This is my last Iraq blog so I am feeling a little sentimental. After two years of manning The Times bureau in Baghdad, I have moved back to London, though I hope to return for the odd stint in the future. More importantly, the blog itself will continue to prosper as my replacement takes over.
Thank you for reading the various entries, which hopefully offered a slice of Iraqi life as well as serving up a few quirky observations and experiences.
As a final entry I would like to list the top five things about living in Baghdad that I will miss the most as well as the top five things I will not pine for at all.
Things I will miss:
1. The Baghdad bureau, with its two great drivers and a top interpreter. These three men became like brothers to me during the time we worked together;
2. Sunset over the Tigris River, stunning even on the bloodiest of days;
3. Iraqi bread (known as “samoon”), possibly the most delicious item of food to have ever passed my lips. I am suffering withdrawal systems already;
4. Eggcup-sized glasses of sugary, Iraqi “chai” (tea);
5. The Baghdad Press Corps, an inspiring group of foreign journalists.
Things I will be glad to leave behind:
1. The threat of violence and kidnap (endured by Iraqis every day);
2. Multiple power cuts (though I was lucky to have electricity);
3. Brushing teeth with bottled water because tap water is dirty (I was also fortunate even to have running water);
4. Numerous body searches to enter the green zone and any official building;
5. The TERRIBLE mobile phone network of crackles and disappearing reception.
[Picture 1: Me and my last samoon;
Picture 2: Me in the departures lounge at Baghdad International Airport.]
In the middle of the night my mobile phone rings. A strange number is calling. I pick up and say, in a sleepy voice: “Hello?” The anonymous caller utters a couple of guttural breaths and hangs up. Very annoying.
Prank calls like this are a common hazard for both women and men in Iraq. During the darkest days of sectarian conflict when it was too dangerous to step out on a date with someone you fancy, people used the mobile phone as their only form of contact. The habit has not faded as security improves.
 Often groups of men will sit together dialling phone numbers at random until one gets a friendly-sounding female voice on the other end. If she is game, a bit of flirting will ensue and possibly the fixing of a time to meet in person.
Similarly, lonely girls have been known to trawl the depths of the mobile phone matrix, punching arbitrary strings of numbers into their handset until a male voice answers and is willing to chat. There are even cases of marriages blossoming from these blind-date style phone encounters.
The majority of Iraqis do not participate in cold calling, though most have experienced the irritation of multiple calls at odd times from strangers.
One friend of mine only ever picks up her phone if she recognises the caller. “I get about five or six calls a day from numbers that I don’t know. It is very intrusive,” she said.
As a woman, another danger is giving out your mobile phone number on a business card in a work capacity to the people you meet. Normally the recipient files the card away with professional neutrality. Unfortunately sometimes (particularly in the case of young men) the person mistakenly sees the giving-of-business-card as an invitation to pester said unsuspecting female with countless lustful phone calls.
A couple of years ago, I was on an embed with the US military in a then hotspot area south of Baghdad called Arab Jabour. The US soldiers set up a temporary clinic in a rural village to offer medical help to local families. Among the crowd that gathered was a 19-year-old man and his poorly younger brother.
 I chatted to the pair through an interpreter. The little boy wanted a present but I had nothing on me other than a notepad and pen (which I was using) and a wodge of business cards. Without thinking of stalker potential, I handed the toddler a card to chew on. His brother, Marwan, also wanted one so I obliged.
The next day the calls started.
Me: Hello?
Caller: Deeeeborah.
Me: Er, he-llo-o?
Caller: Deeeeborah. It’s Marwan.
Me: Marwan?
Caller: Deeeeborah. It’s Marwan. I love you.
[I hang up phone fast.]
He must have called about five times the first day and then every day afterwards for a couple of weeks, making the same declarations of love. In the end I asked one of my Iraqi colleagues to call Marwan and let him down gently. That didn’t work. The calls kept coming, with greater urgency. My colleague phoned again, this time taking a tougher leave-her-alone-or-else stance. That failed to deter my suitor. In the end I had to block his number.
A month or so later, I returned to London for a break. Upon arrival at Heathrow Airport, I turned on my British mobile (which I typically leave off in Iraq). Within seconds, the phone rang. It was a strange number. I answered.
Caller: Deeeeborah. It’s Marwan. I love you…
[Picture 1: Me and one of my Iraqi mobile phones;
Picture 2: Marwan's younger brother, with a second boy behind him, and a US soldier at the makeshift clinic.]
The first whiff that something is amiss is when the Transport Ministry tells us the commuter train leaves at 8am – rather late in the morning for Baghdad’s only commuter service.
Knowing no different, we turn up at the main railway station in the centre of the capital, expecting to board an empty train bound for Dora, a neighbourhood in south Baghdad, to pick up commuters.
We are in for a surprise.
Scores of men, women and even the odd child pile onboard two pristine carriages, primed and ready to go from platform 6. Guards dressed immaculately in uniforms wave them through the doors.
 The picture-perfect scene looks too good to be true. There is also the mystery of why commuters are so eagerly commuting in reverse, from the centre of the city to the outskirts. Further fuelling our suspicion, a local television crew is conveniently on hand to film the hustle and bustle.
A press officer at the station tells us upon arrival that the train has been laid on especially for the media. He then changes his story, after seeing our crestfallen expressions, to explain it is a later service that sometimes follows the earlier train at 6.30am.
Sceptical but playing along, I board one of the carriages with my interpreter and start asking the well turned out passengers about their journey.
Me to passenger 1: Hello there. I am a journalist from England, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?
Passenger 1 (looking a bit flustered): Um, no.
Me: Why are you on this train?
Passenger 1: Because I want to go to Basra.
Me: But this is a commuter train to Dora.
Passenger 1 (turning red): Um, er, sorry yes, I meant Dora…
I move on to another group and try again.
Me to passenger 2: Why are you on this train?
Passenger 2: I catch this service every day. It is much cheaper than a taxi.
Me: But why are you travelling out of the centre to Dora?
Passenger 2: Er because I need to go home.
Me: Come on, admit it. You work for the station.
Passenger 2 (looking embarrassed): Yes.
Adding to the snazzy show, a food and drinks trolley is on display, while a video about the Transport Ministry plays from a brand new television set hanging off one of the walls.
 I disembark, unsure whether we have been deliberately set up or whether there has been some confusion at the Transport Ministry, with them presuming we would prefer to see a fake busy train than a real empty one.
As the carriages chug off (depriving the station of many of its staff) I explain to the press officer that we want to experience the genuine item not this demonstration run. He tells us to return the next morning at 5.30am.
Bleary eyed, we try again. This time the station is practically deserted in keeping with Waterloo at the very start of the day. The train also stands empty, with just a couple of tired-looking police guards, a train manager, an engineer and the driver in sight.
We climb onboard and make ourselves comfortable. At 6.30am, with a solitary toot from its horn, the train pulls away from the station.
 After a few minutes one of the policemen strikes up a conversation, complaining that the commuter service is a failure and was stopped a few weeks ago because it was losing money.
“I don’t know who you talked to but now it has started again,” said Akeel Mreie, 40. He also claims that the carriages on show are nothing like the clapped out models previously used.
“Those broken coaches were bad for asthma because of the dust,” he said, adding that there had been no trolley service or even electricity onboard let alone a functioning television set.
Salim Jassim, the train manager, and Thafer Salem, the driver, also say the service has not been running for several weeks. They doubt there will be any passengers today because no one knows the train is back on.
Sure enough, no one is waiting when we pull into a market in Dora, where the train stops. There is also no obvious station, but at least a tea stand nearby offers refreshments.
Once again, I feel like we have been taken for a ride.
Back onboard, I sit with the driver who is similarly disillusioned.
“I used to love my job, riding around on the tracks. Now I am not happy because there is no business,” he said. The decrepit state of the line, which has not been repaired for years, means he has to crawl at walking pace along sections. Also, the junctions have to be operated manually with a handle by the side of the track because the electricity no longer flows.
“Our country is tired and suffering, it needs a lot of reconstruction work,” said Mr Salem, 39. “It hurts me to talk. When I tell you this I feel like crying.”
Suddenly the train comes to a halt to pick up its one and only passenger, Mariam Obeid, 39, who was alerted by her friend the police guard that the service was passing by. It is unclear whether she climbs onboard to catch up with him or because she genuinely needs a lift.
One and a half hours after leaving, we return to the main station in Baghdad to be met by Mohammad Hashem, the English-speaking station manager.
I ask him whether this train was also put on for our benefit, but he assures me that is not the case. He also denies the service was stopped for several weeks, insisting it was only suspended for a few days because of a lack of carriages. He admits, however, that the route is not very popular.
“We are thinking to stop (it),” Mr Hashem said, while hoping it keeps going. “Psychologically this train will be a comforting sight for the people.”
As we prepare to leave, the manager says the afternoon service will take commuters back to Dora at 2.30pm. Unconvinced, I send one of my staff to the station to scope it out. He arrives at 1.30pm and stands waiting. There is no train in sight. Thirty minutes later the station shuts for the day. An employee approaches to ask what he is doing.
My colleague: I am waiting for the commuter train to return home to Dora.
Employee: What train? There is no afternoon train…
[Photographs by Peter Nicholls of The Times.
Picture 1: "Commuters board the 8am train to Dora;
Picture 2: More "commuteres" climp onboard;
Picture 3: The 8am train pulls away from the station.]
SAS soldiers endure grueling initiations followed by countless hardcore missions to earn the right to live by the motto: ‘Who dares wins’. In Iraq, by contrast, it can be as simple as going to the market to pick up the right badge.
Check-out the sleeves of some Iraqi soldiers and they carry a circular Boy Scout-style logo bearing a sinister-looking human skull (like those worn by elite US commandoes) and the would-be intimidating words: ‘Special Forces’.
The give-away hitch, however, is that whoever mass-produces these badges is not a very good speller so the actual title reads: “Spaclel Forcas’, which does not have quite the same nerve-jangling effect.
Also, the badge-wearers pop up everywhere, including outside the general manager’s office at the Baghdad railway station where they have the extreme mission of guard duty.
I spotted another one hanging around an army base in Basra sipping tea inside the officers’ dining hall. When asked whether he was really Special Forces as his sleeve declared, the man (who was carrying a roll of extra flab) sheepishly said he had been during Saddam Hussein’s time but was now just a regular officer.
Wanting to find out how easy it is to pose, rightly or wrongly, as a member of the Special Forces, I popped into a shop in Baghdad that sells a range of military uniforms and badges, including the whole spectrum of ranks from private to general.
A brown “Troop - Special Forces” badge (spelt correctly for a change) was pinned on the wall, boasting a red-eyed skull and a gold-coloured trim.
Asked whether soldiers bought such badges for show, the shop-keeper admitted yes, sometimes, but said they would get into a lot of trouble if found to be pretending to be in the Special Forces. Unable to resist, I bought the badge as a souvenir for a couple of pounds. Bargain.
Britain and the United States are helping to rebuild a genuine Iraqi Special Forces branch after the old Armed Forces were disbanded. The best of the soldiers passing through recruitment are filtered in the SF direction for training by the SAS and members of Operational Detachment Alpha of the United States.
Not all training is so elite. I remember a couple of years ago visiting a British base in Basra built next to a large Iraqi camp. Regular British troopers were training what they described to be Iraqi Special Forces recruits and were rather scathing about the skill-set on show among those who bothered to turn up.
Thankfully, the men who make it into the real Iraqi SF are said to be very good. They also, presumably, prefer not to wear misspelt badges advertising their occupation, and are too busy daring and winning to hang around posing in public.
[Picture: Iraqi soldier with his 'Spaclel Forcas' badge. Photograph by Peter Nicholls]
The Iraqi service station, like motorway stops in Britain, offers refreshments, fuel and toilets for the weary traveller. The one we picked, halfway between Baghdad and Basra, however, also provided a welcome break for two truck-loads of policemen carting about five or six blindfolded prisoners.
Picture the scene: a gravel car park filled with dusty cars and large four-wheel drives. Families stroll in and out of a restaurant that offers chicken and lamb kebabs served with large discs of flat bread and plastic plates of mixed salad.
Suddenly the trucks pull in and park outside the eating area. The policemen, looking perfectly relaxed, step out and stretch. A few wander into the main building to order food, while the rest stay outside enjoying a cigarette.
The miserable-looking prisoners remain in the back seat, their wrists bound by a rag of material and their eyes masked. Two get permission to be escorted to the toilet.
Standing at the fringe of the car park to avoid detection (as a westerner it is best to keep as low a profile as possible), I watched in amazement as none of the regular customers batted an eyelid at this odd detention scene, choosing instead to continue with the business of filling up their stomachs and cars.
Random prisoners aside, the service station has much of the same amenities as its British equivalent but looks nothing like the sprawling complexes that, for example, dot the M1.
Located off to the side of the rutted highway that stretches between the capital and Iraq’s second city of Basra, the single-storey Janatal Janoob Restaurant comprises a place to eat, a selection of latrines and a small snack stall stocked with chewing gum, biscuits, fizzy drinks and crisps. Next door are two rows of petrol pumps for drivers to fill up their vehicle.
Instead of the carwash contraption that often stands in one corner of a British motorway stop, teenage boys, with scarves wrapped around their head to protect them from the dust, greet new arrivals at Iraqi service stations with the promise of a windscreen clean in return for cash.
The choice of food is also more limited in Iraq, with no sign of a Burger King, McDonalds or Starbucks. Instead the Janatal Janoob Restaurant serves up (as well as kebab) a selection of soup and rice dishes, accompanied by small pots of tomato-coated spaghetti and chunks of orange.
Unsurprisingly the toilets differ too. Iraqi toilets tend to be ceramic holes in the ground to squat over – I embarrassingly never know in which direction I should face when using one of these. A jug of water replaces toilet paper (at least I think that is its purpose) and also acts as the flush.
There also appears to be far fewer places to stop for a break on highways in Iraq, with the Janatal Janoob eatery one of only about three places I spotted during the 340-mile drive between Baghdad and Basra.
[Picture 1: The Janatal Janoob Restaurant, picture by Peter Nicholls;
Picture 2: Me tucking into some Iraqi bread, picture by Peter Nicholls;
Picture 3: Inside the female toilets.]
Worried about your child being born with an unsightly mole on his or her body?
Pregnant women in Iraq think they have the answer: resist any urge to itch if you crave an item of food.
Iraqis believe that if a pregnant woman desires something to eat (anything from a chicken kebab to a chocolate bar) and then absent-mindedly itches a part of her body, her child will be born with a birthmark on the place that she itched.
Makia Ali, 55, is convinced her desire for a piece of barbequed liver 25 years ago caused the liver-shaped mole on the back of her adult son.
“While pregnant with one of my five sons, I went for a walk in the street with my husband,” she said, sitting with her family on a patch of grass in a park on the bank of the Tigris River in Baghdad.
“We passed a stall barbequing liver. I smelt the odour and craved liver. Without thinking, I scratched my back. The next day I ate liver but it was too late. My son was born with a small mark on his back.”
Sure enough, the son, Mohamed Tarik, sports an oval mole in the centre of his back, which he showed to The Times after a bit of friendly coaxing by his family.
Mr Tarik’s wife, Anwar Ahmed, 28, is now three months pregnant with their first child. She is trying hard not to itch despite strong cravings for pacha, a famous Iraqi dish made from the head of a sheep.
“If you crave for something and do not eat it but scratch your body, then the food item will appear on the child,” she said, with an earnest look on her face. The family plans to have a meal of pacha later this week to help satisfy the craving and protect the unborn child from any mysterious blemishes.
Fortunately the itch-curse only applies during the first four months of pregnancy.
“Afterwards, the child’s formation is complete so it does not matter if you crave food and itch,” said Mrs Ali, the grandmother-to-be.
Another rule taught to expectant mothers in Iraq, is not to have sex during the first three months of pregnancy.
“The fetus is so small, it is dangerous to have sexual intercourse,” said one mother, who declined to give her name.
Women are also told not to lie on their front at any stage of the pregnancy, even early on. “It is bad for the baby,” said Samar Abdel Itar, 28, who is five-and-a-half months pregnant with her fourth child.
In addition, some Iraqis believe that if a woman wants a beautiful baby and craves the face of a particular child her offspring will be born with similar good looks. “The only good craving to have while pregnant is the craving for a handsome face,” said another mother.
In Britain there are strict rules and recommendations on what to eat and what not to eat while pregnant, with certain cheeses and fish off the menu. Iraqi women, however, face no such restrictions.
Mrs Itar said: “We should eat a lot to make sure we are strong and healthy. I am not supposed to carry anything heavy and it is important to sleep well.”
[Photographs by Peter Nicholls of The Times.
Picture 1: Anwar Ahmed shows the mole on the back of her husband, Mohamed Tarik;
Picture 2: Anwar Ahmed (second from left), Makia Ali (second from right) giggle with other relatives in a Baghdad park;
Picture 3: Samar Abdel Itar and her family;
Picture 4: A woman in the park with two young girls.]
Continue reading "Why to avoid itching when pregnant" »
Students pouring out of Baghdad University yesterday largely applauded the shoe-throwing antics of Muntazer al-Zaidi and felt he should not spend time in jail. Some, however, said his attack on George Bush was inappropriate because the then US President had been a guest of their Prime Minister.
At the same time, all agreed that Mr Bush should be condemned for the suffering they say he inflicted on the Iraqi people following the invasion of Iraq six years ago to topple Saddam Hussein.
Ahmed Kereem said al-Zaidi’s decision to hurl his shoes at Mr Bush during a press conference in Baghdad last December did not warrant the three-year prison sentence handed out yesterday for assaulting a foreign leader.
"Shoe throwing was the very least thing Mr Bush deserved because he brought destruction to Iraq and severely tore it apart,” the 22-year-old said.
“He killed fathers and children. He was the reason for stealing the wealth of Iraq. He is a war criminal.”
Mr Kereem thinks al-Zaidi, a television journalist, should have been released. "He did not do anything except express his internal desires against this man, which is a small thing compared to what Mr Bush and his soldiers did in Iraq and to the Iraqis."
Nithal Mehsen, 22, also backs al-Zaidi.
"I believe that Iraqis agree with him because Mr Bush deserves nothing but to be treated with shoes,” she said. “This is a great act of bravery by brother Muntazer to hit Mr Bush with his shoes in front of everybody.”
The student said she also supports Iraq’s judiciary and believes that it was simply applying the law. However she wishes the penalty was shorter, “maybe five or six months”.
In contrast, a second female student, Najat Sadiq, disapproves of al-Zaidi’s protest because he chose to target Mr Bush while he was giving a press conference as a guest of the Prime Minister.
"He didn't respect the place he was in,” the 21-year-old said.
“This is not correct. On the other hand, I agree with him and I say yes because he expressed very bravely his opinion of the criminal Mr Bush.”
Ms Sadiq feels that al-Zaidi should serve his sentence because he committed a mistake. “Not all issues can be solved with anger and recklessness. For example, it was possible to express your opinion in another way. Like writing about Mr Bush and exposing his crimes in front of the whole world,” she said.
However, the student added: “Who will prosecute Mr Bush and his soldiers for what they did to the Iraqis? Who will answer this question for me?"
A poll by broadcasters the BBC, ABC and NHK released yesterday found that 62 percent of Iraqis surveyed considered al-Zaidi a hero for hurling his shoes at the former American President. Only 24 percent considered him a criminal.
Dhirgham Al-Zaidi, one of the 30-year-old journalist’s brothers, said his family is still recovering from the shock of learning of the sentence.
“This is not just about an innocent person going to jail; it is a ruling against the will of the Iraqi people,” he said.
The brother accused the Baghdad court that passed the judgement of being on the side of the US occupation.
“They claim to spread democracy but now they punish the person who represented the opinion of the Iraqi people,” the brother said. The trial “was a ridiculous play and not a court.”
As for George Bush, he regards the punishment as a “matter for the Iraqi judicial system”, a spokesman said.
Picture 1: Shoes are used as a sign of insult. In this demonstration against the US-led occupation last year Iraqi protesters hurl footwear at an effigy of George Bush;
Picture 2: Iraqis at the Baghdad zoo;
Picture 3: At the same demonstration as Picture 1, the effigy is burnt.
Iraq commentators go misty-eyed when they talk of the symbolic purple finger brandished by Iraqis after casting a ballot. But no one ever mentions the smelly orange nail.
Had such an abominable side-effect been better public knowledge, then I would never have enthusiastically jammed by right index finger into a pot of indelible ink at a polling station in Baghdad on election day.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. 
The polling station, a primary school in Adhamiya, was relatively quiet and there were no voters in the room where I was standing, speaking to election officials.
I asked whether it would be all right to put my finger in the pot just for fun.
Each voter dabs purple ink on an index finger after voting to prevent multiple ballot-casting.
A smiling woman in charge said of course, then added: “Be careful you don’t stick your nose in there too as it is so long.”
How cheeky.
Brushing off the slight, I joined in the ritual that 7.5 million Iraqis went through last Saturday, walking away with a dark purple finger.
Five minutes later the ghastly orange nailed by-product started to take effect.
“What the hell is happening to my nail?” I asked my interpreter.
“Oh it turns orange,” he said, casually. “It is because of all the chemicals in the ink.”
Four days and hours of scrubbing later, the purple ink on my finger has almost gone but the Orange Nail from Hell is still there, as colourful as the moment it first appeared. The nail has also started to smell rather foul, as if something nasty is rotting on the end of my finger.
A friend from the United Nations Assistance Mission for Iraq said the stain could be with me for up to three weeks, ruining any manicure plans.
All this made me wonder what Iraqis think about having to endure a purple finger and orange, stinking nail just to cast a ballot.
To my surprise (and shame, for being so vain) women and men were all too proud to be sporting a mark that showed they had taken part in the elections.
Sahar, a 20-year-old student at Baghdad University, said: "As a girl, I should try to look as beautiful as possible, but having to turn a finger purple because of the elections does not annoy me. On the contrary, I am glad because I cast my ballot, which is my duty and the duty of all Iraqis.”
Abu Anwer, a teacher at the university, was similarly proud of his purple digit.
"The day of the elections represents a day of joy and happiness because I took part in voting and choosing a candidate,” he said.
“I am not irritated at all by the colour of my finger. In contrast I feel proud of it."
[Picture 1: Me plunging finger into pot of indelible ink on election day;
Picture 2: My finger and orange nail four days later;
Picture 3: Tiba Majid, 25, and her husband Wathak Abdul Rahim, 40, after casting their ballots;
Picture 4: A voter dabs his finger in a pot of indelible ink.]
A text message conveniently alerts Iraqis each month to their mobile phone bill.
As a non-Arabic speaker using an Iraqi phone, I too receive this message but am unable to understand anything other than the all-important amount, which is in numbers rather than Arabic script.
Over the past fortnight, however, I have grown increasingly anxious that the Times bureau, which owns several mobiles, is mysteriously clocking up a steep bill for January.
Several times a day, text messages in Arabic beeped up on my mobile containing a variety of numbers that I assumed to be sums of money owed.
It was only yesterday when one of these texts landed on my phone at the same time as a friend sitting next to me that I realised what was going on. I was being inundated, like everyone else in Baghdad, by mass text messages from hopeful candidates pitching for votes ahead of provincial elections tomorrow.
A confusing array of more than 14,400 candidates from 407 different parties, independent entities and individuals are vying for just 440 seats on 14 provincial councils across the country.
In a bid to make sense of the huge choice, the candidates are on lists – either independent or for a party. The list has a number, which is what I stupidly mistook to be the varying price of my monthly phone bill.
One voter-wooing text (received multiple times) read like this:
“Vote for 302, the list of Prime Minister Maliki who achieved security and restored national sovereignty.”
Another one went:
“With your vote we will hold them accountable and build our country. Elect from the list of Mithal Allusi, 292.”
A third message (I could go on forever) read:
“Vote for a Baghdad with everyone living with freedom and security. Tawafuq 265.”
 The sheer volume of the text messages offers a hint at the cash behind some of these election campaigns. The main parties are desperate to win seats because this poll, while only on a regional-level, will offer a clear indication of the political balance of power ahead of a general election due by the end of the year.
It remains to be seen, however, whether pestering people multiple times a day with text messages is the key to winning votes.
Atheer Kamel, for one, believes such campaigning is a waste of money and an intrusion of privacy.
“It is an annoying election method, very annoying,” said the Baghdad taxi driver, who received more than 20 election messages in one night.
“Sometimes I get so annoyed that I have to switch off my phone.”
Each text comes with a line at the bottom saying that this is a paid for advertisement.
“Why don’t these candidates pay their money to the poor, weak or homeless people? There are plenty of them out there,” Mr Kamel said.
“I think such text messaging is a cheap method to fight an election and does not affect my opinion of the candidate I want to pick."
A second Baghdad resident disagrees.
“It is one of the election methods to introduce the candidates and to get to know the lists,” said Abu Saeed, 46, a teacher.
He had been mulling the idea of voting for Tawafuq, the main Sunni Arab coalition of parties. “When I received these messages it increased my desire to vote for Tawafuq,” Abu Saeed said.
[Picture 1: A campaign text message on my mobile phone;
Picture 2: A little girl leans on a blast wall covered in an election poster in Baladruz, northeast of Baghdad;
Picture 3: Campaign posters clutter the side of an intersection in Basra;
Picture 4: Campaign banners span a main road in Basra.]
My grasp of Arabic extends rather pathetically to ‘Hello’; ‘How are you’; and ‘My name is’, so it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I accepted an invitation to stay with an Iraqi family during a three-night trip to Basra.
My host, Mohemmed Nasser, is a fluent English speaker but the wife and two young daughters of one of his staff who moved into his house to keep me company speak only marginally more of my language than I do of theirs.
I expected the experience to be one of awkward gestures and smiles. I was wrong. It turned out to be a wonderful, crash course in language and culture.
Arriving at the two-storey house in an up-market neighbourhood in Basra, I was welcomed inside by the girls, Mariam, 12, and 9-year-old Menar, as well as their mother, Adra, 32. The father, Tarik, 37, works for Mr Nasser.
The building, like many in the city, bears the scars of years of fighting. Pockmarks pit a wall outside from shrapnel, which also penetrated walls inside.
A year ago it was too dangerous for foreign journalists to stay in Basra, which was overrun by anti-British militia. Now it is relatively safe provided you sleep at a hotel or a friend’s house and dress like a local so as not to stand out.
 I was ushered into a large living room framed by flat, floor cushions and offered a cappuccino, prepared by a young man who works at the house and is nicknamed ‘Cappuccino Man’ for obvious reasons.
The children, after introducing themselves, started to jabber at me in Arabic before realizing that I did not understand a word, upon which they switched to broken snippets of English learned at school.
“I like Angelina Jolie,” said Mariam, while her little sister repeated: “My name is Menar”. Her language knowledge is understandably less extensive.
Wail, my interpreter from Baghdad, stayed with me for the first few hours as we ate dinner with my host, a local businessman who has spent much of his life in Holland, where his own wife and children are based.
Wail helped me overcome the language barrier but he later departed for a hotel, leaving me alone with my 10-word Arabic vocabulary.
Continue reading "Learning how to speak in Basra" »
Inside Iraq
The Times' contributors in Baghdad bring you slices of life in Iraq as they cover the country's fragile recovery. They blog on the bits in between the car bombs and the corruption, telling stories of life in Iraq for Iraqis and for the correspondents trying to understand it.
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