Inside Iraq Blog - Times Online - WBLG

Eating out with Iraq's Prime Minister

My fixer was just tucking into his main course of lamb kebabs at a posh restaurant in central Baghdad when a commotion outside caught his attention.
Curiosity aroused, he went to the front door in time to see scores of black, four-wheel drives and pick-up trucks packed with guards pull up in the car-park and on the street.
The vehicles displayed Government badges, prompting my fixer to conclude that some minor Iraqi politician was coming in for dinner.
To his surprise, the suited figure of none other than Nouri al-Maliki, the Prime Minister, emerged, accompanied by two young girls, and walked inside.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes,” said my fixer. “It is the first time I have seen a member of the Government outside the Green Zone.”
Smiling calmly as fellow diners froze mid-mouthful to stare, Mr Maliki strolled over to a table with his young companions – thought to be daughters or grandchildren – while an entourage of burly bodyguards kept a watchful eye.
Within moments, there was a scraping of chairs as people, food forgotten,  scrambled over to try to take a picture with their mustachioed leader.
One of the guards, however, intervened, saying: “Please give him some privacy”, adding that the Prime Minister would pose for photographs after he had eaten.
The pop-star welcome was a far cry from the emotions Mr Maliki’s name used to provoke barely a year ago, when sectarian violence was still high.
People would mock him as weak and ineffective, calling for a tougher man at the top, with some even lamenting the end of Saddam Hussein’s rule.
But a series of crackdowns on Shia militias in the south and al-Qaeda-sponsored fighters in central and northern Iraq has earned Mr Maliki a lot of new fans.
“You eliminated the terrorists. We like what you did,” said one such admirer at the Saysban restaurant.
After he finished eating, the Prime Minister allowed about 10 people to pose next to him one at a time for a photograph. One old woman who was among the chosen few shook his hand, saying: “I prayed to God to help and support you.”
Not everyone was impressed with Mr Maliki’s dinnertime spectacle.
“Why did he not go to eat at a restaurant in Amariya?” scoffed one scathing diner, referring to a notoriously dangerous part of Baghdad. “It is safe here. He is just putting on a show to do well at the next elections.”
Iraqis are due to vote in provincial elections later this year, while the next general election is scheduled to take place in 2009.

[Picture: Nouri al-Maliki talking to the press outside Downing St, after talks with  British PM, Gordon Brown. By Chris Harris for The Times]

Behind the scenes at golden dome building site

In an instant, 18 mounds of professionally buried explosives blew apart a revered golden dome in Samarra. They also obliterated the walls, covered in hand-painted porcelain tiles, that surround the shrine and took out the entire ceiling.
Fixing the mess will take time, but a team of Iraqi architects and engineers is determined to return the al-Askari shrine to exactly the way it was before the attack almost two-and-a-half years ago. That blast was followed by a second bombing that brought down two golden minarets on either side of the dome in June 2007.
The United Nations’ heritage agency, UNESCO, is overseeing the reconstruction effort in partnership with the Iraqi Government, with a contract for detailed designs of the shrine and its famous dome due to be handed out in the coming days.
Originally designed by Iranian architects, it is undecided yet whether Iran will play a part in reconstructing the site. Too much Iranian involvement will unlikely go down well with the local Sunni population. However Shia Iran will be very keen to ensure that the shrine is restored to its former glory.
Preparing the ground, scores of labourers in blue boiler suits have been hard at work since February shoveling away rubble in tractors, storing anything worth saving and boring holes into the remains with electronic drills.
The structure alone is not forecast to be completed until August 2009. Then begins the pain-staking task of re-fitting hundreds of gold-plated copper tiles that adjourn the outside of the 32-foot high dome as well as the golden minarets.
Most of the tiles were salvaged from the carnage but some are bent out of shape and may have to be replaced.
Restoration work is always difficult and time-consuming. In the case of the al-Askari Shrine, it is also hugely politically and religiously sensitive.

Failed quest for 'Daughters of Iraq'

For an embed set up to investigate a new breed of Iraqi female guard it was a complete disaster. But fortunately, thanks to an amusing helicopter crew and some friendly soldiers on the ground, the trip was not an utter waste of time.
In fact, things got off to a promising start. 
I mean, it’s not every day you get to ride next to a gunner in a Blackhawk and watch as he test-fires the weapon, while passing over a patch of dusty waste land en route to an area known as the Triangle of Death.
Touching down at a military base on the outskirts of Yusifiyah, a town south of Baghdad, I had been expecting to spend the next two days with some “Daughters of Iraq”, a novel addition to the country’s bulging security forces.
The group is a female version of the better-established “Sons of Iraq” who were formed and funded by the US military after largely Sunni Arab tribes grew disenchanted with al-Qaeda.
It became apparent very quickly, however, that something had gone horribly wrong in the planning of my adventure.
The local batch of Daughters of Iraq only emerge on a Sunday and a Monday, while I, for some inexplicable reason, had been booked to embed on a Tuesday with the US soldiers who run the programme.

The Commanding Officer, Captain Michael Starz, who had nothing to do with organising the visit but was merely hosting it, was as puzzled as me as to why I had been sent on such an odd day to see real live Daughters of Iraq.
Unfortunately our mutual realisation of the error only dawned after the helicopter had upped and vanished, leaving me stranded in this rural spot.
To make matters worse, Tuesday (when all this took place) turned out to be the very day when thousands of Iraqi soldiers poured deeper than ever before into the Baghdad Shia slum of Sadr City.
I had been waiting for the past week for this to happen so it was typical that the action should kick off the moment I decide to take a chance and leave.
Alas none of my mobile phones worked in Yusifiyah and my satellite phone decided to go on strike so I was blissfully unaware of this hugely symbolic event until I finally logged onto the Internet a lot later in the day.
With no chance of seeing any Daughters of Iraq at work, I asked to be put on the next flight back to Baghdad.

A helicopter was due in at 3pm, which meant I had time to go out on a patrol with Captain Starz.

Delivering aid to Sadr City

Smiling excitedly, the skinny orphan clutches a new rucksack given to him by a group of Iraqi soldiers as part of a limited mission to distribute aid to the many needy people in Sadr City.
Rasoul Mohamed Sharif, 12, and the other 30 boys at a ramshackle orphanage are among the lucky few to gain access to this assistance, which is only being distributed in the southern sector of the Baghdad Shia slum.
Ongoing clashes between US and Iraqi forces and gangs of Shia gunmen who have controlled Sadr City for the past five years, means that soldiers have been unable to deliver supplies of food, water and medical assistance any deeper.
As a result boxes of bandages and other basic medical equipment lie untouched outside a Baghdad military base, while hospitals and medical centres in the northern two-thirds of the impoverished district are fast running out of supplies.
First Lieutenant Mostafa Zeid, a doctor, said that it was very frustrating to know that people were in need of help and to have the necessary assistance, but be unable to deliver because it is deemed too dangerous.

“We know that they [the hospitals] are suffering from a lack of drugs, medicines and doctors and they need help,” he said, noting that the supplies had been sitting around for more than three weeks.
“I am very sad and frustrated.”
The Ministry of Health had offered to help deliver the equipment to the hospitals but the soldiers say that they prefer to hand it over themselves. The Health Ministry has a record of being closely connected with the al-Mehdi Army militia that controls Sadr City and there is a suspicion that the medical aid will end up with wounded militiamen rather than civilians.
First Lieutenant Zeid is hopeful that the army will be able to reach the cut-off hospitals and medical centres soon, following a ceasefire agreement signed on Monday between the Government’s Shia political bloc and supporters of Moqtada al-Sadr, the Shia cleric who commands the Mehdi Army.
Clashes continue on the streets, however, and no move has yet been made to cross beyond a wall constructed by US forces to seal off the southern sector.
The military doctor predicted that this would change. “I believe in one week we can take this [the medical supplies],” he said, speaking to me on Tuesday.

Random kindness

Something really random just happened so I thought I would share.
I was sitting in my office, which is actually a small room inside a suite inside a hotel in Baghdad, feeling rather blue – it happens every now and then.
Truth be told, I was generally feeling sorry for myself. Pathetic, considering how bad other people have it out here, but there you go.
Anyhow, the cleaner, who visits my room every day and always greets me with a big smile no matter what is going on in his life, came in to make some comment about the laundry.
I tried to hide the fact that I was upset, but failed.
As soon as he noticed, the young man sprang into action, wiping away my tears, telling me to be happy and not to worry about anything. He even planted a big kiss on my head as if I were a member of the family or something.
Before I knew it the cleaner was off pottering around the bathroom with a mop, but thanks to his kind gesture I feel much better.

Pigeons welcomed in Baghdad

A flock of pigeons has taken roost in a busy square in central Baghdad, where three fountains also recently started to spout water.
The rare display prompts some passers-by jokingly to liken this tiny fraction of their otherwise broken city to London or Paris.

“It makes me feel like we are in Europe,” said my driver as we pulled up to Tahrir Square this morning to check-out the tame birds and the waterworks.
Twittering to each other, the pigeons flutter around the foot of a large stone plaque at one end of the square, which is actually shaped more like a rectangle and also boasts a revamped patch of parkland surrounded by a main road.
The Baghdad Council installed the birds here a few months ago as part of a push to revive the bomb-scarred capital, said a young boy who looks after them.
“There are about 300 pigeons altogether, though I lost a few of them in the first day because they just flew off,” he said, declining to give his name.
Housed in a green cage, the size of a garden shed, the grey, white and speckled birds are released every morning at 7am and shooed home at 5pm.
The walls of the cage are lined with shelves holding small, straw baskets where the pigeons sleep and also reproduce.
“This chick was born three weeks ago,” said the bird-keeper, reaching into one of the baskets and plucking out a small ball of dark grey feathers.

People walking across the square pause to check out the pigeons and the fountains. Some even snap a few pictures on their camera phone.

Sandstorm hits Baghdad

The sandstorm swept in without warning overnight, covering everything in its wake in fine particles of dust.
By morning Baghdad was cocooned inside a yellow haze of dirt. Visibility shrank to a few meters, erasing almost all trace of the Tigris River that slices through the capital.

Many people wrapped a scarf over their mouth and nose for protection and sheltered their eyes behind a pair of goggles or shades before venturing outside. Some even purchased the sort of white face mask a dentist would wear to help them breathe, while anyone with asthma stayed at home.
Every year at about this time sandstorms engulf Iraq like a dirty blanket of fog that clogs the air and leaves behind a thin layer of filth.
Majid Kamal, a traffic policeman, who spends his day zipping around Baghdad on a motorbike, was aghast when he awoke last Thursday to discover that the outside world had been transformed into a dust cloud.
“This sand gives me a headache,” the 35-year-old said. “I tried to get the day off but my boss refused because he feared the bad conditions would cause more road accidents.”
After several hours spent driving around breathing in the dirt, however, Mr Kamal’s chest and eyes were so sore that he was allowed to knock off early.
Like many Iraqis, the dust reminds the traffic policeman of the start of the invasion five years ago, which was also blighted by a huge sandstorm.
“At that time, I was made to stand outside 24-hours-a-day,” Mr Kamal said, noting that Saddam Hussein had ordered all his security forces to work.
Latifah Hussein, 43, views sandstorms as a bad omen.
“This is a sign from God. It is not a good sign for the poor people,” said the housewife, dressed in a long, black robe as she popped outside her Baghdad apartment to pick-up some medication from a local pharmacy.

Iraqis belt-up in road safety drive

On my first trip to Iraq four years ago my driver told me off for trying to put on a seatbelt when I sat in the car because such a move – aside from the blonde hair and blue eyes – would clearly mark me out as a foreigner and a potential target.
“Iraqis don’t wear seatbelts,” he said, though I subsequently wondered whether it would be better to run the risk of attracting unwanted attention rather than endure the daily hazard of racing through the streets of Baghdad without a safety harness.
Over the past fortnight, however, a transformation has taken place. Iraqi drivers are (albeit in many cases reluctantly and/or in bemusement) wearing seatbelts for the first time following a Government order.
Many see the new rule as a bit of a joke given that the authorities have yet to stop the far more serious crimes of car bombings and kidnappings, but others welcome the move as a tiny glimmer of order in their otherwise chaotic lives.
Keen to write a story about seatbelts (http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/iraq/article3761059.ece), I headed off around Baghdad in the back of a taxi to see if people were belting up.
Incredibly, to a greater extent, they were, largely because no one wants to be stung by the 30,000 dinar (13 pound) fine.
My taxi driver, who is still getting used to the sensation of wearing a seatbelt, is pleased that Iraq’s traffic laws are catching up with the rest of the world’s, but he just doesn’t place car accidents very high-up on his list of concerns.
“I don’t have safety in my own house and garden so why should I worry about safety in my car?” Mohammed Farid said.
The 29-year-old knows only too well the perils of living in Iraq. Four years ago he was injured in the leg by a bomb blast when out driving. A couple of months later, criminals stole his car.
Mr Farid also noted that the countless checkpoints, road blocks and blast walls across Baghdad prevent anyone from driving fast enough to hurt themselves if they were to crash. “I only wear this strap to avoid paying a fine,” he said.
The law is imposed to a lesser extent on the roads leading to the capital, with some drivers saying that they belt up only when they approach Baghdad. However in the southern city of Basra and the northern city of Mosul traffic police are also out in force.
Ehssan Jabor, a taxi driver in Basra, is fuming at having to wear a seatbelt.
“I can't drive in this hot weather wearing this stupid rope around my body like I am under arrest,” the 45-year-old said.
“The authorities have to find real solutions to our real problems such as the [lack of] power, jobs and water instead of bothering poor drivers with these silly laws.”
Mohammad Ali, a 33-year-old car dealer, disagrees, saying: “If they want to start by imposing the law on small matters, then that is great. I agree with anything that will help the city become safe again.”
Up in Mosul, opinions are similarly divided.

Fishing in Saddam Hussein's lake

Standing by a blown up bridge with Blackhawk helicopters buzzing overhead, the American soldier casts his fishing line into the lake surrounding a former palace of Saddam Hussein just outside Baghdad and waits for something to bite.
Warrant Officer Leslie “Scott” Henry is part of a unique group of fishermen and women that meets every Sunday and on odd days of the week to take a break from the toils of war with their rod and an array of bait.
“It’s a chance to relax and get away from everything else that’s going on out here,” said the 45-year-old, who deals with aviation safety for US military aircraft in Iraq when he is not trying to hook an asp or a bass.
“You’ve got to stay ahead of the fish. You’ve got to be innovative,” Warrant Officer Henry told The Times as he tried out a new form of bait – strips of scrunched up bacon from the canteen, stuffed with cream cheese.
Situated on a sprawling military base next to Baghdad airport, the al-Faw Palace is one of several grand, marble buildings ringed by man-made lakes that have been occupied by American troops since the invasion five years ago.
Hundreds, possibly thousands, of fish live in these expanses of water, inspiring several soldiers to drop their guns and pick up a rod.
They formed the Baghdad Angler’s Club and School of Fly Fishing, which has its own Web site – www.baghdadflyfishing.com – displaying shots of men and at least one woman posing with fish of various sizes and shapes.
Last February, the group even helped to organise a tournament, dubbed Operation: Catch Fish, which attracted some 300 anglers. Chief Warrant Officer Bobby Carter grabbed top honours, reeling in a 14-pound carp.
"It's a great feeling," the amateur fisherman, who had competed in smaller contests back in the United States, said at the time. "I can't win one back home, but now I can say I came to Iraq and won a fishing tournament."
Iraq is renowned for freshwater fishing. For centuries Iraqis have cast their lines into the Tigris and Euphrates rivers that wind through the country, snaring huge fish such as carp that are barbequed into the traditional meal of masgouf.
Carp is the most numerous kind of fish inhabiting the lakes at Camp Victory but Warrant Officer Henry prefers going after game fish such as asp or bass. “Carp eat off the bottom. They are garbage fish,” he said. “It’s easier to catch carp.”
The angler’s club has about 100 rods that it lends to anyone on the camp who fancies trying their hand at fishing, even visiting journalists.
Intrigued, I and fellow reporter Peter Graff decided to venture to Camp Victory on Sunday to join in the fun with Warrant Officer Henry and one of his colleagues.
My only past angling experience had been opening the fridge door at home as a teenager in Camberley to find a tub of writhing maggots courtesy of my two, fish-mad brothers so I was slightly nervous at the prospect of having a go for real.

The story of seven Baghdad families

Here are the stories of seven different Baghdad families and how their lives have changed since the United States and Britain invaded Iraq to topple Saddam Hussein.
Largely interviewed by Ali Hamdani, an Iraqi journalist for The Times, these individuals offer a personal insight into the impact of the past five years and the violence that has left, at the very least, tens of thousands dead and forced many more - Shia Arabs, Sunni Arabs, Christians and Kurds alike - to flee their homes.
The people who suffered most are least optimistic about the future. Those whose lives are becoming stable sound more upbeat.

Family 1: The Shia family forced to move from a Sunni neighbourhood

Mina Ta’e, a Shia Arab, lived with her brother and mother in Ameriyah, a predominately Sunni neighbourhood in the west of Baghdad. Al-Qaeda militants forced the family to flee to nearby Mansour, but that neighbourhood also became a battlefield between Sunni Arab extremists and the Shia al-Mehdi Army militia.
The 26-year-old bank employee said: “I felt very happy when the invasion happened. My father was executed by Saddam so I couldn’t believe that we were finally rid of him. I started dreaming of a new Iraq, a free Iraq. Five months later our dream started to vanish.”
Gunmen began killing anyone in Ameriyah who worked with the US forces. Nightly clashes erupted on the street between Sunni Arab insurgents and US troops, while in the daytime, theft and carjacking was rife.
Ms Ta’e said: “Armed groups started setting up checkpoints in the middle of the road, stopping girls who weren’t wearing a head scarf. They also told us not to wear jeans or drive a car.”
She and her brother moved separately to other districts but their mother remained until a gang beheaded the son of one of their neighbours in front of his parents. “That was the moment that we decided enough was enough and we should leave immediately before they come after us,” Ms Ta’e said.
Her family rented their house to a displaced Sunni family that wanted to move to Ameriyah. Ms Ta’e and her mother then moved to nearby Mansour, a mixed Sunni and Shia area. Shortly after arriving in Mansour, that neighbourhood also descended into chaos with al-Qaeda fighting the al-Mehdi Army for control.
Ms Ta’e said: “Two of my uncles were shot dead in front of our house while they were visiting us because they were members of the district council.”
About six months ago, the situation started to improve with the arrival of Iraqi soldiers, concrete barriers and checkpoints. “Some families have started to come back but not many. I still can’t return to my house in Ameriyah. It’s a very dangerous place for Shia.”
Asked about her thoughts for the future, Ms Ta'e said: “My life is better in terms of getting rid of the man who killed my father and also we are now able to travel outside the country and see the world … but that’s not enough because we are missing an essential thing in our life and that is safety.
“We found alternatives for everything else. We bought generators to replace electricity, we changed our houses, we changed our clothes, but we still haven’t managed to find a replacement for safety. I don’t want to live like a refugee inside my home country.”
Ms Ta’e said that she did not want the US forces to leave at the moment because the Iraqi Government was too weak to handle to Sunni and Shia gangs. “I hope things will get better the next year. We have nothing more than hope to live for.”

Iraqis of Mosul speak of suffering

Five years of war have taken their toll on the Iraqi city of Mosul, where people live in fear, many without jobs, electricity or a reliable supply of water.
Engineer Ashwak al-Jaaf lost her husband and the eldest of her six children when unknown assailants killed them following the invasion, writing over their bodies that the pair had been members of Saddam Hussein’s Ba’ath regime.
“I fled to Syria for two years,” said Mrs Jaaf, aged 50.
“When I returned I found that everything had been stolen, even my car. Life is very bad now, dangerous and there are no basic services. This is what happens if you leave a country without a strong leader.”
In certain parts of Mosul, whole roads are lined with mounds of rubble, the remains of a building destroyed by an American hellfire missile or a car bomb.
Sewage runs in the street and the graffiti on walls advertises house after house up for sale.
Mrs Jaaf said that she too would leave again if she had the resources.
“Before the war, life was perfect. My husband was a manager at the Ministry of Oil and we felt very well protected. I am unable to believe that the situation can ever be restored,” she said, blaming the US military for instigating the chaos.
“They destroyed our country and caused many people to be killed because they wanted to oust Saddam and take Iraq’s oil,” she said.
American commanders are working alongside the Iraqi army and the police to stop extremist groups, such as al-Qaeda, from operating in Mosul. Militants, opposed to the US military and US-backed Iraqi Government, have conducted a campaign of killing and intimidation in the city since 2004.
But some local people fear both sides of the fight in equal measure.

British marching music welcomes Iran leader

Band members were punished if they hit a wrong note when playing for Saddam Hussein, but yesterday the music flowed with ease as they performed for the current Iraqi President and his guest President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of Iran.
Surprisingly, old British marching songs such as “The British Grenadiers” were the order of the day, a hangover from the Saddam era.
“We have been playing this marching music since Saddam’s time,” said clarinet player Mahmoud Gazal, aged 42. “We have not received any new music though we did try to download some from the Internet. We need the British Government to send us some more marching music,” he said.
Marching in formation up the drive of President Jalal Talabani’s residence in Baghdad, the red-coated military band bashed symbols, honked trumpets and blew into clarinets, adding to the sense of occasion surrounding the Iranian visit.
Lined up in rows, some with a music score attached to their back for those behind to read, they rehearsed a short playlist next to a red carpet that stretched into the palace as the minutes ticked down to Mr Ahmadinejad’s arrival.
The moment he drove into view, the mustachioed conductor instructed his men to let rip with Iran’s national song, followed by the upbeat Iraqi anthem and a selection of British marching tunes as well as an American number.
A guard of honour saluted the Iranian President, a little girl handed him a bouquet of white flowers and an assembled line of Iraqi ministers pumped his hand in a warm show of welcome, while the military music played-on.
Only stopping once Mr Ahmadinejad had disappeared into the palatial residence, the band appeared pleased with their performance.
“We were relaxed when we played before the President. This is our job,” said Mr Gazal, when asked if anyone had suffered stage fright.
“During Saddam’s time, however, we were not allowed to do a wrong note. If anyone did then he would be punished. Now this President always gives us money so it is great,” he said with a smile.

Love at first bite

I think about it at least a dozen times a day. If there is a piece floating around the kitchen I will sniff it out and scoff it down. My dreams are sometimes punctuated with images of the stuff and I invariably wake up craving one.
After a life-time of successfully avoiding addiction to substances such as alcohol or tobacco, I have finally met my match: Iraqi bread, aka “samoon”.
Try to imagine the flavour and texture of a fresh, plain bagel that has mated with a panini and a soft, white roll. Mold the mix into the shape of a deflated rugby ball, shove it in the oven until it is fluffy and warm on the inside, smooth and firm out the outside and voila, samoon.
This scrumptious nugget of baked pleasure adorns breakfast tables up and down Iraq, where it is lovingly dunked into bowls of cream-cheese, honey or jam.
It frequently pops up at lunchtime too, with chicken or lamb tikka gracing its innards, sandwich-style. A basket of the more-ish dough slabs is also to hand at dinner, with families stocking leftover slices in a bread basket for later.
I first sampled the delights of samoon four years ago when I dutifully tried it with various accompanying fillings. I soon realized, however, that the taste of the bread itself eclipsed anything that went with it so I switched to eating slices on their own, meaning that I could get through more in one sitting.
Since then, my samoon-per-day count has rocketed to worrying levels.
A straw poll of ordinary Iraqi adults led me to believe that average samoon consumption is one, two or perhaps three portions within a 24-hour period. I typically get through four and, on a bad day, have even managed nine.
It has reached the point whereby work is postponed for a few minutes if a warm samoon is in the vicinity – well the snack doesn’t taste as nice if it gets cold.

Snow in Baghdad

Children in Baghdad squealed with delight yesterday morning when they awoke to see snow flakes falling on their city for the first time in memory.
Gazing in wonder at the sky, many people also hoped that the surprise, white shower was a sign of peace for their war-wrecked country.
“This is great! I wanted to play in the snow but my mother kept telling me to get back inside the house or I will catch a chill,” said Samman Othman, aged seven as he admired the rare flakes, which were slowly drifting down to earth.
Kasim Dawood, a 21-year-old student, said that the sight of snow was a dream come true.
“It is the first time I have seen snow and I hope it will not be the last,” he laughed.  “I think it is a sign of peace from God. The white colour coming down from the sky is like a bird of peace.”
Pharmacist Ahmed Abdallah, aged 33, agreed: “We always have just violence so it’s good to start the day with the quietness of snow instead of the sound of bombs.”
While drawing gasps of astonishment from residents around the city, the smattering of snowflakes failed to make much of an impact on the floor, where it melted into large grey puddles upon impact.
By mid-morning in central Baghdad the snow had turned to drizzle and then stopped, while the temperature hovered around freezing ensuring a frosty breath for anyone who poked their head outside.

The art of looking good on patrol in Iraq

Elbow or knee pads strapped deliberately to ankles and goggles worn back to front over helmets, some Iraqi soldiers have a unique sense of style.
Efforts to mimic their American mentors or simply spruce up and re-enforce their regular army gear result in a variety of different outfits whenever the troops are on patrol.
Sejad Mehdi, 21, said that he habitually fixes a pair of goggles to the back of his American helmet – bought at a Baghdad market for 50,000 Iraqi dinar (21 pounds) – because he saw US troops wearing them that way rather than because he uses the mask in his job.
“It makes the helmet look better,” he said, speaking while on a joint patrol escorting a visiting American general to a market in Yousifiyah, a town south of Baghdad, last week.
Asked why he also had knee pads around his ankles, Mr Mehdi said: “It looks more trendy and they tend to slip down when you have them around your knees.”
Pads sometimes worn by US troops (officers told me that their new uniform has internally fitted padding for the knees already, which makes the attachable versions redundant) have been known to slip down on operations, but certain Iraqis think it looks good that way to begin with so put them around their ankles on purpose.
There is trouble, however, if a commanding officer spots the fashion statement.

[Picture 1: Sejad Mehdi wears knee pads around his ankles while on patrol;
Picture 2: I love the fact that this soldier posed for a picture with the little girl with a fag in one hand and a meat cleaver in the other.]

Joking even though there is no gas, water, electricity, money, jobs...

Jump into a taxi in Baghdad and within minutes the driver will most likely have steered the conversation onto a favourite topic here – power and water, or at least the lack of both.
“Makou falous, makou kaharaba, makou maie,” is a phrase, meaning: “No money, no electricity, no water”, that is often uttered with a wry laugh because people feel that the situation has barely changed since the invasion and there is nothing they can do.
Another line follows: “Makou nafut, makou shi”, which translates as “No gas, no-anything.”
Officials say that electricity levels are improving all the time but Iraqis on the street insist that they still have to rely largely on private generators to power their homes or make do without.
Winter is also surprisingly cold in Iraq given the ridiculously high temperatures that are hit in the summer, forcing people to wrap up in blankets and extra layers of clothing at night if they have no fuel to burn for heat.
Such discomfort prompts many to turn to trademark, Iraqi black humour to make light of their misery.
“Black humour is well known following so many wars and shitty conditions,” said one Iraqi man in Baghdad. “It helps us psychologically and is often the only way to deal with a stressful situation.”
As a result, sarcastic remarks about the dearth of essential services - such as the "makou" list above - are widespread. Even the violence that has plagued the country for almost five years makes ripe joke fodder.
One recorded message on a mobile phone that can be sent to a caller says:
“I am sorry but the person you are calling has either been kidnapped or killed in a car bomb.”

Christmas tree shopping in Baghdad

Christmas in Baghdad was always going to be rather lonely so I decided to cheer myself up by buying a tree and all the trimmings.

Admittedly there is a lack of nurseries flogging Norwegian firs in the city and I have yet to see any hand-carved wooden decorations or plumes of thick tinsel. However, fake trees (made in China), flashing coils of colourful lights and boxes of baubles are for sale at certain stores.
Feeling rather excited at the prospect of getting into the festive spirit, I donned a headscarf, hoisted my Iraqi handbag over one shoulder and headed to the central commercial district of Karada with a couple of Iraqi colleagues last week.
It was still a bit early in the morning when we arrived so the three of us ducked into a café to wait until more shops opened.

Settling down on wicker benches around a circular table, we ordered some Iraqi coffee – a strong drink with a bitter taste disguised by lots of sugar that comes in a thimble-sized cup.
One of the guys I was with also asked for a hookah pipe. Soon the air was filled with apple-smelling fumes as he puffed away, while we chatted in low voices against a backdrop of Arabic pop music strumming from a television set in the corner of the otherwise empty bar.
About 45 minutes later it was time to heave ourselves up and hit the shops, or at least hop back into our car and drive a few hundred metres down the road to a rather dilapidated bits and bobs store that had also turned its hand to Christmas gear for the holiday season.

Father Christmas visits Baghdad

Father Christmas visited Baghdad’s fortified Green Zone on Saturday evening.

Flanked by Mother Christmas, a reindeer and a couple of elves, he dropped by the American Embassy compound to spread some festive cheer among a few dozen US soldiers and diplomats as well as a smattering of officials from other countries.
“We appreciate all your hard work in the North Pole. Thank you,” Father Christmas said, standing on a raised platform that had been made to look like a brick chimney.

His appearance was part of a Christmas tree lighting ceremony on a wide patio area next to an outdoor swimming pool at the former Republican Palace of Saddam Hussein where the embassy is temporarily housed.
Also getting involved in the Yuletide spirit, the top British officer in Iraq had the honour of turning on a twinkling string of lights that twisted around the large, brightly decorated Christmas tree, which stood next to a giant inflatable snowman.
Lieutenant General Bill Rollo dutifully climbed onto the chimney-stage and flicked the light switch as the assembled crowd sipped hot chocolate from polystyrene cups and munched Christmas cookies.

'I don't want my kids to watch me slaughtered like a useless sheep'

Scared, alone and in fear of their life, scores of Iraqi interpreters who worked for the British Army have been in touch with The Times since the newspaper launched a campaign in August to highlight their plight.
Here are some extracts from emails and telephone conversations that offer an insight into the world of these people, many of whom live each day like fugitives, terrified of being found by militiamen, tortured and killed.
Mr I.K. Salman left his job as an interpreter in March 2005 after gunmen raided his house in Basra. He moved his family to Syria, hoping to gain refugee status and be resettled elsewhere. Mr Salman is still waiting for help.
“I worked with full loyalty for the British Army, risked my life and my family’s lives. Now I found myself forced to leave my own country, brutally cut from my roots. I have lost my career and finally here I am neglected in Syria, jobless and within a few months [when the money runs out] homeless,” he said.
“Believe me, it would be better to be beheaded in my own country than have the feeling that I have been cheated like a useless idiot. The only thing that stops me from going back to Iraq is my family. I don’t want my kids to watch their father slaughtered like a useless sheep.”
Mr Salman believes that an offer from Britain of financial compensation will not be enough to secure his family’s future away from the threat of militia death squads. Similarly the option of entering a special refugee programme will also not be a quick fix as the process is long and the outcome uncertain.
“We all do believe that money, whatever the amount will be, or resettlement in Iraq will not protect me or my family from facing a callous end,” the 43-year-old wrote in an email.
“All I want from the British Government is to have the option of ‘exceptional leave to remain’ in the UK.
“I don't want to be a heavy burden on the British economy and community; I'm a well qualified translator, an English language teacher and I can work there to earn my living and cover the household expenses. I do believe that I deserve what I'm looking for and my kids deserve a better future than having their father's body lying in the rubbish like a scabby dog.”
The father-of-two added: “If I am given the desired option to leave to the UK, if will be like a rescue operation for me and my little family.”

"300 shits"

In case you ever had any doubt about what to do with tissue paper then this piece of advice, spotted in Iraqi Kurdistan, should help you out.

Odd-sounding English-language signs, names and slogans in foreign countries always make me giggle – clearly I am never going to grow up.
One company name caught my eye repeatedly while I was in the Kurdish north of Iraq over the past few weeks.

Arcelik, a leading Turkish household appliance manufacturer, has outlets and billboards advertising its services all over the region.
I also liked the look of this small store with big ideas.

As it happens, I’ve similarly been on the receiving end of the translation joke. As a university student in Japan, I found out that my name means “fatso” in Japanese.
A standard introduction would go something like this: “Hajimemashite, Debu desu”, which translates as: “Let me introduce myself, my name is fatso.”

Dialysis not working well for Habib

Habib, the young Christian Kurd whose kidneys have failed, is not responding well to dialysis treatment at a hospital in northern Iraq. He needs a kidney transplant fast and you can help.
Anemic, with blood that clots too quickly and weak veins, his body is struggling to cope with the tubes that are inserted on a regular basis to flush out his organs.
“Also the flushing gives him difficulty breathing,” said the 21-year-old’s mother, Nadema Mosa, her face strained with worry and exhaustion.

“If he stays on the dialysis he is going to have side effects. When he goes for the flushing it is good because it numbs him but in the end it is going to exhaust him,” she said, speaking from next to Habib’s bed on a kidney ward at Hevie Hospital in the Kurdish city of Duhok.
“Every day we try a new piece of equipment and it does not work.”
Lying on one side with bandages around his neck – the only place where doctors could find a good enough vein to insert a dialysis tube – Habib is desperate for help.
“Nothing has really come out of this painful process I have been through,” he said.
“The longer they continue the dialysis the more they are going to torture me. Every day they stick something in me. The only answer is a transplant as I cannot continue with this illness.”
Unfortunately the family, which fled Baghdad to a village on Iraq’s volatile border with Turkey last year after being persecuted by Islamic extremists because they are Christians, lacks the funds to pay for the treatment.
They only managed to start the dialysis, which is supposed to keep Habib alive until a kidney donor is found, thanks to a $400 donation from a stranger. That money will soon run out.

Kurdish kindness and English language TV

The first time it happened was when I arrived in Iraqi Kurdistan and checked in at a hotel in Irbil, the regional capital.
The porter who showed me to my room bounded over to a television set at the foot of my bed and scanned the channels until he found one playing an English-language, kung fu fighting movie.
He then looked over at me and smiled politely as if to say: “I hope you feel more at home now that you can hear a bit of English.”
Well-meaning gestures and acts of kindness were something that I experienced every day while in the Kurdish north of Iraq.
From being invited to join a mountain barbeque after I interrupted the festivities by quizzing some of the guests on the risk of shelling in the area to being offered a boiled sweet from an impossibly poor family, the constant generosity made me wonder whether people in Britain would behave in the same way to a stranger.

Technical crisis in mountains and a fire station

A technical breakdown was the last thing I needed while reporting from the remote mountains of northern Iraq last week. Equally, a fire station was furthest from my mind when it came to finding a solution.
However, when the battery in my B-Gan (a contraption that – when it works – enables you to email data) decided to die barely an hour before my deadline, I was willing to try anything to get Internet access.

Standing on the roof of a simple motel off a winding road in the Matin Mountains, I had managed to file the text of my story but lost the connection before I could send the pictures.
Frantic and fully aware that 24-hour Internet cafes have yet to appear in this part of the world, I called my fixer to take me to the nearest town to see if we could find some form of Web outlet.
The one dilapidated store that claimed to provide online services was shut for the evening but a helpful young man standing across the street said that he thought he had a friend who had Internet access at home.
He made a quick phone call to confirm his theory before selflessly jumping into the car with us to direct my driver to the house.

Dying on the frontline unless he gets a new kidney

Gazing out of his bedroom window hoping for a miracle, Habib knows he will die in the next few months without treatment for a debilitating kidney disease but his family are unable to afford the life-saving transplant operation.

The young man’s parents, Kurdish Christians, spent most of their money moving Habib and six of his siblings to a village on the Turkish border of Kurdish-run northern Iraq last year to escape the violence in Baghdad.
Adding to their dilemma, the family's new home sits on the frontline of what could become a war zone if Turkey decides to launch a military operation to fight Kurdish rebels based across the mountainous border.
“He is very sick and needs a kidney transplant. If not he will die,” said Habib’s father, Shamoon Michael, tears streaming down his face.
Nadema Mosa, his mother, was also desperate. “Please, please somebody help us,” she said, stooping to touch her son gently on one shoulder as he lay in bed, too weak to move or speak.
Both of the 21-year-old’s kidneys no longer work, he is unable to eat without throwing up and even keeping down liquids is difficult.
“He cannot concentrate. He needs fresh air so we open the window a fraction to help him to breathe,” said the mother.
I first met Habib and his family last week in Dash Ta Takhe, a tiny Christian village tucked away inside Iraq’s border with Turkey.
The area, a target of Turkish artillery trying to hit the outlawed Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), has since been closed to journalists by the Kurdish region’s Peshmerga forces as cross-border tensions mount, but I was allowed access to the village again on Saturday to check up on the Michaels.
To my dismay, Habib’s condition had deteriorated rapidly.

Were they PKK fighters walking through the Kurdish village?

Locals often insist that there are no Kurdish rebel fighters in the areas where villages feel the brunt of Turkish artillery rounds along Iraq’s northern border with Turkey, but I spotted a couple of suspicious-looking men while on a visit last Friday.
Wearing what looked like the dull-green uniform of the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK) under their coats and armed with Kalashnikovs, the pair appeared to be conducting a sort of patrol through the village of Sharos, a few miles down the road from Dash Ta Takhe.
“What are you doing here?” the taller of the two men inquired of me.
I told them that I was a journalist finding out about the impact of Turkish shelling on the villages, before asking: “As members of the PKK, what are you two up to?”
The men looked at me for a second. Then the taller one denied that they were seperatists.
I shifted the conversation to the shelling more generally, before returning to the subject: “Come on, you are both wearing PKK outfits, you must be part of the movement.”
Pulling a wry smile, the taller man responded: “Maybe your instinct is right.”
He paused, before adding: “And maybe it isn’t.”
With that, the two men turned and walked out of the village towards a section of the mountains that is known for having harboured PKK camps in the past.
The harsh, mountainous terrain between Iraq’s Turkish border and an internal defence line established by the Kurdish region’s Peshmerga security force feels a bit like no-man’s land.
Some of the villagers who live in the area complain that they do not see Peshmerga patrols, though a border patrol officer I spoke to insisted that his soldiers were out and about at regular intervals.
One thing is certain, the Turkish shelling has had a devastating impact on tourism in the region, which is famed for its grassy ravines and tree-framed river banks.

'Would you like to see a blown off leg?'

Walking away from the burning wreck of a bombed car, the American soldier asked: “Ma’am, would you like to see the blown-off leg of the driver? It’s badly burnt.”
The question caught me off guard.
From my viewpoint about 20 metres away from the carnage, I had been fretting over the likelihood of snipers or a second blast targeting the quick reaction force (QRF) that I was accompanying in the Baghdad district of Gazaliyah.
The idea of wanting to take a closer look at what was an ongoing emergency had not (until then) crossed my mind.
“Er, alright,” I replied, giving in to an insatiable sense of curiosity coupled with a desire to get a better understanding of the brutal reality behind roadside bombs, which claim lives in Iraq every day.
Stepping over bits of twisted metal and smoldering ash, I approached what was left of the car, shielding my eyes from the heat of a few dying flames still snaking out of the bonnet.
“There it is,” said the soldier, calmly pointing at what looked like a blackened stick. The skin and flesh of the dismembered limb had been completely burnt away, leaving just the charred ashes of bone.
My heart was racing as I peered down. The object was incinerated beyond recognition so it did not make my stomach churn as I had feared it would.
Later, another soldier even questioned whether the remains had been those of the man’s leg, noting that they might have just been another piece of wreckage from the car, which had driven over a bomb in the road.
The troops' matter-of-fact attitude to the aftermath of the attack, in which the driver ended up dying, is the result of months spent dealing with sectarian murders on their doorstep in southern Gazaliyah, a Sunni Arab neighbourhood that was once an al-Qaeda stronghold.

Brand new life in Baghdad

Eyes scrunched shut and hands curled into tiny fists, the new-born Iraqi baby sleeps peacefully – oblivious to the dangers outside her cot.

Marwaa was born on Monday in a Baghdad hospital, weighing just 2.18 kilograms.
“I am so happy,” said her mother, Narges, aged 25. “I feel relief and peace of mind, like I have just finished a big mission.”

Narges and her husband Adham, like many young couples in Iraq, decided to have children as soon as they were married, anxious to reproduce in case either of them was killed in the indiscriminate bloodshed.
“The violence pushed me to have a family as soon as I could because I want to keep my family name going if I die,” said Adham, aged 31, who works as a contractor.
“Also having children brings a new meaning to our lives.”
Tens of thousands of children are estimated to have been killed in the chaos that has marred Iraq since the March 2003 invasion.
In some of the most recent deaths, a barrage of US airstrikes on suspected insurgent targets on Thursday killed 34 people, including nine children.
The following day, two more infants perished and 17 were wounded when a would-be suicide bomber detonated his charge in a playground.
The carnage came as the rest of Iraq celebrated the end of the holy month of Ramadan – traditionally a time for families and fun.