The corkscrew, the red zone and the certified terrorists
Postcard from Baghdad

By Donna Mulhearn*
November 2004

Donna Mulhearn is a Catholic Sydney woman and a former ‘human shield’ in Iraq during the US-led invasion. She made headlines earlier this year when she was briefly taken hostage in Fallujah. She and her fellow aid workers had been distributing humanitarian aid to civilians. Now Donna is back in Baghdad and this is her first postcard from the war-torn city.

I'm naming it the 'Baghdad corkscrew'. I reckon crowds would fork out at least $10 a go at Luna Park for a ride like this. Spiralling downward in a small plane at a rapid rate, almost vertical, through a sea of brown dust towards a war zone.

What a ride! Welcome to Baghdad!

So it was with a queasy stomach that I arrived into a very cold, occupied capital.

It was a surreal experience to share the corkscrew plane with a variety of well-dressed businessmen and heavily weaponed mercenaries. Very few people visiting Iraq these days aren't there to make a buck, very few.

I got a few raised eyebrows answering the most commonly asked question from the suits: 'No, I won't be staying in the Green Zone', I replied politely.

"Well why on earth are you here?" I could see their confused eyes ask silently.

I put on my disguise on the footpath outside the main terminal of Baghdad airport using the windows as a mirror. Long black dress/coat thingy, matching black head scarf with maroon trimming (very stylish) black wrist covers, red gloves, dark sunglasses. Yes, that's it. I got a few nods of approval from locals as I completed the transformation.

The only give-away: my chunky, brown, dusty hiking boots sticking out of the bottom of the dress. I always wear my hiking boots when I fly because they are so heavy and send my luggage weight sky-high. But today they did not suit my outfit which obviously required a stylish pair of black shoes, so common with the ever-stylish Iraqi woman. Oh well, I would just hope my feet did not attract attention.

I hopped on a shuttle bus and headed towards the military checkpoint which connected the heavily fortified airport area with the rest of Baghdad. The signs upon leaving the compound were ominous: "You are entering a red zone, have weapons loaded and ready at all times."

My God, what is this place – the red zone – that deserved such serious military offensive action?

What is it? Simply the rest of Baghdad.

The town, the neighbourhoods, the streets, the schools. The parts where ordinary people live. Those ones who, understandably, aren't amused at having their country occupied by strange, foreign people.

The red zone is any part of Iraq which is not a US military compound. It seems the whole country is threatening to the occupiers who came to bring 'freedom'.

When I arrived at the military checkpoint about 15 kilometres from the actual airport, my disguise caused confusion. As I approached some official looking Iraqi people for instructions I could hear them chatter under their breath: "Is she an Iraqi woman?"

Yay! I was thrilled to hear my disguise was working … but a moment later my heart sank as another replied, "No, I think she is American."

At this point, I had to intervene. "I am not American," I said with a smile, my accent giving away the fact that I was not Iraqi either.

"I am," a tall sharp-faced US mercenary said to me slinging his terminator machine gun over his over-sized armoured chest in a move that clearly said "I'm in charge." His logo told me he worked for Global, an international security company contracted to provide a private army in Iraq.

"I am definitely not American," I repeated to the curious crowd. He knew exactly what I meant.

My lift had not arrived, so I hung out in the tent where security staff conducted body searches of people entering the airport. I needed to hide from the freezing cold wind.

I asked an Asian mercenary if I could use his phone to call my friend. He handed it over, with the proviso: 'please be quick, I don't have much money'. I turned my face so he could not see my raised eyebrows at his poor $1000 a day salary!

As I found a corner in the tent to sit, the 'I am American' mercenary felt to warn me about my chosen posse.

"We call this the dirty side of the checkpoint," he explained.

"This is the side where weapons and bombs could appear at any moment.

"On the other side, they're actually allowed to have them," he added.

I couldn't help myself respond.

"Oh, I see, so they are legal terrorists and any others are the illegal terrorists?"

"Yes, exactly," he said. "The ones in the uniforms are the certified terrorists."

I was surprised and impressed by his matter-of-fact assessment of the situation.

I looked around the tent where there was a cheerful group of Iraqi workers ready to offer me a seat and a place out of the cold.

I'll stay on the dirty side with the potential, illegal terrorists, I decided.

I asked Mr America what the problem was that closed the airport for three hours earlier, causing our plane to circle in the air for an extra hour.

"Dunno," he said, "there's a problem here every day."

"Here" being the precise place at the checkpoint where the suicide bombers explode their cars.

"Here" being the place I spent the next three hours.
I conversed with the group and they cheered and laughed at my Arabic.

And I was stoked when one woman going to the airport presented her bag to me for inspection, thinking I was an Iraqi security worker. But I was disappointed when I saw others point at what was obviously a foreigner dressed up. But on the whole they were impressed with the effort.

I also noted several unsolicited offers by the Iraqi staff – on a tenth of the wages of the mercenaries – to use their phones to call my friends. Some were so worried about me waiting in the cold, they offered me to go home to their place.

But that was not necessary. I eventually headed off onto Airport Road, also known as the 'highway of death', considered the most dangerous route in Iraq.

I made it to the hotel without incident where I now sit in front of a heater feeling a little disbelief that I am finally back in Baghdad. Hang on, the lights just went out. The generator has begun to hum and a low flying chopper swoops overheard. I'm definitely back in Baghdad!

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