uranium warheads. Is it any wonder that so many of our Gulf War veterans are sick? Nearly 200,000 have applied for some medical assistance related to health problems they have incurred since their stay during the first Gulf War.

That evening, as we return to our hotel, the clerks at the desk greet us. "We are so grateful you are here." I show them pictures of my wife and four-year-old daughter, trying to connect with the fragile ties of family that hold us together. "You are my brother," the man tells me. "When you go back home, kiss your little girl for me." Then he offers a gesture which we encounter so often in Iraq, placing his palm over his heart and saying, "Shulkran." "Thank-you."

In this moment of imminent danger, there is a sense of tenderness, a sense of compassion, a sense of human solidarity that binds us to our Iraqi hosts as we reach out across the world and across cultures. We are brothers and sisters refusing to be enemies, human beings affirming our oneness. It is too much to hold inside. Our hearts break.

4. The Al Amariah Bomb Shelter: A Vision of Hell

Today we visit the Al Amariyah bomb shelter, one of two or three dozen public bomb shelters in Baghdad. On February 13, 1991, 408 people - mainly women and children - were incinerated alive when this shelter was hit by two U.S. cruise missiles. The first missile penetrated the shelter at 4 a.m. while people slept and opened a huge gaping hold in the thick concrete roof. The second missile followed shortly after, incinerating all the victims. Only 13 people survived, thrown from the shelter by the impact of the first missile.

As we enter the shelter, we are enveloped by darkness and damp air. A few flood lights illuminate the twisted metal and concrete. Sunlight streams through the gaping hole in the roof. A young Iraqi woman, whose family and friends died in the attack, graciously tells us the story of what happened. We are silent, before the pain of the victims and our complicity with their deaths. We proceed on our own to walk around the shelter, which has been preserved as a memorial to the victims. Leaning against the wall are pictures of the people who died, faces of children, young women, mothers and fathers. Shadows in the shape of human figures are indelibly etched on the walls.

We proceed to one end of the shelter where a Belgian delegation invites us to share in a memorial service for the victims. They have place 408 candles in the shape of a 4, an 0, and an 8 to commemorate the victims. One by one the candles are lit, until they become an incandescent presence, one candle's flame uniting with another. We watch in silence for a number of minutes as the candles are lit. A Belgian woman reads a short statement, then invites our delegation to say something.

First, Ted, a Veteran for Peace, reads a poem about his own journey as a Vietnam veteran to become a veteran for peace. Next, Kathleen read a poem by the Guatemalan poet Julia Esquivel entitled "The Choice." It reads, in part:

"I will remain with my people, the dispossessed, the deceived, the persecuted, the bargained for. With the people who have never been considered human but who keep standing up and surviving and beginning again... I will remain with the silent people, who guard in the intimacy of their hearts the last word. I remain with the elderly, with the widows and the orphans. In the crushed hearts of the weak God finds strength. Yes, I will remain with my people."

Finally, I read a prayer written by a friend back home, Art Laffin, who had visited this shelter some years ago and first brought their story to so many of us in Washington DC. It is entitled, "Prayer to End the War Against Iraq":

"Loving God, we beg your forgiveness for the war the U.S. is waging against the Iraqi people, for destroying Iraq's infrastructure by massive bombings, for using highly toxic weapons that contaminate Iraqi land and water, and are causing major increases in cancers among children. Forgive us for imposing economic sanctions that have killed over one million Iraqis, mostly children. Forgive us for placing oil interests above human welfare. Heal us of our moral blindness and fill our hearts with love. Help us to renounce all killing, to stop demonizing our adversaries, to value all life as sacred, and to see the Iraqi people as our brothers and sisters. Empower us to engage in nonviolent action to end this slaughter of the innocents. O God, make us channels of your peace and reconciliation. Amen."

Later that evening, we hear testimony from Dan, a U.S. citizen who witnessed the first Gulf War from inside Baghdad, where he had gone to accompany the people as part of the Gulf Peace team. He spent nine days in the city, before securing passage on a bus that traveled 36 hours through the desert along the highway to Amman, Jordan that was heavily bombed. His description brings home to us all the horror of war, especially to those members of Voices in the Wilderness who intend to remain in Iraq accompanying the people in the event of war.

Tension is in the air as people prepare to protect themselves as best they can, stocking up on food and water. But nobody wants to return to the public bomb shelters, not after what happened at Al Amariyah. Meanwhile, the countdown continues, as preparations for war and diplomatic pressures and protests for peace collide, creating great anxiety and uncertainty in people everywhere.

5. Life Continues on the Eve of War

The next night, Nathan and Michelle invite us to meet one of the families in the neighborhood near our hotel. It is Thursday evening, the eve of the Muslim Holy Day. We hear the call to prayer from the local minaret. Muslims pray five times a day, usually at work or home, except on Fridays when many pray at a local mosque. When we reach the house, the mother graciously welcomes us to her home, and her two small sons give invite us to play.

Everywhere in Iraq, we have been welcomed with the warmest hospitality. People say it is part of the Arab culture, and guests are not only welcomed but protected by their hosts. Perhaps our presence communicates the hope that there will be no war, for surely our government would not bomb its own citizens. We stay a short while, then return to the hotel for the night. Even now, on the eve of the war, the hotel is filled with Shiite Muslims from Iran who are making a pilgrimage to the third most holy site south of Baghdad.

The following morning, we go to a local market. The streets are filled with life, a mixture of cars and taxis, peddlers with their wares and people walking. It is the Muslim holy day. We come to the book market which fills an entire street. Iraqi people are extremely well-educated, in this cradle of civilization and crossroads of many cultures. In the past decade, with the sanctions, education has declined significantly. Most schools have two or three shifts, and students only receive three hours of instruction a day. Teachers make on the average of $5 to $8 a month. Many professional people are driving taxi cabs to survive.

It is hard to imagine Baghdad, a city of 5 million people, being bombed in a few short weeks, as it was during the first Gulf War. Meanwhile, the bombing has continued since 1991 in the no-fly zones, in the north and in the south, resulting in civilian casualties. What will become of the children we visited last night? What will become of all these merchants? What will become of the taxi drivers and hotel clerks we met? What will become of the children dying of cancer in the hospital, the most vulnerable of all? What will become of Rana, of Noor, of Imani?

How can our country bomb a city of 5 million people in the 21st century and not kill thousands of innocent people? The teachings of the Second Vatican Council are clear: "Every act of war directed to the indiscriminate destruction of whole cities or vast areas with their inhabitants is a crime against God and humanity, which merits firm and unequivocal condemnation." And to justify the use of nuclear weapons, as our government has done, in order to respond to chemical or biological weapons used against us, is to merit the same condemnation as the Iraqi government we intend to declare war on:

"The proliferation of scientific weapons has immeasurably magnified the horror and wickedness of war. Warfare conducted with such weapons can inflict immense and indiscriminate havoc which goes far beyond the bounds of legitimate defense. Indeed, if the kind of weapons now stocked in the arsenals of the great powers were to be employed to the fullest, the result would be the almost complete reciprocal slaughter of one side by the other, not to speak of the widespread devastation that would follow in the world and the deadly after-effects resulting from the use of such weapons." (GS80)

As we walk through the city streets, I am overcome by the sheer presence of life. And I am humbled by the graciousness and warmth of the people towards those of us who come from a nation about to declare war on their country. I remember a poem from Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist monk, who wrote during that war: "Promise me this day...... to remember, people are not your enemy." Thomas Merton said, "The root of war is fear." Surely that is what we are being subjected to by our political leaders. We cannot say it enough times: The Iraqi people are not our enemy. War is our enemy. In the words of one who has witnessed war close-up, John Paul II, "War is a defeat for humanity."

Later on we are invited to share an evening of traditional music. Every Friday night, a local museum hosts traditional artists who perform to the music of a violin, flute, tambourine and drum. One of the singers addresses us in perfect English, and says, as so many have said to us: "You are welcome." It is a hand of peace and reconciliation extended to us. We have been granted a great gift and a great challenge: to stop this war before it begins. It will take a miracle, the miracle of solidarity, the miracle of peace, the miracle of life rising from the ashes.

6. The Miracle of Peace Is in Our Hands

Each morning I wake up and look out from the window of our sixth floor hotel room over the city and marvel: The city is still here. Baghdad is a beautiful city, one through which the Tigris River flows and over which numerous bridges are built. Each time we pass over a bridge in a taxi I wonder, how much longer will this bridge be here? Bridges will be the first to be destroyed by the bombs and missiles. But the bombs did not fall last night. The cruise missiles were not launched. People say you can hear the whistling of the bombs dropping, and seek cover. But the cruise missiles attack without warning.

Today we attended a celebration of the Christian churches in Iraq, which make up less than 10 per cent of the population. It is the week of Christian unity, and the Orthodox Church, as well as the Chaldean and Latin rites of the Catholic Church, have gathered to celebrate. Many of the prayers and songs are in Aramaic, the language of Jesus. Many families still speak Aramaic. Iraq is the cradle, not only of civilization, but also of the three Abrahamic faiths - Judaism, Christianity and Islam - all descendants of Abraham and Sarah who were natives of this land.

After the evening Mass, we ask to meet with Fr. Yousif, an Iraqi Dominican priest, who graciously invites us to speak with him. He describes the rich cultural diversity of the people of Iraq, tracing his own origins to three cultural traditions in the north: Kurd, Aramaic and Arabic. He is intensely involved in Christian - Muslim dialogue, and praises the tolerance and respect for one another of the two religious traditions. "When I dialogue with my Muslim brothers and sisters, I tell them, Jesus is a Muslim among Muslims."

When we ask him about the impending war, he asks us in return, "Why here? There are so many dictatorships throughout the world. Why us? We think the reason is economic." We ask him to elaborate, and he mentions a French journal which had recently interviewed him. "There is an enormous gap between East and West. It is very dangerous to speak, as your President has done, of an evil axis. Globalization is very dangerous. It is like an elephant in a china shop. All civilizations and cultures are in danger of death. What happened to your native cultures could happen to all cultures throughout the world."

We ask what message we can take back to our people. "I think your people need a call to wake up. I know your people, because I have traveled to your country to give lectures to the Iraqi people in exile there. We are a good people, an educated people. But if you persecute and throw bombs on a people, they will never love you. There is no just war. I hope a miracle will come. We need a miracle of peace, but we have to construct that miracle with our own hands."

As we say our goodbyes, the impending war weighs heavily upon our hearts. Already the State Department has issued a travel advisory to U.S. citizens in the Middle East to be prepared to evacuate at any moment. Soon the U.N. inspectors are due to give their report to the U.N. Security Council, and one day later President Bush is scheduled to give his State of the Union address where he will lay out his case for going to war. I think of Martin Luther King, once again, and his words about "the fierce urgency of now." Surely we are at a crossroads, and more than the fate of the Iraqi nation is at stake. Potentially, the entire Middle East, the clash of civilizations, and the peace of future generations are at risk.

As I return to the United States, I think now of Dr. King's words. As I arrive in New York City, and wait for a connecting flight, I come across his memoirs and page through the chapters to his reflections on the eve of his "Declaration of Independence from the War in Vietnam," when he declared: "A time comes when silence is betrayal. That time has come for us in relation to Vietnam," and I silently substitute Iraq for Vietnam. But most of all, I am touched by the description of his own struggle to come to clarity and to take a stand, and of what made the difference: the children. He writes:

Something said to me, 'Martin, you have got to stand up on this. No matter what it means...' As I went through this period one night, I picked up an article entitled, 'The Children of Vietnam,' and I read it. And after reading that article I said to myself, 'Never again will I be silent on an issue that is destroying the soul of our nation and destroying thousands and thousands of little children in Vietnam.' I came to the conclusion that there is a moment in your life when you must decide to speak for yourself. Nobody else can speak for you."

What will it take for people in our country to see what those of us who have been privileged to travel to Iraq have seen - the faces of the children of Iraq, the faces of their grieving mothers, the faces of their anxious fathers who have lived through one too many wars - and to decide to stand up and speak out? I think of Rana, I think of Noor, I think of Imani, and ask how many more children must die from the effects of depleted uranium used by our military? How many more children must die from the impact of the sanctions that is depriving an entire generation of clean water and essential medicines?

As the countdown for war continues, let us stand with the children, let us pray for one another, let us help construct with our hands, and voices and feet this miracle of peace. I conclude with these words from Kristina Olsen, a relative of one of the victims of September 11, who recently returned from a visit to Iraq. Standing before the Al Amariyah shelter, where we had stood, she spoke these words:

"My heart has been ripped open and healing has taken place within me today. I hope that sort of healing is taking place for some other people, the Iraqi people who have shared their stories with us and who have received our love and compassion."

Let us make our own, the words of the prophets: "Nations shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore" (Isaiah 2:4).