Arrested in Iraq

The Difficulties of Not Being Embedded

         The first few times I went to Kirkuk, people warned me that I might be robbed if I walked alone on the street.   Last year, they warned me that I might be kidnapped and beheaded.   Now, people don't want to stand near me for very long to even have the conversation.

         On my first morning there, some Iraqi policemen took an interest in me for simply being there.   Though it involved no handcuffs, jail cells, or rough treatment, I was arrested and taken to a local police station.   For a few hours, I was detained in police captain's office, being given far better treatment that an Iraqi would have been afforded.   It seems that nobody quite knew what to make of an American photographer that wasn't embedded with the US Army.   Some American soldiers were sent out from the local air base to see if I was who I said I was, and to make sure I was "aware of the security situation".   They arrived, at first quite suspicious of my identity and motivations, but after some questioning, they seemed satisfied, though clearly they thought I was crazy.   Pictures were taken of me and of all my personal identification and documents, and sound advice given to get out of the city lest I be killed.   The soldiers left me in police custody.

         After a while, the captain gave me a big handshake, and said that I should try to be safe, and stay inside my hotel instead of going out.   I thanked him, and went on my way.   I was driven at top speed, siren on and guns pointed out windows, to my hotel.   The officers accompanied me inside and while I said my goodbyes, one of them told me that I was not to leave the building.   I jokingly asked "Ever?" and was told "Yes".   I thanked him for his concern, but said that I would have to go out at some point.   He became angry, yelled at me, gave the man at hotel reception his mobile phone number and said to call him if I left.   The question of whether something told to me was advice or a politely stated decree was unclear.   This was to become an ongoing theme.  

         Later, I had a hard time convincing the hotel staff to let me go across the street to a restaurant to get dinner.   They offered to get something for me, but I explained that the restaurant was one I always go to when in Kirkuk, and that I always bring the owner, Adnan, something from America.  

         I crossed the street, saw some smiling familiar faces, and ordered something to eat.   As usual, Adnan sat down with me, and we talked about our lives since my last visit.  

Before fifteen minutes passed, the hotel receptionist showed up, looking nervous, and wanted me to return.   He was concerned could about getting in trouble with the police if I was ever caught outside of the hotel.   I was told that the policeman had said that the receptionist was responsible for me, and so I realized what an uncomfortable position he was in.   I went back, determined to straighten things out.   I called the captain and tried to explain that I knew what I was getting myself into and would have to go outside at some point, but didn't get far.   I promised everyone that I would stay in, at least for the rest of the night.    Many people were now aware of my situation and whereabouts, and this is exactly what I try to avoid.     

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         When I travel in unsafe cities, I keep as low a profile as possible, change hotels often, and I never let anyone know where I'm going to be next.   There are connections between many Iraqi police officers and others who might wish to do me harm (or at least make money from my kidnapping) so I was a bit uneasy about everybody knowing where I was staying.   I felt that their attempts to keep me safe were putting me in more danger.   I took note of possible escape routes my window and then hung around in the lobby.

         In about an hour, a police lieutenant showed up and ordered me to follow him to my room.   Apparently, my call to the captain had ruffled some feathers, and I was to be arrested again, and run out of town.  

         I was taken to the main police headquarters of Kirkuk, and told that I would be escorted to the edge of the city, and put in a taxi, headed for Arbil.   I was not allowed to stay the night in Kirkuk, but could visit during the day, and would be given a police escort.   "Thank you," I said. "What time should I be here tomorrow morning?"   The evasive answers repeatedly given made it clear that I was only being gotten rid of, and that there was no intention to let me come back.  

         I complained politely but assertively to annoyed Iraqi police captains and generals, and was sufficiently frustrating to get turned over to US soldiers based there at the police station.   My own government then took over caring for/deciding what to do with me.

         For two nights, I hung around with Iraqi Policemen, US soldiers from the 101 st Airborne, and eating MREs (which it turns out, require some preparation and aren't really 'ready to eat').   I had many discussions concerning my safety, my right to be unsafe, their right to hold me, and the seemingly alien concept of traveling un-embedded, which caused nothing but blank stares.   I spoke to privates and majors, someone from the Dept. of Defense, and several others.   My days of traveling under the radar had ended.

Basically, it came down to the fact that the Iraqi police feared getting in trouble if an American got killed in their jurisdiction, and the Army wasn't sure what to do with me either, fearing the same thing.   They didn't want to let me leave, though they knew they couldn't really hold a journalist without cause for very long.   Nobody wanted it to be their responsibility if I walked out of their office, and onto an Al-Jazeera special report.        

At one point, it occurred to someone that if I didn't have a valid Iraqi visa, I would be in violation of a law.   Though it would've been an easy solution for them, alas, all my paperwork was in order, and they had no legal cause to detain me.   The major who was talking to his superior on the phone actually said, "Sorry, sir.   It was a good idea, but his visa is valid."  

         With very few exceptions, everyone was friendly toward me, and I must say that I am very thankful for all of the genuine concern and energy expended on the idea of keeping me safe.   I got to know some nice folks, and was involved in several interesting conversations which I'll not soon forget.   A US sergeant spoke about some of his men that were killed on his watch in Sadr City, and another showed me a touching poem written to him by his fiancé, back in America.   An Iraqi translator told me of the danger he faced if people found out he was working for the Americans, and there were many warm exchanges between policemen and I.

         I also gained a broader understanding of how the US and Iraqi forces work together.   Though there is cooperation, it was clear that the US Army is not serving in a merely supportive role or "at the request of the Iraqi government".   Americans are still very much in charge of everyday decisions, and seemingly all of the important ones.   I spent most of my waking hours in the main control room that coordinated the activity of all the police stations in the city, so I heard calls coming in about caches of weapons being found, IEDs being detonated, the discovery of beheaded corpses, etc. and saw tactical decisions being made for each.  

         In the interest of the state of international news coverage, it was disturbing to find out that I was the only foreigner that even resembled a journalist in Kirkuk, one of Iraq's major cities, whose movements weren't being coordinated by the US Army.   For this, I was arrested twice and told to leave the city "for my own protection", by the Iraqi police.   The Americans saw the potential PR problems of dealing with a journalist in such a way, and overrode the decision.   Still, they held me for about thirty six-hours after that, and it was darned hard to get them to actually release me, even after I was told I was allowed to go.

         Upon leaving the compound, I drove around the city with an Iraqi photographer who was kind enough to pick me up.   Everyone was right; the city had gotten much, much worse, and a feeling of paranoia crept over both of us every time someone looked in our direction, or a car suddenly changed speed.   It felt like Baghdad; incredibly tense.