On the Iraqi border
An email from a reporter -- and friend -- on the Iraqi border... After polite chatter he [the British officer] offered to give us a sheet of the special orange fabric that the military drapes on the roofs of its vehicles to identify to fighter pilots that the vehicle is friendly, but he demanded, in return, a dome tent. We offered him alcohol, fresh vegetables, a sleeping bag -- but no deal. The officer wanted a dome tent, and we didn't have one. He gave us, as a consolation gift, two surgical bandages (for the injuries we will suffer from the F-16 that fires on us, I suppose).
Where am I? What am I doing? I often wonder. Right now I'm at a farmhouse in northern Kuwait, about 15 kilometers from the Iraqi border. I'm up here, rather than in Kuwait City, because itıs closer to the border and I didnıt want to get stuck in Kuwait City, as all journalist who waited until today to come up north have become; a police checkpoint leading to the northern desert is now stopping journalists from passing through. The problem of being stuck in Kuwait City is that you might not reach Iraq until the fun is over; the American military has not demonstrated a willingness to permit "unilateral" journalists, as the "unembedded" ones are called, to cover the war or its immediate aftermath. So L. and I trundled northward in our SUVs yesterday, with lots of extra gasoline in jerry cans, sleeping bags, food, water, satphones, bio-chem suits, body armor, anti-perspirant, etc.
The farmhouse isnıt much of a housemost of it is made of tin--and it's not much of a farm; weıre in the desert after all, though they do grow some things up here, for reasons that are not apparent. The house has a few basic rooms and, shockingly, a functional shower; Iım sleeping on a couch, in my sleeping bag, in a room with three of my colleagues. It's strangely quiet out here -- when you wake up in the morning, you hear birds singing -- so all in all it's an enjoyable place to wait for war. For entertainment, we listen to U.S. psy-ops broadcasts urging Iraqi soldiers to surrender or be destroyed.
We are not starving up here. We cooked a marvelous chicken and prawn curry last night, and tonight we had pigeon stuffed with apple and onion, followed by Chips Ahoy cookies. (The pigeons were raised or captured by the Bengalis who work on the farm; most of the non-military people up here are the unfortunate Indians, Pakistanis and Bangladeshis who work on the farms for nearly slave wages and send their salaries back home to their families, whom they will see once every few years, if they are lucky). Lunch was tuna fish with ginger chutney.
We are living a semi-fugitive existence. Journalists are not supposed to be up here, but the American and British militaries have better things to do than chase after us, and the Kuwaiti policewell, the Kuwaitis are known for oil, not for their security prowess. L. and I were filling up at a gas station two kilometers south of the border (yes, very strange: there is an operational gas station a few miles from Iraq, staffed by, guess who, Bengalis), and a police car with a flashing light suddenly pulled up. They asked for our I.D.s and told us we were to leave the area. We promised to do so, and returned to the farmhouse rather than the five-star jail that is Kuwait City.
There's a healthy assemblage of American armor a few miles awaytanks and APCs and, essentially, every manner of military vehicle, as far as the eye can see; further, even. Several hundred that I could see, facing in the general direction of Baghdad. Hmmm. They didnıt seem to mind us driving past them on an adjacent highway, but we didn't stop to ask what they were doing over the weekend. We happened across some Brits at a communication command post, and because the Brits are being far friendlier to journalists than the Americans -- or the Brits are faking it better -- we headed over there and chatted up the company leader, whose last name is Churchill (I am not making this up). After polite chatter he offered to give us a sheet of the special orange fabric that the military drapes on the roofs of its vehicles to identify to fighter pilots that the vehicle is friendly, but he demanded, in return, a dome tent. We offered him alcohol, fresh vegetables, a sleeping bag -- but no deal. The officer wanted a dome tent, and we didnıt have one. He gave us, as a consolation gift, two surgical bandages (for the injuries we will suffer from the F-16 that fires on us, I suppose).
There was a minor sandstorm this morning, but I've got desert goggles, so I wasn't completely blinded, though I'll likely be finding sand on my person for the next half year. My computer is okay because I have wrapped it in Saran Wrap; the keyboard and screen are shrink-wrapped. One of the photographers here has done the same, but everyone else thinks itıs unnecessary. Fools. Anyway, itıs 10:30 at night here, and weıve heard that the invasion won't take place tonight; the Guardian reporter received an SMS message to that effect from an embedded colleague. So all is quiet on the northern front, but not for long.#
