Report 1 -
Because you were born a year into the sanctions that were to kill over ½ a million children, so all you've ever known is poverty.
Because, when you were six, your widowed mother's new husband threw out any children that weren't his, so you moved onto the street.
Because life on the street as a seven-
Because no one listens when a dirty thieving little 9 year old junky cries out for help and love, so you cry out in other ways, including self mutilation of your arms and body.
Because you've turned into a wild, angry violent critter, so you've managed to survive in hell.
AND YOU HATE YOUR SELF FOR IT.
Then comes the dawn of a new era. The war's over. Illegal sanctions are lifted. Money and long over due aid arrives. N.G.O.s open up children's homes. But because you're a junky, you can't come in. Don't get me wrong. I'm not criticizing them. They can't risk the lives of the 30 other children just to help one child. You have to be hard, that's life.
And for an 11 year old junky that really is life. The only life you've ever known. And you deserve it, because you're a messed up, scared, and sliced up lump of dog poo.
Every one tells you that. Every one treats you like that. And you don't just believe it, you KNOW it.
To turn around to that child and say, "Come off the drugs. Clean up your act. Calm down and stop being so wild. THEN we'll let you come and join us" just doesn't work.
He won't believe or trust you. Because trusting adults can cost him his life. And he won't calm down. Because being wild and violent is how he gets his food, how he survives.
And as for leaving the squalor and dirt of the street, and moving to a clean, sanitized, loving environment. The idea is so alien to him. So scary and stressful. Just the thought of it will have him reaching for the glue bag, in just the same way as moving home will make you reach for your cigarettes.
There's a group of people here working with those kids called "OUR HOME IRAQ" (O.H.I.).
They're just an ordinary bunch of people like you and me. People who were here before
or during the war. People who, because of what they've seen, can't close their eyes
and ears to the fate of these kids. So they rented some rooms in an old warehouse
and opened up a place where the children could come and hang out, eat, watch TV.
Maybe even have a non-
The place was dirty, smelly, unclean and definitely not child friendly. It was everything that U.N.I.C.E.F. deplores. Which is probably why the street kids felt at home there. So at home that some of them agreed to come off drugs. These children were allowed to sleep there at night. Safe from the dangers and temptations of the street.
Unfortunately, this affected the income of the local gangster types, who relied on the children for stolen goods etc in return for another fix. So, as you can imagine, they aint happy chappys. In fact, there'd been several confrontations between the gangsters and O.H.I. They needed to get the children somewhere safe, and soon.
A newly opened orphanage had agreed to take the children in as soon as their rooms were ready. That was meant to be 3 weeks ago. Every day they said "we'll pick the children up tomorrow", then not turn up. I was in this place in the afternoon. So were the gangsters. As CIRCUS2IRAQ (C2I) kept the kids busy in one corner, so the gangsters were busy making threats to OHI in another. Worst still, they were threatening to kidnap the children and put them back on the street.
Now there's something about me that messed up street kids like and bond with. And there's something about messed up street kids that I like and connect with. That's why I class all street kids as my own. And these bastards were threatening them.
As much as I wanted to do Iraq a big favor and pick up that lump of wood and bring it crashing down on the back of his head, I know I couldn't. To do so would be too prove to the kids that they were right all along, violence is the only answer. (Besides, there was several of them and only one me). Instead, we stood there, arguing and reasoning with them until they left. But not before they told us that they'd be back, and "something bad will happen"!!! I asked one of OHI what they meant by that. She said that they'd be back with knifes and weapons to kill us. We had to get the children out of there now, before they come back. Whether it was ready or not, the orphanage was going to get new residents.
We sent the C2I car home with all the equipment and the other team members. It would then return and pick up me, OHI, and the children, taking us all to the new place.
It took maybe half an hour for the car to return. That must had been one of the longest
half hours of my life. Knowing that it was a race as to who turned up first, the
car or the baddies. I don't mind telling you that the fact that I only brought three
pairs of y-
The car won the race (Dear god of little kiddies, thank you for that) and we quickly loaded the kids into the back, and then drove to the new house. The owners were surprised to see us but once they knew the story, they were only too happy to take the kids in.
My driver and I returned to base where I had a large vodka, shower and a last check
of the y-
And that folks, was my first afternoon in Iraq, and my introduction to street life in downtown Baghdad. The only city to come complete with it's own chalk outline.
Epilog: Its now a few days latter and I've just been to visit them in their new home. Wow, what a difference. I remember one kid who throw his arms around my neck and just hung there. The glue fumes from his breath were making my eyes run. Today he again throw his arms around my neck and hung there, but this time all I could smell was minty tooth past, and I don't think I've ever smelt a more beautiful smell in my life
Yours
PEAT
P.s. weather is lovely, wish you were here.
MY THANKS GO TO CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL , VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS and friends to many to mention. Without your help this couldn't happen.
Report 2 -
R.I.P.
I was going to try to make this weeks report a funny one. Was up until gone one last night writing the draft for it. But today there is no humor in me, only shame. Because today I went to Almirya. If that name means nothing to you then don't worry, it didn't to me either. Although now, in hindsight, I remember seeing it on the news due in the first gulf war.
It's a bomb shelter in Baghdad, built to house 400 people. But it's amazing how many people you can fit into a space when their lives depend on it. The first bomb we put on it didn't explode because it wasn't designed too. What it was designed to do was make a hole in the roof. It done that and carried on going, through people and the floor into the basement, where it ruptured the water tanks, flooding the lower level.
4 minutes latter, while people were still trying to workout what just happened, precision bombing sent the second one through the same hole. However, this one wasn't designed to explode either. This one was designed to give off a ball of heat. So hot that the water turned to steam in an instant. Steam so hot it striped skin from still living flesh. Others were incinerated or suffocated due to the fireball using up all the air. Out of over 400 people, 14 survived.
The shelter has remained untouched since the bombing. A monument to the dead. Here
and there lay wreaths from fellow shamed westerners. As my eyes adjust to the darkness,
I see a poster-
Have you ever seen the photos of the shadows the dead left at Hiroshima in Japan? Today I knelt on the floor, brushed the dust away from sheets of plastic, and run my fingers along the shadows left by innocent civilians, some too small to be adults. Their shape forever burnt into the concrete like an eternal silent scream. And it hurt, a lot. But not as much as what I saw outside.
Just after the war in Kosovo I was in a town called Gjakova. A higher percentage of people where murdered there than anywhere else in Kosovo. In the main street was a free standing wall made of white bricks, maybe 3 bricks high. If your husband, wife, daughter etc went out one day and never came home, you added a white brick to the wall. If/when you found their body, or proof of what happened to them, you'd go back to that brick and write their name on it. There were so many bricks there with names on, and so many without. I don't think I've ever seen a sadder sight ever.
We left the shelter and were shown around the side of it. There I stood for a long time, looking at grave, after grave, after grave, after grave. I remembered the white bricks of Gjakova, and how I prayed that I'd never live to see such an atrocity again, but we rarely get what we pray for.
In a side building we're shown artefacts from the shelter. A bridesmaids dress here, a babies socks there. Not the weapons of a mad dictator, just everyday ordinary things that used to belong to everyday ordinary people. People like you and me, like our own mothers and children. People who died because they tried to hide in fear.
I returned to base angry and somewhat shaken by what I'd seen and, in-
The thought of Babylon, birthplace of so-
According to our great and glorious leaders, the bomb shelter had a military aerial on top of it and underneath it was a secret military base. According to the Iraqi government, it was a civilian communications aerial and no such military base existed.
According to me, we deliberately targeted over 400 innocent men, women and children,
contrary to the Geneva conventions on human rights, because if we didn't, the 20-
So no, I'm not sending the funny one today. To do so would be to insult the dead. Besides, its like I said earlier. Today I have no humor in me. Today the clown is crying
EPILOG:
Civilians have special protections under Convention IV, Protocol I, and Protocol II. of the Geneva conventions including the following
"If it becomes apparent that an objective in an attack is not a military one, or
if that attack could cause incidental loss of civilian life or damage to civilian
objects, then the attack must be called off". (Protocol I, Art. 57)
BUT, because
history is only ever written by the victor, so no winning party has ever been found
guilty of breaching the Geneva conventions on human rights, nor will they be.
The attack on the bunker was in the first gulf war, not the 3rd (the second being 12 years of sanctions that killed over half a million children).
Yours
PEAT
MY THANKS GO TO
CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL, VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS and friends
to many to mention.
Without your help this couldn't happen.
Report 3 -
"WAAAAAAAAAA" She stands there, screaming out loud, fist rubbing eyes. "WAAAAAAAAAA" Around her 50 or more children listen, untroubled by her distress.
"WAAAAAAAAAA". In a second or two she will stop crying and lift the lid on the bin. The same bin that the other clown put her broken, smashed up and trampled music box in. When she opens the lid, the music will come from the bin, louder and better than before. With a big smiling happy face, she will skip once around the stage before leaving to loud cheers and clapping. (We hope).
Her name's Jo and she's a human rights activist who, in the hope that it would help her become an even bigger pain in the neck of the powers that be, is now a trainee lawyer. She has been here several times. Including during the last bombing. That's when she dreamed up this crazy, stupid idea. She saw how terrified the children we were bombing were. How withdrawn they became as their world was smashed around and in some cases, on them. And she saw how a man used bubble blowing to take a child's mind off the horrors of war. And that's when she first had the idea.
"What these kids need" she thought "is a circus. One with clowns, juggling, colour and magic. One that will make them dream of laughter instead of blood and guts. All I've got to do is find performers that care. Convince them to go to a war zone. A war zone where they are the target. Then just sit back and watch the fun. No problem"
Unfortunately for Jo, one of those performers was me. And because I'm me, there was no way that I was going to let her just sit back and watch. If I was going to play the prat, so was every one else. So I taught her, Uzma, a beautiful English lady of Pakistani descent, with a Yorkshire accent and eyes that shine with fire and passion born of the heart, and Amber, a cheery, young 20something year old stilt walker with a cute butt from penil??..pencilvain?..pen? the U.S.A., a couple of clown routines. The rest was history.
We were performing in a place called Al Sha'ala. As soon as we got there we could smell the toilets, which was surprising as there aren't any. Why should there be? After all, Sha'ala is a state run farm, not a home for 120 families. Or at least it was. But now, due to the troubles and problems of war, 12 years of sanctions, and occupation by several invading armies (Including my own). Iraq has a large number of what's known as Internally Displaced Peoples (I.D.P.). Refugees in every sense of the word save one. For although they left their homes, they never left their country. This means that they don't come under the protection of the united nations high commissioner for refugees (UNHCR). Instead they are protected and looked after by?????.well????.no one.
An N.G.O. called "Care Australian" started to help them but had to pull out after they were bombed. The only other N.G.O. to go there since then was a heavily under funded but amazing bunch of dreamers called CIRCUS2IRAQ. (By the way. That bit about being "under funded" is what we in the U.K. call "a blag")
120 families. Over 800 children and babies. No toilets, drains or sewers. Some of them, the luckier ones, live in cattle sheds. The others live in tents and makeshift huts (Although huts is too grand a word).
Those of you who know me or have read my other writings might be finding this familiar. Might well be saying "but Peat's in Iraq, not Albania" (where I worked with children in similar conditions). I wish this was Bathore, Albania. I wish this place wasn't proof of what I've always known. I.E. that places like this exist all over the world. But there is a difference between this place and Bathore.
The people of Bathore have lived in the cattle sheds for over TEN YEARS!!! And (despite my efforts), still don't have clean water. This, poverty and lack of hope turned the children into hard, violent people. They are the only children to ever scare me, which made them so unique, so special, that I couldn't help but full in love with them. Sha'ala has been a squat for 8 months. The children here were not just polite, but nice and helpful, a true pleasure to work with. But for how long? How many years or months does it take to change them into Bathore kids?
My thoughts on this were interrupted by the realisation that the clown routine was over and it was time for my favourite part of the day. PARACHUTE GAMES. Parachute games are great fun and a good way of teaching kids not only self discipline, but also team work. An important thing if they're ever going to beat poverty. I first learnt them when I went to Kosovo with CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL, a fantastic charity who taught me that ordinary people like you and I really can change lives. They also gave a large amount of money and their best parachute towards this tour. Quite a feat when you realise just how little funding CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL receive. ( Yes, you're right, that was another attempt at a blag. This time for C.W.I.).
After a long game of parachute football (Baghdad united 8-
We spoke with an old lady. She was dressed all in black, her head was covered by a black scarf . Her face and hands, covered with strange, blue, tribal tattoos, had the look of a 70 year old, although she was probably only 50, maybe even younger. Jo asked a question "What's it like living here"? The lady pointed at some fly encrusted dung. "That's what it's like" she said. There was no emotion in her voice or face, neither hurt, anger or humour, just plain everyday fact.
The head man (wish I could remember his name) tells us that he is trying to find 500,000 Iraqi dinar to pay for a drainage system. I stare at one of the many large, shallow pools of crap (it's way too far gone to call it water) that frequent the area. It's maybe 8 inches deep, and 20 by 40 feet wide. Its got more green bits to it than an American dollar and smells worst than my bottom after 3 months in India. A haven for mosquitoes, flies, and all the diseases I can think of, and a few more that I'd rather not.
As I stare at this disgusting filthy open sewer of a pool, I realise two things:
A) That 500,000 dinar works out at around 300 pounds.
B) That's how much I charge for a weekend's performing in Britain.
My eyes lock with Jo's and in a language that needs no words we decide that we will buy these proud, noble people a drainage system. (No, that's not a blag. I'm more than happy to pay for it myself).
We're invited into a single roomed building made of bamboo and reeds. It's cool and has a carpet on the floor, but little else. We sit and talk with people (all men) while enjoying chi and bread. I asked them what, if I could only tell people one thing, they most wanted for their children? I know what the answer will be and there was no hesitation in their reply.
"A school" They said. "We want to build a one roomed school where our children can learn".
The communist party had promised them chairs, desks etc. The education department has offered them 2 teachers. All they need now is a single room in which to place them. We said we'd ask around, see if we could find someone to help.
Jo wants the chance to talk with the women alone, so Luis and I ask the head man for a tour of the camp. He agrees and takes us to see the conditions in the cattle sheds. As we approach one I feel a slight tremor in the ground. Somewhere in town yet another bomb has gone off. More people have died. A few minutes later I feel another one. Some where some one else has become a widow, an orphan, a grieving mother who will ask the question no one will ever answer. "Why was it my son? My daughter? My husband?
"WHY"????????????????????????????????????????????????
We meet up with Jo and decide that it's time to leave. The head man asked us to return for the Muslim festival of Eid. It's a time of calibrations, of feasting, but they cant afford to celebrate. "Please" he says, "For the children". We happily agree.
A few days latter, when we'd had time to think and talk, we return to the camp and ask more Questions about the drainage. As we talk, so Uzma looks at Jo and I. Her eyes are shining and she says that she will put a hundred pounds towards the drainage. (Thanks for that Uzma, you're a diamond).
Whilst we're there we learn about a 2 month old baby who died 2 days ago from the cold. In the modern world of 2004, babies still die from cold and lack of basic essential items, such as blankets and warmth. A hard fact for us to accept. But, one that we must accept if we're to ever change it. (By we I mean all of us, your self's included).
We get the children to line up next to a large expanse of green, smelly water and Jo photographs them. Their bodies and happy, smiling faces reflected in the sewage that they call home. Maybe it will get us some funding. Maybe it will convince people like you to give up your holiday time and give these poverty stricken and war traumatised children what they so desperately need, affection, time, LOVE. Or maybe I'm just a silly old dreamer. Like Jo was when she saw a man fight a child's terror of war with bubbles, and dreamed of a circus, clowns and the laughter of children. A dream that came true.
Epilogue: (A misquote by me)
We are the magic makers, the shapers of dreams
The lonesome walk by the sea wave breakers, and sitters by desolate streams
Forsakes, earth shakers, those who dance in the full moons beams
Yes we are the magic makers, for we believe in the world of dreams.
Yours
PEAT
MY THANKS GO TO
CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL, VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS and friends
to many to mention.
Without your help this couldn't happen.
Report 4 – IT’S A FUNNY OLD WORLD
Before I start this weeks report, I'd like to say a great big, heart felt thank you
to ‘fools paradise’. Not just for their second offer of financial support. But also
because, judging by their emails, they have heart. Secondly, Jo's lap top. The only
computer between 3-
O.K., The report
IT'S A FUNNY OLD WORLD
(But it ain't often that you hear it laugh)
Life is like a pendulum. For every swing to the left, there must, by definition,
be an equal swing to the right. For every upper, a downer. To live here, on the edge,
is to experience the extreme. When the pendulum swings here, it doesn't just wobble
a little bit one way then the other, it rocks, Swinging so far that it surpasses
the horizontal line and goes almost erect. Hanging motionless for a mini-
Amber's time with us had come to an end. She was leaving the next day. So we had a party for her. It's about 9 p.m. when I first notice the men with guns. But I don't panic because they have police I.D. around their necks. Still, I don't like guns, well, not in the hands of others anyway. I ask what's happening and I'm told that Tom, an American reporter whose staying in the hotel and Jim, an English graffiti artist who's been going out late at night, spraying anti coalition stuff on walls have been arrested. The police have brought Tom back to get his press pass.
This isn't the first time Jims been arrested whilst spaying paintings on burnt and bombed out buildings. The last time was when the Americans picked him up. For 4 days they not only held him, but also lied to us, saying that he wasn't in their custody. His room mate was packing up his stuff and getting ready to contact his mother to tell her his missing, presumed dead, when he was released. Imagine how she felt, trying to work out what to say to Jims mother. But freedom here also includes the freedom to lie.
People are confronting the police. Asking why they are arresting our friends. The police are happy to stay and answer our questions, but only because it gives them a chance to drink our beer and stare at Donna, a beautiful blond lady with great big…………….eyes.
In the end we ascertain that Tom has been arrested for having a beard that makes him look Jewish, and Jim (who'd come here straight from Palestine, where he'd been working on anti occupation stuff) was arrested for having Israeli money. This results in me and 15 other bearded people demanding to be arrested. Some of the ladies, the ‘short haired. airwear, I hate macho male prejudice’ types, are demanding to be arrested of the basis that not to arrest them for wanting to grow beards would amount to sexual discrimination.
Iraqi police aren't used to this. For as long as the policeman can remember, people
have feared him and his power, paid good money not to be arrested, now these mad
westerners (one blowing bubbles whilst on stilts, and one popping an endless amount
of ping-
8 of us, including some journalists, complete with cameras, pile into the back of the police pick up truck and demand that he uses his flashy light as it looks good on film, another 3 car loads follow.
At the police station Jim is both moved and surprised by our arrival. But not as surprised as the rest of the police. Who don't know what's hit them. Press video cameras roll, flash lights flash, microphones are shoved under disgruntled police noises. Jo gives Jim a bottle of bubbles, someone else pass's him a pack of cigarettes. Amidst the noise and confusion Dave starts an interview.
"So Jim, how are you feeling right now?"
"Pissed off"
"Yer, I'd imagine being locked up a second time can do that to you"
"Sod that. You all come down here, wake me up, and gave me bubbles. FLAMING BUBBLES! Could of at least brought me a beer you tight sods"
Toms yet to show him the beer I slipped him when the cops were watching Donna.
The chief policeman is fuming and shouting at us to leave. (Please believe me when I say that being thrown OUT of a police station is, for me, a some what novel experience). Eventually we do leave. A few seconds latter I return and give back the radio that "fell" into my pocket due in the confusion earlier. The next day we head for the court. Here the judge will decide what, if anything, they have done wrong, but not until someone from the coalition tells him what to decide. A coalition official tells us that his on the case and they should be free in 5 or 10 minutes. But these are Iraqi minutes so, after 4 hours of waiting around we all end up in an office with a top coalition policeman. He looks nervous and asks if we are all journalist.
"No I play the digg" says Louis.
"I'm a stilt walker and trainee lawyer" says Jo (bubbles in hand)
"And I" say I with heart felt pride "am a professional fool".
He looks confused and changes the subject. "Look" he says "Iraq is not safe at the moment. Lots of bad people around, If you are out at night people, will think your up to no good, and arrest you".
"So" says Jo, putting down her bubbles and looking official "you arrested my friends for being out late at night in a town with no curfew"
"Yes"
"Not for spray painting on walls, looking Jewish, or having beards and foreign money on them"? "No"
"So it's o.k. to paint walls in daylight hours"?
He looks surprised by the question and says "Of course"
Eventually a judge is free to decide what and if charges should be brought against our friends. We are not allowed into the court to see justice in action, neither is a defence lawyer. After all, this is the new democratic, western way of doing things. Our friends are acquitted of the nonexistent charges that they weren't charged with and we leave the court laughing.
I suggest that we celebrate with a bag of French fries, but because they didn't support the war, we have to bow to American policy and settle for chips instead. Latter that day the arresting policeman offers to escort Jim around town when his painting. He also makes an offer of another kind to Donna. Both of them decline.
We are staying in the Christian sector of Baghdad. Not for any religious reasons, its just a nice area. When I walk down the street, locals, especially the children stop and say hallo. Once, when I was approached by a drunk, 3 locals came straight over and frog marched him away, apologising for his behaviour. It's nice here.
The other day an old man who lives opposite invited Jo, Amber and I in for a cupper and a chance to meet his family. Every house hold in Iraq is allowed one rifle each, an important factor, one worth considering when deciding whether or not you want to refuse someone's offer of hospitality! We sit there nicely, talking about the good old days before the occupation. He asks our names and religions. He's happy when Amber tells him she's a Christian, surprised when Jo says she has no religion, and totally baffled by my explanation of chaos wicca. Then he tells us his name is FARTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!! We remain totally straight faced. Not so much as a smirk. Each one of us determined not to have to explain the English meaning of farty in a country where every house has a Kalashnikov. But we don't have to, he knows what we are thinking and says "Yes yes I know what it means in English. It means someone who's fat" We all burst out with laugher. The old man included, just not at the same thing.
We do a show in a big theatre in Baghdad with happy families. An Iraqi n.g.o. comprised of actors musicians and other artist. all of whom are working, free of charge and with out any funding, with children. A local paper came along and, after seeing the show interviewed Luis, our French juggler/clown/digg player. The journalists spoke no English and no French. Luis speaks no Iraqi, so the interview was conducted in Spanish, of which they both could speak a little.
"How many countries have you been to"? he asked.
He used the word "tu", which in Spanish means you as in singular, So Luis, speaking about hisself replied "26"
The next day the headline in the paper said that we are one of the worlds most famous circus's (all 4 of us). We have taken our show to over 26 countries and have changed our name to "CIRCUS2IRAQ" in honour of the people of Iraq!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So now, whenever we play in a theatre, we are accompanied by newspapers and t.v. crews. None of them want to turn around to their boss's and say "I had a wasted day today, but I still want paying for it". So our reputation is getting bigger and better as the tour goes on. In a few weeks time the national theatre will reopen. We will be part of the opening night, performing for between one and one and a half THOUSAND children!!! They want to get satellite t.v. stations to broadcast it live. And why not, after all, we are one of the most famous circus in the world. Somehow, when the bubble burst (as it must do soon) I have the nagging feeling that all the papers, t.v companies, journalists and others who started this rumour, are going to blame us for it. Still, it's not as if they can ask for their money back.
There's a roundabout here called Fards Square. Just after the invasion, the Americans blocked off all of the entrances to it with tanks. They then drove a 150 formally exiled Iraqis into the square and gave them a long chain and a supped up truck. Result: they wrap the chain around the head of the giant statue of Saddam and pull it down. The media filmed and photographed it. Making sure that you couldn't see the tanks. Making sure that you didn't know about the fact that they were exiles. Making sure you didn't know that it was a set up. Then they sold it to the world as a spontaneous show of support for the U.S.A/British invaders.
But what's really funny is the amount of people who emailed me saying I should write to the same media, telling them about Al Ameriya. No, I tell what I see and hear. What I feel, to you and not them for a very very good reason. YOU HAVE POWER. If enough of you say something is wrong, then and only then will the papers (Who want/need your money) support you. If enough of you shout, only then will M.P.'s (who want/need power) hear you. If enough of you say "enough" only then will something stop.
So please, stop asking me to tell the media. If you want them to know YOU tell them. If you want the government to change their policy, YOU demand it. And if you want a world where 2 month old babies no longer die from the cold, YOU change it. Me? I've enough on my plate just staying alive whilst telling you what I know and feel. Trying to convince my friends, both Westeren and Iraqi, that they can change the world, if only they are prepared to try.
EPILOG: The only thing that evil needs to survive, is a hand full of good people to do nothing. And yes, that does include both YOU and I
Yours
PEAT
P.S. Happy Eid
MY THANKS GO TO
CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL, VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS and friends
to many to mention.
Without your help this couldn't happen.
Report -
3 days I have been trying to write this report. 3 days of power cuts, computers crashing, going on/off line. 3 ***king days off internet café owners panicking just cause I point a gun at a computer that really does deserve to be shot in it’s sodding cyber minded knee caps. 3 wasted, beerless days!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
o.k. Rant over. Time for the report.
SHA’ALA REVISITED
Do you remember the report I wrote about Sha’ala. The place that smelt of the toilets it hasn’t got. The place where they wanted to build a drain to get rid of sewage, but couldn’t afford too. The place where they asked us to be the Eid present they couldn’t afford to buy the kids.(Imagine not being able to give your kids a Xmas present. No, I can’t really imagine it either). Well, true to our word, we went back there for Eid.
As we approach the entrance children see us and come running over. Faces smiling, eyes glinting, hands waving. In no time at all I’m surrounded by little people, all wanting to shake my hand, say the one line they know in English, get my attention.
Hunger, depression, illness. All these things are forgotten, removed from their hearts, for today it’s Eid. Today the circus are here. Today someone cares.
Here and there I hear a cry of "Boomchucker", our adopted war cry (It’s a long story) and we make our way through the camp, collecting more children as we go, until all around me is a screaming mass of beaming faces, small out stretched hands, and chaos. I feel like a small boat upon a turbulent sea of children. But most of all, I feel happy and at peace. Not just with the world, but also with me. Today, I know, is going to be fun.
We start the day with parachute games. This time its Jo who’s going to run them. This means that
A) She gets a chance to practice her parachute technique.
B) More girls will join in the games
C) I get to take not only Mike (A freelance reporter) for a walk round. But also a pretty looking French lady photographer (Well, you got to enjoy the perks of the job aren’t yar)
"Peat" says Mike. His nose wrinkling up in distaste. "Last night, when you told me this is the biggest shitsville you’ve found in Iraq, I didn’t know what you meant. But I sure as hell do now".
We were standing by one of the open pools of sewage. The smell of which wafted up your nose with about as much diplomacy as a size nine boot in the groin. I’d just been explaining how, if your suffering from malnutrition (and thanks to the U.N.’s sanctions, most children in Iraq are) your immune system stops working properly.
Next to the pool, maybe 4 feet from it’s edge, is a hut made of reeds. A blanket on the roof to keep the rain out. I’ve seen better accommodation when I lived on the streets of London, under a round about near kingscross (and I have and did). Mother, Father and 4 kids live in that shed. That’s the real liberating affect of years of sanctions and war. The freedom to live and die in shit.
I stare out, across the water to where I got the kids to stand and be photographed with their reflections in the sewage. I remember how part of me hoped that photo would motivate people to help these folks, while the biggest part of me thought that I was just being a stupid little dreamer, and I smile cause it’s Eid, and I know a secret.
We return to the others and start the show. Some of the acts that we do they have seen before, other bits are new and/or spontaneous. It doesn’t matter, they don’t care. We are there, we are their friends, we have time to give. It’s not all that they need, but right now, its all they care about.
After the show Abdu (the head man) makes a little speech, saying thank you. "Wait" we say "We have something for you, a surprise".
Remember the 300 pounds that they need for the drainage? Well within two days of Jo writing about it and putting the photo on her web site, she’d been offered enough money to pay for it. ("You see Peat" I tell myself, "dreams do come true"). She hands over 460 dollars, the amount they say they need to start work on it. He doesn’t know what to say. He has trouble believing that we just handed it over like that. To them it’s so much. To us, so little. To the kids, the difference between life and death.
Every one who paid for that, every one who told others about that, helped to not only save, but also change life’s. THANK YOU FOR THAT.
That night I go to the internet café and check my emails. I’m in a good mood because of the days work. In my email box are 3 mails from good friends. It makes a big difference to life out here, hearing from mates back home. Even if they just say "Hi" it still helps.
It’s just gone 8 p.m. and I leave the café in a dam good mood.
MISTAKE NUMBER ONE
Every night I leave the same café at around the same time. Out here, habits of time and place, like habits with needles or nicotine back home, can get you killed.
The street is busy, but has a relaxed feel to it as I walk with the direction of the traffic.
MISTAKE NUMBER TWO
Always walk on the side of the road facing oncoming traffic. As an ex infantry man, someone who’s trained to walk the street, I should not only know this, but find it instinctive.
As I head down the street some one calls out "hallo" and holds out his hand for me to shake.
Alarm bells ring in my head but I don’t know why (Although, in hindsight, I think it was the way he kept his other hand, and what ever was/wasn’t in it, hidden).
I put my hand on my heart, smile and say "salaam". The polite way of saying hallo. And carry on my way, breathing a sigh of relief as I watch him in a shop window, entering a car.
As I approach a side road a car pulls up and stops, his in the back.
"Here we go" I think "Time to boogey"
I act like I ain’t seen them and start to cross the road, they drive straight at me. In hindsight I don’t think they meant to hit me, just make me angry enough to come over to the door, where they could grab me and pull me in. I run jump and push myself off of the bonnet. The arm I knackered hitting one of the ex’s "others" (the male one) screams with pain but I land safely on the sidewalk and carry on walking "Keep calm" I tell myself. "If I can just make it to that kiosk, I have cover".
The car pulls up between me and the kiosk.
"That’s it" I think. "I either come up with an amazingly clever plan, superman appears from nowhere, or he shoots me……………………… Lets try an amazingly clever plan.
I drag my gaze from the opening car door and look past them, planning to wave at a nonexistent police man, then (and here’s the really amazingly clever bit) when he turns around to see who I’m waving at, I’ll run faster than my bottom the morning after 15 pints of lager and a fig and vindiloo curry.
I look up and gaze in disbelief at a police car. I suddenly remember to wave but
it’s too late. The driver in the nasty men’s car has already seen it and decided
to leave, so I don’t bother to wave. Instead I just stand there for a moment, letting
the adrenaline rush through me. Amazed that no one else noticed that 3 people just
targeted me for.....well, I ain’t sure what. Maybe robbing, or kidnapping, maybe
worst. Sex or head-
Epilog:
I reach my hotel and tell the landlord what happened. That night there are two men and at lest 3 guns on watch. And somewhere upstairs, bathing in the sacred silver moonbeams, his horny hat hanging from the bed post, sleeps a wizened old fool. And as he sleeps, So he dreams. Nice dreams. Beautiful dreams. Dreams about a luxurious palace, filled with food, doctors, teachers and clean clean toilets. Enough for all the thousands of child war victims that come, skipping laughingly through it’s wide open doors. And as he dreams, so, unnoticed by all save a passing cockroach, a slight smile creases his leathery old weathered face. And why not, after all, today he deserves to smile. For today he has not only made children laugh. Not only helped to make a real difference to their lives. But he’s also lived to tell the tale. BANG "URRRRRGH".
p.s. I reckon I know which 5 people are going to email me and tell me off for not being careful. Even though I’ve reanalyzed my security. Even though they know that I’ll be a lot more careful now. Their still tell me off. And I love them for it.
Yours
PEAT
MY THANKS GO TO
CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL, VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS and friends
to many to mention.
Without your help this couldn't happen.
Report – 6 ABBUSS
Hi there folks,
And welcome to the next frilling instalment of my inner most thoughts. And my main inner most thought at the moment is "I NEED A TOILET"!!!!!!!!!!! You've heard of "Delhi belly"? Well I've got a case of the "Iraqi crappy". Apparently there's a shi'ite majority in Iraq. A fact that my stomach can testify to.
I actually had this weeks report finished and ready on time (I.E. Monday. Was in the internet about to post it, when I got an email from someone who may be able to get me some information. Information that is very relevant to the report. (I can't say what or why yet). So I decided to put that report to one side, and hurriedly wrote this one. Sorry if it's below standard, but it really was a rush job. (I.E. done in 3 days, whilst rushing to the toilet).
Jo and the others had been to Shu'ala to check on the progress of the drainage system. Whilst there, They came across 4 year old little Abbuss. He'd been badly burnt on the legs in an accident involving a paraffin heater. The next day was an admin day so Jo decided to buy some burn cream and take it up there to him. This was my chance to go back there so I happily tagged along.
The drainage was looking good. All going to plan and no children working on it. (I won't pay for child labor). Jo entered the shed in which the child lives and I stayed out side, amusing the other children.
Sometimes there are things that you see that just stick in your mind's eye like a photo. Jo's face when she came out into the sun light is one of those things.
"You don't look happy" I said
"I think it's got worse" she said with real concern in her voice
"Let me look" I replied.
I entered the shed and instantly became aware of two things. The look of pain and fear in the child's eyes, and the smell of infection that clung to the room. The mother pulled back the blanket that covered the child's legs, keeping the flies off of them. (Even now, a couple of weeks latter, it still hurts, remembering this next bit).
The legs were badly burnt and had puss oozing from the open wounds. That's what I could smell, a child slowly rotting. His eyes were yellow, a sign of possible blood poisoning. And so full of fear and pain. We here in the west are so rich. Yet these poor people were watching their child slowly die because of lack of money. "No" I said to my self "I was to late to give blankets to a child who died of the cold here. I will not be to late again. I WONT".
I turned to Jo and said "This child needs a doctor. Tomorrow I'm getting him one".
We tried to explain to the mother that we would pay for a doctor, but we had no translator with us.
That night I had trouble sleeping. I'll never forget turning up at the camp to find that a baby had died of the cold when I had blankets at home. I really didn't want that sort of thing to happen again.
The next day Riead (My Arabic brother and "habibi") came with me to the camp. The taxi driver who's brought us to the camp is worried. Normally he wouldn't even enter this part of town, let alone the camp. It is only Rieads quite persuasive manner that stopped him from dropping us off half way. We asked the taxi driver to wait and entered the shed.
Abbuss looked even paler than the day before. Riead spoke to the mother and found out that the accident had happened just after the doctor had visited the camp. (He comes every two weeks). Then he told her that I'd pay for a doctor now, today. She thanked me but told me that she can't let Abbuss go with out his father’s say so. I wanted to scream "BUT HE’S DIEING YOU SILLY, STUPID LITTLE SHIT" but I didn't, couldn't. Things work differently here than in the west. The father’s permission was needed, full stop end of story. Riead told her that I'd be there first thing tomorrow morning and I left feeling disheartened. Wondering if I should had pleaded or threatened her to let me save him.
The taxi driver is amazed that all the kids there know me. Amazed that his taxi still has 4 wheels, and says that he'd happily drive anywhere if I'm in the car, but only if I'm in the car.
That night I can't stop thinking about how I felt when the 2 month old baby died of the cold. How I swore I'd do anything to try and make up for not bringing the blankets that I don'ft use. It wasn't my fault, I know that. But I also know that if I'd thought, I'd had saved a life.
That morning there had been a large bomb explosion at the airport. Traffic jams were everywhere. It took forever to reach the camp, but eventually reach it we did. I turned up with a female interrupter and a determination to get him to hospital, even if it meant fighting the whole camp to do it. This was the 3rd day since I first saw him. Today he will see a doctor. I wont allow any other result.
His father was there and agreed that I could pay for the doctor. He then told me that the doctor he wanted him to see was a burns specialist in Basra, so I must pay for the plane trip as well!!! I explained that I'm just one man, not Oxfam or unicef. Lets see what a local doctor says first. His father picked him up in a blanket. I could see how much it hurt, being moved, but he neither cryed or struggled, he was that weak. Father and child got into the front of the car and the interpreter (who's big Turkish husband was our driver) got into the back with me.
"This place is terrible" she said "How can people live like this. I wouldn't treat animals this badly"
She was shocked and upset by what she'd seen here. And I felt jealous. Envious of her innocence and naivety about how and why people live in these places.
Due to the bombing and the traffic jam it caused, it took may be 2 hours to get back into town and to a doctors. During this time, Abbuss neither spoke or moved. Instead he just lay on his fathers lap, in pain.
Father, son and the interpreter went to the surgery. I waited in the car, that way there was no "western tax" added on to the price. 5 minutes latter they returned
"Because of the bomb" she said "the doctors been called into the hospital. We must try another one"
Another two hours to drive a few miles, another two hours of the smell of rotting child, another surgery where the doctors been called away to the hospital. I was getting desperate.
" Lets go straight to the hospital" said the interpreter, "and try there"
We headed out to the nearest hospital. Another few hours in the car. Upon arriving we were told that they cant see any one as they are full up of bomb victims.
I want to put a knife to a doctors throat and scream "BUT ABBUSS IS A CHILD. YOU WILL HELP HIM, AND YOU WILL HELP HIM NOW!!!" But I know that they are right. They have people there who only have a few hours or minutes left. Abbuss has a few days in him yet.
"So" I ask my interpreter, "What do you suggest"?
"All we can do is wait till tomorrow, hope there's no bombs, and try again".
She's talking sense, we both no it, both hate it, both want to cry and fight at the same time. After what seems like an eternity we reach the camp and return the still unmoving, unspeaking Abbuss to his bed.
Outside, away from his hearing, we talk with his mother, father and Abbu, the head man of the camp. I explain that I can't be there tomorrow. I really really want to, but I cant. Other people are relying on me. I have to go to work. Abbu agrees to pay for a doctor on condition that I return in a day or two and repay him. I aint happy with the situation but it's the best that I can do. I have to accept his kind offer.
Abbu invites me to his house for tea and I realize that I haven't drank anything all day long, so I accept his hospitality. As we sit there drinking a man with a young daughter comes in and sits opposite me. He shows me her misshapen foot and tells me she needs special shoes. Out side one or two other people are gathering, all of them with children. My moral is already at an all time low. 3 days of trying and I cant get a child to a doctor. I feel useless. Now I have to explain to a man, in front of his daughter, that I cant help him. That's not what I'm here for. I'm rich, but not that rich. I want to cry. To run away and stop being so stupid as to think that I can make a difference. How can I help children when I cant even get one to a doctor. The look in my eyes tells the man more than my words do. He thanks me for the time I've spent with their children and leaves. I feel even worst.
The drive home takes forever and I spend it stearing out of the window. Convincing myself that Abbu will get a doctor for Abbuss. "He's a good man, a noble man. The sort that never lets people down. I hope"
That night I spend a few hours writing a proposal to get a regular doctor to Shu'ala. As I finish it there's a power cut and I lose every thing. Some days are like that
Back at the hotel I sit on my bed, alone save for a rubber ball that I repeatedly bounce against the wall, and a bottle of cheap local whiskey. In between swigs I pray that Abbuss (who looks so weak now) will last until the morning. Eventually I am drunk enough to stop thinking, lay down fully clothed, and sleep.
Jo has gone to Jordan for two weeks. I'm in charge. Because of this it's several days before I can return to Shu'ala (You don'ft travel at night here). Several days of worry. Upon my return I'm met by happy, smiling, child faces. I feel a wee bit better when I realize that there's no morning tent. Abbuss is alive.
I enter the shed. Its small, maybe no more than 15 by 10 feet big. The walls have
more holes than bricks and umpteen kids live there. I'm instantly aware of two things.
The smell has gone and so has the look of fear in little Abbuss's eyes. He looks
so much better. I want to pick him up and squeeze him tight, but know that that would
not be a good idea. Instead I smile, he lays there and, for the first time ever,
I see him slowly smile back. I put on my sun glass's. The pitch black "You-
Where once was a pool of sewage, was now 15 freshly planted baby palm tree's.Tree's that will soak up and eat all the crap that's in the soil. Tree's that mean the people here still have hope. And all of a sudden, for the first time in a week or so, I realize that it really is a beautiful world.
I head down the track to find Abbu. He tells me that the doctor said Abbuss was two days away from losing his legs, and a week away from losing his life. I ask Abbu how much I owe him. It worked out at 42,000 dinar. Now if 70,000 dinar is $50 and $3 is around 2 pound, then that means that 42,000 dinar is ... who cares, I don't. All I know is that the last time I saw Abbuss he could stand again. All I know is that I made a difference. All I know is that this time, I was in time.
Yours
PEAT
MY THANKS GO TO
CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL, VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS and friends
to many to mention.
Without your help this couldn't happen.
Report 7 -
Firstly, I'd like to send my condolences to all those who lost life, limb or loved ones in the bombings on Ashura. Not just here, but in Pakistan as well. It was an outrage. We all knew it was going to happen, and all know that it shouldn't had. But the worst thing about it is that, regardless of who done it. Be they Sunni, Shi'ite, us or al qaeda, for the first time ever, Iraqi's now ask each other whether they are Sunni or Shi'ite. Something that's never happened before, and probably the sadist thing to happen since I got here. Why? because it's the first step on the road to civil war.
Secondly, this report was written on Monday. The reason it's so late is because of poxy internet café's and their money grabbing owners. If I ever take on a venture like this again, I'll point blank refuse to write anymore reports travels unless I get a laptop. The 5 days of wasting time, money and effort just ain't worth it.
Thirdly, out here, a little paranoia is a healthy thing. So please excuse me for being a little over the top and changing names in this report. It's not that I don't trust you people, it's just how real the threat is.
Friday was an admin day. A chance to run around doing all the little things that we never have time to do. Like washing, emails, net working etc. And for me, an evening show. A very special evening show. And here's why.
3 1/2 years ago, two people that I shall call Romeo and Juliet fell in love. Deeply, passionately in love. So deeply and passionately in love that they decided to marry. So far so good I hear you say. Arrr, but the course of true love never runs smooth.
You see the problem is that Romeo's family, although not rich, come from a high, powerful tribe. And Juliet's family, although not poor, come from a lower tribe. Well, her father banned the marriage because marrying into such a poor family would bring shame on him. And Romeo's father decided that marrying into a lower tribe would bring shame on him. In fact, Romeo's father has promised to "wipe out" the brides entire family if they marry!!! They come from an area known as Fallugah, and as the police and Americans have discovered, you don't mess with anyone from there. For this reason, I've changed all names in this report, other than mine and Lt. West.
Soon after refusing her permission to marry Romeo, Juliet's father tried to marry her off to the first "suitable" man who came along, beating and mistreating her badly when she steadfastly refused. They considered eloping, but two unmarried Muslims, one male one female, would never be allowed across the border. So, for 3 1/2 years, they kept their love alive with brief, secret, SHAMELESS meeting.
Eventually, due to changes brought about by the war, her Romeo gave her a choice. Elope with him to Yemen, or he'll leave the country a broken, homeless man. Juliet, in desperation and despair, told her Father that if he didn't allow her to marry Romeo, she would elope with him or die trying. (This is all true, I swear it) Her father, realizing that a brazen hussy as a daughter is even more shameful than her marrying into a poor family, agreed to the wedding. (Although none of his family attended it).
Some journalists I know (For safety sake I wont name them) are friends of the couple and arranged and paid for the wedding. And so, due to the very VERY real threats of Romeo's Father, the wedding was a small secret, low key affair.
It was around 8p.m. and I, along with some friends, were heading to the reception where, in return for a mention for C2I in articles, and a bottle of finest "Jordanian industrial chemicals company" vodka, I was to be their fool.
The security men at the bomb blast proof barricade searched us before allowing us to enter the street where the richer hotels are. The one's with all the western business men and posh reporters. They all know the crazy circus people. There's this old Tibetan proverb that says "Always be a friend to the man with the big gun and only two days training in how to safely handle it". So we've always made a point of getting on with them.
"Bomb"? He asked as he felt my camera (Thanks for that Mike. I'd had been lost without it).
"Yes" I reply with a straight face.
He laughs and lets me pass without checking to see what it is, or isn't.
Just outside the place where the reception is being held are a few street kids. They see us and come running up, literally throwing their self's at us. Legs and arms wrap around me like the hand thingy that first impregnates people in alien. Two of them are children from the first report, who have chosen to go back to the street. We play around with them and try to find out why it is that they left the home. They are evasive in their answers and change the subject. The truth is I don't think they know why. All they know is that the street called, and they answered. A feeling I know well. And, as sad as it is, I know that if I'm to maintain their friendship, I must respect their decision.
About 20 feet behind them are around 8 soldiers from the 1st Armored Division of the American Army. They watch, intrigued by the display put on by a fellow clown and I. There's this really simple trick where by which I can make a red light appear in my hand, seemingly from nowhere. I throw it to my friend, he catches it and pushes it up one nostril, then pulls it from the other and throws it back to me. I catch it and push it in one ear and produce it from the other. We carry on like this for a few minutes. Then an American soldier decides to join in by using his laser sight.
AND I BLOW MY BLOODY TOP
As an ex British soldiers, I can look you in the eye and make the following statement.
"You never, ever point a gun in jest. NEVER"
Your weapon is either pointing
A) into a neutral area or
B) at the enemy/danger zone.
YOU DON'T USE A FRIGGING LASER SIGHT TO TARGET THE BACK OF AN EIGHT YEAR OLD CHILDS HEAD. YOU JUST DON'T FRIGGING DAMMED WELL DO IT.
And I'll be dammed if I'll stand by and do nothing while some arse wipe of a gobshite targets a child, any child. Doubly so when he’s a street kid and umpteenly so when that street kid is a personal friend of mine.
I'm loud, I'm angry, and I'm trying my dammedist best to look it. The rest of our group, realizing what's happened, join in the shouting. This does two things
A) It lets them know that we are westerners (They wont shoot you if your unarmed AND western).
And B) Gets the attention of any locals/witnesses.
The gobshite stops pointing a killing machine at an innocent child and sinks silently back into the darkness.
I'm fuming. I remember how angry I was when I caught my girlfriend getting off with it's fellow lesbian types in the pubs of Glastonbury. But that's nothing compared to how I felt when I saw that gobshite (for I can't call it a man) bring disgrace upon the 1st Armored Division of the united states army, upon his country's flag, and upon the very art of soldiering.
The next day I'm back at the check point logging a complaint with LT. WEST OF THE FIRST ARMORED DIVISION OF THE UNITED STATES ARMY. He says that it was one of his men and that he will look into it but wont tell me what, if any, action will be taken.
THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH
By targeting a child they
A) put that child's life at risk from so called "Accidental" killing
B) Affected my work with that child
C) increase the locals belief that they have to bomb the Americans in order to protect their children (An act that could well endanger the street kids that hang out near the check points).
And that's why I've not only emailed the following letter to the Whitehouse. But also ask you and every one you know to do the same. Just cut, copy, and send the following red letter, that's all I ask.
Sir,
Just over a week ago a man known to me as DEVILSTICK PEAT witnessed an American soldier targeting the back of an 8 year old child's head with a laser sight that was attached to a killing machine.
The only crime that child was committing was to laugh and joke with DEVILSTICK PEAT.
I therefore respectfully request that you inform your officers serving in Iraq, particularly LT. WEST OF THE FIRST ARMORED DIVISION, that they are responsible, not just for the discipline, but also the actions of the men under their command.
Also, could you please inform them that, in future, the man known to me as DEVILSTICK PEAT will take what ever steps are necessary, be they mental, political, or (should the risk of murder seem imminent enough) physical to prevent the illegal act of infanticide.
CHILDREN HAVE THE RIGHT TO PLAY FREE OF THE THREAT OF VIOLENCE. I DON'T CARE IF YOUR COUNTRY IS ONE OF ONLY TWO COUNTRIES THAT REFUSED TO SIGN THE U.N. CONVENTION ON THE RIGHTS OF THE CHILD. THE FACT IS THAT THEY STILL HAVE THAT GOD GIVEN RIGHT, AND WE WILL DO EVERYTHING IN OUR POWER TO UPHOLD THAT RIGHT.
The email address's for bush and his vice president are as follows
president@whitehouse.gov
vice.president@whitehouse.gov
Or/and you can print it off and post it by slow mail to the following address
Mailing Address
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500
Or/and
you can phone them on
Phone Numbers
Comments: 202-
Switchboard: 202-
FAX: 202-
Comments: 202-
Visitors Office: 202-
Cause if enough people become a pain in the arse, then less children get "accidentally" murdered.
Epilog:
Romeo's father did not make an appearance at the wedding. Which is just as well.
The best part of the night for me was the look of total fear on every ones face's when they thought that I really was going to put the custard pie in the face of a groom from one of the hardest places in Iraq. I might be a fool, but I aint that stupid.
As for the happy couple. Romeo thinks that his father knows about the wedding but is living in denial, in 3 or 4 years time, he hopes that he'll be able to be able to take his wife round for a visit without guns being used. But that is a hope, not a certainty.
MY HOPE IS THAT SHI'ITE AND SUNNI, LIKE ROMEO AND JULIET, WILL PUT DIFFRENCES ASIDE AND LOVE EACH OTHER
Yours
PEAT
MY THANKS GO TO
CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL, VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS and friends
to many to mention.
Without your help this couldn't happen.
Report – 8 GAMES WITHIN GRAVEYARDS
YES YES YES YEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSS.
I’M FINERLY GOING TO GET A REPORT OUT ON A MONDAY. :) O.k. so it should have been posted last Monday, but hey, there is a war on. (If you want to know what difference that makes, reread my report on abbus).
Life’s good and things are going really well, better than I hoped they would. The only problem is my hair.
I went to the barbers. Made sure he spoke English. Told him I only want a slight trim, one to stimulate the growth. His first couple of cuts was a short back and sides affair around one of my ears, then he looked in the mirror and saw the look on my face. Horror, anger, pure disbelief. None of these words come close to describing the emotions displayed there.
“O.K.?" he asks with a weak withering smile. What could I do? Say "No, glue it back on"
So I now wear an Arabic head scarf. And when I get home, if anyone laughs, then they better remember that a Kalashnikov rifle only cost $60.
We left Baghdad early in the morning and (along with a Kurdish journalist that Jo
and I had met) headed north to Erbil in Kurdistan. It was a 5-
Kurdistan is to Baghdad, what Blair is to honesty. I.E. miles and miles apart. Two
totally different worlds. Baghdad is polluted, noisy and very tense. Where as Kurdistan
is full of lush, green landscapes of rolling hills, majestic mountains and vast,
wide-
Our first couple of days was spent sorting ourselves out, meeting ministers, getting visa's etc (they should of cost us $60, but we got them free in return for a bit of a show at the cop shop). The vice minister of culture sent us, along with one of his workers, to meet the minister of education. His office was smart, made of black and white marble, the sort of place designed to put me on edge. I hate these places, and this side of the work. I know it's important to meet him, to act in the correct manner and say the correct words. But I'm a somewhat uncouthed character, the kind of person who has to think twice before remembering to use his hanky and not your curtains. In this office I feel like a fish out of water, but somehow, when he asks about the educational benefits of our work, I manage to come out with all the correct jargon, the type of political wording and expressions that I hate. I must had done well as he agrees to supply us with enough work to keep us busy AND a free interrupter. As we leave I turn to Jo and say,
"Do you think we should of tried to blag a free car and driver out of him as well"?
"Don't push your luck " she says.
The next day we go back to his office and meet Coonar, our young female interrupter and an education superintendent who will travel with us. As we leave the building he asks us about transport and we tell him that we tend to go by taxi. We get into his car and he drives us to his office, here he commandeers not only a driver, bus also a bloody great big bus. There have been times in Baghdad when we have been 6 to a car, plus the driver. "This" I think to my self "Just keeps getting better and better".
I spend a few seconds trying to decide which row of seats I want to lay across. Put
on my mirrored wrap-
We leave the city and head off into the countryside to a small village. Saddam’s troops burnt it to the ground, so they rebuilt it. So they burnt it down again, so they rebuilt it again. So they burnt it down again, so they rebuilt it again. So guess what they did next? Yep, that's right, they burnt and rebuilt it again and again. 6 times it was destroyed, 6 times it was rebuilt. And people think that I'm stubborn.
After the show we wanted to play parachute games with the kids. They told us to play on the hill nearby. When we got there and I saw what it was, my heart missed a beat and a feeling of de je view swept across me.
Just outside of Peja in Kosovo was a small village. CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL were the first N.G.O. to go there and work with the children. It was horrible. I don't know what had happened in that place but you could literally taste the evil in the air. It took ages to convince the children to come and play. They wanted to, you could see it in their eyes as they peeped around corners. But for years they had been taught that they must hide or the foreigners WILL rape and kill them.
Eventually we got enough kids to play with BUT. The only place deemed mine free and
safe to play in was the school field. In the middle of it was half a bunt out tree.
In the corner of it were lots of fresh graves, many to small to be adults. The bastards
had murdered the children. And we had to play in the same field as their graves.
Near the end of that session I saw an old man. He was standing in the middle of
the games, slowly turning around and around with his hands outstretched, palm up.
His smile did not so much crack his face, but rather severed it, with all the enthusiasm
of a battle-
He told us latter that he never thought that he'd live to see his grandchildren laugh again. And he wasn't exaggerating, he honestly meant it. All CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL had done that day was play games with children. It was as pure and simple as that. But the effect it had on the whole village was amazing. The stench of evil and despair had gone. Hope and belief had returned. Belief in tomorrow, in the children. It was as pure and as simple as that. And in my opinion, a pure and simple miracle. One that I thank the gods for allowing me to witness. And one that totally changed my life.
"But what" I hear you say "has that got to do with playing games on a hill"?
Well, I'll tell you.
This hill where they asked us to play, is also the graveyard.
All those who'd died fighting for the village were buried there. And today they were going to know what they died for. For today the spirits would hear the children laugh. But it brought back so many memories, and so many emotions.
The games were a great success. I say great because by the end of the session we had maybe half a dozen adults joining in, a rare thing in such a heavily patriarchal society. We left there and headed back home, but not the way we came. Instead they took as for a long drive over mountains and through valleys. After the squalor of Baghdad this was soooooooo good. Every few minutes we'd scream "STOP. I need a photo of this" or "I want to run up that hill there". We were like little kids on the way to the seaside. (But without the being sick bit). No helicopter engines assaulting your eardrums, no soldiers with guns, no anybody with guns. It didn't feel right. Was great, really lovely, but not what we are used too.
That evening, back in the hotel, Jo lay on her bed reading a book while I lay on mine, staring up at nothing and thinking about the day.
"Jo" I said
"What" she replied without looking up?
"Sometimes I think I'm a bit of a soft bugger"
"Why's that"?
"Cause even now, 5 years latter, I still can't think about that day in Kosovo without crying".
She looked up from her book, saw the tears in my eyes and came over to give me a hug.
"It's o.k." I said "These aren't painful tears, just healing ones".
We lay there talking about the things we've seen and the affects it's had on us.
Trying to work out the different ways it's changed us. We wont know the full extent
of the effects until we've been home for a while, only then will we have something
to measure ourselves up against. One of the ways that I do know that it's changed
me, is that I'm now even more fanatical about the rights of war children. Even more
determined to get them help A.S.P. Not a year after a war, but due in, that's when
I need to be there. That's when the most important work needs to be done. That's
the only time when I can truly see the cause of their problems. O.K. it's too late
for that this time, but if Bush gets re-
It was hard getting funding for this trip. Not because people don't care or don't think that my work is important, but because they didn't want to risk me getting shot or blown up. (Something that I totally respect them for). That's why, when I get home, I'm opening another bank account, one that I'll start putting money in when ever possible. That way I'll be there. I don't know of any other way of seeing the effects of shock and awe (terrify and petrify), and I feel that I need to.
EPILOG:
We were walking up a street in Erbil, Jo Luis and I. Behind us we heard 2 shots. I could tell by the sharpness of the sound that it was maybe 50 feet away. We didn't run and take cover, didn't look round, didn't even break our step. We just kept on walking. Then we noticed something really strange (Well, strange to us anyway). People had stopped what they were doing and were looking round, others came from the neighbouring streets to see what was happening, who was shooting and why. The only ones to ignore it was 3 clowns from Baghdad. To them, gunfire in the streets was alien, to us, an everyday occurrence, one not worth worrying about. And I'm really not sure how I feel about that.
Whether being so used to the sound of a killing machine that it doesn't even bother you is a good or bad thing. What I do know is that the movies lie. War zones aint cool, just sick.
Yours
PEAT
MY THANKS GO TO
CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL, VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS and friends
to many to mention.
Without your help this couldn't happen.
Report – 9 THAT'S WHY
One afternoon, as we were driving through the mountains, we saw a hill by a small
mud-
"But there's not enough children" said our guild.
"There will be" we insisted, "The rest will come"
We walked up the hill and got the parachute out (I really can't thank Bella and CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL enough for that parachute. It's brought smiles to the faces of literally thousands of kids). In no time at all we had all the kids from the village up there. Laughing, smiling, jumping up and down with excitement as they shock it, floated it, crawled under it, and played and interacted with the only foreigners they'd ever seen. After an hour or so we packed up, said our good byes and drove of into the distance, leaving a mass of waving hands and smiling faces in our wake. I often wonder what they thought of that day. There's a big difference between knowing that today's going to be special, and something just happening. Makes is even more magical, something that they might never forget. Even when they are old, and have children of their own.
And that's why I do this job, cause of the magic.
Our last day in Kurdistan was spent at a refugee camp called "Maxmur". They are Kurds who had to flee from Turkey. A place where even now, today as you sit reading this, soldiers are raping women, torturing people, many of them mothers and fathers. Refusing to let newly built Kurdish schools open because the front door is 10 centimetres to small!
How do we, the so called "Civilized" west react to this? We punish Turkey by saying "Yes, you can join the E.U. WE WILL SUPPORT AND HELP YOU!
Why do we do this? Because most of the equipment used in torture, like the rifle that's put to the 9 year old child's head so that daddy won't stop the soldier from raping mummy in front of the children. Most of these things are sold to them by US. And the revenue in taxes that our governments make from this helps to pay for public expenses. Like ministers offices having nice carpets, helps pay for E.C.H.O. (European community humanitarian aid office), helps pay for smooth, easy to drive on roads. And when they join the E.U. it will be even easier to sell them this stuff. I.E. EVEN MORE BLOOD MONEY IN THE BANK. The sad truth is that you and I can only live a rich, decadent life by mistreating the weak. I aint saying that's right. And I aint saying that's wrong, but I am saying it's a fact. One we ought to acknowledge next time that European food subsidies mean you've enough money left over to buy a new C.D. player.
Maxmur is home to between 8 and 10 thousand Turkish Kurds, including a few thousand
children and babies. They have water for one hour a day. (I wonder what that's like
in the heat of summer, for a thousand new borns, or their mothers). Electricity here
is like every where else in Iraq, get it while you can. Well over 95% unemployment
in the camp means that toys are non-
We arrive unannounced and introduce ourselves to some western aid doctors living there, explain what we do, and ask if they'd like a show today. (The kids, not the doctors).
"Like a show!!!!!!!!! They wouldn't like a show, they'd love a show."
Due to good fortune (and we seem to be having so much of that) the electric is working, so they make an announcement over the loud speaker system, telling the kids what, when and where. It's at 2 p.m. Only that's 3p.m. because they work on Turkish time here and not Iraqi time, because their Kurdish???.
They arrange lunch for us and make us tea with doggy looking, cloudy water. Then
take us down to see where we will play. The camp has have been there so long that
they'd built an amphitheatre. One with a big wide semi-
It's strange what people who have nothing find important. First is always a school so that the children can receive an education, and so break free of poverty. Health care for the children is always second. BUT AN AMPHITHEATRE!!!!!!!
It's brilliant. Beautiful. A-
Not only can children who have nothing be entertained. Not only is it a place designed to pull the community together, both through the arts and meetings. But it's also a place where children who have nothing, can be someone.
They can act out the plays that they'd written, play the music that they have learnt. And, as the community sit there, listening to a 8 year old play guitar so badly, that only a mother could love it, that child can be someone. Even if it only last for 5 minutes, for that 5 minutes, he is the centre of the world as he knows it. And I for one think that's totally awesome.
And that's why I do this job, cause of the brilliant things you see.
The quick stroll down to the amphitheatre and back took a while as we were followed
by an ever increasing crowd of children. And us, being entertainers (I.E. egotistical,
attention seeking exhibitionists ) had to keep on stopping to take ping-
We returned to the sanctuary of the women's centre where the doctors work. Luis got his digg out (so to speak) and started playing it. That's when we met him.
I don't know his name, it never occurred to me to ask, I was too engrossed in watching what I knew was about to happen.
He is maybe 12 or 13 years old and was born deaf and dumb. He'd never heard music. Oh sure, he'd seen people strumming bits of wood with string on, and he'd seen people dance and tap their feet, but that's about it. So we got him to put the side of his face against the dig, and as Luis gently played, so he could not hear, but feel the music. There's a photo on him on the website (if not yet, then there soon will be), WWW.CIRCUS2IRAQ.ORG He's the one with the branch growing out of the side of his head and a smile that's bigger and brighter than a crescent moon.
And that's why I do this job, cause of the smiles.
Time passes all too quickly and soon it's time to earn our dinner. Costumes are donned, makeup applied, props prepared. We know it's going to be a big show, this and the amazing setting of the amphitheatre only add to the adrenalin that flows, electric like through us as we leave the women's centre, and head off toward the venue.
"Bloody hell" I think to myself as we gaze out, over the child laden seats that descend down towards our stage. "I knew it was going to be a big one. But there's got to be about a thousand excited, screaming kids down there. And that's before we start"!!!
As we head down one of the aisles towards the stage, we talk, laugh, and joke amongst ourselves, a sure sign that we're all suddenly in dire need of a toilet. By the time we reach the stage the kids are all clapping, cheering and bouncing up and down.
As we go backstage, I risk a quick look back at the kids and offer up a silent prayer.
"Dear sweet lord of chaos, please make them like it, cause otherwise we're in the
"you-
We enter the stage and start winding them up by getting them to shout "WOOOO-
At the beginning of the show the front row is sitting on seats. By the time were1/4
way through they are 10 feet in front of the seats. Self appointed bouncers are peacefully
patrolling the front row, pushing kids back. Halfway through and the front row are
leaning against the stage. Then on the stage. By the end of the show the 40 foot
stage is reduced to a semi-
We finish, take a very quick bow and depart back stage as adults block off our rear (if you know what I mean). Behind the stage is a building that we shelter in. We are laughing and joking with a few locals, comparing the kid's reaction to that of Beatles fans in the 60's. It worked, we were a success, we feel like we can walk on water.
And that's why I do this job, cause of the buzz.
It's our last night in Kurdishstan and we've just arrived back at the hotel. We are all tiered yet still buzzing from the show. I head off to a beer shop. I've never used this one before, but it's next to the restaurant that refused to charge us for a meal last night. I ask for 4 cans (or tinnys to my Aussie mates) of beer and two tinnys (or cans as my British friends would call them) of coke.
He puts them in a plastic bag and I ask how much. He waves his hand in a dismissive manner and push's the bag towards me. Again I try to pay for my beers, again he refuses to take any money. Eventually I thank him profusely and leave, heading off back to the hotel.
And that's why I do this job, cause of the free beer.
EPILOG:
Kurdistan was amazing. If I ever have a real holiday instead of doing this type of work, it will be in Kurdistan. I thought India was the place to be, but not anymore. Kurdistan, and most of the people there……………. I honestly can't describe just how beautiful, diverse and relaxing it is. (And it aint that often that I'm lost for words).
However, in some strange sick way, I really missed Baghdad (from where I now send this report). I know it's smelly and dangerous. I know that, as part of the build up to the anniversary of the start of the war (20/3/03), bombings, R.P.G. attacks (rocket propelled grenades), and shootings are increasing. But it's still home, not just to us, but also to people who've become so much more than just "good friends". People who put their lives at risk daily, simply because they work with us, and like us, believe that the future is in the children.
Yours
PEAT
MY THANKS GO TO
CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL, VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS and friends
to many to mention.
Without your help this couldn't happen.
Report – 10 COUNTDOWN TO "D" DAY
There's this agent I use called MISSINGLINK PRODUCTIONS (www.missinglinkproductions.com).
They didn't just arrange a free venue, care of CIRCUS SPACE in London. Didn't just get their top artist to perform free of charge. Didn't just raise £2,223.50 pounds for circus2iraq. They also gave as all a great big moral booster. Something we need so much out here. The moral booster was infectious. Rubbing off on the kids we work with. So that, without even seeing or touching a penny of that money, their efforts have already touched the hearts of the children. And I just wanted the world to know how beautiful those people are. Not just Anna, her performers, and circus space. But also all those people who paid to see the show. Especially the lady who offered to make regular payments if we promise to take every clown from her area to Iraq.
All joking aside, it really did touch us, all of us. Even fisheye.
I've been ill, laid up in bed (alone). So rather than write about the cracks in the ceiling. I kept a diary. If I was to rewrite it, it would give you a clearer picture of life here. But that's not why I'm sharing it with you. I'm sharing it with you because it's an insight into how I felt at the time. Laying there listening to the things around me.
COUNTDOWN TO "D" DAY
It's WENDESDAY 17TH OF MARCH and I'm laying on the settee. My eyes are shut due to a head ache resulting from a flu bug. And that's when we hear it.
BAAAANNGGGGGGG
The windows rattle and I wonder if I'm about to get covered in broken glass. "That" I think to myself "was bloody big AND close" Then I remember that Jo went out 5 minutes ago.
I'm off the settee and on the flat roof in no time at all. She had gone to the internet, the raising cloud of smoke is from the other direction. I relax a little, then comes the gunfire. It's from the same area as the bomb. More likely than not, just soldiers or police panicking, like amateurs, they are famous for spraying bombsites with bullets. Killing and injuring those who, through good fortune and luck, survived the bomb. But that's o.k. Cause it's classed as a combat situation, so the army doesn't have to pay any compensation. They just murdered the only breadwinner for a family of 12 kids, simply because they panicked, and they cannot even be bothered to pay for the funeral. But that's the new found freedom. The freedom to be shot by the new, even more murderous regime.
My fears are found to be unfounded, so I relax and become aware of the pain in my head. I hold it between both hands and force my eyes to open, surveying the streets below. Sirens scream louder and louder as they race up the road, People, some panicking about loved ones, others carrying cameras, run madly down the street towards the bomb site. Above us, flying blind with no lights are helicopters. Some to film the scene and mount surveillance operations, others to help move any injured soldiers to hospital.
Those American soldiers who die tonight will be added to the ever growing list of war dead that might cost Bush the next election. Those who don't stop suffering until tomorrow, when eventfully they too die, wont be added to the list. "He died of post op shock" looks so much better than "He died of post op shook brought about by losing an arm, half his chest, and most of his face to a bomb blast in Iraq". Besides, if the American people can be conned into not knowing the true amount of dead U.S. soldiers, then the greater the chance of continuing the war.
Aint it funny how Mandela's soldiers were freedom fighters. Yet Iraq's soldiers are all terrorist. It's the same with Britain. A bomb goes off in Belfast, it's not catholic fundamentalist, it's the I.R.A. but a bomb goes off in Baghdad, it's not freedom fighters, it's Muslim terrorist. And if a few thousand bombs, all laden with cancer causing depleted uranium are dropped on innocent people, it's not murder, it's for their own good, because otherwise their leader might start a war.
20 minutes have past since the bomb. Turns out it wasn't as close as I thought, just a lot bigger. Also, due to the fact that we live just off of the main street, the sound was funnelled towards us, taking out windows a little way away. Slowly, the sound of a new siren gets the attention of my ears and I stop typing and listen. "Jezz" I think to my self "That's one crackly sounding siren he’s got there" For a second or two I compare it to the loud speakers outside of Indian mosque. Then, as it gets louder I compare it to……….nope. In fact it is……gunfire. Whether it was following the wailing, speeding police car, or coming from it, or being chased by it, I have no idea. And, as strange as it sounds, I was not about to step outside and find out. (Indeed, with this illness I'm in no fit state to go anywhere).
Today is Wednesday 17 March. In 3 days time this war will be one year old, and no, I don't think it will all be over by Christmas. Or that the world is now a safer place.
I go up stairs to my friend’s flat. She has satellite T.V. It's strange that the quickest way to get the news about a bomb that exploded just down the road, is by watching a British T.V. station. According to the news there are 27 dead, 41 injured, and 3 theories about what happened. The Americans say that it was a car bomb. The Iraqi officials say it was a rocket attack. The eyewitness's say that it was a missile fired from an American plane.
Before you giggle and call them paranoid, look at a few facts.
According to our Governments, Saddam was a paranoid nutter who may or may not had been sexually abused by his mother. (How would you feel if I told the world that, about you. Cause lets face it, we all might or might not had been sexullary abused by our parents).
This "nutter", this dictator, this man who, like the British, gassed the Kurds. Ordered a female artist to make a mural on the pavement. A mural of another dictator called G.W. Bush. Rather than risk the anger of this nutter, she complied and made the mural, on the pavement. Resulting in people being able to walk on the face of one of those who starved their children to death. How did America react to this? By targeting her with a missile. Blowing up not just her, not just her home, but also, anyone who happened to be walking by at the time.
Some of the people staying in that hotel were Arab journalists. Suppose one of those journalist had done a cartoon drawing of Bush. If he had her murdered for her mural, then why not have the Journalist murdered for his drawing. Don't get me wrong. I aint saying that that is what happened, but it is very VERY feasible.
It's THURSDAY 18TH OF MARCH, two days till "D" day, and I cant move. I feel that bad. Donna from a great N.G.O. called "OUR HOME IRAQ" knocks on the door and asks if I'm ready to go to a kids home with her. I sit up in bed and tell her to give me 5 minutes to get dressed. Jo takes one look at me sitting there, shoulders around my ears, body sweating as I shiver with cold, head held in hands.
"You are not going anywhere. You’re in no fit state. You’ll make the kids ill. you are going back to bed, and that's an order. Do it, NOW"
I'm too ill to argue and lay down again, moaning and coughing with every movement. I force myself to dress in jumpers and wrap blankets around myself. I feel like kac. Like I've let the team down, let the kids down. I spend the day slipping in and out of sleep, moaning lots and begging the gods to send me a nurse to sooth my aching brow. Even if she's not young, blond and beautiful, as long as she has a wet flannel for my head, I'll be happy.
It's FRIDAY 19TH OF MARCH, one day till "D" day.
We had to cancel a show today. Both Jo and I were to ill to move. sunlight hurts our eyes. And some of the things I'm coughing up hiss before slithering off under cars or down sewers, where they feed off of poor unsuspecting rats.
Occasionally I'm awoken by explosions in the distance. I don't know who or where, and as hard and sad as it sounds, I don't care. All I know is that they make my head hurt. I ask the 3 goddess's of war to do a clown a favour, and take the day off. They either don't hear me or don't like clowns. Either way, half an hour latter, there's another explosion. I moan, roll over and try to sleep. Sam and Luis are out doing admin. Its 5p.m. and I've had enough of being ill.
"
Jo, we're going to find a doctor"
"Arrrrrr, but that means moving"
"Don't care, we cant carry on like this"
"Please, don't make me move".
I use the wall to help me make my way downstairs to find the landlord (Sam). He takes
one look at me and says, "What"? there's real concern in his voice. I tell him that
Jo and I need a doctor. He gets a taxi and goes with us to a private hospital. Sam
isnt just our landlord, his also our part time, self-
She sniggers and happily enters the spiders parlour. I don't think she believes me. A few minutes latter she emerges from the room. She isn't smiling, Now I think that she believes me.
SATURDAY 20TH OF MARCH. "D" DAY
My head and eyes hurt lots. My body aches in places where I didn't even know I had places. All in all, a vast improvement on yesterday. I'm meant to take it easy for two days, get as much rest as possible. Tomorrow I have two shows to perform. I'm in every routine save two. So today I will rest as ordered. Just as soon as I've been to the internet. I have to go there as the bomb on Wednesday killed a British man. I haven't checked in with my family. They must be sick with worry.
It's not often that I get to see my brothers, but that doesn't mean that I don't love them. They and their families are very important to me. I know how much they worry about me and my lifestyle. Feel guilty about it every time I think of them. Even if it kills me, I have to let them know I'm alive.
One of my brothers is on line and promptly tells me off for not emailing. He's not really angry, just worried, they all are. I tell him why I couldn't mail him. I'd tried to get a friend to mail him for me, but I was in too much pain remember his email address. He accepts my apology. In truth, I think he was just relived to hear from me and not the embassy.
By the time I reach home I'm feeling dizzy and worn out. In England I travel the country on a old, 3 wheeled tricycle. All my work kit and survival kit on the back. I can cover 80 miles a day and still go busking. Yet a walk to the internet and back leaves me worn out. I don't know how I'll last tomorrow, whether or not I'll be fit to carry out my parts. But there's so many kids who need relief from the war, especially now, what with all the extra bombing. I return to bed, hoping that one days rest will be enough.
I think the 3 goddess's of war (Macha, Badb and the Morrigain) must of finally heard my plea's. It's 3 p.m,. and I've not heard one shot or bomb blast. It aint natural.
That afternoon the rest of the troupe go to a peace meeting with various religious type folk. Theresa Imam's and a rabbi. Siberian shamans and red Indians. All praying for peace. You may think it's just a load of hippy crap. I might agree. But the fact is that on that day, when people gathered all over the world and prayed for peace. Not one bomb fell on Baghdad . AND I CANT REMEMBER THE LAST TIME THAT HAPPENED HERE.
(You've got to admit, it makes you wonder).
SUNDAY 21ST ONE DAY AFTER "D" DAY
I'm awoken by a bomb blast and the knowledge that things are back to normal. Although my head is still dizzy, I'm just about out of pain and know that, once I start work, I'll be o.k. When you step onto a stage, tooth ache, head ache, death, All these things disappear into the back ground, all that matters is the audience and the adrenaline. Like a drug, performing can pick you up and give you the mother of all highs. But once the shows over. Once the crowds have gone home. That's when you get the come down. Like the cluster bombs that Britain and America throw around in the name of peace. So, after the first show, I hit the ground hard enough to scatter bits of me every where. I'm so tiered, so achy, still, only one more show to go. We've already cancelled this one once, I wont let them down a second time, that wouldn't be fair.
We arrive at the second venue, it's a small school. As we get changed, so I look at the rest of the troupe. Most of us had never meet or worked together before, yet now we are no longer a group of clowns. Now we are a team Brought together by a common cause, banded together by common experience. We no longer have to talk about the show or the running order. We know what works, what goes where, whether or not Luis will be late. As I walk out onto stage, so my aches disappear, the forced smile becomes real, the aid worker in a war zone takes second place to the fool in front of his audience.
Is it worth it? The pain I'll suffer tonight and tomorrow? Just to make a show? Yes, of cause it is. Here, in front of an audience is where I belong, one of the few places where I can relax. It's my home. Besides, just look at those smiles? Have you ever seen such happy, beaming faces?
What's that? .............. You cant see them ................ That's because your there and not here. But I'll tell you what. If you want to see them, then I'm coming back here in the autumn, why not join me?
Yours
PEAT
MY THANKS GO TO
CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL, VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS and friends
to many to mention.
Without your help this couldn't happen.
Report 11-
I'd written ¾ of this report on a floppy when it got late so I had to leave the café and head home to the hotel. When I got there I realized that I'd left the floppy in the computer and it was to late and dangerous to go out again. We left that town early the next morning, so I had to rewrite it, this time in a note book as we travelled to Basra. Once there I again started to write it on a floppy. Again I ran out of time, but this time I remembered the floppy and took it home. Unfortunately the computer in the café hadn't saved it on the floppy. I again rewrote it, this time on a computer that had a virus, which meant that I couldn't assess it. "Oh blast" you hear me say. Why blast and not stronger wording? Well I'll tell you.
Apparently my reports are being placed on not only 6 web sites (Count them. 1,2,3,4,5, S I X)!!! But also on several school letter pages in the Somerset area. According to a friend, this is why I should calm down by language and analogies So, out of respect for those sweet little school children, I'm not going to swear. Instead I'm just going to say "blast", and write it out again………
The trouble is that some other friends say that what they like about my reports is the fact that I write like I talk. Several people say they can hear me talking when they read them. Another person, someone who I've never met says that what they like is the way that I not only give them an insight into life in Iraq, but also an insight into me. I'm not sure what they mean by that but I think I like it. So I'm sorry teachers, but I am what I am, and I write what I write. If you don't like that then just press the delete button. Or ask whoever it is that post these writings on your site to stop.
O.K. the sodding report (again)
THE SOUTHEREN TOUR
We're in the south, driving from Samawa to Basra. It's a 3-
The south is a Shiite strong hold. Now I openly admit that I know as much about the different Muslim sects as I do the different Buddhist or Christian ones, so if I get this wrong, please forgive and enlighten me. Allah's grandson was a man called Hussein, and he’s held in great esteem by the Shiite's. He was both a wise and enlightened one (An Imam) and a warrior. In one battle Hussein and 70 of his followers took on an army of several thousands. It turned out to be (unsurprisingly) his last battle. He's last anything in fact, for they cut his head off and smashed it to bits. What was left of him was entombed in Kabala, far to the north near Baghdad. (where one of the azure bombing was a few weeks ago). And it's to that tomb that the Shiite pilgrims are walking. Here and there, along the roadside are open ended tents that supply the pilgrims with free food, water, chi, and a floor to sleep on. These are supplied and maintained free by the local people. A form of open and sincere innocence that we in the west have lost, or rather sold in return for wealth of a more physical nature.
Our southern tour has been organized by Alex of "WAR CHILD". Formed by media folk in response to the plight of children caught in the Balkans wars, they are what their name suggests, I.E. there for children caught up in wars. Alex is a New Zealand lady with blond hair and long, long, looooooooong legs, who, considering the difficulties of arranging anything in a war zone, has done a very good job of sorting things out for us. (Thanks for that mate).
The first town that she arranged for us to work in was Nasariya. In one youth centre that we performed in the left hand 3rd of the hall was all girls. They weren't just happy and excited, they were over excited. Even before we started the show, some of the girls left in tears. Maha, a female worker at the centre explained to us why. "This hall used to be a Baathists meeting place, so no women were allowed in. Even now that it is a youth centre, this is the first time that the girls have been allowed into the hall. Up to now they've only been allowed to use the sewing room". Latter, after the show she told us that she had not seen some of the girls smile since the start of the war, now they are laughing. When I heard that I came out in goose bumps as I remembered the old man in the grave yard in Kosovo.
Women have a hard time in the south. I can go to a café and drink tea or smoke a nagela, Jo (who, being western, gets away with lots) cant. Even the dress code for women is strict here. They can wear either a long, baggy black dress, complete with a black head scarf. Or they can wear a long, baggy black dress complete with a black head scarf. Anything else and they risk death threats, and they aint empty ones.
We have managed to over take the convoy now and have speed off on our own. The land becomes more barren and dessert like as we all sit in silence, each lost in their own world. At one point we pass a herd of maybe a hundred single humped camels, their 3 or 4 herders driving them on, cross country to some unknown destination. Their lives unchanged for thousands of years. What ever happens in the rest of the world, be it war, famine, or pestilence, the fact is that for these people life goes on. There's still camels to be reared, desserts to traverse, markets to attend. It's funny but the more I learn about the affects of our life style, the more I envy theirs.
Half an hour latter and we pass another typical Iraqi herd. This time it's not camels or goats. This time it's oil tankers, hundreds of them. Tanker after tanker after tanker. Winding their way back into the horizon like some obscenely gigantic python. Each filled with the black gooey blood drained from the soul of the nation. But of course, that's not the reason we declared war on these people. We declared war on them because they might had used nuclear bombs. And we cant have the east following in the western footsteps, and doing what we done to Japan.
Oh yes, and they abused the Kurds. Just like the Turkish do, or like the Chinese do to the Tibetans. Which is why we are increasing trade with these countries. It's also true that Clinton didn't inhale, Bush won the elections fairly, Blair didn't mislead the British people, and the moon really is made of cheese.
The town we've just left (Samawa) was smaller and more paranoid than Nasariya. I
managed to get arrested twice in one day. The first time was because Sam had a video
camera, and I DIDN'T!!!!!!!!!!! They were very nice about it. One of them even apologised
when I complained that the police car had no flashing lights or wailing "woo-
We were sitting peacefully out of sight when the 4 policemen arrested us. They had drawn pistols, safety catches off, but pointing upwards in a professional manner that puts Lt. West's men to shame (see Romeo, Juliet and a gobshite).
They searched us, refused to let me pay for my tea, then marched us off to a police
car. This time it had not only flashing lights and wailing "woo-
"This is the police. Get out of the way. We have two dangerous tea drinkers in here that need interrogating"
It made no difference. No one takes any notice of sirens or flashing lights in Iraq, even bicycles have sirens on them, but the very nice man from America had gave them a loud speaker so he was going to dammed well use it.
"I said get out of the way. Not only do these clowns have red nose's, but their threatening to use them"
Eventually we reach the police station where they parade us before their chief, take our passports and demand to know the name of our hotel. We tell them and they send someone to collect Jo. (You are very very bad boys, so we're going to get your mummy to take you home).
Jo turned up with an interpreter and a rather pissed of look on her face.
"What have they done wrong"? she asked
"Nothing" they replied
"THEN WHY THE BLOODY HELL HAVE YOU DRAGGED ME UP HERE"? (She weren't happy)
They look a bit shocked that a woman can talk to policemen in that tone of voice. Then one of them defensively says
"One of them had this"
He holds out the 8 inch's of steel life insurance that I call a knife. (Actually I call it Sylv, but that's another story).
"Of course he’s got a knife. He's just spent two months in Baghdad, loads of Ali baba's. They tried to kidnap him, of course he carries a knife"
The policeman tells us that carrying a knife can get me 6 months in prison. I burst out in laughter and tell him to keep it. I'll just buy a gun like everyone else out there. He contemplates this for a minute or two, then hands me the knife.
"You shouldn't go out, it's dangerous" he says
"I know" I reply, putting the knife back in it's sheaf, "that's why I carry a knife"
We've left the dessert now and are on the outskirts of Basra. The towns run by the British. This means that, after 3 months of carrying the magazine around, I'm finery going to get a chance to wave it under a soldiers nose and say
"Big issue sir? Help the homeless to help themselves"
O.K. so it's going to be a crap joke, but hey, you got to have something to look forward to.
Epilogue:
Basra was fun, but all to soon it was time to leave and head off back to Baghdad. From there Sam, Luis and I caught a taxi to the border with Jordan, where we spent 6 mind numbing hours getting through customs etc. Once through customs we had a 5 hour drive to Amman, arriving at 11 p.m. At 3 a.m. I take a taxi to the airport and fly home to the U.K..
I don't know when my final report will be. Firstly I have to look at what we've done and how I feel about it all. But I'll tell you some thing.
IT WAS WORTH IT. IT REALLY WAS.
The things we've done and seen. The people we've worked with. I wouldn't had missed it for the world. The only problem is that now I really don't want to go home.
Yours
PEAT
End of tour ROUND UP
So, it's been over a month now since I got back. More than enough time to climb the mountains that abound around my small, quiet, Welsh village and sit there, drinking, getting drunk, falling over, staring up at the stars, and contemplating what we done out there. So here it is, my end of tour round up. But, before I start, I’d just like to say a few " thank you’s."
VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS (LEPERS TO THE ELITE), thanks for running around sorting fund raising for me.
MISSING LINK and THE LEVEL at Bristol, thanks for the fund raising gigs, now that we’re back do it again and we will turn up.
THE PEOPLE OF IRAQ, thanks for not shooting me. La tocklock annar alla maharige (don’t shoot the clown).
EVERYONE WHO PASSED MY REPORTS ON TO OTHERS, thanks for that, getting emails from all over the world saying “keep up the good work" was wicked. Really helped.
But most of all a great big thank you to BELLA and CHILDREN’S WORLD INTERNATIONAL. Thanks not just for the funding, not just the parachute (the smiles it made were beautiful), not just for paying my flight home and telling me not to repay it. But most of all for getting me into this kind of work and showing me that ordinary people like you and I, really can make a difference. I owe you big time.
O.K. the report:
THE END (OF THE BEGINNING THAT IS)
I can put my hand on my heart and say two things
1) Circus 2 Iraq done every thing it set out to do and a lot more besides.
2) IT ISN'T ENOUGH
For over 12 years we sat back and let over 1/2 a million children, UNDER THE AGE OF 8, die from lack of food and medicine. The effect this has had on their friends, brothers and sisters is terrible. Add to this the indiscriminate bombing and shooting of civilians by foreign insurgents (I.E. the C.P.A.) plus the actions of the freedom fighters etc. And the result is a whole generation of messed up kids.
WE DONE THAT. YOU AND I.
Oh sure, we didn't use our real names. Instead we called ourselves the United Nations and blamed it all on that big Satan called the U.S.A., but we were as much a part of it as they were. And that's why I'm going back. But enough of the future, what about the past?
The street kids that I mentioned in my first report. The first people I worked with
out there. It seems like a lifetime ago that we used our car to evacuate them into
the orphanage. Every Tuesday we used to go and visit them in their new home. The
change in them is amazing. They're calmer and not so scared, less violent and more
able to reason. Some of them are calm enough to go to school. Others are seeing an
Italian doctor about covering the scares from self-
Asma and her team are from THE KURDISTAN SAVE THE CHILDREN FUND and are amazingly dedicated people, but what's really amazing about them is the fact that none of them have ever tried anything like this before, yet the results of their efforts is 20 or so happy, drug free children. I once told Asma (the lady in charge) how impressed I am by the change in the kids. Her face beamed with pure joy. Not the proud smile of a professional for the results of her work, but the loving smile of a mother for her children. I miss those kids and our Tuesday afternoons, hanging out and playing football, laughing with Ali and play fighting with Achmed (it's only the bruise's that I don't miss). But I have no worries over them, none at all.
Shu'alla on the other hand is a different matter. I know it's silly, I know we done a lot of good there. Made big differences, both physical (the drainage) and mental (the laugher), but I still feel like I let them down, and I worry about them. When I was sorting out a doctor for Abbus a father came up with his daughter, the little girl with the crippled foot. I had to send her father away, say I couldn't help. The baby who died of the cold when I wasn't using all my blankets. But most of all, the fact that I never did find them a regular doctor. I tried. I spoke to people and emailed N.G.O.'s. But it just never happened.
We went there on our last day to say good-
"You know what he said"? Asked Riad, my friend and Habibi
"No" I replied expecting some joke about being western infidel scum
"He said you're his hero"
Little git. How dare he call me a hero, how sodding dare he. I never got them half of what I wanted for them, or a quarter of what they need, and he called me a hero!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I aint no hero. According to a lot of people I aint even that nice. I'm just someone who enjoys being around kids, someone who's in the position to be able to help. That aint a hero. That's just someone doing what he enjoys. I sat in the car as we drove home and stared out of the window in silence, my sun glass's totally failing to hide the tears that ran down my cheeks. Little git, how dare he make me cry. And until I get back there and see that they have a doctor, blankets etc I think that, inside, a piece of me will carry on crying. They need so much, will settle for so little, have even less, and yet if you, a total stranger, was to turn up there in need, they'd treat you like a long lost brother. Feeding you even though it might mean that they'd go hungry. I have to go back to Iraq, if only for Shu'alla and the chance to hear "Boomchuka" cried out in joy again.
Then there's all the places and people I didn't have chance to tell you about. People
like Doo-
Mummy T's (or mother Teresa's orphanage to use it's real name) is just around the
corner from where we lived. Doo-
When I first met Omar he was laying in a cot. He looked up at me with big brown eyes and asked me for one of my balloons. They were well and truly hidden in my pocket, out of sight. I didn't want to get them out until I've checked with a nun. To the day I die I'll never know how he knew they were there. But know he did. I asked one of the nuns if it's o.k. to make balloon models for the kids and explained the danger of them eating them.
"Oh that's o.k."
she said
"Please make them balloons and don't worry if they eat them, it just blocks them up for a day or two before coming out the other end".
There's something disconcerting about discussing constipation with a nun. No matter how you approach the subject, it just don't seem right.
Sometimes, when I think about some of the not nice things we've seen and know, I
picture Doo-
Coming home was hard. To stand in some horrid, smelly shanty town, have a little kid wrap his hand around a couple of your fingers and give him a genuine, heart felt smile is easy, anyone can do that. But to prise your hand free and say "Well, my times up, I'm off home. Bye now" and go home, knowing he's still stuck in shitsville, that's the heart breaker.
And to get home just as the brown stuff hits the fan was really hard. Like I was some coward who'd run away, deserting the kids just when they need help. And then, to sit at a computer, reading a letter from a mate who's having to be a human shield for an ambulance with a pregnant woman in it. (The ****ing Yankee soldiers only object to killing western people, not pregnant Arabic women and their unborn children). To sit there and read that, knowing that the most important thing on the front page of the papers was whether or not David Beckham shagged a bi bitch!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It felt perverse, the sort of crazy reality that you only get in dreams. Several hundred dead. The most powerful force on earth attacking the poorest people in Iraq. And whether or not some footballer is enjoying a slag of a part time poofer or not makes front page! Hell, they should talk to my ex.
Suffice to say coming home when I did hurt, still hurts. That's partly why I not only want to go back, BUT AM GOING BACK.
Which brings me rather neatly to our future plans. Circus 2 Iraq want to do another tour, called
CIRCUS 2 IRAQ TO
(I THOUGHT THAT NAME UP, DOES IT SHOW?)
We want to go back for 6 months. If we get the funding and the volunteers then we'd like to run several projects simultaneously in different parts of the country. But that does depend on the aforementioned IF. If we don't get the funding, then it will just be us, back in Baghdad. Either way we want to do it slightly differently this time. We want to run regular circus skills workshops. The same place's and times each week. Teaching our skills to the children.
There are many benefits to this idea, including
MORAL AND CONFIDENCE BOOSTING:
Poverty, war, street life and drugs can all affect ones moral and confidence. Learning simple skills that others haven't acquired can give one a great sense of self worth, something that a lot of children in Iraq lack.
POST TRAUMATIC STRESS:
Two major effects of P.T.S. are physical tension and lack of concentration.
Physical tension, I.E. hands, arms, and body that doesn't relax, shoulders up around the neck etc. Comes from a large physical and/or mental shock (Often a violent one) and last long after the actual incident, often for the rest of the child's life. To juggle one has to relax. Making a regular effort to relax enough to juggle can have a "roll over" effect, lasting long after the workshop, and longer each time.
Another classic symptom of P.T.S. is lack of concentration. This affects both their school life (if they go to school) and their social life. Through focusing on a skill that they want to learn, so they can practise the art of concentration with out even realizing it.
SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT:
Play and imagination in childhood is imperative to how we act as adults. It's how we learn life skills such as problem solving, teamwork and how we learn to interact with our fellow man. Through our workshops and play session's children will be able to practice these life skills in a safe and controlled environment.
Lastly there's one other benefit from our proposed project. Marwa, a female youth worker from southern Iraq describes it best. This is what she said after one of our shows.
"I haven't seen some of these girls smile since before the war (over a year ago) now they are laughing".
Don't get me wrong. I'm no "play therapist". In fact I have no qualifications in working with kids. But I am dammed good at what I do. I know war, poverty, drugs and street life. I know the effects these things have on kids, how it mess's them up. And messed up kids like and trust me (I think it's the "birds of a feather" effect). I work well in stressful, hazardous environments. And if we don't do it, WHO WILL?
That's why I spend hours writing these reports, slaving over and swearing at 3rd world computers that never work, in the hope that people will see what we're doing. Ignore the fact that we aint got letters after our names, and fund us anyway. That's why I'm so thankful to those of you who passed my reports on to your friends.
Well that's it. My story is over (until the next time). Now I'm no longer a combat clown. Now I'm just some scruffy old man who wears a fool's suit and juggles in the high street for whatever the people will throw (normally insults). Some one who's desperately trying to get out of debt before September (when it all starts again). Someone who's been there, seen history in the making. Touched a few hearts and, in the hope of healing a few wounds, taken on a little of their pain. I've leant how to strip and reassemble an A.K.47 in under a minute and how to say "don't shoot the clown" in yet another language. And as I stand there on Cardiff high street, juggling balls flying, hat upon the floor. I know that it don't matter what shit the kids of Cardiff give me, not after where I've been.
MY THANKS GO TO
CHILDREN'S WORLD INTERNATIONAL, VIV from SCABIOUS CORPUS and friends
to many to mention.
Without your help this couldn't happen.
A PS.
When you are in a country where being western is the exception, you tend to form close friendships with your fellow westerners, doubly so when being western is not just the exception, but also a dangerous, possibly lethal exception. And so it was with us and the Italian house, located in down town Baghdad.
Wow, what a place. Down stairs are the offices of several Italian based N.G.O.'s, including "INTERSOS" and "A BRIDGE TO" (who took us to schools in Sadr city, what the Americans call "the black zone"). But upstairs……….. Upstairs is where they live, and anywhere that's inhabited by Italians guarantees 3 things.
A) Excess amounts of wonderful, wonderful garlic laced food.
B) Women so beautiful and graceful that they can only be described as rose's amongst us mere thorns.
C) Copious amounts of wine.
The amount of times I've sat at their over large dinning table, being force fed my 4th or 5th helping of spaghetti (you English are too skinny, your mothers never feed you enough). Whilst looking longingly into a set of lovely eyes (made even sexier by those horn rimmed glass's) and wondering if I'm sober enough to stagger to the toilet, or whether I should settle for a long, slow crawl. The times, loves, laughs and tears we've shared together formed a closeness that friendship doesn't even begin to describe.
So you can imagine the shock we all felt when we learned of the kidnapping of 4 of their workers. Including two young ladies from "A BRIDGE TO" called Simona Pari and Simona Torretta.
Both Simona's are 29 years young, both are very beautiful ( inside and out) and both believe that children are worth risking their lives for. If it wasn't for the respect and high esteem that these two are held in, we would never had been able to work in some of the poorer communities of Baghdad. (It is no coincidence that Sadr city, where they helped to equip schools, shares the same name as the outspoken, anti western cleric, Moqada Sadr, of Najaf fame).
Already the people of Baghdad, shocked and upset by the abduction of these two selfless people, have held street demonstrations demanding their immediate release. Alas these have made no difference, to date there have been no communication with their kidnappers or demands from them, only silence. This and various other, unique details about this kidnapping (I don't want to go into to much detail yet) have had the (Possibly desired) result of convincing several N.G.O.'s that they should suspend their plans to work in Iraq until further notice.
Although I feel like the worlds biggest coward for saying it, the fact is that I am not prepared to risk the lives of my good friends (both Iraqi and western) by taking them into Iraq due in this present climate. And so, it is with deep regret that I have to inform you all that our planed tour is postponed until further notice.
A lot of friends and a lot of total strangers have worked so hard on this for us. Worked to raise money and awareness about us because they believe in what we do. You have no idea how bad I feel about this. But the fact is that if we return to Iraq now, not only will good friends and "Habibi's" put their lives at risk for me, but being there could also endanger the very children we hope to help, and I don't want that.
All monies raised for our return are sitting in the bank whilst we wait and watch, with butterflies in our stomachs, for news of the fate of two friends who's amazing and selfless acts puts anything I've ever done to shame. If you are one of the people who have helped to raise money for our winter trip and have views on whether or not the money should stay in the bank until it's safe to return, or whether we should look into using it to entertain other war children (Sudan, Kurdistan etc) please feel free to write to me. Lastly, I ask you all to remember the two Simona's, Raad Ali Aziz, Mahnaz Bassam and their respective families.
Yours
PEAT
STOP PRESS
Since the piece above was written we are relieved and overjoyed to hear
that the two Simonas, Raad Ali Aziz, Mahaz Bassam have all been released safely.
Despite this very positive development we are still inclined to postpone any plans
to return to Iraq at the moment.
We have left the page titled 'Want to run away with
the circus'? on the site so anybody who may be interested in coming along with us
on future trips can have a look and see what they think.
Simona, Simona, Raad and
Mahaz, if you are reading this we miss you, love you, and hope you are all doing
well.
What can I say other than
"MY TWO ITALIAN FRIENDS, THEY ARE FREE"
Which means that I'm one of the most happiest men alive
