Another 911 Brought To Iraq By USA

My first visit ... came several years after it was bombed.

She was a retired schoolteacher who quit after the ... bombing.

" ... 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.

At the far end ... [was] .. 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
... tourists nodded their heads, clicked away with their cameras and
clucked sympathetically.

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."

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.

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)
+++


Baghdad Burning

... I'll meet you 'round the bend my friend, where hearts can heal and
souls can mend...
Sunday, February 15, 2004
riverbendblog.blogspot.com/

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.