Aidan King

Baghdad

As the cab bumps along the bustling street, I can hear a gun battle somewhere in the distance: the deep rumble of U.S. M-16s and the higher-pitched clatter of the insurgent AK-47s. The gunfire distracts Gabir, my driver, for only a second, who then continues telling me a story of the most recent atrocity to occur within the city. Three days ago, 67 people were killed and 155 were wounded when a suicide bomber detonated himself in the cluttered Shorja Market. No more than six months ago, that district was one of the safest places in Baghdad. Now it has been added to my list of places not to visit during my stay.

Like most Americans, Gabir prefers driving full-speed all the time, but for very different reasons. Instead of trying to beat a yellow light or rush to work in the morning, fast driving is used to avoid danger. Driving slow would be begging people to take a good long look at who’s in the passenger seat. And people seeing me in the passenger seat would be like placing a giant, flashing “Foreigner on board” sticker above the roof, a terrible idea in a city that is accustomed to kidnapping gangs roaming the streets, looking for the easiest (and whitest) targets. Baseball caps, sunglasses, and facial hair are my best defenses against standing out like a “Sa’ih,” which is Arabic for “foreigner.” Gabir warned that I should leave the area immediately if I ever heard that phrase uttered.

Gabir listed other recent atrocities: some violent kidnappings in one part of the city, a car bombing in another. I’ve spent less than an hour in this city and I already feel terrible, Gabir and every other Iraqi has to live with this day in and day out.

Sensing my foul mood, Gabir looks over at me, “Hey, it’s Iraq. Every news is bad news,” and continues to tell me another story of ten decapitated Shi’ite bodies that were found in his neighborhood over the past week. The heads were never found.

The brakes squeal and dirt kicks up into the air. “Kul khara!” shouts a young man, almost being run over by the cab. Gabir replies with a series of rapid words in Arabic. I don’t understand what he says, but the young man certainly does as he darts into an alley.

For all these people, they don’t just fear the occasional bomber or crazed insurgents. Instead, they fear the ever-increasing danger that continues to pile higher and higher and the knowledge that things won’t get better any time soon. It doesn’t take much fortitude to act optimistic while hiding in a bunker in the untouchable Green Zone. Any politician can promise that things will get better, because for him, there is nothing to worry about. There’s no chance that a car bomb can destroy his friend’s store, a militia-fueled massacre could kill his family or that he himself could be gunned down in the crossfire between the warring Sunnis and Shi’ites. He will never become a refugee in his own country.

The cab veers to the side of the road and screeches to a halt, dust kicking up everywhere. I step out and Gabir rolls down the window as I reach into my pocket and pull out two crumpled up 25,000 Dinar notes.

“Shukran,” I say, thanking him for the ride and handing him the fare.

“Assalamu alaikum,” he replies and rolls up the window.

The car churns more dust into the air as Gabir drives back into the heart of Baghdad. I turn towards my Hotel entrance when I hear a booming explosion that knocks me off my feet. Dirt and debris scatter all over the street. I look up to see the distorted, exterior-frame of Gabir’s burning cab sticking out of a building. A second explosion goes off as the flames ignite the car’s gas tank. The dull sounds of sirens in the distance slowly overpower the chaos in the square. Walaikum assalam, Gabir. Peace be upon you.