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Baghdad Bound: An Interpreter's Chronicles of the Iraq War by Mohamed Fadel Fahmy; Hala Alsalman, Cover Design 199 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-2289; ISBN 1-4120-1911-7; US$22.00, C$25.25, EUR18.00, £13.00 A mosaic of stories from the theatre of the Iraq War. Memoirs of an Arab interpreter caught in a web involving the CIA, LA Times, and the Iraqi people.
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About the Book
As the advent of an attack on Iraq approaches, a young Egyptian man working in the Gulf decides to take up a freelance job as a field translator for the L.A. Times and unsuspectingly embarks on an electrifying roller-coaster ride from Kuwait City to Baghdad. What was to happen to him and his team for the following three months is documented in his book Baghdad Bound. This is a gripping account of the remarkable events that he witnessed before and during the Iraq War:
The danger of frontline reporting
Dodging bullets and translating between reporters and Iraqis, the author recounts in detail the escape of BBC, CBC, Newsweek, and other news network crews from the Iraqi border after the threat of being besieged by a group of disgruntled and armed locals.
The devastation of the lives of Iraqi civilians
From Basra to Baghdad, a direct look at the horror of living in fear of coalition bombs as well as Saddam loyalists. The author begins to understand their psychological trauma after a first-hand look at casualties of war and along the way, discovers the real face of the Ba'athi regime.
The aftermath
In a lawless land, chaos reigns supreme as Iraqis, coalition forces and journalists struggle to make sense of post-war Iraq. The author recounts the mayhem of looting and rubs shoulders with Shi'a leaders and Iraqi exiles like Ahmed Chalabi vying for power while Saddam is on the loose.
Of all the books that have been published about the Iraq War, Baghdad Bound is a first. A mosaic of thrilling untold stories from the theatre of war, it is an earnest and unique collection of the action-packed memoirs of an Arab interpreter who finds himself caught in an intricate web involving the CIA, the L.A. Times, and Iraqis of various walks of life.
Here is a raw view of the war through the eyes of a regular man who stumbled into a defining chapter of modern history...
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About the Author
Mohamed Fahmy was born in Kuwait and holds a dual Egyptian-Canadian citizenship. He graduated with a B.A. in Marketing from City University in Vancouver, Canada. Since then he has worked between Canada and the Gulf and writes poetry and short stories in his free time. After obtaining the TESOL certificate, he sometimes teaches English to beginners. He currently resides in the Gulf and fulfills his passion for travelling and adventure by working on a film about the Iraq War.
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Excerpts
SUNDAY MARCH 23, 2003
The heroic journalists of this war are divided into two teams, yet collaborated
to bring the simplest details to our TV sets and our morning papers. The
Pentagon had invented the "embed," describing journalists accompanying
the soldiers in this war, in an effort to portray a new, 24-hour coverage of an
historical war. Embedded journalists were literally sharing cots with the
army and more or less under the same stress as they roamed the battlefields
with the tanks, humvees, and infantry. The revolution of the media in this
war and live stunning scenes of Baghdad bombarded at night is a product
of such dedication to bring out the truth. The teams of journalists better
known as Unilateral, on the other hand, were the free man's daring eye on
the ground. Free to roam the country at personal curfew, we established our
own rules, signs, and survival techniques in order to reach the ultimate goal
of duplicating the live truth onto paper. Embeds were naturally exposing
more coverage about the military, the fighting, strategies, and the specific
weapons used by the army. However, unilateral journalists were free to
cover such army stories plus humanitarian aid to Iraq, status of civilians,
and many other events that were all based on actual interviews with Iraqi
people on the ground. Los Angeles Times writer, Mark Magnier best
described the position of Unilaterals as the "Special Forces" of the media.
Indeed, it did look like a special-forces operation on the night we actually
decided to hit the Kuwaiti border for a run through to Southern-Iraq.
The Times already had six reporters and two photographers embedded
with American forces in Iraq. Our crew consisted of writer Sam Verhovic
and me in one SUV, along side Mark Magnier and staff photographer, Brian
Walski in another. Armed with gas masks, chemical suits, food, water,
gasoline, a generator, and an arsenal of telecommunication equipment we
finally decided to meet up with a couple of other media teams at the Hilton-
Kuwait as a starting point for the beginning of our mission. Leaving suite
672 in Sheraton- Kuwait towards our meeting point at 4:00 am, I could not
get my mind off the unprecedented scenes of the bombing of Baghdad live
on television. Minutes ago, I had been flicking back and forth through FOX,
CNN, NBC, and Arabic news channels. I could just imagine the American
population back in the U.S. watching this war live and coming together
around pop-corn and beers just like they do during the SuperBowl season.
Watching my cab glide through the haunted streets of Kuwait City, I again
had no clear idea of what my job in Iraq as a translator with the Los Angeles
times had in store. Just on time, outside the Hilton, I loaded our SUV with
my huge bag and chemical kit.
TUESDAY MARCH 25, 2003
Insomnia had always been a serious concern in my normal life back in the
city. In this war zone the saga was obviously intensified as I sat wide awake
in the front seat of our Pajero. Brian had chosen to work on the sandy ground
as he sat by the front wheel with his precious lap-top. It was midnight and
I could not sleep as I replayed the long daily events in my mind. Most of the
journalists were up writing their pieces. The darkness hovered over the trucks
as the writers used headband flash lights or interior car illumination for
vision. The sky was also unusually clear without any life and extremely
dark. However, the skies also kept the secret of the darker events this spring
night had in store for us unilateral.
I had thought the British army would leave me alone since they got a
Kuwaiti interpreter. However, my short hours of peace evaporated into the
quiet sky as I watched the white face of a British major pop right at my
window, politely asking, "I am sorry to bother you, but we need your services
again, if you don't mind."
Walking with the Major through the sandy cloverleaf, towards the road
where the military vehicles were parked, I understood that the Kuwaiti
translator had gone out on a military operation for the night. Following the
major's flashlight, we came to a stop right under the Safwan Bridge harboring
our cloverleaf.
"Could you explain to me what these three men are saying please?"
The Major asked.
Relieved to see the scene did not involve any blood or injured people,
I listened carefully to one of the three men as the Major pointed the flash
light right onto the man's dazzled face.
"We came to warn you, we are simple farmers and we live in Safwan
village and we don't want to be killed by helicopters or air-raids," one of
the disturbed men complained.
"There are armed guys that are preparing to raid this unit and the
journalists," I translated, measuring the farmer's words carefully.
Now extremely concerned, the British Major grabbed a notebook from
his vehicle and handed the flashlight to a soldier who was standing on guard.
"Ask them where these men are exactly. Who are they?" the Major
commanded, as he took notes.
"They are fifteen men and they are right behind Safwan gates. We
heard them planning their attack today behind the supermarket and we tried
to stop them," answered one of the men, as he pointed towards Safwan
gates, which stood only a mile away from our position.
I walked further and then froze at the sight of another corpse
lying face down in the water. Goose bumps hit my body as I observed every
single detail in this fighter's dead figure; his shoes, his wet hair, the headband
on his head. I lost my thoughts with pity for this human being. I wondered
if he was fighting for a cause or just forced to do it. I heard but ignored an
Iraqi bystander's comment that this man was a foreign fighter; a Syrian or
Palestinian who had migrated to Iraq for a chance to die as a martyr for
Islam. The sight was touching for every one watching soul less corpses
floating in the water. Still in control, I then poised my eye intensely onto
what seemed like a human leg floating in the water with its distorted upperbody
following it separately. Confused emotions haunted the morbid scene.
I asked an Iraqi man for a cigarette. As he gave it to me he complained,
"What is Saddam doing for them now?"
I translated quickly to Mark the remarks of another resident,
"Saddam paid $25,000 to the families of these brain washed Palestinian
fighters."
Crowds continued to stare and gossip. Beside another body on the dirt
were green canisters of ammunition, army-issue canteens, and a green vest.
Locals pointed out a couple of hand grenades scattered along the side of the
water. Registering the status of the seven dead bodies, I lost myself in a
semi-trance and blocked all the noise around me. I visualized what these
men might have seen moments before their death. I tried imagining their
defeat. Were they fighting to die, against the world's most powerful armies,
and with these primitive weapons? I do not raise this question with any
philosophical intent. The nature of the war, the beast, I could not do it.
Engulfed by clarity, I felt death squeeze my breath, heart, fate, and identity.
For the first time since the war started I tasted tears sliding down my face,
very well hidden behind my shades. Facing fear in this war, I remembered
that death was inevitable. I also remembered a brief line from one of
Saddam's manipulative speeches during the first days of the war:
"You brave Arab fighters. This is your chance to meet God and taste
the fortunes of heaven."
Walking away to let the Red Crescent volunteers move the bodies; I
realized many people were ignited with repressed anger, defeat, and despair.
Six workers barged in and pulled one of the bodies from its blood stained
shirt onto a canvas. The curtains dropped over this demonstration. The Red
Crescent wanted the TV, radio, and print media to document these bodies.
Catalogue Information
