Lords
of the flies
By: Hakim Mirzoev on: 27.11.2004 [17:24 ] (4134
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One
of
our readers (newspaper "Zavtra") happened to be in Fallujah, besieged
by American troops. He escaped from the destroyed city and sent us his
notes.
...Together with Americans the flies invaded the city. They are
millions. The
whole city seems to be under their power. The flies cover the corpses.
The
older is corpse, the more flies are upon it. First they cover a corpse
as by
some strange rash. Then they begin to swarm upon it, and then a gray
moving
shroud covers the corpse. Flies swarm upon some ruins as gray monstrous
shadows.
The stench is awful.
The flies are everywhere. In the hospital wards, operating rooms,
canteen. You
find them even where they cannot be. In the "humanitarian" plastic
bottle with warm plastic-stinking water. The bottle is almost full,
simply
someone opened it for a second and made a gulp, but this black spot is
already
floating there...
It is a general crisis with water. There are simply no clean sources.
The local
residents fetch water from the river, muddy, gray and dead. You can buy
anything for water now. The sewage system is broken, the water supply
is
broken, and electricity is absent in the city.
I am afraid to imagine what will happen in two weeks. Hepatitis will
take toll
of thousands. They say already that people at the outskirts are in
fever with
the symptoms of typhus. But one cannot verify it. They prohibited
moving in the
city.
Everybody knew that they would storm the city. But nobody could imagine
HOW it
would be happening. Honestly speaking, even I did not believe that I
would once
again be in hell. After the hell in
My friend "fighter" Abdullah suggested me to go. He stubbornly calls
me "hakim". It means something like "wise man" in Arabic.
-Hakim, go away! There is big battle coming. Our people will not leave
the
city. We want to show these jackals how Iraqis can fight. The blood of
occupants will flow like a river along the streets... I thought it was
bravado.
It is a pity that I did not listen to him. On the second day they
simply
started to demolish the city. Close explosions rocked the floor rocked
under
the feet. The plaster fell off the ceiling, the windowpanes burst. You
could
talk only by shouting because of the continuous gunfire. But the most
terrible
has begun already on the first day. The wounded started to come into
the
hospital like a flow. One of the doctors tuned in to BBC by his pocket
radio. The
news announcer mumbled something about the precision weapons and high
professional level of soldiers, about collateral damage reduced to
minimum.
I do not know in which place they employed their precision weapons, we
had an
endless stream of wounded children, women, and elders. Not dozens -
hundreds!
On the third day the medicines started to come to the end. Especially
anesthetics and antibiotics. But the stream did not exhausted. Only on
the fourth
day we have had a less number of wounded. But it was not because the
storm
calmed down. On the contrary, now the fights raged in the streets.
Simply
Americans captured the hospital quarter.
Americans. I have the impression that there are no other words except
"fuck" and "shit". Each communication, each order is
accompanied by a flow of 'fucks', 'shits' and 'bullshits'. I look at
Americans
with a pity. The Russian language is much more powerful with emotional
expressions.
Observing Americans, I catch myself thinking that they are incredibly
similar
to Russian soldiers, whom I saw in
But you have differences, too. The complete order in the uniform and
ammunition
jumps to the eye. It seems that a half of what each soldier carries
could have
been left at the base, but everything is put on and fixed anyway. Their
discipline of wearing the uniform and ammunition is well observed.
The second is their collectivity. The Americans do not move alone at
all. I
even did not see them in pairs. If they appear, they arrive by the
whole party.
And nobody walks away from his party. Even when their detachment
fights, they
are all within each other’s sight.
Americans started the shootout with the fighters across the road of our
hospital. It was strange to see how a dozen of GIs stood together along
the
wall and the whole rank fired along the street before them, like on the
barricades in 19th century. Had one mortar shell or mine exploded
behind them,
they would all be gone...
They search in the hospital. They check the documents of everybody. The
Iraqi
translators bustle. The nastiest sort of people. They combine all the
worst
things.
Obliging, ingratiating to their American "masters" as only Arabs can
do, they are shamelessly impudent and pompous with their own people.
They make
their business on translation all the time. If the American demands the
house
to be ready for inspection, then the translator will certainly add that
the
house will be searched, and he, translator, needs a bribe so that the
Americans
would not go to the women's part of the house. Although according to
the order,
the women's part should only be visited by Iraqi police. This said, the
Americans do not follow the order closely...
A dark-skinned hawk-nosed GI, pure Peruvian by his look, noticed me
among the
"wax-skinned" Iraqis and menacingly moved to me. The edge of his
helmet was at the level of my chin, and I could not see his eyes. This
was
dangerous.
"Who are you?" asked he. My English is far from perfection, but his
is even further.
... Generally, it is very notable how many various "colored-skin"
soldiers are among the Americans. Suddenly I remembered my service near
Baikal
Lake in Siberia and my company of hundred people, which included only
thirty
Russians, five people from Caucasus like me, and all the others from
I explain to him that I am a doctor, the humanitarian mission
representative. I
show my plastic "badge". He suspiciously examines the document. The
barrel of his rifle hits my hip at his every movement. My Turkish
passport
confuses him completely. The soldier takes me by the sleeve and pulls
somewhere. I understand that it is useless to argue and follow him. In
the
corridor I am handed over to the sergeant. The sergeant is white. I
repeat
everything that I said before. Another man studies my ID with the same
suspicion. Then he demands that I take off my surgical coat and the
T-shirt. Well,
I passed it many times in
When I button my coat, the sergeant, with a barking commander's voice,
suddenly
asks me whether I treated the fighters. I almost laugh at that. I have
a weird
feeling - as though I watch the film about the Second World War with me
as an
actor, and the large German in his helmet (the American helmets look
pretty much
German) asks me, "Where are the Partisanen?" I shrug my shoulders. I
tell him that they bring everyone to us. But without weapons. Who is
the
fighter, who is civilian - we cannot tell. The sergeant loses his
interest in
me after it. I cannot help but ask him how strongly the fighters
resist? The
sergeant’s face turns stone. Then the whole flood of 'fucks',
'bullshits'
towards the fighters. Out of this flood I pick up that the marines
would
already capture the city and wipe the fighters long time ago, but the
commanders look back at politicians and spare bombs and shells. And it
is hard
for soldiers because of that. But the victory is near...
I recall two days of bombing and think that if it is "spare the
shells", then what is not
to
spare them?
When I return to the staff room, the search is at the full speed. The
soldiers
inspect the wards, by first cautiously peeking inside, and then
bursting into
the room by the whole party. Clanking of weapons, tramping, orders. The
main
attention towards the young males. For some reason they look for those
who are
with bullet wounds. But we have here only in very serious condition,
mostly
unconscious. A whole crowd of relatives beside every bed. A continuous
cry over
the whole hospital.
Yesterday Dr. Ahmed brought half a liter of iodine from somewhere in
the bottle
of Chivas Regal. He put is to the refrigerator, defrosted long ago. One
of GIs
opens the refrigerator, sees the bottle. Looking around his shoulder,
he takes
it out quickly. Apparently noticing that it is open, he turns away the
cap and
smells the liquid. After that he winced and, with already familiar
'fuck',
throws it to the wall. The iodine splashes the treatment room by red
shower. It
smells by the sea and alcohol. GI goes away without a word. We do no
speak,
too. This iodine was the last one.
Finally they go away. They take three wounded Iraqis with them. They
are
suspected fighters.
In the next two days, the searching procedure is repeated twice. Every
time
they carry away somebody.
In the evening we receive the wounded teenager. He has two bullet
wounds in his
chest. By him is a woman - his mother and an old man. They shout,
explaining
something. I hear familiar "min faldik!" - please! -
"Aunni!" - help!.. The teenager is taken to the operating room. He
has no chances - we are practically without the medicines. And even if
the
operation will be successful, there will be nothing to carry out [post
operational treatment]. Abdul Karim gloomily opens the pack of
cigarettes. He
just finished listening to the long confused explanations by the old
man.
-- After interrogations, the Americans give the usual detainees to our
traitors
... — he calls the new Iraqi army by this word — and
those shoot them. This boy
was executed together with three other men. Bastards...
The rumors about the shootings without trial become true. Many wounded
tell
that somebody was executed or finished off before their eyes. After all
I saw
these days I begin to believe it. The American army evidently has
broken
loose...
The surgeon comes out after an hour. The teenager has died. The crying
mother
is led away by the old Iraqi. He is her brother. The surgeon sits down
on the
sofa and closes his eyes.
-- Aneh teben! — I am so tired! ...
During the five days, while the count was yet conducted, more than
three
thousand wounded passed through our hospital. These were the people who
lived
nearby. The people who could be delivered to us. Nobody knows how many
people
in the city are dead. Nobody will ever know...
Tomorrow the mission's car will pick me up. How the driver could break
into the
city, only God knows. Maybe the insignia on the hood and the doors
worked out.
And here I am going through the city and cannot say a word in shock. I
cannot
recognize the city. Only ten days ago it was an Iraqi town with its
regular for
centuries Arabic life. Boling bazaars, noisy streets. And here I am
going
through the empty dead city, between the ugly "pyramids" of destroyed
buildings, broken streets, whole quarters wiped from the face of earth.
The
city is killed and dismembered by some monstrous maniac. Beelzebub -
the lord
of the flies. Under the flag of stars and stripes, where the stars look
so
alike to thick flesh flies.
I go and ask the skies again, like five years ago in bombed out Kosovo,
will
anybody ever answer for this barbarism? But the skies do not respond.
Only a
few
Russian
original text --
"Завтра" № 48
(575), 24.11.2004
translated by dari890
Ãœbernehmen
wir journalistische Aufgaben ?
Die
Massenmedien jedenfalls schweigen.
Die Politiker auch. Und der Papst ? was sagt denn der Papst dazu ?
Hier also
die Weiterleitung des
arabischen Kollegen…
http://iraqwar.mirror-world.ru/tiki-read_article.php?articleId=31865
By: Saeed Naqvi on: 27.11.2004 [13:38 ] (377 reads)
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It is a
pity that even as the Bush administration is running
helter-skelter to contain international outrage against Iraqi prisoner
abuse,
there is nothing more than a murmur from the world’s largest
democracy. Agreed
we are in the midst of elections but is the national conscience in a
state of
slumber because we are watching exit polls?
What is happening in