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He
runs a small café in western Baghdad, where he's been trying
to make a living selling coffee and Iraqi snacks. The café,
a small front room, is decorated with rich fabrics and Islamic
calligraphy and functional tables and chairs. Adjoining the seating
area is the kitchen, between which Hamed moves back and forth,
fetching orders of hot milky coffee and sweet buns.
"One
year on, most customer Americans," Hamed says ruefully, watching
a U.S. soldier down a large cup of iced coffee. "Pay me 25
cent for coffee." Hamed complains. "They think I stupid!
I know in U.S. they pay five dollar for small cup! Why Iraq different
to rest of America?"
Hamed
says he barely manages to feed his eight children on his wage.
Since the fall of Saddam times have been tough.
"Are
you so stupid, man!" he rages, "Do you think life under
dictator, we sit home and eat flies? You know what China does
with China dictator? They have Olympic games man! You stupid —
get out!"
It
is clear from the pain in Hamed's eyes that living under a brutal
regime has hardened his soul. Hamed bars the American soldier
from his coffeeshop after the soldier refuses to lay down another
$4.75, a sign that Saddam's spirit lives on in the Iraqi mindset.
Facing
Hamed is a wall scrawled on in Arabic with anti-Semitic fundamentalist
slogans. The calligraphy does not cover the parts of the wall
that have been plastered freshly. It is memorably reminiscent
of a spider hole.
Hamed
refuses to be drawn into its damage: "Stupid Syrian want
to blow up café man but bomb fail! I tell your soldier:
Take him away. Bang bang, you know." Hamed is saddened by
the thought of his Syrian friend's death. "Look man, we Christians.
They no friend mine." The death of this man has affected
Hamed deeply. "Your stupid president bring them all in, stupid!"
The
computer in the corner of the room is connected, somewhat astonishingly,
to the Internet. It was provided by Hamed's younger cousin, Amir.
The homepage, somewhat unsurprisingly, is set to Al-Jazeera news.
I ask Hamed to introduce me to his cousin, which he does. Amir,
a tall, bearded young man, recklessly naïve and full of guile,
talks guardedly about his computer prowess. His demeanor is shaken,
however, when questioned about the missing weapons of mass destruction.
"How
in hell should I know," he shouts, unable to look me in the
eye. He gets up to leave, aware that what he says could put Hamed's
and his own life in danger. But as he turns to leave he sees a
GI drinking coffee, and paying a fair price for it. The sight
of freedom, that times are changing for the better, prompts Amir
to reconsider. He sits down, meekly, next to Hamed. Hamed signals
to me that Amir is prepared to speak.
His
hand shaking, his face reddened, Amir takes a step toward liberty,
a knowingly dangerous step that could inflame the community: "I
fight in war and we have plenty of chemical weapons. And we going
to use them." Amir becomes hesitant, but Hamed motions him
to continue. "But I could not use them."
I
ask Amir why he could not bring himself to kill innocent people
as part of Saddam's evil regime. "Well, Iran was tough enemy
and I want to kill them, but those weapons you gave us you write
instructions in English and none of us speak your language then.
So we beaten by Saddam and torture instead. Sorry we don't carry
out your American order!" Amir leaps to his feet, pushing
his chair back so hard it topples over. The American GI responds
immediately, standing tall, cocking his rifle and ordering everyone
to remain still.
I
gently explain to our boy that I am the reporter embedded with
his division and at once he is calmed in the eye of the storm,
safe in the knowledge his ally is there.
Amir
and Hamed are forced to their knees while a quick but thorough
search of the premises is conducted. Amir then is handcuffed based
on the information I was duty-bound to tell the soldier. Hamed,
tears rolling down his face at the revelation of his cousin's
betrayal, watches his oldest son get handcuffed and bound with
Amir as reinforcement troops swoop by the café to aid our
brave soldier. Hamed's kalashnikov then is seized as evidence,
as he feebly protests "U.S. Constitution say right to bear
arms, stupid!"
Finally,
Hamed's hands are tied as his wife, disgusted at her husband's
collusion with the tyrant's regime, steadfastly holds her tongue
as her husband is taken away. In a gesture of defiance she looks
him firmly in the eyes, with her hair tied back and her face visible,
as if saying to the world: "Now I am free, the world shall
see, an Iraqi woman is free." It is the single moment of
hope in a day of brutality.
As
the Army convoy takes the rebels away for questioning I feel the
sense of despair that permeates the city descend on me. The remaining
soldiers, as they beckon Hamed's wife for coffee, cake and her
eldest daughter, try to make sense of the task surrounding them.
A huge country filled with infidels intent on causing chaos.
At
the computer, one of our young heroes — the smell of coffee
reminding him of the beautiful plains of his home state of Kansas
— thoughtfully composes an e-mail to his superiors back in
Washington who, while not here physically, bear the harrowing
scars of each passing day.
dick@halliburton.gov
Dear
Dick,
We
got the Starbucks location.
Private
Ryan
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