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.