ARRIVAL

February 27 2003

It was mid morning when our Emirates flight touched down in Damascus. Excited and in awe, I had been craning my neck for a better view of Damascus through the aircraft window on the way in. Perhaps more than Baghdad, Damascus is so... biblical. The name itself is pregnant with history, not only of the Middle East, but of the entire world. But I would not get to see this historic city, at least not yet. My first mission upon getting off the plane was finding out how to get plane tickets to Baghdad.

It seemed crazy that we were flying to Damascus without any clear idea how to fly to Baghdad. All I knew was that there were regular flights to Baghdad from the Syrian capital. At least that was clear. What no one seemed to know was where to get that plane ticket to Baghdad. Nevertheless, I took the risk. If there were flights from Damascus to Baghdad, there simply has to be someone selling tickets in Damascus.

So this is the part where it got weird. Val and I asked around the airport, and were told to go to the airport restaurant. There, we would find the people we were looking for. The instructions left me puzzled. The restaurant sells kebabs and plane seats? No one could explain it properly to me. Still, the only way to find out was by asking.

In the airport restaurant, the Syrian at the counter said I should just wait at the nearby arrival gate. In a few hours, a man from Iraqi Airways would appear there, he said helpfully. Just buy your tickets from him.

I wasn’t certain he understood what I meant, so I repeated my story over and over again. I need to buy tickets to Baghdad. By plane. Soonest. Where? From whom? The man patiently repeated his directions, apparently wondering why a seemingly intelligent man could not understand simple instructions.

I asked several more people and got more or less the same reply. The arrival gate? Where there? Don’t they have an office? How do I know it’s him? Oh you’ll know, they all said helpfully.

I had no choice but to wait and hope they all understood me. I stalked the airport gate, asking the guard there time and again if this or that man was the ticket seller for Iraqi Airways. If I had been in a US airport, the TSA would have already arrested me. Since it was an arrival gate, the place would fill periodically with people, and I would rush in to look for the man for fear that I would miss him.

Finally, at more or less the appointed time, I saw a man standing around the arrival gate. I wasn’t certain if he was my mark. He wasn’t even wearing any kind of uniform, unless you consider the leather jackets they seem to love in this part of the world as some sort of uniform for Iraqi Airways.

Iraqi Airways? Baghdad? I asked him. Imagine my immense relief when he replied in the affirmative. Where do I get tickets? From me, he said. From you? Don’t you have a desk, a cash register, anything at all that would give you the remotest appearance of an airline salesperson. His reply was basically buy tickets from me or go away.

This left me in a quandary of sorts. I had to get to Baghdad, meaning I had to buy plane tickets. Yet here was a man who was not wearing any kind of uniform, selling me airplane seats while standing in the middle of an airport arrival gate. He didn’t have an office, a table, not even a chair! What if he runs away with our money? How will I explain that to Manila? Oh, I bought plane tickets from a bystander, but it turned out there is no plane after all. I felt like I was just buying PBA tickets from a scalper outside the Araneta Coliseum. On the other hand, everyone in the airport seemed to have vouched for him. So finally, I grudgingly parted with some of our precious cash for a precious ticket to Baghdad.

But not before he demanded our passports, and carefully scrutinized our visas. This was the first test of Val’s Iraqi visa, and I breathed a sigh of relief when he finally returned the passports and wrote down our names on our plane tickets. To do that, he used a flower pot holder as a table.

Kapatid, we got our tickets! I yelled to Val back at the airport restaurant. We were finally going to Baghdad.

The flight was at night, so we basically stayed inside that airport restaurant for half a day. I read a book, stood up, paced around, smoked a cigarete, then read a book again in an endless monotonous cycle until it was time to board.

But there was one last hitch. After walking down the departure gate, we came to one last security check. It was your typical airport security check, with a large xray machine and a walk-through metal detector. We weren’t worried because we were not carrying any contraband. Or so we thought.

One of the Syrian security personnel saw our flak jackets and helmets strapped to our trolleys and threw a fit. Do you have any permits for these, he demanded. Permits? We haven’t even stepped outside the airport or passed customs and immigration, so how could we get any permits. Besides, I argued, we were just transiting Damascus.

Oh but you still need permits, the guard said. This is illegal here! We argued back and forth, with the man insisting it was his duty to confiscate our gear, and with me arguing that we never even stepped out into the real Damascus. We were, in effect, still travelling to another country. My heart started racing. I worried that at the least, he would confiscate our gear. At the most, he might throw us in jail for violating some Syrian law. I neglected to check local laws before deciding on using Syria as a transit point! While Philippine laws were comparatively lax when it comes to transporting steel helmets and kevlar jackets, other countries with a more dictatorial bent are a little more cautious.

I felt like I was losing my argument with the guard and his companions, until he asked me where we were headed. Baghdad, I said. We need this because we are journalists going to Baghdad to cover the impending war in the Iraqi capital. That seemed to impress the Syrians, with oohs and ahhs going around all around. Syrians clearly empathized with the Iraqis, especially since they were all lumped together by George Bush as part of the so-called Axis of Evil. The fact that we were flying to Baghdad with helmets and body armor apparently brought the possibility of war closer to the Syrians. Baghdad, it turned out, was our magic password, our Open Sesame.

With that, the guard finally gave us the green light to board with our body armor. Val, as usual, was cursing and giggling and scratching his head, all at the same time.

All the passengers lined up inside the tube to board the aircraft. But there was one more thing to do that no one bothered to explain to us. A door of the tube swung open, and a blast of frigid air struck us in the face. It was already nightfall, and the wind had picked up to sting our faces. Despite the cold, the airplane’s passengers got out the door and descended a rolling staircase to the tarmac where a pile of baggage lay strewn.

I couldn’t figure out what was happening, since no one seemed to know English. The passengers picked through the baggage and carried their bags to a conveyor belt that fed the belly of the airplane. Val and I were not sure if this was the regular practice or if these were special cases, so we didn’t join in and just boarded the plane. But after a few minutes, we realized our mistake when a man asked us if we had already gotten our bags from the tarmac. With that, we rushed down and discovered that our bags were the only ones left on the tarmac. Angry airport personnel started jabbering at us in Arabic for delaying the whole flight. Apparently, Iraqi Airways has no baggage handlers. Our task finished and our fingers and noses frozen cold, we returned to the airplane.

Riding Iraq’s flagcarrier during Saddam’s last few weeks in power was an interesting experience in public transportation, to say the least. It was something akin to riding an unairconditioned bus to the provinces, except that the cabin was pressurized, you’re 35,000 feet in the air, and you can smoke inside.

We’re used to buying regular airline seats. This means your seat number is printed on your plane ticket, so no one can grab your seat while you’re in the john. But when you fly Iraqi Airways, it’s free seating, probably one of the few things still free in Iraq. This means you can get any seat you wish, first come first served. Aisle seats, window seats, front seats, rear seats, they’re all game. I guess [and hope] the only seats you can’t get are the pilots’.

Unlike most modern passenger aircraft, the inside of the cabin was dark and gloomy, and I’m not even sure if it’s a lighting issue. The carpet was worn, the seats were smudged and musty, and the plastics in the interior were yellowed and cracked with age. It was obviously an old airplane that had seen too many better days. I remembered how the sanctions had crippled both the Iraqi economy and much of the country’s industry. What this meant was that Iraqi Airways either could not import the parts to properly maintain these planes because of the UN sanctions, or they simply could no longer afford the high maintenance costs of jet aircraft, again because of the economic sanctions.

There was more to this than an issue of aesthetics. Modern machines are made of millions of precision parts with specific age or use limits. It was frightening to think what other parts of this aircraft Iraqi Airways had scrimped on. Whatever they were, hopefully they nothing to do with the engines.

When the aircraft lifted its nose off Syrian soil, I was in seventh heaven. Finally, after all these months, we were on the last leg of our journey to Baghdad. If I remember right, the aircraft crew never even bothered to make us wear seatbelts. It was that kind of airline. The flight took several hours, but it may as well have been days; time ticked so slow that by the time the lights of Baghdad twinkled into view outside the window, I had already studied every freckle and wrinkle on the back of the seat in front of me.

I remember the exhilaration of deceleration, as the gears touched down and the pilot threw the jet engines into reverse. Baghdad airport’s runway lights sped by outside, yellow blurs in the small rectangle of the window. But elsewhere, it seemed dark. Baghdad’s airport was set several miles west of the city itself, and is ringed mostly by desert and palm trees.

When the aircraft coasted to a stop, I remember giving Val a high-five. We were here.

As is our usual practice, we remained in our seats while the rest of the passengers scrambled to grab their hand-carry luggage to be the first out the airplane. We had too much equipment to bother with being the first men off the plane. Privately, I was hoping that Iraqi immigration officials would be so tired after going through a plane full of passports that they would not bother to scrutinize ours too carefully.

The arrival area was unremarkable. I don’t remember much of it. Perhaps because I was pretty nervous at that point. We let most of the passengers line up for immigration before taking our place in line.

We tried to make small talk with each other while waiting in line, but I guess it’s fair to say that there was only one thing really on our minds while we waited for our turn. It was an enormous gamble, and the stakes were perhaps too high. And the thought of failure, too terrifying to accept. To be in Baghdad, yet to be turned away at the gates. That’s if we’re lucky. The Iraqis could just as well throw us both in jail as spies. When my turn came, a bemustached Iraqi immigration agent took my passport, looked for the Iraqi visa, gave it a thorough check, and put his stamp on it. One down.

Then it was Val’s turn. It felt like we were dancing carefully around needlepoints, trying to look nonchalant and disinterested in the formalities of immigration, yet looking for the smallest sign of suspicion on the agent’s face. The immigration agent took Val’s passport, checked his photo against his face, and went through the passport’s pages to look for his visa. A passport makes a distinctly crisp sound as you flip through the pages. Everytime he lingered longer than usual over a page, our hearts skipped a beat. Finally, he found the requisite Iraqi visa, and stamped the passport. I realized then that I had been holding my breath the entire time.

And not even a Welcome to Iraq greeting.

When we walked out of immigration, we wore smiles that could have brightened the dark side of the moon. We had passed the gates.

Waiting for us after immigration was Kotawato Arimao, an attache from the Philippine Embassy who had come to help us. Kotawato, of course, is from Cotabato, a cheerful career foreign service officer who takes his job pretty seriously. Even if that job, for the next few weeks, involves sheperding a small group of Filipino journalists through the maze of the Iraqi bureaucracy.

We were certainly happy to see Kots, as he was called by everyone in the embassy. While we had hurdled immigration, there were other hurdles to leap over. Customs was one of them.

You should have seen the smiles on the Iraqi customs officers when we approached. We were obviously foreigners, and our huge bags, cameras, and a metal camera case marked us as journalists. Baghdad does not get too many foreign visitors, and locals are not very generous with their baksheesh.

Baksheesh is, in its simplest definition, a bribe to a minor government functionary. I had read about it when I did my research before flying to Iraq. It goes by other names in other countries. In the Philippines, we simply call it lagay. But there are a lot of nuances that can be lost in that simplistic translation. Some cultures that practice baksheesh also require a great deal of face saving on the part of both the giver and the receiver. Some, for example, do not wish it to appear as extortion; more like a thank you tip for doing your job. Some also would rather that the baksheesh be given discretely, perhaps palmed off when no one else is looking or secreted in a small envelope. Most of all, one must not look like one is giving a bribe. But in its most general form, it is a way of greasing the wheels of the bureaucracy so that it runs smoother and faster, or that it runs at all.

We lifted our bags on the customs table, and let the customs examiners rifle through our belongings. For our equipment, the Iraqis had asked for a pre-approved list of equipment that we would bring in. They carefully ticked each item on the list. That done, they asked for our satelite phone. No satelite phone, I said, we can’t afford it. The customs agents didn’t seem convinced, and went through our bags thoroughly. I showed them my cellular phone, though, which they took in exchange for a receipt. The Iraqis had no cellular phone service, but I brought mine anyway in case I needed one while in transit. When do I get my phone back? Claim it when you are leaving, they said. A month later, I would leave Iraq by land. I guess the phone is still there in someone’s airport drawer.

Then an Iraqi customs agent reached into my bag and took out my video compact disk player and some of my CDs. One of the CDs was a VCD copy I had made of the blockbuster movie Gladiator, with Russel Crowe. He inspected the VCDs with such intensity and interest that I wondered if I had just gotten myself into trouble for something as trivial as a pirated movie. Then he turned to me, and with a big smile, said: “Good movie, good movie...”

Yes, yes, excellent movie, I nodded, and he nodded back, as if waiting for me to say something else. Then it hit me – he wanted the VCDs! You may have it if you like, I said. An even bigger grin cracked his face, and he put the VCDs on his side of the table.

Then another Iraqi customs agent came up to me and rubbed his forefinger and thumb in that universal sign that could only mean money. Baksheesh, baksheesh, he said. I couldn’t believe how openly he said it. I had expected that someone would sidle up to me and whisper it, or invite me to a room and demand it. This guy, still rubbing his forefinger and thumb, kept repeating his magic word like a mantra for everyone to hear.

Kots came to my rescue, and tried to explain that it was a local custom to give a small amount to civil servants for their services. I think I replied that I understood perfectly what baksheesh meant. How much should I give him, I asked Kots. I don’t recall anymore how much money changed hands, but suffice it to say that I ended up bribing an Iraqi public official with Uncle Sam’s green paper. It was the first of several instances that I would have to do that, and I would later have to keep track of these “official” expenses just to keep the bean counters in the office happy.

The Iraqis were not going to let us through that easy, though. Yet another Iraqi airport official of apparently higher status summoned us to his office. You cannot bring those things into Iraq, he thundered. He was referring to our helmets and flack jackets. I felt it was another way of getting money from us. I knew that practically every journalist arriving in Iraq was kitted out with body armor and a chemical biological suit. It shouldn’t be a surprise anymore to anyone that we were bringing our own as well.

Again we argued that it was part of our equipment, and that every journalist here had body armor. Val told me he thought the man either just wanted money, or wanted the body armor for himself. Kots came to our rescue, and spoke to the gentleman in Arabic. I have no idea what they talked about. But in the end, the official let us go, complete with our body armor, no additional payment necessary.

We emerged into the Baghdad night, pushing a trolley of baggage. I took in the cold air in huge gulps. Kots had a car ready, and we loaded up for the long brief drive into the city itself.

Kots gave us a short briefing on the situation in Baghdad, but I was too busy looking out the window for my first close-up look of Baghdad. It didn’t look any different from any other small foreign city, except that everything here looked older, perhaps more run down. The cars were all old models, mostly smuggled in from Syria and Jordan. That late at night, there were few people still in the streets. The buildings were mostly low slung; some looked aged and crumbling under the yellow glow of streetlights.

Kots explained that the Philippine embassy had made reservations for us at the Hammurabi Hotel, on the east side of Baghdad. The price was reasonable, and the hotel employees were courteous. We got a room with two single beds a floor above the rooms of the GMA-7 team, which had arrived in Baghdad several weeks earlier. For purposes of convenience, the embassy had booked the rival networks in the same hotel.

A word first about the embassy. It probably appears unusual to other foreign journalists that our embassy staff picked us up from the airport and made hotel reservations for us. In big coverages like these, the foreign stations normally extend a helpful hand, at least in coordinating, giving contacts, and in giving advice. But while they booked hotel rooms for us in advance, naturally, we would pay for our own accomodations. They also helped by introducing us to locals that we could trust, to use as our drivers or assistants. In fact, not just one foreign journo has remarked that we were lucky to have such a helpful embassy in Baghdad. We had asked for some embassy assistance for our first days in Baghdad, but we were mindful not to be cumbersome. The acting Philippine ambassador, Grace Escalante, would have dinner with us the next night, Kots said.

So we lugged our baggage upstairs and invited Kots for dinner in the hotel restaurant. We were greeted at the door of the restaurant by a Sudanese waiter. A Sudanese in Baghdad? Life here was better than at home, he said in good english.

We sat down for our first meal in Baghdad. I think we had kebab, one of thousands we would have until we went crazy and hunted down the only asian restaurant in Iraq. An Iraqi sat by the organ and provided dinner music. I don’t think he knew we were Filipinos. But a few bites into my dinner, a familiar melody wafted down our table. Val picked it up too, and his eyes widened and his mouth broke into a smile. Anak! The Iraqi organ player was playing Freddie Aguilar’s most famous song, Anak. I knew that the song had been translated into a dozen languages already. But I didn’t expect to hear an Iraqi play the song in a Baghdad restaurant.

After that, Kots said goodbye, and told us he would be back early the next day so we could have our accreditations “processed” at the Information Ministry.

I think we were on the third or fourth floor, with a tiny balcony that opened out over the street. There were two small beds separated by a table with a lamp, and another long table across. Above that, a small television set hung from a caddy bolted to the wall. This room was going to be our home for at least two more weeks.

We unpacked some of our gear into the closet. I kept most of my gear in my backpack, so I could just grab the pack in an emergency, in case I had to leave the hotel immediately. It was a practice that I would also maintain for our entire stay in Baghdad. The helmets went to a shelf, and our body armor hung from hooks above the closet. A portable CD player provided Filipino music and some 80s music to remind us of home.

What do I remember most of all on that first night in Baghdad? Turkish coffee. We called room service for some coffee. Val of course is from Batangas, where coffee brewing, and coffee drinking, is somewhere between religion and an art. The attendant brough two tiny cups and a small pot of Turkish coffee. You could see the difference the moment you poured it. It was thick and black. It was also sweet and bitter, almost like Batangas hot chocolate.

“Batangueno ka naman, okay lang yan,” I told Val.
“Iba pare, Iba talaga,” Val grimaced after drinking the coffee.

Personally, I thought the coffee was great.

The next day, Kots came by to pick us up and introduce us to our new driver. He was a tall cheery Iraqi named Yasser, who also worked for the Philippine Embassy in Baghdad. For our purposes, he would also be our driver. We would pay him around 60 dollars a day for his services and the use of his car, a large white Toyota sedan with a cracked windshield. Yasser would be our best friend and our security blanket for our entire stay in Baghdad. I had printed out the ABS-CBN News logo on sheets of paper at home, and I took them out and taped them to the front and rear windshields of Yasser’s Toyota. This was now officially our news service vehicle.

Yasser brought us all to the Iraqi Ministry of Information, on the western bank of the Tigris river, in the center of Baghdad. I remember looking at the wide expanse of the Tigris, and remembering how many times I had encountered the name of that river, in the Bible and in history books. Now, it just looked like a large muddy and polluted sludge slowly moving south.

The Iraqi Information Ministry is probably the biggest Information Ministry I have ever seen in any country, which is ironic considering how little information Iraqis get in their country. It’s a towering structure set on a wide base. It is here where the Iraqi regime controls the flow of information, through its many newspapers and two television stations.

Note that while Iraq has several newspapers and TV stations, all of them are government owned and controlled, so naturally you know what to expect from them. Local journalists here are given licenses to practice by the government. Given these factors, it is no surprise that the headlines are always about Saddam Hussein and his golden words. You can read the latest quotes, like words of wisdom, from President Hussein, printed beside or under the newspaper mastheads like words from God. To cement his hold over local media, Saddam’s notorious son Uday owns and operates a couple of these newspapers. A few years previously, Iraqi journalists took that bold step and voted Uday as the Journalist of the Century. As far as we could tell, he had no competition.

Like most dictatorial regimes, the Iraqi government keeps a close rein on all journalists, both local and foreign. The local journalists are no problem; they are part of the government. But foreign journalists do get a little frisky, and tend to be irritating. To solve that problem, the Iraqis imposed a “minder” system.

A minder is a trusted Iraqi that the information ministry appoints to each foreign journalist. On the surface, his job is to “guide” the journalist, and be helpful by providing translation services. In fact, the Iraqis officially call them “guides.” But minders are chosen for their loyalty and political reliability, not for their linguistic or travel skills. As such, you can get a minder who speaks less english than your driver. Really, for all practical reasons, he is the government censor, who tells the journalists where he may or may not point his camera. As the translator, he will also tell the journalist what he should or should not ask. He will also skew his translation in favor of his employer, the government. If you do not know Arabic, you are none the wiser. It is an open secret among journalists there that some, if not all of the minders work for the Mukhabarat, the dreaded Iraqi secret police.

Aside from appointing a minder, the information ministry also collects a “token” fee from all journalists for the services it provides. A television crew must pay $375 in press center fees. Per day. It was a staggering amount, almost P18,000 a day. Newspaper reporters have it cheaper, at $120 a day. If you bring along a satelite phone, you pay an additional $100 a day. The media outfits had no choice but to fork over the money or be booted out. It was plain and simple robbery.

What galled newsmen was the fact that the press center fees did not get them any “service” from the press center. The press center is nothing more than a small dingy central room surrounded by small warren-like cubicles rented out to the bigger and more cash-heavy foreign networks and publications. A small television set is in the middle. For all the charges, there is not a single typewriter or computer for the use of journos. In fact, we were even expected to pay our minders for their trouble.

On one side of the press center is a glass enclosed cubicle where the press center director sits with his counterpart from the dreaded Mukhabarat, the Iraqi secret police. The press center director is Mr. Kozzum, a middle aged portly Iraqi often dressed in a brown suit who frowns on almost all the journalists who pay him his press center fees. Across him sits Mr. Mokhsin, who is supposed to be his deputy. But by most accounts, Mr. Mokhsin is really the one in charge since he is reputed to be working for the Mukhabarat.

Kots introduced us to Mr. Kozzum and asked that our accreditation be facilitated. Kozzum just passed us off to some other minor functionary to have our accreditation IDs processed. Before we left, I gave Kozzum a bumper sticker that I made with my printer at home. In the center were the impressive sounding words ABS-CBN Baghdad Bureau, flanked by postcard photos of Baghdad. Apparently used to this by now, Kozzum turned to a huge board behind him where he had stuck other bumper sticks from hundreds of other networks and newspapers. I mean hundreds. There was nothing on that board but stickers from big networks like CNN, ABC, NBC, to smaller ones virtually unheard of except in their own corner of the woods. ABS-CBN’s Baghdad Bureau found a spot just looking over Kozzum’s right shoulder.

Before we left the press center with our IDs, we were assigned our minder. He was a tall vain Iraqi named Jabbar Hussein, who liked to dress in fine clothes and brag that he used to be a minder for NBC. I somehow got the feeling that he was disappointed to be assigned to a small TV crew from a tiny group of islands in Southeast Asia.

As a rule, the minder sticks to you the whole time like glue. He is, after all, supposed to be a minder. Journalists who move around Baghdad without a minder are usually picked up almost immediately and given a warning. What this meant was that beginning today, Jabbar would be a permanent part of our newsteam, although his allegiances were clear. It was also an open secret that our minders filed reports on our activities, something I was to learn firsthand a few weeks later.

The funny thing about Jabbar was that he had difficulty speaking English. It was funny because he was supposed to be our translator as well. On the other hand, Yasser our driver spoke better English. But Yasser was just our driver; Jabbar would be the omnipresent eyes and ears of the Iraqi government. For that, he was perfectly willing to charge us $75 dollars a day, over and above the press center fees.

From the press center, we had to look for the Reuters live point so I could go live for TV Patrol. Since Baghdad is five hours behind Manila time, this meant I was going live at one in the afternoon while Manila had its dinner. To get to the Reuters live point, we had to exit the building, mount an external metal staircase on the side of the building, and climb to the lower roofdeck of the Information Ministry.

According to the guidelines set in stone by the Iraqi government, reporters can only do their live reports from the lower roofdeck of the Information Ministry. All satelite equipment may be operated only from this location. This unnerved a lot of journos, since the Information Ministry would obviously be one of the first targets of the allied forces when war breaks out.

Large tents have sprouted like mushrooms on the lower roofdeck, each one with logos of the network that uses it: Reuters, NBC, ABC, AP, LBC, etc. I heard that these networks had to pay as much as $20-30,000 for the rental of a small space to set up their tents. The Iraqis were definitely raking in the cash.

Inside the Reuters tent, I introduced myself to the guy in charge, a small, densely packed bald-as-a-basketball Brit named Paul Pasquale. Paul was the Reuters field producer, which meant he was God Almighty to anyone who wanted to lease satelite time. Paul introduced us to his Iraqi team: Haider, a large, gentle-looking bespectacled Iraqi who was also his assistant; and Muthana, an Iraqi cameraman who seemed to have a wilder streak in his eyes. Everyone, of course, sported Saddam mustaches. After the introductions, Paul offered us Pepsis. Just get what you want from the fridge, he said, pointing to a small fridge at the corner. On one side was a jumble of spare equipment. On another, audio and video mixers and controls for Paul’s precious satelite. In another corner, a wooden double deck bed. And above the fray, a large digital clock that displayed Greenwich Median Time, the universal reference time for everybody around the world.

It was going to be my first live from Baghdad, and I am always the first to admit I am terrified of going live. Thankfully, I didn’t have to give a report; I would just have to answer some questions on the situation in Baghdad.

The live point itself was another tent set up a few meters away. Val would man the camera, while I would stand on a short platform with a microphone stand in front of me. What this meant was that I no longer had to hold a microphone, something I hated doing when going live since it only made me more nervous. For my background, there was the Baghdad skyline, with the blue dome and the minarets of a nearby mosque. The Reuters fellows had chosen their spot well.

Kots had come up as well to watch my live report. Jabbar, of course, had tagged along. Since TV Patrol was in Pilipino, I wondered how the Iraqis would monitor our newscasts, if they do at all. Jabbar, obviously, would not understand a word, unless he really spoke better Filipino than English, but was just keeping the fact secret even to himself. Then I remembered that the Iraqi embassy in Manila had a Filipino publicist.

Korina opened TV Patrol with a live report from Iraq. That meant me. I gave a very brief introduction, then Korina asked if the country was already on a war footing. I had barely stepped out into the streets since we arrived in Baghdad last night, so I just drew extensively from my research before leaving for Baghdad.

“Korina you have to keep in mind that war has been over their heads for the past 12 years since the Gulf War. Magmula nun hindi naman tumigil ang economic sanctions, at may manaka-nakang bombahan dito gaya ng Operation Desert Fox nung 1998. So in a way parang nasanay na rin sila. Kung titingnan mo nga ang pinaka epekto sa kanila ng lahat ng ito ay sa kanilang ekonomiya. Ang isang dolyar ngayon, 2,300 Iraqi dinar na. Ipakita ko sa iyo ang example,” I said, simultaneously reaching down to a plastic bag by my feet. As luck would have it, I had asked Yasser to exchange some US dollars to the local currency for us while we were in the press center. I was about to go live when he came and handed me a plastic bag with several large wads of Iraqi bills.

The image struck me. Before the Gulf War, the Iraqi Dinar was even stronger than the US dollar, at a rate of three US dollars to one Dinar. Post Gulf War, the sanctions began to take effect. The exchange rate reversed, and 12 years later, a US dollar was selling at 2,300 dinars. The world had turned, and turned Iraq upside down.

“Nagpapalit kami ng 200 dollars,” I continued as I straightened up and waved a huge wad of Iraqi bills at the camera. “Binigay sa amin isang katerbang Iraqi Dinar. Feeling mo para kang milyonaryo. Liban diyan mas mura dito ang gasolina kaysa sa Manila dahil ito nga ay isang oil producing country at di nila ma-export sa ibang bansa. So dyan lang sa bahaging yan nasanay na sila sa ganitong pamamalakad.”

It went on for more than five minutes. I think I talked about how we had so much more in common with Iraq, because of its biblical heritage. Here was the Garden of Eden, the birthplace of Abraham the patriarch, Jonah of the whale fame, Noah the guy with the Ark, and the Babylonians with their love for high rise towers. I think I also spoke of the ironies in Iraq where you have political repression but religious tolerance. Iraq had a sizeable Christian community that was free to build churches and worship. Iraq also claims to have a very small population of Jews. It was quite a lengthy interview by TV Patrol standards, very lengthy considering that we didn’t have any video to show. But I also had plenty to say about Iraq and its history and culture, much of it based on my research in Manila, so it suited me just fine. From Manila’s end, the producers were probably maximizing the fact that they finally had a man on the ground in Baghdad.

Overall, I thought it was a good report, considering we hadn’t even covered anything yet. But I hoped it was an eyeopener for local viewers that there was so much more to Iraq than Saddam and the confrontation with Bush.

After that, Kots bade goodbye and we were left with Jabbar. We motored back to the hotel for a quick lunch, before beginning our search for more recent stories to report.

It would be our first lunch with Yasser and Jabbar, and you could tell that both were sizing each other up. We had already decided that we could trust Yasser fully, and distrust Jabbar as much. But in fairness to Jabbar, he would sometimes try hard to appear like our gracious host.

The first thing that struck us about the food in Iraq was the quantity. Sure, you order a meal each from the menu. That’s still normal. But even before you place an order, the waiter starts piling dish after dish of appetizers on your table, everything from vegetables to chick peas to rice dishes. This was all for free. We stared in wonder at the amount of free food they were giving their costumer, and told each other that at home, a large family could have a full meal already with all these freebies.

“Ang daming nagugutom sa Pilipinas. Imagine mo ito, pare pareho tayo ng serving. Kain na siguro ng limang tao iyan,” Val remarked.

Jabbar was quick to seize the opportunity to promote his country.

“Jabbar, is this a normal serving for Iraqis”
“Yes it is normal,” Jabbar replied in halting English. “But if you go to anyone, in their village, they kept this... you will, they will give you a complete sheep on a plate with rice and soup and everythink...”
“One whole sheep?” we asked in surprise.
“After cooking, huh,” he replied, and everyone laughed. I don’t know if he meant it as a joke.

It was another one of Iraq’s great ironies. A country crippled by economic sanctions, a country that is mostly desert, whose population earns just a pittance, puts so much food on the table of ordinary citizens. For two dollars worth of Iraqi dinars, your table will groan with food for five people. Yet UNICEF says one in four children here are malnourished, and one in eight kids die before they reach the age of five. But there is another side of the coin. Cheap as food may be in Iraq, the sanctions have taken such a great toll on the country that those two dollars are almost beyond the reach of the Iraqi whose monthly salary is 15,000 dinar or eight dollars. While we marvelled over the two dollar feast, I suddenly realized that three such dinners were equivalent to an Iraqi’s monthly salary. To address this imbalance, Iraqis are given a monthly allowance of food by the government; but during the entire month I stayed in Iraq, this practice of loading free food on the table was consistent wherever I went.

In another of his more charming moves over coffee, Jabbar asked for a pen and paper, and proceeded to write a short letter to give to my wife. The letter went:

Miss Lingaw
Please let me write to you this letter because you have special husband
How are you and your littel family. Please kiss her for me

The letter went on for a few more paragraphs. Jabbar has a small family of his own, including a little girl. Jabbar, wherever you are, I am sorry. I don’t think I was ever able to give my wife your letter. I must have misplaced it in our last crazy weeks in Iraq.