A day off is a lot of work

The writer is an Iraqi employee of The Times’ Baghdad Bureau. Because the report identifies the neighborhood in which he lives, his name is being withheld for his safety.

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baghdad -- “God knows what will happen tomorrow,” I said to my colleagues. I was talking about my day off, a misnomer in Baghdad. There’s no such thing as a day off here.

Since I began working for The Times several weeks ago, I’ve had a few days “off,” and each one has turned into a drama, a result of the violence that disrupts everything from family reunions to funerals.

On my first day off, a military convoy rolled onto my street and Iraqi and American troops searched my family’s house. They were there to enforce the new U.S.-Iraqi security plan.

A short while after, I spent my second day off at the funeral of a close friend’s mother. Just as those of us who had come to pay condolences were sitting down to share a meal, a bomb went off outside.

I was looking forward to my third day off. My brother, who lives abroad, was coming home for the first time in two years.

Normally, people take taxis from the airport, but the war has changed Baghdad so much that my brother feared doing so. He didn’t know which neighborhoods were dangerous, which checkpoints and roads Sunni Arabs like him should avoid. He worried that showing up on his own, with a lot of luggage, would make him a target for kidnappers. So I agreed to meet him at the airport.

I spent the afternoon worrying that he wouldn’t make it. A freak rainstorm that day turned day to night. My brother’s cellphone stopped working. He had no way of letting me know when, or whether, his plane was leaving Jordan.

This being Baghdad, I could not call the airline office and get the information. It closes at 2 p.m., too early to give any useful updates.

I also couldn’t drive to the airport and wait in the terminal, the way you can in most countries. Here, people are stopped at a military checkpoint about a mile from the terminal. Taxis shuttle travelers between a parking lot on the far side of the checkpoint and the terminal. Everyone else must wait in the lot, which is not advisable given the snipers and bombs on the airport road.

All I could do was hope that my brother would find a way to contact me so I could know what time to head out to meet him.

Hours later he called from a borrowed phone to let me know he was on the ground. I drove to the lot and picked him up. It was a good ending to another not-so-good day off.

I was sick on my fourth day off, but my neighborhood isn’t the kind of place where you can find a doctor easily. Most of them have fled the country. I took some medicine and stayed in bed.

That brings me to my most recent day off.

“Allah yustur min bachir,” I said to my colleagues as I left work the evening before. “I hope God protects me from whatever evil tomorrow brings.” The others in the office smiled and nodded.

I began the long ride home to Ghazaliya, one of Baghdad’s most dangerous neighborhoods. Commuting requires two taxi trips. If Sunnis followed me and discovered I work for an American newspaper, they might kill me. So I break up the journey to prevent anyone from tracing my path.

Because of the curfew, going out in the evening is not an option, so I did what I usually do -- I ate dinner at home, then went to bed, looking forward to sleeping in.

I woke up about 11 a.m., watched some TV, then sat in the garden, enjoying the gentle breeze. This was turning out to be a good day off after all.

Then I heard explosions. One of them was from a rocket-propelled grenade -- I knew because of the two successive bangs that accompany it, first when it launches, and then on impact.

I wondered whether I should get out of the neighborhood, but I was still in my pajamas and feeling groggy. There was also the problem of how to go. I don’t have a car, and being seen on foot was risky. Someone might think I had been involved in the attack.

So I remained at home, and that’s where I was a short time later when the Iraqi army showed up, guns blazing, in search of those responsible. My father and my cat were in the garden enjoying the fresh air. I was inside, peeking out the window. A close-flying bullet sent the cat leaping in terror.

“Oh no, maybe they will break into our house,” I said to my mother. I quickly hid our cellphones and money. We had heard stories of soldiers stealing such things during searches.

Outside, I could hear my father greeting the troops, who by then were standing at our front gate. I remained inside. I had nothing to hide, but I did not want them to see me. Not long ago, Iraqi troops hunting for some attackers had detained 15 young men in my neighborhood and beaten them in an attempt to get information.

The Iraqi soldiers saw that my father was an old man, and they moved on. My father came inside.

“I hope God puts his vengeance on them,” he said. “They have no manners.”

I thought he was talking about the soldiers, but he meant the trouble-makers.

The troops didn’t leave until almost sunset. I called a couple of neighbors over. As we sat sipping orange juice, one of them said he remembered the Iraqi troops as the same ones who had come through the last time.

“They are good,” he said.

I thought to myself, “Didn’t they beat up 15 young men?” But I didn’t bring it up. I didn’t need to make the world seem any grimmer.