Inside Iraq Blog - Times Online - WBLG

Amnesty award for interpreter series

The Iraqi interpreter tugged urgently at my sleeve as I was watching a group of British soldiers train Iraqi recruits at a base in southern Iraq.
“Please, can you help us?” he asked. I looked at him, puzzled. He continued: “The Danish are flying their interpreters back to Denmark where they will be safe. Our lives are also in danger because we work for the British. What is the British Government going to do for us?”
I did not have a clue what he was talking about and, to be honest, was slightly irked at being distracted from my work. Fortunately, the interpreter persisted, telling me how a colleague had been gunned down weeks earlier by Shia militiamen who regard any Iraqi working for the British military a traitor who deserves to die. He was one of many to be killed.
This brief conversation led to The Times highlighting the plight of Iraqi interpreters who worked for the British military. The series prompted the Government to devise a new policy to offer financial assistance or asylum to its Iraqi staff, both former and current.
Last night, I received an Amnesty International award for this series – a great honour and very exciting. However, it remains a sorry fact that eight months after the aid package was announced most of the Iraqi interpreters who took the asylum option are still waiting for a plane ticket to Britain.
The first interpreter who approached me last July, opened my eyes to how people who risked their life to work alongside British soldiers were being targeted by militants as a result of their job, with no means of escape.
He introduced me to three other colleagues, each with stories to tell of intimidation, fear and despair, particularly in the wake of a decision by Denmark to airlift any Iraqi who had worked for its military to safety.
They all implored me to help. I remember looking at them and thinking, what the hell can I do? Will writing about this really prompt anyone in power to act?

A life spent waiting

Face creased with concern, the former Iraqi interpreter sits on a cheap-looking sofa in a rented flat in Amman as his two young children play on the floor and his pregnant wife rests in the bedroom.
“We are worried about what is going to happen to us. The [asylum] process takes too long. I am shocked,” the man said.
In April, he and his family boarded a plane to Jordan in the belief that they would fly on to Britain within weeks to escape a life of fear and intimidation in Iraq because of his previous job as an interpreter for the British military.
More than seven weeks later, they, along with about 30 other former interpreters and their dependents, are still waiting for news.
“We received a lot of promises,” said the man who asked to remain anonymous for security reasons.
“I did not expect to go to the UK directly but maybe after six weeks or two months. If I had known that it would take a long time then I would not have come. My wife is pregnant. It is expensive here,” he said of Amman.
“If by the end of August we are still waiting we will quit from the programme and try to go somewhere else. We can’t go back to Iraq. My city is too dangerous.”
The stranded interpreters are trying to travel to Britain through a programme set up in cooperation with the UN’s refugee agency, the UNHCR. It requires them to gain refugee status in Jordan before travelling to Britain, a process that takes time and offers no guarantees.
“We have been told that some maybe rejected,” said a second former interpreter who lives with his wife and 10-month-old daughter in the same apartment bloc as the first.
This man is one of a lucky handful of candidates, however, who were interviewed by a team from the Home Office who travelled to Amman last month. There is a chance he and his small family could receive the green light to travel to Britain as early as July. The others must continue to wait.
“I would like to go to the UK to save my life,” the 30-year-old said, sitting in his rented flat with three other former interpreters who also live in the bloc.
“If I go back to Iraq, I will be killed,” he said, looking down at his daughter who was gurgling without a care in the world as she crawled across the floor.
The interpreters have been living in hiding ever since they were forced to quit their work because of death threats from Shia militia groups in southern Iraq who view anyone who works for the British military as a traitor or a spy.
Many believe that their lives are in even greater danger now, after accepting the offer to travel to Jordan in a bid to make it to Britain. Rejection and being forced to return to Iraq would be a death sentence, they say.
“People back home think that we are already in London,” said a third interpreter, 28, one of the few men who is single and travelling alone.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot does that mean?

BLUF: Complex attack IVO PB ECP: SVBIED, SAF, and IDF. BDA: 1x CF(US) WIA, 2x IA KIA, 2x LN INJ, 2x AQI/ISI Killed, 1x CHU FUBAR. POO: Sadr City.
Military acronyms sound like an unfathomable foreign language to civilian bystanders.
As a journalist, I spend a fair amount of time asking someone to translate into real English (or at least real American English) what is being said when on an embed with soldiers.
The multi-letter formations also have a way of sterilizing the most horrific of occurrences. For example, KIA makes me think of a South Korean car manufacturer, whereas on the battlefield it means shot dead or blown up (Killed in Action).
On occasion, acronyms dreamt up to describe something really serious, sound to the (admittedly slightly immature) outsider quite funny.
I thought someone was having a laugh when they stuck a bunch of brown-coloured pins on a map in the TOC (Tactical Operations Centre) of a COP (Combat Outpost) with the letters “POO” on them. It turns out this means Point of Origin and is used to pin-point where IDF (Indirect Fire – namely rockets or mortars) came from.
Over the past few embeds, I started to compile a list of acronyms that are frequently used. You should be able to decipher what is going on in the first paragraph of this blog post by referring to the table below.
Also, feel free to suggest your own. There are literally thousands of them.
TTFN

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.

Attack (of sorts) in Samarra

I was outnumbered 20 to one in what has been called the most dangerous city in Iraq.
Terrified and isolated in a small wooden hut on the top of a patrol base in Samarra, I grabbed the only weapon to hand, a flip-flop, and started smacking it down in all directions in a bid to defend myself.
The giant ants were more than a match. One would fall only for two more even bigger beasts to rear up from a crack in the ground and take its place, fearlessly zooming towards me.
To animal lovers, I didn’t want to kill the things and initially tried to ping them out of the hut, but this involved opening the door, which invited hoards more in. Therefore, in line with typical Rules of Engagement, I whacked the flip-flop close by in an escalation of force before going in with the killer blows.
After about five minutes of flip-flip pounding, several of the colossal creatures (at least the size of a toe, well maybe the stumpy very skinny toe of a small child) lay dead. The others had alarmingly scuttled off to fight another day.
Moments later came a plague of baby ants to feed off the bodies of the humungous ones. This was too much. Beaten, I retreated out of my bedroom hut, across a stone roof (where another ant army appeared to be planning a counter-attack) and down a flight of makeshift wooden stairs to safety.
It took a while to muster up the courage to venture back. I finally returned, armed with a bottle of drinking water to wash the invaders away.
Job done, I tried to relax on a raised mattress in the hut where I was staying on an embed with US troops, but the fact that the place had been penetrated once meant it no longer felt safe.
Right now, it is midnight and I can’t sleep, convinced that if I do I will wake up to find large ants feasting on my feet or, worse still, crawling over my face.
I texted a friend about my dilemma who suggested scattering sugar outside to distract the ants from plotting their next ambush or dip the legs of my bed in paraffin (apparently a trick used in Africa during World War II to ward off scorpions). Useful tips if I had (a) sugar and (b) paraffin.
Alas, the only items of note in the hut, apart from the unexciting contents of my rucksack, are two apple cores and an empty carton of cherry juice. I am just going to have to rely on my trusty flip-flops and hope for the best.
On the positive side, I guess the fact that the only thing I am worrying about in Samarra is getting bitten by an ant must be a sign of progress given that less than a year ago militants were carrying out public executions in the street and people were living inside their homes in genuine terror.

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.

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.

Iraqi forces see victory in Basra

Iraqi soldiers are standing proud in Basra one month after launching a surprise offensive to wipe out murderous gangs of Shia militants that had been allowed to flourish under Britain’s watch.
Many of them say the operation has boosted their confidence, but the militiamen warn that the only reason the fledgling Iraqi army had any success was because they continue to observe a ceasefire order by the radical cleric Moqtada al-Sadr.

Soldier Hassan Sha’an said the past four weeks has tested the training he received from British forces in conducting raids and pulling security for an important person. The 25-year-old is part of team charged with guarding the Iraqi commander of forces in Basra, Lieutenant-General Mohan al-Furaiji.
“When we conducted raids I remembered what we had been taught about covering our backs and looking out for our colleagues,” Mr Sha’an said.
“After the achievements of the Charge of the Knights operation I feel as a soldier more confident to go on raids and patrols or search for people.”
Nouri al-Maliki, the Prime Minister, launched the Basra offensive on March 25 after alerting US and British commanders at the last minute. The original plan that Lt-Gen Furaiji had drawn up anticipated the campaign to start in mid-July.
Encouragingly, the first wave of attacks caught the militants off-guard, but two days later they launched a counter offensive, prompting at least one entire Iraqi Army battalion of 1,400 men to flee.
Threats by Mr Maliki to disarm rang hollow and the mission appeared to be on the brink of failure before thousands of Iraqi re-enforcements backed by hundreds of American and British soldiers joined the fight at the start of April.
“They [the militiamen] collapsed,” said Lt-Gen Furaiji, claiming that the gunmen were a fraction of the 12,000-strong force that some had anticipated.

Rogue elements of the al-Mehdi Army militia, loyal to Moqtada al-Sadr, are accused of being behind much of the violence and intimidation in Basra, where the population was forced to follow a set of strict religious codes or be punished.
The Iraqi commander said: “Those who fought are from special groups who received training in Iran.”
But the Basra leader of the Sadr movement, the cleric's political wing said the Government had launched a witch hunt for anyone linked to the Sadrists to ensure rival political parties and their militias gain power in Iraq’s second city.

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.

Training in Iraq for London Marathon

With one eye scanning for suitable cover in the event of a rocket attack, the officer ran around a sprawling British military base outside the Iraqi city of Basra as part of a training programme for the upcoming London Marathon.
Captain John Gilbody and four colleagues, who are also deployed in southern Iraq, will fly back to Britain to take part in the annual event on April 13 to raise money for Sense, a charity for children and adults who are deaf and blind.
In preparation for the big day, the 29-year-old from Derbyshire also intends to run a ‘Basra marathon’ around the dusty airport camp next Sunday.
“My theory is that if you can run one mile then you can run 26,” Captain Gilbody said, after completing three laps of the base, or some 12 miles, on Thursday in a respectable 1 hour and 40 minutes. “I think it is a massive challenge, but I feel good. I am really proud to be doing this.”
Running a marathon is hard enough, but try throwing in the added risk of rocket fire, insecticide fumes and the heat of Iraq’s fast-approaching summer.
The Basra camp comes under near daily attack from rockets fired by Shia militiamen who want the British forces to leave Iraq. Hitting the deck fast, preferably under some hard cover, is the best course of action, but Captain Gilbody does not let the hazard get in the way of his outdoor training.
“It’s a threat, but the drill is the same,” said the officer from the Duke of Lancaster’s battle group. “Whenever I run I have always got one eye on where I would go if something happens.”

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.”

Stranded then upgraded Air Force-style

Travelling to northern Iraq for an embed is always a bit of a gamble because there are limited military flights and the weather has a habit of grounding them.
Fellow journalists have shared horror stories about being stuck en route for hours, even days, at a remote base called Speicher, waiting for a connection.
For me, the tidings for a trip up to Mosul last month were grim from the start.
Rain, a shortage of planes and a saturation of reporters had delayed the embed for several days, pushing me to the brink of postponing it altogether.
However, when a press officer confidently informed me that I was finally booked on a flight called the “Freedom Express”, I swallowed prior misgivings and packed my bags.
Showtime at BIAP, the main military airport on the outskirts of Baghdad, was 4am. This meant catching the Rhino, an armoured bus that ferries people there overnight from the Green Zone. It has no set departure time so involves long hours of waiting to make sure you don’t miss the ride.
Once at the airport (a series of large hangers for departures and arrivals depending upon whether you plan to fly by plane or helicopter) I trudged, bleary-eyed, to the check-in only to learn that not only was there no such thing as the “Freedom Express” but also there was no early morning flight to Mosul.
Depressingly, a plane was due to travel to the city at just gone 10am but it was full, meaning that I would have to wait until 7pm for the next flight and even then was not guaranteed a seat.
Resigned to further hours of discomfort, I took myself off to a far corner of the hanger, unrolled a sleeping bag that I had conveniently brought with me and did the only thing that was left to do other than cry, which was sleep.

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.

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.”

Get out of my house, shrieks the Iraqi woman

“What are you doing in my house?” screamed the furious Iraqi woman as she walked in on a group of American and Iraqi soldiers who were crashing around her living room after kicking down her front door.
“Get out, get out,” she shouted in broken English, shaking her fists in rage at the troops who had frozen as if caught in the act of doing something naughty.
Surveying the damage, the woman shrieked: “Are you happy now?”
American soldiers, and increasingly their Iraqi counterparts, have been conducting house-to-house searches since the invasion, checking neighbourhoods for weapons, insurgents, dead bodies and kidnap victims in a bid to quell the violence that has consumed Iraq.
Hoping to cause minimum inconvenience, the military has softened its approach, always knocking on the front door of a house and waiting to be shown in.
Many homes in dangerous areas, however, are empty after the occupants fled the escalating violence, leaving the soldiers with no option but to break open the front gate and bust down the front door, either with a boot or a crowbar.

Unfortunately on this occasion last Thursday during a search through Saydiyah, a flashpoint mixed Sunni and Shia neighbourhood in southern Baghdad, the owner of one rundown house that had appeared unoccupied showed up after her door had already been knocked in.

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.

Basra handover, no sleep and a broken plane

Covering the British handover of Basra was always going to be painful after a sleepless night.
Unfortunately I had to wait for my correspondent in the city to file some overnight quotes to me for an on-the-ground piece to run that day. An Internet meltdown at his end meant that this did not happen until 2 o'clock on handover morning and I spent the next three hours writing up the story.
Camped at a US military press centre in Baghdad’s Green Zone where embedded journalists stay when in transit, I gave up any chance of sleep after finishing the work and had a shower instead.
That was when it dawned on me that I had forgotten to pack any form of soap or a towel.
Figuring that water alone was better than nothing, I stepped into one of the plastic shower cubicles in a trailer at the press area before drying myself off with a miniscule flannel, which for some obscure reason I had remembered to bring.
Then my mobile phone rang.
It was 5.30am my time and 2.30am in London where by best friend Louise was calling me from the middle of the dance floor at a rugby club party to let me know that the original version of a classic tune we used to love (Apparently Nothing by The Young Disciples) was being played.
Standing there with my flannel, I sportingly bopped along for a few moments before telling her that I really ought to go as I had a flight to catch.

Interpreter dismay at British rejection

Two other former interpreters are also dismayed at being denied access to the Government's assistance package because their contracts were "terminated for absence".
I.K. Salman, who has featured in an earlier blog, left his job and fled Iraq with his wife and two children after an armed gang turned up outside his house in Basra in March 2005.
“They [the British forces] must know very well that attending work after receiving the threat was going to be like a death sentence to me,” said the 43-year-old.
“When I informed one of the British officers about my resignation over the phone immediately after receiving the threat he never told me that I need to send them a written letter and he just accepted my resignation over the phone and said to me that he feels sorry to hear this.”
Mr Salman, who currently lives in Damascus, continued: “It’s not only my case it’s also the case with all the other interpreters who were threatened.
“I think the British Government was only trying, by making us fill these forms, to show the public and the media that they are going to help those people who served them in Iraq ... but then they put this sophisticated criteria just so none of us or maybe only a handful of interpreters will be eligible for this scheme.”

Yanked from sleep by machine gun fire

The explosion of gunshots shook my bedroom window, yanking me out of sleep in an instant on my third night back in Baghdad.
Iraqi police had come under fire from a building near my hotel and were responding. An army unit also stepped in, adding extra rounds of heavy machine gun fire.
After three weeks out of the country, the gunfight in the early hours of Tuesday morning was a harsh reminder that although violence in Iraq on the whole is down there are still plenty of dangers.
Sitting up in bed trying to work out what was happening, I sent a text message to a fellow journalist friend who was sleeping a few floors below me in the same hotel.
“What the f*** is going on outside?” I asked.
She replied: “No clue. Just keep away from the windows.” Followed by: “Don’t they know there are people trying to sleep around here!?”

'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.”

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.