razistan.org

Razistan.org, which was created via a kickstarter campaign, was founded by Luke Mogelson, who frequently contributes to the New York Times. I found this site through one of his articles, an awesome examination of an Afghan battalion demolishing outposts and clearing IEDs in the middle of nowhere. The article entitled "Which Way Did the Taliban Go?", along with the photo essay "Another Hard Day of Trying to Stay Alive" by one of the Razistan journalists, Joel van Houdt, totally blew my mind. This is the kind of journalism I want to do in the future, so I spent hours reading all of Mogelson's Times articles and looking through all of the Razistan journalists' stories. Some of my favorites are "Surviving the Wreckage" by Majid Saeedi, "A Village" by Lorenzo Tugnoli, and "Emergency" by Pieter ten Hoopen (especially this image, and this one; be warned, there's some blood).

This kind of journalism, especially done thoughtfully and respectfully in Afghanistan, is crucial to our understanding of the brutal and violent situation American forces have created in their country. Razistan, in my opinion, serves to combat the lack of coverage given to the area by most of the American media outlets.

For this reason, "Emergency" is probably my favorite story on Razistan. Even though most of the images depict sad, hopeless scenes, like the "Gurneys" and "Men killed in the Ashura bombing and brought to Emergency dead on arrival" linked above, those who once supported American actions should fully acknowledge the aftermath of the conflict, or at least appreciate the people cleaning up after us.

Not all of it is sad, though. A number of the stories are just plain fascinating. Check it out!

A Different Kind of Mujahid

Ahmed heard of the eminent U.S.-led invasion of Iraq shortly before it occurred on March 19^th, 2003. Not soon thereafter, he was sitting in his room studying when an American helicopter bombed a nearby apartment. The force from the explosion, he said, threw him across the room. He would later learn that that explosion killed one of his neighbors, a mother of a mujahid, while she was on the rooftop of her house reciting the Qur’an.

Ahmed a thin, well-dressed man, smiles as he tells me war stories from his village in Anbar Province. Just like his hair, seemingly to short to part, but which always remains neatly pulled neatly across his head, it seems impossible that the emotion he showed most was humor. Saddam was a terrorist, he noted with a chuckle, it was good that he was gone.

It has been over ten years since the country I call home invaded the country he calls his. He was fourteen when American and Coalition forces began their mission to topple Saddam Hussein’s regime during George W. Bush’s “War on Terror.” I was a mere twelve at the time, thousands of miles away. But I, too, watched as Tomahawk missiles slammed into Baghdad, a foreshadowing of the oncoming violence.

We first met through a mutual friend after Friday prayers at our local mosque sometime in January or February of 2013. He had just arrived in the United States, and I had just converted to Islam. For the next couple weeks, we would sit together after prayers to catch up on each other’s lives. Every now and then he would excuse himself to get up and make his rounds, shaking hands and exchanging salaams with friends or kneeling down for a short period to check in with his companions.

It seems fit that we are friends. I am one of only a handful of first generation Muslims to worship at our mosque, and he is one of only a handful Iraqis to successfully navigate the visa process. About forty other Iraqis are currently studying in the state of Michigan. He refuses to have his photograph taken or his real name printed out of fear that he will be kicked out of his exchange program, and when asked why he told me of his friend who was sent home after telling a fellow Iraqi student that her skirt was too short. They even tell us not to pray in mosques, he says.

Ahmed is used to living with restrictions, though. After the invasion, Coalition soldiers surrounded a government building near his house. They set up checkpoints that he would have to cross to get to school, and he is quick to note that soldiers would shoot at anyone who crossed the streets between his house and his school. Three of his teachers were killed by American soldiers. His neighbor, a metalworker, would clear the dead bodies from the streets.

The violence, although crippling, did not bring life to a complete halt. Ahmed remembers the soccer games he played at night in his neighborhood, undeterred by drunk soldiers shooting their weapons indiscriminately from their checkpoints surrounding the nearby government office.  If a bomb were to go off right here, he said, pointing to a grassy patch near the cafeteria in which we were eating, I wouldn’t be scared. But, he added, whenever I see an American army uniform. He trailed off, shaking his head. That is something he still fears.

American soldiers are terrorists. He has a right to say so. They are responsible for the deaths of 40-50 of his friends, neighbors, and family members. When I asked about the mujahideen, he was quick to make a distinction between our word and theirs. Just like the term jihad, there exist two meanings for mujahideen, the first and correct usage signifies those who fought the American invasion out of a need to defend their country from foreign armies. The other, more American usage of the term, signifies those who both Americans and Iraqis consider terrorists. They are the ones who, in the absence of law and order, strapped bombs to their chests and walked into crowded markets.

Ahmed’s family did not protest or fight the American invasion. Still, their house was subject to frequent armed searches. Soldiers would appear looking for weapons, taking anyone who had one into custody. They would give the Sunnis to the Shia government, who would kill them with drills. Those who were lucky to escape this fate ended up incarcerated, some for years, in one of three American prisons, Buca in the south, Susa in the north, and the most well known, Abu Ghraib, in Baghdad.

The soldiers felt comfortable when someone spoke to them in English, he says, noting that his father is a professor of Arabic at a local university. From him Ahmed learned the value of an education, and instead of taking up arms to resist the invader, he turned to his books, even if it meant endangering himself daily. In fact, three times he had to change schools due to the violence and destruction that plagued his town for years.

That same motivation brought him to the United States, where he is studying Electrical Engineering. He lives with two other Iraqis, a Sunni from Fallujah and a Shia from Baghdad. All three study at the same university. Ahmed notes that it is funny that they live together, since so much of the violence that has occurred since the invasion was due to sectarian conflict between the two biggest sects in Islam. Even here, he is quick to note the role the American forces played in the violence, telling me that the army paid Sunnis to attack Shias, and Shias to attack Sunnis. Not all of them are bad, he said, adding we hate the army so, so, so, so much because they hurt us.

Although the situation at home is still dangerous, Ahmed plans to return to his former life as soon as he finishes his studies here. To an American it may seem strange that he is so adamant about returning to a war zone, but it is hard to blame him. He lived in one for years, witness to constant bombardments and searches, crackling gunfire in the night, and the incessant sound of helicopters in the air. That is what his home has become, that is what my government has done to his country, but Ahmed does not resent me for it, nor does he resent my fellow countrymen.

I assume it is the religion that we share in common that encourages him to forgive such grave offences. He remembers them all, but yet he studies with some of the same men that once roamed the streets of his province, body armor and guns in hand, fighting a War on Terror, and at the same time fueling another.

There is hope still, though. Ahmed uses his experiences to fuel his academic career. He holds no grudges because he is not in this country because of the actions of a government that was elected to represent us. He is here because he wants to succeed, he wants to learn and he wants to thrive.

process, part two

I don't know how to write about things that matter to me. I put too much time into thinking about how I want my story to read instead of spending time writing and rewriting it. I feel a close connection with the boys I wrote about because not only are they friendly, but we've shared meals and we've prayed together (well, not with Hasim) and we've spent hours together. I don't worry about offending them at all, I just worry about doing their story justice, and I feel like that hinders my writing ability. I feel a need to tell their whole story, everything that they told me. The cruelty of the American army, their seeming support for the legitimate but short lived resistance to occupation, and their disavowal of the terrorists that presently strike fear into the hearts of all Iraqis. There's so much to write, but I just can't figure out how.

I did most of my interviews second or third week, so maybe I've thought about this too much. I want to be able to thread two narratives together, the first being the lives of the men I met, and the second being a general history of the war in Iraq, which is almost ancient history to most Americans. Over 112,000 civilians have been killed since the invasion, and now these three are living in the United States, going to school here, taking part in our community, that is fascinating, and I think my need to tell the story actually keeps me from writing it. I'll try to continue updating my rough draft before Wednesday morning. I don't care if that's cheating. It has to be done.

to be completed, some title about iraqis

The American-led invasion of Iraq, which began March 19, 2003, has had innumerable consequences for both Americans and Iraqis over the last ten years. The conflict that caused between 112,295-122,852 civilian deaths has largely been forgotten in the United States.

Tangible repercussions, besides the ongoing threat of terrorism reported almost daily by major media outlets, seem to exist only in Iraq, where the once “poor but simple” lifestyle has been violently transformed into one of fear and constant conflict.

Acknowledgement of the horrors of the nearly decade-long Iraq War ended once the last American troops were pulled out in mid-December 2011. Even before their departure a power vacuum was created, and as a cause brutal and rampant sectarian violence has crippled the Iraqi way of life.

But what about those who lived through the conflict?

Ahmed, Hasim, and Amr live together in a small three-bedroom apartment. The three of them are part of the 40 Iraqi students studying in Michigan this year. They share a small living room and a smaller kitchen in which they cook almost all of their meals together. They often sit on their floor, feet folded, and joke as they listen to music or play with their cell phones, sometimes snapping pictures of each other or their guests. Their modest home is warm and simple, just like traditional Arab hospitality would dictate. Their television, which is almost never turned on, also sits on the floor, largely ignored by those who visit.

Their house, like their country once was, is unique in its makeup. Ahmed and Amr, who are both from Anbar province, are Sunni Muslims, while Hasim, from Baghdad, is a Shia. For the last ten years, they have watched their country be ripped apart at the seams, first by Coalition forces, and later by a bloody civil war between the two largest sects in Islam. Here, however, things are peaceful, things exist as they once did, during a long-forgotten time in a place far from their present home.

Ahmed and Amr keep a strict adherence to the prayer schedule taped to their wall. Whenever they are home they pray together, and the two men always attend jummah prayers at their local mosque. They sit and nod as the imam delivers his khutbah in English

After prayers, Ahmed, the troublemaker in the apartment, can be seen in constant motion, shaking hands and exchanging salaams with his friends, kneeling down for a short period to check in with his companions, then, like a game of musical chairs, he takes off and joins another group. Amr on the other hand is almost always silent, speaking only when he is sure of what he has to say. His shyness serves as a polar opposite of Ahmed’s friendliness and his joking attitude.

Hasim is always absent when the others pray. Shias are not allowed to pray in congregation, so when Amr and Ahmed wash and get their prayer rug ready, he disappears to his room to quietly wait for them to finish. When they are done he will return, and the men will continue joking. Almost no attention is given to the differences in how they practice their religion.

It is clear from the way that the three men interact that Ahmed is the youngest. Now 24, he was a mere 14 when Coalition forces invaded his country. With a smile, one that says tenderness in any language, he recounted the his first memory of the war. “They [the Americans] bombed an apartment building with helicopters,” he said. The force threw him across the room.

From that day on, going to school was a risky endeavor. His school was a mere four blocks from his house, but due to the proximity to a government office, every street he crossed was guarded by a group of American soldiers. Ahmed reports that the soldiers would shoot indiscriminately at those who would pass, killing students and teachers alike. He said that during the worst years of the occupation, three of his teachers were killed by American soldiers and he had to change schools three times. His neighbor, a metalworker, would often pick up dead bodies from the streets, risking his life to provide a proper burial for the fallen.

At night, he says, the soldiers guarding the government offices would get drunk and fire their weapons down the streets. Ahmed laughed as he told me about the soccer matches he would play in the relative safety of his neighborhood as the crackling gunfire would tear through the calm of night.

Amr has similar stories, although he frequently chooses to nod along to Ahmed’s instead of telling his own. The 30 year-old Fallujah native is most comfortable sharing his experiences in his native Arabic, which are met with nods of approval from his counterparts and, for the most part, are not translated.

Fallujah saw some of the worst fighting of the war. In 2004, the US attempted to capture the city after a series of brutal murders of both Blackwater contractors and US Marines. On April 1 of that year, the deputy director of US military operations in Iraq claimed that the Marines “will pacify that city,” and three days later 2000 troops encircled Fallujah. Late that night the attack began, but it took only two days for American military command to announce that Marines would not try to capture the city center. At one point Marines played AC/DC and Metallica over loudspeakers to try to anger insurgents enough to bring them out into the open for snipers. Those snipers averaged 31 kills each during the battles of overtake Fallujah.

Amr smiles less than Hasim and Ahmed. He is cautious with his words and unlike the others he listens more than he speaks. He was 20 and studying in a local university when Americans invaded. For three months classes were cancelled, then finally he was able to return to school. Iraqis believe that education is of primary importance, and just like Hasim he risked his life to continue his studies.

Hasim seems to have lost faith in his religion after witnessing the pervasive violence that the civil war created. Ahmed once noted that Sunnis arrested by the Americans would be given to the Shia government, where they would be tortured with drills.

Horror stories eventually make way for hope, though. All three of the men plan on returning to Iraq as soon as they receive their degrees from Western Michigan University. Although Ahmed lost between 40 and 50 family members, neighbors and friends to the violence that ravaged his country, he says he could never leave Iraq. Hasim, who is at moderate risk as a Shia in Baghdad feels the same way.