National Day
For me, April 9 was a blur of faces distorted with fear, horror and tears. All over Baghdad you could hear shelling, explosions, clashes, fighter planes, the dreaded Apaches and the horrifying tanks heaving down streets and highways. Whether you loved Saddam or hated him, Baghdad tore you to pieces. Baghdad was burning. Baghdad was exploding… Baghdad was falling. April 9 is the American Occupation Day. I can understand why Bush was celebrating- I can’t understand how anyone who values independence would celebrate it.
April 9, I woke to the sound of a huge explosion at around 6 am, only 2 hours after I had fallen into a fitful sleep. I was sitting up stiff in bed, even before I had my eyes open. The room was warm, but I sat in bed, still in my jeans of the night before, my teeth chattering, clutching at the covers, groping my consciousness for sanity.
We had been sleeping in our clothes for the last few nights with pockets stuffed with identification papers and money because we kept expecting the house to come crumbling down around us... we wanted to be out the door as soon as it was necessary.
I listened to the noise that had become as common as crickets in the summer- the constant drone of helicopters, and fighter planes... explosions and shelling.
We spent the early hours of that morning watching eachother silently and solemnly- the only human voice in our midst was coming from the radio, crackling and fading. It told us what we already knew- what we had been dreading for what felt like an eternity- the American tanks were in Baghdad. There had been some resistance, but the tanks were all over Baghdad.
And that was the start of 'National Day'...
April 9 was a day of harried neighbors banging on the door, faces so contorted with anxiety they were almost beyond recognition. "Do we leave? Do we evacuate?! They sound so close..."
It was a day of shocked, horrified relatives, with dilated pupils and trembling lips, dragging duffel bags, spouses and terrified children needing shelter. All of us needing comfort that no one could give.
It was the day we sat at home, bags packed, fully dressed, listening for the tanks or the missile that would send us flying out of the house and into the streets. We sat calculating the risks of traveling from one end of Baghdad to the other or staying in our area and waiting for the inevitable.
It was the day I had to have 'the talk' with my mother. The day she sat me down in front of her and began giving me 'instructions'- just in case.
"In case of what, mom?”
"In case something happens to us..."
"Like what, like maybe we get separated?"
"Fine, ok. Yes. Separated, for example... you know where the money is, you know where the papers are..."
Yes, I know. But it won't matter if anything happens to you, or dad, or E.
It was a day of stray dogs howling in the streets with fear, flocks of birds flying chaotically in the sky- trying to escape the horrible noises and smoke.
It was a day of charred bodies in blackened vehicles.
It was a grayish-yellow day that burns red in my memory... a day that easily rises to the surface when I contemplate the most horrible days of my life.
That was the 'National Day' for me. From most accounts, it was the same for millions of others.
Maybe come April 9, 2004, Bremer and the Governing Council can join Bush in the White House to celebrate the fall of Baghdad... because we certainly won't be celebrating it here.
From the blog of an Iraqi woman using the alias of Riverbend. Read it here.
For me, April 9 was a blur of faces distorted with fear, horror and tears. All over Baghdad you could hear shelling, explosions, clashes, fighter planes, the dreaded Apaches and the horrifying tanks heaving down streets and highways. Whether you loved Saddam or hated him, Baghdad tore you to pieces. Baghdad was burning. Baghdad was exploding… Baghdad was falling. April 9 is the American Occupation Day. I can understand why Bush was celebrating- I can’t understand how anyone who values independence would celebrate it.
April 9, I woke to the sound of a huge explosion at around 6 am, only 2 hours after I had fallen into a fitful sleep. I was sitting up stiff in bed, even before I had my eyes open. The room was warm, but I sat in bed, still in my jeans of the night before, my teeth chattering, clutching at the covers, groping my consciousness for sanity.
We had been sleeping in our clothes for the last few nights with pockets stuffed with identification papers and money because we kept expecting the house to come crumbling down around us... we wanted to be out the door as soon as it was necessary.
I listened to the noise that had become as common as crickets in the summer- the constant drone of helicopters, and fighter planes... explosions and shelling.
We spent the early hours of that morning watching eachother silently and solemnly- the only human voice in our midst was coming from the radio, crackling and fading. It told us what we already knew- what we had been dreading for what felt like an eternity- the American tanks were in Baghdad. There had been some resistance, but the tanks were all over Baghdad.
And that was the start of 'National Day'...
April 9 was a day of harried neighbors banging on the door, faces so contorted with anxiety they were almost beyond recognition. "Do we leave? Do we evacuate?! They sound so close..."
It was a day of shocked, horrified relatives, with dilated pupils and trembling lips, dragging duffel bags, spouses and terrified children needing shelter. All of us needing comfort that no one could give.
It was the day we sat at home, bags packed, fully dressed, listening for the tanks or the missile that would send us flying out of the house and into the streets. We sat calculating the risks of traveling from one end of Baghdad to the other or staying in our area and waiting for the inevitable.
It was the day I had to have 'the talk' with my mother. The day she sat me down in front of her and began giving me 'instructions'- just in case.
"In case of what, mom?”
"In case something happens to us..."
"Like what, like maybe we get separated?"
"Fine, ok. Yes. Separated, for example... you know where the money is, you know where the papers are..."
Yes, I know. But it won't matter if anything happens to you, or dad, or E.
It was a day of stray dogs howling in the streets with fear, flocks of birds flying chaotically in the sky- trying to escape the horrible noises and smoke.
It was a day of charred bodies in blackened vehicles.
It was a grayish-yellow day that burns red in my memory... a day that easily rises to the surface when I contemplate the most horrible days of my life.
That was the 'National Day' for me. From most accounts, it was the same for millions of others.
Maybe come April 9, 2004, Bremer and the Governing Council can join Bush in the White House to celebrate the fall of Baghdad... because we certainly won't be celebrating it here.
From the blog of an Iraqi woman using the alias of Riverbend. Read it here.
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