By Aaron Ernst
MIA 2009

Violence in Iraq caused by Sunni-Shia antagonism and US military raids against insurgents presents Iraqi citizens with three equally difficult choices: stay in their neighborhoods and hope the violence passes, leave their homes to ride out the violence in safer places within Iraq, or abandon their country altogether for the relative safety of Syria, Jordan, or elsewhere abroad. The UNHCR estimates that of a population of 27 million, 2.3 million Iraqis have left their homes for safety in other parts of the country while another 2.2 million Iraqis have fled Iraq and are now international refugees.

It is easy to lose sight of the Iraqi refugees themselves among cold statistics that attempt to quantify the scale of the exodus. One way to get a feel for the reality behind the numbers is to read the English-language blogs of the Iraqis who have been most affected by the violence. The Iraqi blogosphere that exploded after the US invasion provides a unique window into the daily struggles of Iraqis who continue to be affected by the foreign policies of our nation.

I am including excerpts from four such Iraqi blogs below. I have condensed each blog entry and made minor modifications to tell their stories in fewer words. I would highly recommend visiting the actual blogs to read their complete posts. For a good list of current Iraqi blogs, visit Iraq Blog Count. For a good overview of the current sectarian divisions in Baghdad, see this excellent interactive map created by the NY Times.

Blog: Last of
Iraqis By Mohamed, aged 25. Dentist living in Baghdad.
Monday, October 1st, 2007

I make my
living with a drill. I use a wide variety of instruments to remove decay from
my patients’ teeth, causing a small pain
in the short term to avoid major pain later. Rarely, if a tooth is too damaged,
I use dental pliers to remove teeth, preventing infection. Before this war, I
did not have the imagination to think of the other uses to which similar tools
could be put. The Mahdi army is much more clever than I.

Their
method is called “drilling and extraction” and it serves no purpose but to
cause horrible pain before a kidnap victim is killed. “Drilling’ is
self-explanatory; militia members use power drills to drill into the arms,
chest, head, and even the eyes and brain of their still-living captives. With
“extraction”, the torturer removes teeth and nails of the living, screaming
victim, a method that doesn’t kill as quickly as the drill.

Why do the
scientists, the doctors, the former army members and jet fighter pilots have to
be kidnapped, tortured, and killed? Why must the members of our brave nation be
made to run like dogs, humiliated, from their beautiful homes to live in camps
in the desert? Why do so many have to die?

The killing
is no longer about religion and sect. This isn’t the face of Islam. Those who
do this are twisted criminals hiding behind piety to convince the ignorant that
what they do is just. They are gangs, no more, no less. Iraq was the first
country in the world to create laws, now we have none. Our future is in the
hands of ignorant thugs.

Blog: The Iraqi Roulette, Anonymous writer living in Baghdad.
October 5th, 2007

I’m too old
to leave my Baghdad neighborhood, and besides, where would I go? My closest
relatives are dead, either from the war or time. And I have my garden to tend
and my writings to finish. I’m comfortable knowing that this is the country in
which I will die, a time I feel will not be long in coming. Not necessarily
because of the sectarian violence, the car bombs, or the trigger-angry
Americans. No, it is the constant drip of sadness and tragedy, now almost a daily
trickle, that make me weak and tired.

A dear
friend of mind, in his mid sixties, decided he couldn’t stay. He was from that
generation of hope, before Saddam, one sent abroad to learn from Europe so that
he could apply his knowledge to building a sweeter Iraq. His dreams dimmed
under the shadow of the devil from Tikrit, but he kept his head down and
avoided being slaughtered or driven out of the country. He lent me once a bag
of books he’d brought back from his time in England. These written words and
stories of England fed our friendship and kept our minds alive through the
darker years.

When Saddam
was finally conquered, my friend held out a desperate hope that democracy would
finally flourish in our beloved country. It pained him to the core when the
death threats began. Aching, he made plans to leave, temporarily, for Syria. I
will never understand why he didn’t take a plane.

His bus was
stopped near the border. Each passenger was forced outside, made to kneel, and
executed with a single bullet to the head. God knows why. I can’t stop thinking
of the last minutes of his life. I feel his fear and dread and desperate
longing for life. And I can’t help wonder if the cold steel against his temple
sent him back to England one last time before his dreams left Iraq
forever.

Blog: Young Mammy, Thirty-five year old mother of three living in Mosul.
Friday, October 5th, 2007

My
psychiatrist changed my medication again. I’d been having trouble
concentrating, feeling drugged. Now I do feel a little better. But lately I’ve
been feeling so tired, no words, I have no liveliness, no mood. I long to be
back in Baghdad, my dear peaceful city, where flowers lined the streets and
where roses grew. Or to sit by the sea, by the bank of a river, or in a green
field. I need someplace quiet where I can go to think. All I see now are the
military in the neighborhood, mines where there should be gardens. And all I
hear are sad stories of explosions, gun fires and bad news.

I didn’t
want to leave Baghdad, but we had to go, if only for the children. Sunshine is
a brilliant girl at 15 but is growing up too fast. Here, she reads everything,
writes, even helps the impoverished sick find free hospitals. Her childhood
already seems behind her. Merriam’s personality at 9 is different, she has her
own charisma, very emotional, willful. And my little boy, I’ve nicknamed him
Yoyo, at four he’s gentle, smart, loving.

Mosul was
supposed to be safe. But yesterday a loud explosion hit our home. The windows
and door were broken, the house full of dust, smoke, shattered glass. I was
checking that everyone was safe when the second bomb, deafening and powerful,
exploded. Merriam screamed and screamed, lost the ability to walk. But we were
lucky. No ambulances could make it through, so the injured had to walk to the
nearest hospital, 3km away. I saw through the settling dust a young girl
walking, dazed towards the hospital, holding the hand of her three-year old
nephew, both bloodied by the blast.

I have so
many things to do. But I’m so tired.

Blog: Baghdad Burning, Anonymous woman, late
twenties, now living in Syria.
Thursday, September 06, 2007

One
suitcase for almost three decades of memories, not to mention the clothes we
would wear for the next months. It was all that father would allow. When it was
full, it took three of us to zip it shut. There it sat for a month, waiting as
plans changed, security worsened and rumors spread. When it finally happened,
it was almost overnight. A neighbor was leaving for Syria and wanted the safety
of another car during the trip.

I spent the
last hours in our house saying goodbye to the desk that had seen me through
high school and college, the big table around which our family had gathered for
meals, the game of Arabic monopoly we constantly fought over. At six AM as we
left, I broke my promise not to cry.

Passing the
two checkpoints, set up by masked men, was terrifying. Mother and I wore no
jewelry, avoided eye contact, and prayed our papers gave the correct answers.
Finally, we were through. The rest of the drive to the border was long but
uneventful. At the border, I hated waiting among so many potentially explosive
vehicles, but soon our driver bribed the proper officials, and the last Iraqi
flag faded from view.

Strangely,
once across the border, the differences that drove us out of the country melted
away. In the eyes of Syrian border guards, Sunnis, Shia, Arabs and Kurds were
all the same. Simple Iraqi refugees, all wearing the same expression: relief,
apprehension, and sorrow.

Even now, I
wonder at the difference an imaginary line in the sand can make. I wonder why there are no more explosions.
Why our house doesn’t shake as the military jets fly overhead. How is it that all this can exist just a
short car ride away?