Interrogation (The full story part 6)

The man in the long, brown dress was fascinated by Australia’s involvement in the war. But also, I could sense, deeply disappointed. "Tell me about this man, your president … Howard?” he asked. "Why did he go to war with Iraq?”
 
“Why did he appear on the television pledging support for America?” he asked referring to the Prime Minister’s recent public remarks confirming Australia’s commitment to keeping troops in Iraq. Howard’s comments were given extensive coverage on Iraqi TV and Arab satellite networks such as Al-Jazeera.
 
My Iraqi friends were alarmed when they saw this and warned that it could land me in trouble. Ra’id raced to my house one day. “Donna, what is he doing? Tell this man to keep his mouth shut! He will make all Iraqis hate Australia. You must stay inside now!”
 
He explained that most Iraqis aren’t aware of the extent of Australia’s involvement in the war, many don’t even know there are Australian soldiers here and should not be alerted to it on prime-time television by the leader of the offending nation.
 
Ra’id’s warning proved legitimate. Prior to this, the response I got from being Australian had always been warm and enthusiastic. But in the last few weeks I’ve been astounded at the stony looks I receive and the questions like: “Why does your country follow America?”
 
As I tried to reason with the brown man, I felt that I had the weight of the Australian foreign policy resting on my shoulders. The load was heavy. And this burden was the last thing I needed while being held captive by Iraqi fighters from Fallujah who feel the full brunt of the invasion every day of their lives. I cursed John Howard in my head. Why couldn’t he come and explain to the Iraqi people why he participated in an invasion of their country? How could I even attempt to explain a policy that I believed was reckless, small-minded, dangerous and irresponsible. I didn’t. 
 
I told him I didn’t agree with John Howard, so I could not justify his decision. 
 
For the next few minutes I put my views on the war with as much passion and clarity as I could muster sitting on the floor in that dark room in a Fallujah house. I explained that I came to Iraq last year as a human shield to show my opposition to war and violence and to be with the Iraqi people in solidarity. And now I’ve returned to help pick up the pieces, especially the pieces of the broken children left homeless and suffering trauma as a result of the war. 
 
I explained that John Howard is a conservative politician, and that I belong to a party that opposes him. That we are hopeful that elections this year will deliver us a new Prime Minister that would withdraw troops from Iraq.
 
His face brightened. “A new Prime Minister?”
 
“We hope for this,” I said.
 
“Insha’ allah (God willing)” he replied in agreement.
 
Finally, I’d made a connection that may well have saved me.   
 
But still, with pain in his eyes the brown man’s questions continued and became more specific.
 
“How many Australian soldiers are in Iraq? Where are they based and what are they doing? What do the Australian people think about Iraq? Do they want to be at war with Iraq?”
 
He looked intently at me: “Do they want to hurt Iraqi people?”
 
The question broke my heart and I had to choke back tears as I thought about all my friends at home who opposed the war. I told him that Australians don’t want to hurt Iraqi people. That the majority opposed the war and took to the streets in their hundreds of thousands last year in demonstrations.
 
“Then why did the Government go to war, if the people didn’t agree?”
 
I was back to square one -shrugging my shoulders and feeling stupid that I came from a so-called democracy while it was so obviously not a good example of one. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream. I wanted to express to him the longings of every Australian man, woman and child who marched and took actions opposing the war. I wanted him to feel their desire for peace.
 
I desperately wanted him to believe this. I said it as best I could.
 
He sat back and thought for a few moments. I sat in silence in my anguish.
 
The silence was broken by gunshots and explosions outside. Outside on the streets of Fallujah where bodies of women and children lie on the ground, outside where an ambulance cannot move without being shot at, outside where no one can walk freely without the risk of a sniper’s bullet through the head.
 
I was held in a room with a man holding a gun blocking the door, but in that moment I realised that I was not the captive. He was. And his wife and his children and his neighbours …
 
I hung my head in shame. I couldn’t hold the tears any longer so I let them come. Tears for Iraq and for Australia.
 
Your pilgrim
Donna         
 
PS: I’ve been visiting the Red Crescent Refugee Camp set up for the homeless people of Fallujah. There are hundreds of families living in tents. The stories are heart-breaking. We are providing toys, games and play-time for the children. Stories and pictures from the camp soon.
PPS: For the newcomers to the list – you can catch up on old stories at www.groups.yahoo.com/group/thepilgrim or the website www.sydneypeace.com has laid out the Fallujah stories and pics really well. 
PPPS: : A request for the ‘pray – errs’: My friend Ra’id wants to come to Australia with me to talk to groups about the occupation from an Iraqi point of view and to do some skills training. Getting a visa for him will take a minor miracle. But I see miracles all the time, so can you order one for him?
PPPPS: “And the band played Waltzing Matilda
While we stopped to bury our slain
We buried ours and the Turks buried theirs
Then it started all over again”
Eric Bogle, The band played Waltzing Matilda    

Kindness (The full story part 7)

Friends,
 
After the questioning I was led out of the cushioned room and Jo was ushered in. Beth and David were sitting on a rug on the floor down the corridor. They sat in silence and as I sat down their expressions indicated that I should not talk.
 
We were guarded by a man wearing denim jeans, joggers, a t-shirt and the trademark scarf (kaffiyeh) wrapped around his head, so all we could see were his eyes. From them I could tell that he was young – perhaps only 19. He held a Kalashnakov. There was a doorway nearby with a thin curtain separating us from next room. I could hear the presence of others in there and figured it was probably the kitchen.
 
I appreciated the silence so I could think about the interrogation I’d just had with the brown man and what it all meant.
 
There were a couple of packets of biscuits sitting on the rug for us. I started to munch on them as I sat and thought. At one stage I wrestled with the packet, I just couldn’t get it open: “there must be a way!”  The boy looked at me and my efforts to open the packet in disbelief. Finally he put down his gun, gently took the packet of biscuits and opened them for me. “Shukran” I said embarrassed, but grateful for this little kindness.
 
The kindness didn’t stop there. Beth was feeling ill and curled up in a little ball. After seeing this, the boy brought a blanket to put over her. When he saw me yawn and stretch out on the floor he brought me a pillow.
 
After a while we started whispering between ourselves and we were not asked to stop, so finally we began to talk. Jo returned, David was called in. Then the moment I’d been waiting for… "Chai?” the scarved boy asked a little shy.
 
“You bet,” I answered, “I knew we’d get a cup of tea,” I said to the others smugly.
 
In Iraq offers to drink tea come about 20 times a day, in keeping with the famous Middle-eastern hospitality. Just waving to someone on the street can evoke a “you must come to my house for tea.”
 
So even though were we strangers. Even though we could well have been spies. Even though the armies of our countries were terrorising their families, the scarved boy did not forget his culture or his manners. His mother would have been proud.
 
The next few minutes I heard giggling on the other side of the curtain. I imagined the scene. Iraqi masked Mujahadeen fighters putting down their Kalashnakovs to make tea for women. No doubt hoping their friends would never hear about this!         
 
The tea was good and I started to relax. It was an omen for me, and although I could see some angst in the faces of the others I was confident we would all be okay. The brown man had told us before: “Don’t be afraid, we are Moslems, we cannot harm you.” I believed him. I thanked God for people who followed their beliefs and I also thanked him for faith, which as always, was my comfort.
 
After the brown man finished with David, we were all asked to go back into the main living room. He asked some more general questions and searched our bags. This was good for us because he looked at our cameras. The most recent pictures and footage  showed images of what we did in Falluja and our work with the children back in Baghdad. With the search complete he left, but an armed guard sat near the door to watch us.
 
We sat on the floor and talked as the afternoon passed away, trying to always stay positive. I was grateful for the people I was with. They were all mature and level-headed, others could have easily panicked and responded inappropriately.
 
But Akra, our translator was feeling the weight of it all and suddenly burst into tears. She was frightened, not only about what might happen, but what her family would think of it. In this culture, for a woman to stay away from her house overnight is a great shame for her family. Our capture meant she would be away two nights. We assured her that her family would understand, but she was not convinced. “What if they don’t let us go?” she cried, reciting prayers in Arabic as she sobbed.
 
I went up to her and said “Akra, I have big faith in God, everything will be okay.”
 
“Yes, but you don’t know my Mama!” she wailed.
 
Even though Akra was serious, we all couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Later on we quoted this to each to try to keep the atmosphere light and to cheer up Akra who continued to cry for another four hours or so.
 
We also sang some songs for her: Abba (Super Trouper), a few Beatles numbers, (When I’m 64), Waltzing Matilda (the others knew the words better than me!). I started Bohemian Rhapsody but by the second line they begged me not to continue. But the singing was soothing for Akra so we sung a few more. 
 
Jo, who has worked as a clown in Iraq, got out her balloons and made a couple of balloon animals, she gave one to Akra and one to the man with the gun. "Do you have children?” she asked him.
 
“Yes,” he said. “They’ve been taken to Baghdad.” She handed him a purple giraffe for them which made him smile.
 
Then he began to talk. “They killed my brother,” he said softly. "And my brother’s son and my sister
46;s son. My other brother is in jail. I am the only one left. Do you know how this feels?”
 
The looks on our faces told him we didn’t.
 
“And now my best friend was killed. His throat was cut by American soldiers after they shot him in the leg. He was on the street and couldn’t run away.”
 
“Oh God,” I thought. His friend was one of the bodies that had come into the clinic.
 
As the anguish of this man gushed out of him I wondered if he wanted to whack us all with his gun as revenge for our countries killing half his family. Or perhaps that would not be enough to relieve his pain?
 
But in an act of restraint I dearly wished the Pentagon had shown, he didn’t. He didn’t punish us for something we didn’t do, despite the fact he and his family had been punished for something they didn’t do.
 
As if to read our minds he reminded us: “We are Moslems, we won’t hurt you.”
 
Then he just held the giraffe and sat in silence.
 
They brought us a big meal, more tea and medicine for Beth. As the hours passed the windowless room became more hot and stuffy.
 
We were relieved when they told us to get up and move to the car. We were being taken to another house. It was dark by now and as we passed through the Fallujah streets I caught glimpses of the bright, starry sky. It was stunning.
 
Before we entered the house, I lingered to stare at the sky as long as I could. My heart smiled as I thought about one of my favourite lines from my teacher.
 
“Don’t worry about tomorrow,” he said. ‘Tomorrow will worry about itself.”
 
“Consider the lilies of the field and the creatures of the air…”
 
In other words, when you’re anxious, contemplate beauty. Dwell on the wonder of nature.
 
That night he gave me the beauty of that starry sky to contemplate and I was grateful.
 
Inside the new house the girls were put into a room while David was kept separate. After an hour or so there was a knock at the door. The man had a message: “tomorrow you will be released and taken to Baghdad”.
 
“We must arrange for someone to take you there,” he said. ‘The roads are dangerous and you could be kidnapped.”
 
We smiled with irony at the concern of our captors.
 
When he closed the door the others cheered and we all hugged each other. I had a feeling  we would be released tomorrow anyway, but the confirmation was appreciated.
 
He told us we would leave after first prayers, at dawn. They gave us an evening meal and more tea and biscuits. In our room with the door closed we talked a lot about the day and worried about David. Being alone out there with all the men with guns would not have been comfortable. He admitted later to wondering if he was having his ‘last supper’ with the men who might kill him.
 
It was hard to sleep that night, not just because of the heat, the rickety fan or the strange circumstances. The bombing that went on all around for hours was intense. The blasts were loud and they shook the house. My stomach was in knots half the night.
 
Talking to the others in the morning, we all agreed that we’d heard a strange type of bomb. From our experience it sounded like a cluster bomb. It lands with a loud blast, then there a whirling noise and a series of explosions as the bomblets spread themselves about ready for Iraqi children to pick up.
 
Cluster bombs are responsible for blowing off the arms and legs of many hundreds of children in Iraq. Their colour and shape are attractive to kids when they see them lying in a field. They are evil contraptions. Designed only to kill and maim human beings.
 
If they were cluster bombs that we heard, we can be guaranteed that whenever the fighting in Falluja ends, these things will be killing innocent people for a year or two more.
 
It was well past dawn and I quietly wondered if our journey to Baghdad would eventuate.
 
Finally there was a knock at the door and we were asked to hurry up. We were put into two cars with our bags. Our driver was an Imam, the other his friend.
 
As we approached the road out of Fallujah there were hundreds of cars in a queue to leave, but they weren’t moving. Our hearts sank. Akra panicked. Would we be stuck another night?
 
We wove our way up to the top of the queue. The people there explained that the Americans had blocked the road and were not letting anyone pass. They had just fired shots at one car that had attempted to use the road.
 
One lady pointed to her car full of children. “I want to take my children out before they’re killed,” she said. “Why won’t they let us leave?”
 
I looked at the other cars, they were all full of families, desperate to escape the bloody violence of Fallujah. There were hundreds of these cars.
 
I couldn’t believe the soldiers would not let these people drive to safety.
 
“Can you help us?” the people asked.
 
We looked at each other and decided we had to try again. We got out of the car and prepared ourselves. There was a long stretch of empty road that was the ‘no-man’s land’ between the cars and the soldiers. We held our hands in the air, grabbed the loudspeaker and began to walk down the deserted road that was no-man’s land toward the concrete and razor wire where the soldiers were.
 
The blood on my passport reminded me of the last time I did this. We hoped for a better outcome this time.
 
Your pilgrim
Donna
 
PS: “There are no real boundaries to kindness,” Nilushi, a friend.

The Roadblock (The full story part 8)

So we began to walk down the empty, dusty road towards a collection of concrete blocks and razor wire where the soldiers were guarding the roadblock. Behind us was a queue of hundreds of cars full of ordinary people from Fallujah - terrified and trying to flee to safety. A few had already given up and turned around after gun shots from US soldiers warned them not to come any closer.

Fallujah had become a bloody prison - no one was allowed in or out.

We couldn’t see the soldiers but we followed the same procedure as a few days before: hijabs off so it was clear w e were western, arms in the air, passport in hands and message on the loudspeaker: "Hello American soldiers, we are unarmed foreign civilians, we are trying to leave Falluja - please don’t shoot."

We repeated this a few times and walked slowly towards the checkpoint. I squinted into the distance as I heard our message echo back to us, but there was no movement ahead. We were half way down the road in no-man’s land when finally I saw the outline of a soldier in the distance. We repeated the message and heard his faint reply: "we won’t shoot, proceed."

Relieved, we walked the rest of the way to meet him. He was surprised to see us, and a little on edge, but greeted us cordially. About ten others hovered around with machine guns in hand a little bemused by the sight of us.

We explained that we had been in Fallujah to help deliver and distribute aid and that we were trying to get back to Baghdad. The soldier in charge agreed to let our two cars pass through. That was great news, but it was not enough.

"What about the others?" we asked. The ‘others’ being hundreds of families from Fallujah sitting in their hot, overcrowded cars hoping somehow to escape the hell that had descended on their city.

There were anxious women, frightened children, crippled old men and young men of fighting age who just didn’t want to fight.

"You must let these people through," we pleaded. "They just want to travel to safety."

The solider in charge hesitated.

"They are civilians with a few belongings just wanting to escape the violence," we explained.

We put the case for another five minutes or so and finally the soldier responded.

"Okay, we’ll let the women and children through," he announced as though he’d made a great concession - but a concession that was useless.

This soldier didn’t seem to have a grip on local culture, so I had to remind him. "The women don’t drive cars. And if one or two of them do they can’t go alone without the company of a man from their family," I told him gently.

His concession would mean that none of the hundreds of cars in the queue would be able to pass.

He nodded: "Okay, we’ll let the old men through." Again, this would have allowed just a few cars to pass.

I didn’t understand the logic in forcing the young men to stay, and questioned him.

"The men who want to leave don’t want to fight you - surely you want to let them go so they are not forced to pick up a gun to defend themselves against you?"

The soldier in charge didn’t respond out loud, but one of the others did, perhaps not meaning for us to hear.

‘We want them all in there together so we can finish them off all at once, it makes it easier."

I would have taken this unbelievable statement as a joke had not the soldier in charge reiterated his command immediately.

"No. The men cannot leave. We have orders."

We headed back to the queue of cars. The people were waiting patiently for us, their faces were hopeful.

A translator explained: "The woman and children can go, and the old men."

A clean-cut man in his forties standing near me grabbed my arm. He held his baby daughter in his arms. "Can I go?" he asked with desperation.

My heart sank. I had to explain to this Iraqi man with his baby, wife and car full of kids that he could not leave the bombing, the shooting, the chaos of Fallujah on a public road that belonged to him.

A tank from a foreign country which had come with claims of ‘liberation’ was taking this man’s freedom before my eyes. Freedom to take his family to safety. Freedom to live in peace. Freedom just to live.

I put my head down. "No," I said. "They won’t let you go." Hardly believing the words as I spoke them.

"They will let your wife and children go," I said knowing how stupid that would sound to him.

"How can they go alone?" he screamed pointing to the empty drivers seat where he would have to sit for his family to escape to safety. The fear on the face of his wife crushed my heart into pieces.

This scenario was the same for so many of the families in the queue.

I couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t bear to see these families turn back to God knows what.

We headed back to the soldiers to try again. We told them the cars were all driven by men with their families. Not allowing them to pass would mean refusing women and children a passage to safety.

"Do you know the Geneva Convention?" we asked, not really expecting an answer.

The head guy shuffled from foot to foot as he deliberated. We stood holding our breaths with our fingers crossed.

"Okay," he said. "Men can pass, but only if they are accompanying a family."

Yes! That would at least ensure the women and children could get out, and many of the men.

We went back and explained the new condition. For people who couldn’t hear we just pointed to their car and gave a thumbs up.

They clapped, cheered and yelled out: ‘Thank you, God bless you".

But it was a bitter-sweet victory - tempered by the fact that the only reason the soldiers allowed anyone through was because a bunch of foreigners were watching and reminding them of the Geneva Convention. They should have just let them through because they were Iraqi people wanting to move about in their own country. I shuddered to think what was happening at other checkpoints.

And still there were the young men. There was a large group in their early 20s in the back of a pick-up. They would not leave Fallujah today. We could not give them a logical reason and did not repeat to them the threatening words of the soldiers.

So we got back into our cars and slowly led the way through no-mans land toward the check-point. They searched our cars and we were ushered through. The car behind us, packed with a large family got through too. They stuck close behind us.

I turned my head to check what was happening. The soldiers were doing thorough searches of the cars. It would be a long day for these Fallujans, but hopefully they would eventually drive to safety.

As for the young men who didn’t want to fight - they would have to go back to the hell of Fallujah and face the uncertainty of being a civilian caught in a war where there we re no rules.

As we drove away, I was overcome by sadness as I remembered the fear and desperation on the faces of the people.

I couldn’t help thinking: why should these people be so frightened that they are forced to flee their own homes? Why are they now refugees in their own country? Where would they go? How long will their lives be upside down? How long before the killing would stop and promised "freedom" would come?

There were no answers as we drove away to the sound of another bomb blast shaking Fallujah.

your pilgrim

Donna

PS: "There is nothing more terrifying than ignorance in action." Geothe.

Home and humanity (The full story part 9)

Our road-block dramas didn’t end there. As we drove along the country roads surrounding Fallujah, we were often stopped by locals and told: “You can’t go that way, there are American soldiers hiding by the road. It’s not safe.”

We were forced to turn back a few times and start again. Fighter planes roared overhead as we nervously zig-zagged across the country-side trying to find a way back to Baghdad. Finally we ventured down one road because there simply was no other way.

We slowed to a halt after hearing the firing of mortars ahead of us. If our cars proceeded we could well become the target of one of the rockets. The car with the family was still behind us.

But we couldn’t turn back. There was no where else to go.

The driver looked at us hopefully – “Can you do it again?’

We got out of the cars and in the same fashion as before walked towards the area that looked like a make-shift military camp. It was a long way.

As we walked, missiles and gunshots were being fired from the place we were headed. They landed in the farmlands nearby and shook the ground we were walking on. My stomach was sick at the sound of each loud thud as the missiles were released.

Of all the ‘walking towards soldiers’ I’d done in the last few days, this was the most frightening and unpredictable. We called out on the loud speaker, but there was no response.

Suddenly David put a question: “Are they Americans or Muja’s up there?” We could see the outlines of bodies, but they weren’t wearing the traditional helmets we were used to seeing on American soldiers.

This added to the uncertainty. There were fighters up ahead launching missiles all around us. We were walking into this not knowing who they were.

We kept yelling through the loudspeaker, but there was no reply, even though we knew they could hear us.

“If they don’t speak English, they’re not gonna understand us,” David said. My heart was beating at a hundred miles an hour. Our steps became less confident. Thoughts of being either shot at or held captive again passed through our minds.

But we were in Iraq, in the farmlands around warring Fallujah with cars full of people wanting to get to safety. In this situation there isn’t many choices, so we kept walking.

Finally we saw one of the fighters waving his arms, he was motioning for us to go to the right. We followed his order and eventually we saw what was a military camp. They were Americans. We didn’t recognise them earlier, David explained, because these were a special unit, Green Berets, and wore a different uniform.

We cautiously approached them and they waved to us to come closer.

We explained the situation again: that we were in Fallujah, that we’re trying to leave and can’t find a safe road.

“Are you crazy?” a few of them asked in unison.

I smiled to myself as I looked around at their tanks, missile launchers and machine guns. I wanted to ask them the same question.

These guys were hard-core. We had walked into a major US military offensive. As we spoke I was almost knocked off my feet by the impact of mortars that were being fired just a few metres away from me.

‘Don’t worry,” one soldier said. “They’re outgoing missiles Ma’m, they won’t hurt you.”

I was stunned by his matter-of-fact nonchalance. “Yes, they might not hurt me,” I thought. “But who are they going to hurt?”

I asked him who the missiles were aimed at.

“The rebel insurgents in this area…

“The what?” I looked around the area. It was farmland. There were families living in tiny cottages around their little plot of crops. We’d met them on the road – simple, friendly people, caught up in this madness.

There were no rebel insurgents here, but there were old ladies, children, grandfathers, uncles and sons, forced to defend themselves from this massive military bombardment. One day they were peacefully tending to their crops, the next day they were having missiles destroy their land and their lives. These families didn’t have a chance.

It seemed that these Green Berets were following orders that didn’t even take into account the concept of civilians.

“Boom,” another missile launched with a gut-wrenching thud…

I wanted to scream at the soldiers and run down to the firing line to destroy those missile launchers, but then one of them offered me some water, another gave directions on a way to get out.  In a moment of anguish and confusion I held my disgust inside myself, but trusted that the look on my face communicated something for them to think about.

We were guided out on some winding roads and finally made it to the highway. There the car with the family went in another direction – they waved to us out the window. I was relieved to seem the drive to safety.

We were back in Baghdad within an hour. It was strange to see people on the street walking around after the spooky emptiness of Fallujah.

On arrival back at our apartment – our friends were going out of their minds. They were just about to notify authorities about our disappearance.

It was only when sitting in our apartment that we were able to believe that everything was over. We sat alone together, the four of us, hugging, crying, chattering, laughing.

An ordeal was over for us, but every minute a new one was just beginning for thousands of Iraqis in Fallujah – mother shot by a sniper, house bombed, child maimed…

In the days following our return I w as criticised for what I did: for going to Fallujah to try to help people in crisis.

The Australian Prime Minister called me ‘reckless’, ‘foolish’ and ‘irresponsible’.

Funny, as I helped injured people in the clinic in Fallujah ‘reckless’ was not a feeling I experienced.

As we packed the ambulance full of medical supplies, “foolish”, did not spring to mind.

As we negotiated safe passage for hundreds of people to escape bloody, senseless violence, I didn’t feel in any way ‘irresponsible’.        

Comforting people in crisis, conveying message of peace and then telling the truth about a situation in which there were no media present… sorry, still don’t feel foolish.

Invading a country we have no conflict with. I’d call that foolish.

Following the foreign policy of an aggressive superpower rather than developing your own, for the good of your people. I’d call that reckless.

Placing the citizens of your nation in danger by participating in a war on innocent people, that creates hurt and resentment in these people and others all over the world, I’d call that irresponsible.

I follow a teaching that says life is sacred. All life. It requires me to ‘love my neighbour’, no matter where they are from. It says there are no boundaries to kindness. To live justice and love mercy.       

In going to Fallujah I tried to be ‘fair dinkum’ in following my beliefs. I was just trying to be who I am called to be. To be human and share this humanity. That’s all.

Why is this so threatening to some?

Your pilgrim

Donna              

PS: Where did the Fallujah refugees end up? Their stories next…

PPS: “There is something immoral about abandoning your own judgement.” JFK, from the movie 13 days.          

Refugees

Hamid and his family invited us into their new home to talk, it was a little crowded, but we all managed to find a place on the floor.

You see his new home is a small tent on a dusty football field in Baghdad.

Hamid, his wife and five children are from Fallujah. They fled in fear seven days after the US military onslaught started.

"The bombs forced us to leave," he explained. "Our neighbour’s house was destroyed by a bomb. Everyone was killed, we became so afraid we decided to leave. Two of my close relatives were also killed, I buried them in the garden and left."

This family was one of the first to arrive at a refugee camp for Fallujan people set up by the Iraqi Red Crescent Society. The camp will cater for some of the thousands of families who became homeless as a result of the attack on this city of about 300,000 people. It is estimated around 65% have left.

At first the influx of refugees was absorbed by families in Baghdad. One man took 12 families into his home. Others stayed at bomb shelters, such as the one we visited at Al-Amiriyah, where hundreds of people slept on a concrete floor.

After leaving Fallujah, Hamid and his family first stayed in a house of relatives. They all slept in one room, but when it became too difficult, decided to return to their home in Fallujah. All the roads were closed by US military so they were forced back to homelessness. Now they sit crossed-legged in the small white tent. There’s a few mattresses and pillows on the floor. It’s getting a hot and stuffy in there under the strong Iraqi sun.

From their-house tent Hamid and his family described what Fallujah was like.

"Even if you weren’t killed immediately, there was no hope. There was no way to get to the hospital so injured people had to be treated in their house and they usually died," he said. "Even if an ambulance came to get injured people, the Americans would shoot at them. We saw a man the Americans shot lying on the street. He stayed there from morning to night because no one could go to get him. They were shooting at people and ambulances all the time."

We’d heard this report many times before, it’s quite an allegation, so we asked for confirmation: "Are you sure they were Americans doing this?"

"We could see it was Americans because they were so near," Hamid replied immediately. They were on the roofs of houses. They even went into the mosque and shot from the minaret. I saw women and children trying to go to the market and they started to shoot at them. We saw the fighter planes dropping rockets on the houses. 25 people in one family died. In our neighbourbood, almost all the houses are destroyed. Then the Americans closed the hospitals. We were stuck in our homes. The fighters had to bring us food and water."

As we sit on a plastic sheet in the small tent, the children gathered around. I asked Hamid how he feels in all this chaos?

"It seems there is no justice in this world, so it’s up to God," he said raising his hands. "What can we do? If there’s any justice in this world, we’re asking it to help us."

His wife joined in: "Here, living in a tent it is a miserable life for us. My husband can’t work, so we have no money. We have nothing. We want to go home, but we don’t know what we will find there, but still, we’d prefer to die in our homes."

I looked at the faces of the children who were listening to their parents talk of death and fear. They sat quiet, fidgeting and playing now and then. They endured the terror of bombing, watched their neighbours die, buried relatives in the garden, fled their home in fear. I wondered what damage it would do to them. I wondered what they thought about it all.

We went outside and Joanna made them some balloon animals, and for a moment they laughed.

Your pilgrim

Donna

PS: 13-year-old Sarah’s view next.

PPS: It’s confirmed. I’ll be at Sydney airport on Thursday night. Flight arrives 8.10pm, Gulf Air GF 148. Some friends are gathering there to meet me. Please come, all welcome.

PPPS: Didn't I tell you miracles happen? My Iraqi friend Ra’id has been granted an Australian visa. The Embassy told us this is very rare. But with so many people praying and expecting a miracle, it was inevitable! He also got a seat on the same flight as me! PPPPS: "What was our sin?" question from Ali, a Fallujan man at the refugee camp. His house was bombed.

Sarah's view

She was quiet at first. Sarah, a 13-year-old-girl from Fallujah listened intently as we spoke to her family huddled in their tent at a refugee camp in Baghdad. Terrorised by bombing, snipers and with the stench of death all around them, Sarah and her family fled Fallujah at the peak of the US onslaught against the town.
 
After our talk we went outside the tent and played with the children. They began to laugh and relax as we made balloon animals for them. But Sarah remained quiet, her round face was sullen and thoughtful.
 
When we asked her thoughts about the situation, she spurted them out without hesitation. She spoke in a loud voice, with defiance and with pain.
 
“America? This is not their home, this is our home,” she said. "Why did they come here and force us to live like this? They made us homeless, they made us wander to this house and that house to ask if anyone can help us… Why did they come here? I want them to go.”
 
The hurt in her voice and the anger in her large, brown eyes forced me to look away and deal with the bitter tears in my own. Her pain runs as deep as the graves of her townspeople that have filled the football fields in Fallujah.
 
No, it’s much deeper I thought as she walked away alone

"What is the sin of these children?"

"What is the sin of these children?' Khalid asked as he pointed to his young son and daughter who sat near him on the plastic floor of the Red Crescent tent. "My daughter has no shoes because we had to leave so quickly we couldn&Mac226;t go back to get them. "We ran hard that day. We ran for our lives.'

He leaned over and gently lifted the shirt of his son to reveal the little boy&Mac226;s back covered with deep cuts and grazes. "He fell and hurt himself as we climbed over the fences,' Khalid explained. "But we just had to keep going.'

Khalid and his family fled their home on the outskirts of Fallujah when the US military bombarded it with bombs and missiles. Their little farm cottage was destroyed. They only just got away with their lives.

"We had to leave with nothing but our clothes,' Khalid said as he explained how his family ended up living on a dusty Baghdad football field with thousands of other refugees from Fallujah.

The family invited me into the small tent which was now home to 15 people. There were two mattresses and some blankets but not much else. Without any prompting Khalid started to tell their story: "We felt some hope after the war ended, we thought things might change but now life is still the same as before,' Khalid said. "We got no benefit from the invasion like they said we would. "I thought Iraq would be better without Saddam, that we would be human beings, but now we are treated like dogs.'

Khalid explained with passion and anger how his family was persecuted by Saddam. His father and brother were killed by the regime. I listened to his painful stories of life under the dictator&Mac226;s rule. Which made his next statement all the more shocking.

"If we had Saddam again, it would be better than this,' Khalid cried with tears in his eyes as he waved his hands around pointing to his tent-home. "We hated Saddam and we had hope when he was capture. But when the Americans came to Fallujah and destroyed everything, then I had to accept that they just came to invade our country. "My hope is gone. At first I thought we were free. Now I realise we are invaded.'

He touched the head of his daughter, "what is the sin of these children?'

The story of Khalid&Mac226;s family is echoed in the hundreds of other small white tents lined up on the football field.

I was curious about his thoughts on the occupation now: "Do you want the Americans to leave?' I asked.

"Yes, please, they must leave so we can have security and freedom. Real freedom. We know they just came to take our oil, but they can take it all. Just give us food and freedom.'

As a result of the violent US onslaught on Fallujah, Khalid&Mac226;s household, a quiet, hard-working farming family, now have nothing. They are the type of family who were positive about the future. Who looked forward to a new life without Saddam. Who lived in peace. Now, like so many others, they feel betrayed. Cheated. Humiliated.

"Even when we go back to Fallujah we have nothing Our home is destroyed, the town is destroyed. How will we survive?' Khalid asked.

The question sat uncomfortably in the hot, stuffy tent. I wished I had a hotline to the Whitehouse to
see if anyone there had an answer.

I sniffled away my tears and as I got up to leave, Khalid asked me another question. "Can you tell our story? Let the people know what is happening to us: and to the children.'

I promised him I would.

Your pilgrim
Donna

PS: Sorry this story is late. It sat in my notebook for ages, but I needed to send it out in order to keep my promise. There are still many homeless families living in the refugee camp in Baghdad under awful conditions.
PPS: I&Mac226;ll also send some pics from the Refugee camp and a few more little stories.
PPPS: "When Jesus said: 'love your enemies' I think he probably meant don&Mac226;t kill them.' Lind K Williams.