Welcome to "Missile Street" by Kathy Kelly

   July 18, 2000--Word that our VOICES in the Wilderness Team will
   spend the hottest months of the year in Sunny Basra drew hearty
   laughter from our friends who work at a telephone/fax center in
   Baghdad: "We are going to send you home through the fax
   machine!"

   Upon arrival in Basra, July 15, we were each paired with our host
   family. The next morning, Mark McGuire’s summary statement was:
   "I’m immersed."

   This dispatch will focus on the family that welcomed Ken
   Hannaford-Ricardi into their home. Mr. Saadi, his wife and their
   seven children ages 2 – 19, live in a small threadbare home that has
   exactly seven pieces of furniture. They also own a refrigerator but
   have put it in storage since electricity is so erratic and infrequent. Mr.
   Saadi has been out of work for seven years. Formerly he translated
   and consulted for an Ad company, traveling abroad sometimes on
   company business. Since the sanctions were imposed he has been
   unemployed. He and his family mostly subsist on the ration basket.
   Last night, welcoming Ken, they had watermelon and dates! They
   also painted the door and washed all the floors in preparation for his
   visit. Now they also want to make room for Mr. Saadi’s father who
   went to the hospital for emergency treatment and remains seriously
   ill.

   Ken marvels at how well the family treats him. "In the Middle East,"
   says Mr. Saadi, "our guests are treated as though they own the
   home." Their generosity is even more remarkable considering Ken
   comes from the country that bombed Mr. Saadi’s street in January
   1999. Now it's called "Missile Street" or "Rocket Street," and the
   block’s residents all recall with horror the day that a bomb struck,
   killing 6 and wounding many more, including Mr. Saadi’s teenage
   son.+

   Iraqis on "Missile Street" and elsewhere refer to the event as "the
   Accident." To us, it appears that ongoing US[/UK] bombing raids
   over the no-fly zones are "an accident" waiting to happen. Likewise,
   the sanctions prey on our vulnerable hosts.

   Yes, all who warned us that we would melt in Basra were right. But
   mostly the children’s eyes and the Basrans’ countless kindnesses
   melt our hearts.

   Kathy Kelly, From Basra, Iraq, in the "No-Fly Zone."

   + "The missile attack was on January 25, 1999 on the Al-Jamhuriyah district of
   Basra in southern Iraq. The missile used was an AGM-130 guided cruise missile.
   The missile uses global positioning satellites [GPS] and preprogrammed ground
   coordinates to reach within 10 feet of the proscribed target. When the missile is
   closing in on the target the pilot can take control of the missile (seeing what is
   about to be hit with either infra-red or normal video cameras) and choose ‘the
   window pane or doorknob he wishes to hit’ (quote is from a Pentagon
   spokesperson I have interviewed on several occasions.). The bomb killed 6 and
   injured 64 people. Thirty-four houses were damaged or destroyed. Another missile
   killed 11 and injured 36 that same day in another neighborhood [Khadasiyah] in
   [sic: 25 kilometers outside] Basra. On Feb 15, 1999, 5 people were killed and 22
   injured in another bombing in Basra."

   -- N.B.: above figures verified through official investigation by head of UN
   "oil-for-food" program in Iraq.
 

   The Streets of Basra by Lauren Cannon

   July 22, 2000--Outside my window, as midnight nears, people are
   just "tucking in" for the night , or – as in my case – carrying mats to
   the rooftop where one can enjoy slightly less uncomfortable night air.

   Trapped by intense heat, thick smog shrouded the city center today.
   Lisa [Gizzi] and I felt as though we were chewing the air when we
   walked through an unkempt section of the main market. The grim
   determination we saw on so many faces masked, we knew, an
   intense weariness. There were two small children in the market who
   shyly called Hello from the street, then skipped away when I replied.

   It’s remarkable that Basrans maintain hope and preserve their
   intellectual heritage and abilities as they struggle against the chaos
   wrought by increasing deprivation. Miraculously, in spite of the
   troubles created by the sanctions and bombardment, they raise
   radiant, gleeful children.

   Those gleaming eyes and wide smiles greet us as children sitting at
   the roadside say "hello" and then scoop water from a drainage ditch
   to quench their thirst. We try to dissemble our shock as we meet the
   gentle glances of mothers who have no choice but to clean their
   dishes in the same drainage ditch.

   Later in the day, two members of my host family pick up the copy of
   Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina which I’m reading for the first time, and tell
   me how much they enjoyed reading it years ago. Just imagine it – by
   candlelight, because electricity was cut much earlier in the day, we
   discuss Tolstoy’s vision of land reform and then Gandhi’s principles
   of nonviolence.

   This evening I walked with Nadra, my very dear and impeccably tidy
   host, to empty the waste baskets at the garbage dump: the
   intersection of our street. The trash piles up, mixed with sewage, and
   there simply are no trucks to pick it all up. Forbidden by sanctions:
   the trucks might have a military purpose. They might be "dual use."

   Summer in Basra – nightmare fears leaping into the everyday lives of
   innocents who’ve already endured close to two decades of military
   and economic warfare. Summer in Basra – a world of imprisoned
   beauty where we feel no threat. Who does Iraq threaten? Let’s be
   honest. Iraq threatens the US ability to control Iraq’s precious and
   irreplaceable resources. [Kathy: As thousands of children are
   sacrificed because of this perceived threat tot US security, the US
   earns a fearsome reputation as the rogue superpower. We feel sure
   that families here in Jumhuriyah will teach us a new kind of security
   based on sharing, simplicity and care for others’ needs.]

   Through Noora’s Eyes by Lauren Cannon

   Upon our team’s arrival in Basra, I met Hani, one of our hosts, a
   proud Iraqi man, soon to become a protective "Baba" figure for me.
   Hani fixes telephones by trade, but under sanctions, telephones are
   rare, though they were previously commonplace. So Hani has
   expanded his repairing to include most household fixtures.

   Hani took me to meet his family in Al Jumhuriyah, an extremely poor
   district of Basra, where our team has been graciously welcomed for
   a two-month visit. One of Hani’s daughters, Noora, is a beautiful little
   shy-but-playful girl. She became my new friend at once. Noora has
   already left an indelible mark in my mind and heart of the forgiveness
   of the Iraqi people for those of us just arrived from the country whose
   policy of sanctions ignores all but one Iraqi – the President.

   In Hani’s meager three room home, with plastered walls crumbling,
   he points out each of his seven children, his wife, his son’s wife and
   children, and then to a large framed picture on the wall. In his broken
   English he says, "This is Hudah, age 8 and Hibeh, age 4." I saw two
   precious dark-haired girls smiling in the picture. The room grew
   quiet. Hani then pointed to a 3 x 3 foot hole in the living room ceiling,
   now patched with scraps of metal. "On March 23, 1991, this is where
   my girls were killed when a bomb came through our house." I
   stammered out an inadequate "ana asif" ("I’m sorry). I said that I
   hoped to be a conduit to convey the Iraqis’ experiences to
   Americans.

   This family suffered from the Gulf War, but nine years later, cannot
   escape the slow killing grip of sanctions. I said that our team had
   come to live on these streets to help get their story out.

   These streets do reflect the sanctions. Last night I helped little Noora
   take out the household trash. She led me around the corner and
   threw the trash into a huge pile in the middle of the street. A similar
   mound can be found on every block here. Noora explained to me in
   sign language that a truck comes to push it away sometimes. The
   stench and thickness of the pile spoke for itself, but I learned that it is
   only once per month that these families see removal of the waste.

   Before sanctions left the city’s trucks broken down with no
   replacement parts allowed form the UN’s "Committee 661," these
   families enjoyed daily sweeping, spraying, and dumpster removal on
   their streets. Now, I see harried, gaunt people picking through the
   trash, and women washing their dishes in the street water – even
   with all this filth.

   Yet somehow Noora still takes my hand and begins to skip back
   home. We run and laugh, then secretly make faces at each other
   when it is time to sleep (with the family on one big mat on the living
   room floor).

   This girl, with the sparkling eyes, was only two when the US bomb
   ripped through her home and took her sisters. She does not know
   that our groups go to prison in the U.S. because we protest the
   making and dropping of these bombs. She does not know I spent 30
   days in maximum security prison, with children like her in mind. She
   does know that I come from a country that is strangling hers with
   sanctions. And yet somehow she is flirting me into a new card game,
   dancing, and singing.

   And so we skip together down these once clean streets, Noora and I,
   looking into each other’s eyes, and I align myself again with my hope
   to be a voice for her, and for all these forgotten faces behind the
   U.S.-led sanctions against Iraq

   Creativity Under Siege by Lauren Cannon

   July 27, 2000--It is 7:00 a.m. in Basra and sweat is already pouring
   out of our bodies. This may be our hottest day yet. I am writing from
   the roof where my host family and I sleep on thin mats, benefiting
   from occasional Gulf breezes. Nadra, my new Mom and Arabic
   coach, stated with frightening conviction that today would indeed be
   hot and "rotubah" – humid. It’s 7:00 and already 120º in the shade …

   No strangers to the heat of a Basra summer, the women wear both
   the hijab and abia, so they show only their hands and faces. Still it is
   we who are sweating profusely, even with our heads uncovered! We
   cut up our wash cloths, turning them into sweat rags, and dream of
   tank tops.

   The intensity of the sun and heat prompts an afternoon shut-down of
   business. A nap is traditional between 2 and 4 p.m. When business
   resumes, our team is still unable to fax our reports, or phone the U.S.
   media – the lines are down. There are only a few hours per day when
   international calls can get out. Internet service is non-existent for the
   public in most of Iraq,** and certainly in Basra.

   All of Iraq’s power grid (and most of its water treatment system) was
   targeted and bombed during the Gulf War. And now, ten years later,
   replacement parts are still being held up by the UN’s "Committee
   661" as "dual use." So the government here has to ration electricity
   and even water – with less and less available every day as the plants
   progressively degenerate. The sanctions are making sure that the
   devastation begun with the bombing inexorably, increasingly, kills the
   people here.

   Basra has a few factories which receive priority for electricity during
   the day, and power is restored to our streets for just a few hours most
   evenings.

   These families we stay with cannot afford air coolers, even where
   there is power to run them. But the daily power outage deprives them
   even of fans. And other things. Children get heat rash routinely. Food
   spoils. People have to adapt to life in the dark. But we also see how
   children play in these streets when the TV cuts out. We witness
   tremendous creativity under seige.

   Midway through our Arabic lesson each morning, when the ceiling
   fan slows to a halt, and power goes, we let out a collective gasp, and
   begin to sweat – if possible – even more profusely. We should have
   taken our pre-Basra weights to measure our shedding under the
   sanctions! [Kathy Kelly: "I’m drenched after 30 minutes in the kitchen,
   preparing lunch!"]

   We eat only the contents of the United Nations "oil-for-food" family
   ration, which means lentils, rice, salt, sugar, flour and some weak
   tea. We drink the "chai," and make chubuz – the flat bread – with
   hosts who are unfailingly gracious. Our group did come armed with
   our privilege: packets of "Emergen-C" to keep ourselves fortified in
   this heat. Yet we see how easily children become ill, subsisting on
   the deficient ration. Immunities are lowered, and that means death in
   streets filled with garbage and raw sewage.

   We are constantly invited to homes to drink chai, try a creative new
   cake (made with the flour ration), and take a shower. Women try to
   take my sweaty clothes to wash them for me. Only occasionally am I
   asked an exasperated, "Why does the U.S. want to kill our children?"

   We talk of a decade of sanctions that has followed a decade of war
   with Iran. There is no doubt among Basrans as to who is responsible
   for the sanctions. The remind us that China and Russia have
   expressed disapproval of the U.S. – led policy in the Security
   Council. They know well that the U.S. and U.K. manipulate their daily
   life. And so, to their questions of "Why …" I am ashamed, and can
   only answer with my shared outrage and resolve to voice their stories
   in the U.S.

   We think of the perseverance of parents like Majid and Carema who
   have lost all their material possessions to the sanctions, but retain
   their dignity. While we visiting their one-room home with their 6
   children, they do not complain. We see glimpses of despair and
   humiliation, but mostly we see courage and creativity.

   Well, now the power is off again. And now we have only our humor to
   offer. And just now, we have all given a salute in unison, looking up at
   the fan …

   ** Note: (July 27, 2000 10:31 a.m. EDT http://www.nandotimes.com)
   Iraqi Communications Minister Ahmad Murtada inaugurated the country's first
   public Internet center Thursday and pledged three more would open soon in
   Baghdad. The center, a two-story building in the capital's commercial Al-Saadun
   Avenue, has 18 computers, five of which are reserved for those wanting to access
   e-mail and the rest for those wishing to surf the Web.

  Both Ends of Missile Street by Ken Hannaford-Ricardi

   Basra, Iraq, July 26, 2000 – I am visiting with Umm Heyder (literally,
   "the mother of Heyder") in the living room of her home on Rocket
   Street in Basra, southern Iraq. It was here, among these
   closely-constructed, adobe brick and stucco apartments, that a
   cruise missile exploded on January 25, 1999, forever fragmenting
   long-held hopes for the neighborhood’s safety. This story begins,
   however, a world away from the destitution of Basra, so perhaps we
   should begin there.

   A little more than two years ago, I committed my first act of civil
   disobedience. Early on a raw March morning, seven members of the
   "Raytheon Peacemakers" prayed, poured our blood, and trespassed
   onto property belonging to the Raytheon Corporation, the nation’s
   third largest defense contractor and the manufacturer of the
   Tomahawk cruise missile, used widely in the 4-day December 1998
   'Desert Fox' bombing of Iraq.

   On that late winter day, my sole knowledge of the conditions in Iraq
   was second-hand, but that was soon to change. In September, and
   again in November, of that same year I made two visits to the Middle
   East to view for myself the destruction visited upon Iraq by US/UK
   weapons. Today, along with four other members of the Voices in the
   Wilderness campaign, I am living in the Al Jumhuriyah City section of
   Basra, Iraq’s third largest city and its only port.

   On January 25th, 1999, a house on what has come to be known as
   Rocket Street suffered a direct hit from an AGM-130 guided cruise
   missile (similar to the Tomahawk missle). Four young children were
   killed, and many more were wounded, in this attack on one of the
   city’s poorest residential districts.

   On my first day in Basra, I met several examples of President
   Clinton’s "collateral damage" – boys and girls with mutilated legs,
   burned hands, and scarred faces – children whom Secretary of State
   Madeline Albright declared were the price worth paying to preserve
   US hegemony in the Middle East. I have met Umm Heyder, whose
   son’s life was ripped from him by the attack. When I asked her, "How
   can you smile with the memory of your son’s death so raw?" she
   replied, "What else can I do?"

   I have now stood at both ends of the Tomahawk Missile’s continuum
   – the quiet, well-manicured factory where men and women choose to
   make a weapon whose only purpose is the death of other human
   beings, and the sandy, garbage-strewn street where children scarred
   by the attack continue to mourn those who died. The US-sponsored
   economic sanctions, soon to enter their eleventh year, and the
   weekly bombing of Iraqi farms, factories, and homes – the real
   weapons of mass destruction in Iraq – have claimed the lives of
   almost a million Iraqis. Aside from hands covered with the blood of
   children, what have we gained? Umm Heyder, and the mothers of the
   other murdered men, women, and children, would certainly say,
   "Nothing."

   Aligned With Maghareb by Kathy Kelly

   July 28, 2000--Fax in hand and eager to telephone Chicago, we
   appear, each day, at Basra’s telephone/post office. There, workers
   greet us with knowing looks and a gesture that says, "Lines cut."

   "Shukran, Bill Clinton," we respond with remorse. "Shukran, George
   Bush (shukran is Arabic for 'thank you')." Then Mohamed, Entissar,
   and Fatima smile at us. The ritual is good-natured, but the reality
   persists. With microwave stations debilitated, often because of
   direct bombing, and a lack of needed equipment and faulty
   underground cables, Basra’s phone service frequently "goes down"
   for days. Workers are idled, isolation sets in, and frustrations rise.

   I feel relieved, returning to "Bet Nadra," having no choice but to forget
   about sending our "urgent’ fax. Once we settle down on the small
   stoop outside, beaming, affectionate children will eagerly help us
   study as we stammer in "baby Arabic." We learn to match names
   with faces, study the personality of each new, young friend, and thrive
   on their clever charm. Little girls, hands extended, beg us, "Please,
   visit my home – now?" An afternoon visit almost always begins with
   an invitation to "swim." This means ducking into the family’s w.c.
   (water closet, i.e. bathroom) to pour several bowls of water over our
   heads. I do this about four times a day, but 15 minutes later I am still
   soaking wet. Seated on floor mats with families, we share stories
   and laughs, knowing the exchange might replace a good meal. At
   night, before falling asleep on the roof, we search the sky for visible
   stars and wait for warm breezes to nudge the stifling air.

   A rooster awakens me at dawn. In the tranquil early morning hours,
   studying Arabic and sipping coffee, I feel embarrassingly safe, given
   that I’m from the country waging war against these innocents. A few
   blocks away, on "Missile Street," a young girl, Maghareb, awakens
   and examines the scars, seven in all, large and dark, that cover parts
   of her thighs, shoulders, and chest. The wounds were inflicted by a
   US missile on January 25, 1999.

   Friends in the US will soon begin a series of actions in Philadelphia
   and Washington, DC, trying to awaken people to the criminal warfare
   waged to "protect" us against Iraq. Aloof and perhaps contemptuous
   toward the protestors, presidential campaign workers and
   candidates will endorse policies that abuse Iraqi children and
   sacrifice them – daily. Eyeing contribution coffers, they won’t dare
   question sanctions against Iraq lest they jeopardize support from
   defense companies, oil companies, and powerful, influential decision
   makers.

   We shouldn’t feel ashamed that, relative to their campaigns, our
   efforts are poorly financed, nor should we be disheartened by
   sneers. A little girl, Maghareb, lives in the land of "Lines cut." Her
   very body speaks volumes about warfare. Yet our efforts are fueled
   precisely by her affectionate smile and warm embrace. We are
   aligned with Maghareb.

   For What Crime? by Lisa Gizzi

   July 29, 2000--Last night I visited the village of Abu Khasib with my
   Iraqi family. Abu Khasib and Al-Jumhuriya have in common the
   misfortune of being bombed within twenty minutes of each other on
   January 25, 1999, by American warplanes. On my December, 1999,
   trip to Basra, our delegation visited the two dusty villages to interview
   survivors.

   An encounter with one young man in particular etched itself indelibly
   into my memory. Hussein Abdul-Jabar was 19 years old when he
   was massively injured in the shoulder and chest by shrapnel from the
   US bomb, and his 22- year- old sister Nahida became what western
   media refer to as "collateral damage." His superbly handsome face
   wore a haunted regard and betrayed his emotional scars, which I
   managed to capture in a compelling photograph. His utter silence
   compounded the expression of anguish in his eyes, and it was left to
   his brother to recount his tale – a tale I myself have told innumerable
   times in various forums.

   Last night, with the help of that invaluable photo and my resourceful
   Iraqi father, we were able to track down Hussein. I was delighted to
   find him relatively animated compared to our first meeting, but only
   slightly less taciturn. I took only enough time to thank him for having
   shared his story with me and to convey my affinity for him. Having
   related his experience so many times, I felt a closeness to him akin
   to that of a family member or dear friend. His gratitude was both
   sincere and heartwarming. The experience reaffirmed for me the
   humanity and dignity that are unfortunately masked by the ugly
   euphemism "collateral damage."

   On the other side of Abu Khasib, we visited the family of my Iraqi
   father to offer our condolences for the death of his eleven- year-old
   cousin. Since the Gulf War bombing, Abu Khasib has been cut off
   from the city’s main water systems, and sanctions restrict the import
   of spare parts that would allow for repair. Consequently, the villagers
   must walk a few hundred meters to the Nahar Khuz River to fetch
   water. It was at that river, while his mother drew water, that Hamza
   drowned four days ago.

   We entered the home, and I followed my Iraqi mother to a room
   where several black-veiled women were seated. We took our place
   among them and cried together for several minutes. After our teary
   catharsis, Hamza’s grandmother recounted the details of his death.

   Only later, when hearts were slightly less heavy, did the women
   inquire about my presence. I have an unfortunate and unjustified habit
   of bracing slightly when my nationality is revealed, lest I encounter
   any resentment. It never comes. "She is from America," Najah, my
   Iraqi mother, told them. A smile lit the old woman’s face. "Ahlah
   wusahlan," she beamed. Welcome.

   That gracious welcome was extended once again at the home of
   another group of relatives. The women embraced me, while the men
   smiled warmly. I shrank with regret on beholding an abundance and
   variety of food they offered their humbled guest. A little math,
   including the average Iraqi salary, the value of the dinar, and the cost
   of foodstuffs contributed to my regret of my hosts’ sacrifice.

   There is an oft-repeated saying in Iraq that aptly conveys the extent of
   Iraqi hospitality. "When you enter our home, you become the owner,
   and we become the guests." That this hospitality is extended so
   freely even to citizens of a country responsible for so much suffering
   in their own makes it that much more appreciated.

   The drive back to Al-Jumhuriya was somber. The beauty of the
   date-palm-lined rivers of Abu Khasib belies the deprivation of its
   people. I gazed into the clear, starlit Iraqi sky seeking illumination.
   Why have such a gracious people been made to suffer so? For what
   crime has their beautiful land been reduced to rubble? And lastly, if
   the Iraqis can make such a clear distinction between the American
   people and the policies of their government, why can’t the US do the
   same for Iraq.

   Embraced as Family by Lisa Gizzi

   July 31, 2000--The commencement of our two-month sojourn with
   Iraqi families in Basra has been bittersweet. The joy in our hearts
   inspired by the hospitality of our Iraqi friends is sadly tempered by
   the sight of their grand nation reduced to a state of decrepitude.

   Basra in particular is a once-affluent city that has seen one million of
   its residents emigrate as a result of the Iran/Iraq war and, now,
   sanctions. As in the rest of Iraq, everything in Basra is in a state of
   disrepair. Formerly sturdy structures now seem as if they would
   collapse into rubble at the snap of one’s fingers. Cars sputter and
   clunk along as if gasping their last breaths. As the daughter of my
   Iraqi host family aptly reports, "Daddy’s car is tired." All of the cars in
   Iraq are tired.

   Everything down to toilets and door handles is jerry-rigged for lack of
   spare parts. Indeed, as far as the eye can see are signs of a nation
   that has been cruelly cut off from the rest of the world and left to fend
   for itself.

   The streets of Al Jumhuriya, where our group of five has taken up
   residence, are like none one might find in the US, nor for that matter
   in Iraq before 1991. Garbage rots in heaps in the middle of the
   street, where goats forage for food, and children for anything that
   might be saleable.

   Because sanctions restrict the repair of Gulf War damage to Iraq’s
   water systems, the gutters flow with a ghoulishly green waste water,
   the stench of which permeates the air and makes one wonder if the
   lesser of two evils is to breathe through the nose and thus smell it, or
   inhale with mouth open and perhaps face worse. At the sight of
   children frolicking in these fetid pools, an observer aware of Iraq’s
   high rate of water borne diseases will surely cringe.

   Despite the fact the US-inspired sanctions have turned the Cradle of
   Civilization into Gotham City, the Iraqi people have embraced this
   group of Americans with a sincerity and generosity that stirs the
   heart. We are welcomed into every home we visit with warm smiles
   and offers of "chai" (tea), coffee, or "numi Basra," a sweet lemon
   drink unique to Basra.

   Often, our gracious hosts offer us small gifts as sincere gestures of
   friendship. It is touching indeed, when a people who have so little
   delve into their pockets and drawers and deep into their hearts that
   they may offer up a token of affection to their grateful guests.

   Yesterday, after a half-hour long conversation with a young woman
   about her family’s fall from affluence as a result of sanctions, she
   removed a tiny rainbow-colored clip from her hair and offered it to
   me in friendship.

   Today and always, I carry that clip and along with it thoughts of a
   young woman and a people who are suffocating under the weight of
   an economic siege. It is her story and theirs that we wish to convey
   over the next two months in the hope that Americans may see Iraqis
   not as citizens of a "rogue state" but as a generous, proud, and
   gentle people who have embraced us as their family.
 

   How Have We Sinned? by Kenneth Hannaford-Ricardi

   "Killing the innocent does not defeat terror; it feeds terror. You are
   making new enemies when what you need are friends."
   --Secretary of State Madeleine Albright December 21, 1999

   Each afternoon, as the temperature staggers toward 125 and the
   heavy, wet air off the Persian Gulf hangs dense over the
   neighborhood, the boys of Al Jumhuriyah City gather on a dusty dirt
   road to play soccer. The goals are simply lines toed in the sand; the
   sidelines the open ditches of raw sewage moving sluggishly down
   either side of the street. Nearby, groups of younger children, often
   wearing the only clothes they own, play marbles and gleefully chase
   each other under the watchful eyes of their mothers. Scrawny hens
   peck the hard ground for food, a solitary rooster’s cry rises above the
   din, and, close by one of the small, dingy shops that dot almost every
   corner, a cluster of emaciated sheep and goats grazes in the mound
   of garbage that marks the neighborhood’s boundaries. In the early
   evening, as the smoky smell of supper drifts through open doorways,
   I sit on the stoop as children, drawn to "the American" as if by an
   unseen force, shyly approach to show me their arms, legs, chests,
   and faces, scarred by missile fragments sent hurtling through the
   streets in a horrifying 1999 attack, mute testimony to a suffering they
   are at a loss to understand.

   At night, the afternoon’s heat just beginning to dissipate into thick,
   stagnant air, groups of older Iraqis, men and women between 20 and
   45, often stop to converse in front of the adobe brick and stucco
   house where I am staying. Occasionally one asks, "How have we
   sinned? What are we guilty of that your country would punish us for
   these ten years? Tell me!" he blurts out, his voice barely restraining a
   rising tide of frustration and anger. The answer, of course, is that
   none of these people has sinned. The children who die needlessly
   each month from malnutrition and illnesses easily preventable before
   the imposition of sanctions (Denis Halliday, the former UN
   coordinator of humanitarian aid who resigned his post rather than
   preside over the destruction of "an entire country," says the number
   approaches 6000) were not even born when the Gulf War was fought
   in 1991. They are Bill Clinton’s "collateral damage," the price
   Secretary of State Madeleine Albright maintained was "worth
   paying" to preserve American hegemony in the Middle East.

   What is even more disheartening, however, is our government’s
   deliberate decision that the targeting of innocents – the young, the
   elderly, the infirm – is an acceptable means of attaining and
   enforcing US foreign policy. The validity of that policy is not the
   question. What matters is that we have now adopted, in Iraq and
   elsewhere, a completely immoral approach to achieving national
   goals. We are now no better than any evil, real or perceived, that we
   are trying to prevent.

   The issue is not just one of ending the sanctions against Iraq; there is
   not one shred of doubt that they should be lifted immediately. Of even
   greater import is our open declaration to the community of nations,
   through our support, now almost alone, for the continuation of the
   embargo, that the vulnerable are expendable, that they will no longer
   be spared. As a nation proud of being founded on taking the moral
   high ground, we must speak out now to end the targeting of the
   innocent - forever.
 

   After This, You Will See by Mark McGuire

   If you want to see the end-point of the endgame of strangling a
   people for the sake of a strong economy, come to Iraq. Better yet,
   come to Basra. Better yet, come to the Jumhuriya district, a few
   miles west of downtown Basra. Jumhurlya is home to tens of
   thousands of lower working class families, some having moved here
   from middle class neighborhoods where they found themselves
   selling their possessions and finally their home to simply survive. But
   most of the residents seem to have lived here for generations. It is
   not unusual to have ten people living in a house, encompassing three
   generations, all sleeping on mats on the floor, the furniture having
   been sold to pay for medical bills.

   We came to Basra in July to live with families in Jumhuriya, eat as
   simply as they do, study their language, and try to get a genuine, if
   culture-bound, sense of what keeps them going under these difficult
   conditions. We chose Basra because it has been the most severely
   affected by the sanctions imposed on Iraq b y the United Nations in
   early August of 1990. It also suffered extensive damage during the
   Iran-Iraq war and was bombed heavily during the Gulf War. But it is
   the sanctions that continue their daily grind on the people of Basra
   today. I had read a mountain of literature on the effects of the
   sanctions, spoken with dozens of people who had visited Iraq in the
   last several years, and had viewed numerous videos on the situation
   here, but little of it prepared me for Jumhuriya.

   We arrived in Basra in the late afternoon, expecting heat and
   disintegration, and we found both--and then some. By the end of our
   first day, I knew it was all here. Raw sewage lining the streets, fetid
   air mixing with dense internal combustion smog; herds of sheep
   joined by barefoot children, picking through piles of garbage on
   street corners, vying for any available scraps of food; a hollow,
   directionless daily economy in which money seems to just rattle
   around; idle, jobless men walking to the end of the streets, sitting on
   the base of a lamp post and then walking back to their stoops, house
   after house in a state of disrepair, there being no money left over at
   the end of the month for upkeep - all of this taking place In 120
   degree heat and no end in sight for a lifting of the sanctions.

   Intentions can have a way of changing their color and substance
   when they come knocking on your front door, and however much we
   intended in our stay in Jumhuriya, even on the most modest of levels,
   to bear witness to the challenges and difficulties faced daily by the
   people of Basra, it is becoming increasingly clear that the witness
   being borne is being done by our friends in the neighborhoods of
   Jumhuriya. It is a witness borne of a faith in and an understanding of
   an order of values that too many of us for too long have thought we
   can live without. After enduring and suffering through two devastating
   wars and ten years of cruel and heartless sanctions, and living with
   the constant awareness of threatening and unfriendly visitors flying
   over their community, one would expect to find those bonds of family
   and friendship, which are the life blood of the social fabric, to be in a
   state of advanced decay and disorder. Instead one is confronted
   every day with a simple goodness and decency, a deep patience,
   and an inner reserve of strength, which can only leave us marveling in
   wonder. Good, Gandhi said, travels at a snail's pace, and it is
   traveling pretty slowly these days in Jumhuriya. But it is there - I have
   seen it - and it isn't going away. When I inquire as to how they are
   able to do it, how they can keep their chin up under conditions which
   I'm afraid would have caused most of us to crumble a long time ago, I
   am usually told in a calm, studied voice that it is simply in their
   centuries-old tradition to be generous, open, and kind-hearted,
   whether they be times of happiness or adversity.

   But these are only words, and we are blessed with the good fortune,
   while we remain in Jumhuriya, to see the truth of these words given
   persuasive shape and clarity in the daily lives of those we meet as
   we make our daily rounds. It is a truth which they do not appear to be
   in any great hurry to explain, but in their spontaneous gestures of
   warmth and simplicity one begins to see that the burden is on us and
   that they have nothing they need to explain, that, without their trying,
   they are offering to give back to us a part of our humanity which we
   may have lost.

   Last month, shortly before we departed Amman for Iraq, outside our
   hotel, I held my last late night session with my Palestinian friend,
   Nassim. We were discussing my government’s attempts to skew and
   distort the American public's perception of Iraq. I assured him that I
   knew that Iraqis are much more than the image presented to us by
   our government and media. He smiled, politely demurred, and said:
   "No, my friend, you really don't know at all. In one day, two days, you
   will go to Basra, my friend, then you will see. Look into their eyes, my
   friend, and you will see. You read all the magazines, the papers, you
   look at the TV, but you took into their eyes and you will see. After this,
   my friend, you will see. After this, you will see."
 

   A Circle of Hell By Kathy Kelly

   August 10--Last night, following a three day fast and vigil in
   Baghdad, our team returned to Basra, arriving shortly after sunset, A
   new friend, Hamad, drove us. The six hour trip seemed shorter than
   usual, partly because Hamad is hell-bent on passing every vehicle on
   the road and partly because he sings beautifully. Hamad has driven
   the Baghdad-Basra route, round trip, almost daily, for years. He
   points to his head, laughs, and says an Iraqi word for "Crazy!" It was
   too late for Hamad to return to Baghdad.

   "Where will you sleep?" I asked.

   "Fi sayarrat," he said, with a shrug and a sad smile, in the car."

   Shut your kitchen door, turn on the oven, and curl up in a space half
   your size to understand "fi sayarrat."

   "It's a circle of hell," said Ahmed, another driver.

   I first met Ahmed I February 1998, during a crisis when the US
   threatened to massively bomb Iraq in a dispute over UN weapons
   inspectors' movements.

   Ahmed had graduated from University studies in the late 80s with an
   engineering degree, a good command of English, a fine car, and
   hopeful prospects. Ten years of economic sanctions and warfare
   have steered him toward increasing loss and impoverishment. Since
   1989, he's had only one opportunity to work as an engineer - a
   three-month contract helping a foreign NGO rehabilitate a water
   filtration plant.

   When I met him in February 1998, he was the driver for a dynamic
   young Italian, Umbrto Greco, who represented an NGO called
   Bridges to Baghdad. Tooling about Baghdad's busy streets in a
   decrepit 1968 Land Rover, the two easily resembled Don Quixote
   and Sancho Panza. We'd laugh as Ahmed told of Umberto arguing
   with shocked parking lot attendants at Baghdad's swank Al Rashid
   hotel. When guards balked at allowing the Land Rover through the
   gates, Umberto would excitably insist, "But I live here!"

   In late 1998, Umberto left Iraq and Ahmed sought work as a taxi
   driver. But the ramshackle Land Rover was soon consigned to a
   junkyard. He has since driven a succession of cars, each "new" one
   in worse condition than the previous one and not likely to last more
   than two weeks before expensive spare parts are needed for careful
   repairs. His latest purchase is a 1981 Toyota that cost him $2000
   USD.

   "Do you at least earn enough money, driving each day, to feed your
   family?" I asked.

   "En challa (Arabic for God Willing)," he said, but I notice he has
   grown more somber in the past two years. He doesn't toss his head
   back and enjoy a good laugh as often as he once did.

   Driving - and driven - Ahmed has no choice but to work as a driver
   because a large, extended family now depends on his meager
   income.

   I like watching Ahmed and the "shoeshine boys" interact. The boys
   playfully shadow us everywhere we go within the hotel vicinity. If our
   shoes are slightly dusty, they encircle us like sharks after fresh prey.

   Each morning of our vigil, Ahmed let us all squeeze into his car, three
   viligers and four shoeshine boys. He'd drive us to our tent site,
   opposite the UN headquarters. Inside the faded, dilapidated tent,
   we'd begin "Madrasa Polish" - Shoeshine Boys School - - dutifully
   opening our English -Arabic textbooks. The boys, our teachers,
   struggle to read Arabic, but their antics and pantomimes carried us
   through several hours of Arabic study, which would have been
   unbearably dull without them.

   We held the August 6-9 vigil and fast to remind UN workers of our
   shared responsibility to uphold the UN charter, which forbids warfare
   that attacks civilians. Beginning on August 6, Hiroshima Day, we
   noted that it's also the day that marks 10 years of economic
   sanctions against Iraq. Voices in the Wilderness and an increasing
   number of other groups insist that the sanctions are an economic war
   against innocent Iraqis. In the last month, our experiences living with
   very poor families in Basra convinces us that the sanctions afflict our
   new neighbors with cruel and unjust punishment.

   Joking with the shoeshine boys has, for the past four years, given us
   a needed break from encounters with overwhelming grief and
   insoluble problems, as our delegations visit hospitals, slum
   dwellings, sites recently bombed, and other places that show how a
   state of siege devastates a society that was, formerly, relatively
   affluent. We can only try to guess how Iraqi people whom we meet
   cope with the grief and loss, day in, day out.

   Although we laugh with the boys, we know clearly that their prospects
   are also bleak. They've each had a particularly rough childhood.
   We've winced as we've seen two boys and their family move from a
   pitifully humble apartment into an even worse hovel, as the boys'
   income just couldn't meet rising expenses. In a month, school will
   start. In a sense, September is "the cruelest month," for parents who
   want so badly to send their children to school and who simply can't
   afford clothes for their kids. Families sell belongings in order to get
   shoes, clothing and schoolbags. Those with no more assets to sell
   must keep their children home. Most of the shoeshine boys we know
   are going to school and proud of it! Even so, it's disconcerting to
   realize that they're in their early teens and still unable to read.

   The boys respect Ahmed, and he brings out the best in them. When
   one of the boys begins to frown and pout over some slight, Ahmed
   talks to him in a manner that is neither harsh nor condescending. He
   rarely becomes exasperated. I envy his ability to cope with intense
   pressures in such a calm and dignified way.

   I think the boys will learn, from Ahmed, some needed lessons about
   exercising caution and restraint. Sometimes they are reckless, as
   when a fight over soccer spills out into heavy traffic. Hotel managers,
   increasingly less tolerant of the boys' persistent sales pitches with
   tourists, sometimes call the police if their clients complain. The
   police sometimes solve the problem by confiscating a shoeshine
   boy's box, his portable kit that he carries on a shoulder strap. A new
   box costs $30 USD and loss of the box effectively puts a boy "out of
   business." VitW has undertaken a "back to work" campaign,
   investing, so far, in two new boxes. (We can't claim, any longer, that
   we've avoided capitalist investment).

   A few days ago, I heard the boys whisper about another driver whom
   we know who has been in police custody for two weeks. According
   to one story, he drove a foreigner, "a Hindi man," (presumably
   someone from India), into a restricted area. A second story says that
   the foreigner went with the driver to a poor neighborhood and
   distributed money to needy families. Still another account says the
   driver took three foreigners for a ride and they snapped photos
   without permission. A fourth report has the driver helping a foreigner
   to negotiate a small but bad business deal. We know this driver quite
   well. He's an earnest fellow who eagerly pursues every business
   prospect imaginable. If a team member mentions a need for a towel,
   he'll return with a trunk full. We find all four rumors plausible.

   It's harder to understand why drivers are so restricted - why the
   demand for a "guide" to accompany foreigners? And why can't a
   foreigner distribute money in a poor area?

   Several of us raised questions like these with Iraq’s Ambassador to
   the United Nations during a February 2000 meeting in New York. A
   month earlier, after one of our teams had visited a home in Basra,
   armed soldiers surrounded and searched the home, badly
   frightening the family.

   Much to my surprise, the Ambassador said, "I would have ordered
   the same thing, were I in charge of that governorate. Mr. Saeed
   Hassan al Muswai, a former University professor of geography, is a
   gentle, thoughtful person who often uses ironic understatements to
   make a point. His blanket assertiveness seemed out of character.
   "Look," he continued, "your country has stated, at highest levels of
   government, that it intends to overthrow my country's government.
   Your country has dedicated 100 million dollars for that purpose. If
   people from your country visit a home, unannounced, in my area, -
   YES, I will investigate. Yes, I will search."

   The Ambassador's blunt response made us think further, and now I
   think he was actually understating the case.

   In poor neighborhoods in the US, many people are accustomed to
   armed raids on their homes.

   Once, near my home, a drunken woman assaulted me because she
   thought I had picked her pocket. A police car happened upon the
   scene and a policewoman nearly locked me up because she couldn't
   believe I'd be in that neighborhood, at night, for any purpose other
   than to negotiate a drug deal.

   Suppose the US government anticipated that another country, a very
   powerful country, was trying to engender a coup or an assassination
   or some serious destabilization of the US government. Would the US
   government predictably restrict the movements of foreign citizens
   from the enemy country? And suppose the enemy country bombed
   the US once or twice a week and had subjected US people to a
   brutal ten-year state of siege. Would the US government, in a
   beleaguered and battered state, insist that foreigners' movements
   be watched? Would there be prohibitions against distributing cash to
   desperate US citizens who might, for badly needed funds, agree to
   help subversive groups achieve their aims? Would tourists be
   restricted from snapping photos that could help subversive forces
   map out sites for bombardment or battles?

   I would still hold out for Gandhian methods. I imagine that Gandhi
   would have assured potential invaders or attackers that if they
   attempted to seize power, Gandhi and his followers would not harm
   them, but Gandhi and his followers 'Would also practice complete
   non-cooperation with the "enemy" and try every nonviolent means
   possible to win them over and gain world support.

   In our troubled world, which response seems more credible? I think
   we'd have to agree that most heads of state, if subjected to
   bombardment, siege, a threatened overthrow, and vast outside
   surveillance, would follow a course similar to that chosen by Iraq's
   government. And most heads of state would probably understand
   Ahmed's reference to being caught "in a circle of hell."

   During some quiet hours at the vigil site, Ahmed fingered his worry
   beads, looked skyward, and seemed lost in thought. Is he wondering
   what will happen to the jailed driver? Does he have some Beatrice,
   holding a lantern, in mind? Can he still dream of repairs for his
   broken society? For the moment, more immediate "hands-on"
   repairs await. He'll have to carefully twist wires underneath his
   dashboard just to start his car - the end of the line in a circle of hell.
 

   Dignity and Faith by Lauren Cannon

   August 14--After five hot and humid weeks in Basra, our team
   already has a tremendous collection of compelling and heartfelt
   evidence to demand an immediate lifting of the sanctions (current
   US-led UN policy on Iraq,) by all accounts, the most comprehensive
   ever imposed in modern history. We can see well the complexity of
   forces that make life challenging for these Iraqi families, who truly live
   hand to mouth in this poorest district of Basra, Al-Jumhuriyah. It is
   quite clear that the Sanctions have strengthened the current regime.
   Daily propaganda blasts from each household TV, children sing
   party songs in the streets and salute the portrait of the President on
   every corner. However, the unquestionably obvious primary grief
   among people is the radical change in the conditions of their lives,
   over the last ten years of severe economic sanctions. One way we
   see this is the difference in how the telling of a decade of war with
   Iran is juxtaposed with the decade of Sanctions (including the Gulf
   War.)

   I spend several hours each day with a family who lives on the same
   street as my host, but who is much worse off. Due to stated concerns
   for the safety of the women, and the acceptance of Americans, our
   hosts refused our request to live with the poorest families on the
   block. Majid and Karima have only a simple open courtyard and one
   room for a home. Nadra has four rooms and a door that locks. With
   our team's determination to be independent a neccessity, we all
   underwent much negotiation at first. Our hosts would not compromise
   on their concerns for our safety. Majid and Karima's home was
   deemed to be unsuitable, because my belongings could not be
   secured in the open courtyard. So, I sleep up the street at Nadra's
   and spend my days with Majid, Karima, among other families in the
   neighborhood. Majid and Karima's family has fallen from a
   comfortable middle class Iraqi existence a decade ago, to full
   welfare reliance today. Despite Majid's military service in both the
   Iran/ Iraq and the "Bush War," as it is called here, he supports himself
   by working at a local factory. This brings him a meager 10,000 Dinar
   per month (about five dollars). This entire monthly salary just covers
   the rent of the courtyard, so he creates drawings, and peddles them
   at the market for additional income.

   Karima and the girls have carefully showed me the contents of the
   monthly food ration, which comes through the UN Oil-for -Food
   program. Majid has shown me the distribution and pick- up systems
   for August. I am struck by the self-sacrificing determination and good
   humor with which Karima has 'rationed' flour, sugar, tea, lentils and
   rice into some sort of nutrition for her whole family. To live simply on
   this for two months is one thing, but another for Karima, who has
   been curious about my vegetarianism, and previously used to a
   hearty meat and fish diet. As she makes kabobs (without meat), she
   laughs that they are well seasoned ten-year vegetarians now
   themselves. I cringed when the family splurged to purchase special
   vegetables and beans for a welcoming dinner in my honor.

   This night, I wonder if they quietly count me as a naïve optimist as we
   find broken language to talk about non-violence and alternatives to
   war. They have lived two decades of intimacy with war. Karima was
   home with five young children, sleepless, as she braced both the
   rattling of the Gulf bombings and Majid's absence to service. Majid
   shows me the disfiguration of his leg suffered when US missiles hit
   his factory and his bench mate was killed. What do these survivors,
   from so many presences, know of the 'freedoms' we have in the US
   to exercise our voices against the killing of civilians? How do our
   consequences for that compare to this family's struggle? How does
   silence compare?

   This dusky, somehow peaceful evening, we sit in this courtyard and
   the hot air is quieting. The whole family devours the few chosen
   pictures of my American life, which I have put off showing until now.
   The power has been off for hours and I am grateful that the dim light
   of the kerosene lamp can help hide my self-consciousness about my
   own relative wealth- a car, an apartment, a family summer vacation
   spot. We talk of their curiosities of all that Sanctions have deprived
   them of ... the Internet, travel, and international educational exchange.
   It is hard for me to picture them in their former middle class life.
   There is sewage seeping in to the courtyard form the street.

   We hear planes overhead and together we shrug. We have
   previously discussed the "no-fly zones," American weapons sales,
   and control of oil economy in this region. I try to keep my head up.
   They simply offer me more tea. When the power comes back on, we
   sit on the floor of the room, eating a simple tomato and rice dinner
   with our hands. They are laughing at me, forcing me to eat, eat, eat,
   with typical Iraqi hospitality. We learn, now with the TV on, that those
   fly-by's actually dropped bombs tonight, four hundred kilometers
   north of here, hitting a food supply center, 16 homes, injuring dozens.

   The US presence is what is palpable here; it is what we can speak
   about; and it is what we, in the US, have power to change. Majid and
   Karima and the kids can fill me with hope with their beauty and
   humor through this siege. The feel of their home is much warmer than
   that individualized one from which I come. Perhaps being forced into
   a one-room existence is to thank. Perhaps their dignity and faith is
   what I am filled with. The one thing that is certain is that these dear
   ones do not deserve to live like this and they do not have a voice in
   the US government. We, their guests, do.

Voices In The Wilderness  1460 West Carmen Avenue Chicago, IL  60640  Tel. (773) 784-8065 Fax. (773)
                                           784-8837
                   e-mail: kkelly@igc.apc.org on the web: www.nonviolence.org/vitw/