Sisters in War

by Christina Asquith

  “You wouldn’t ask an expert engine mechanic to remove your inflamed appendix. So why ask combat arms experts to deal with electricity grids, sanitation, and banking problems when they not only do not understand the language, but can’t even read the script.”

  She openly used her own experiences as an example of mistakes made. The military should never have been in the role of promoting women’s rights and building women’s centers. Expectations were inflated, and then, in the rush to meet them, “the perfect became the enemy of the good.” Reconstruction missions require time for people to adjust and learn the democratic process, as well as to build relationships and trust, she wrote. She knew that a lot of what she understood now, in retrospect, Manal had tried to tell her all along.

  If anything could still be done, Heather believed it should be to create quick employment programs tied to building up the legitimacy of local institutions and grants to local NGOs and other organizations. The idea was not to simply give things to Iraqis, but to let Iraqis choose what they needed from the Americans. She had never felt strongly about whether Iraqi women lived under Islamic or secular law. Heather wanted to establish a governmental structure in which a diversity of opinions could flourish, and the rights of minorities were protected. After that, the Iraqis could, and should, decide for themselves.

  These were all valuable lessons, except they had come too late.

  Despite her grave disappointment, there was still a spark of idealism in her argument, a deep-seated belief that the USA could—and should—right the world’s wrongs. Had they just done a few things differently, she insisted, it could have worked.

  “My three years in Iraq were largely frustrated ones,” her article concluded. “I went to Iraq with high hopes of what we could achieve there. I had not understood how completely unprepared we were to do what we had promised. Many argue that failure was inevitable; that the task itself was impossible. Perhaps,” she surmised. “But I don’t think so.”

  EPILOGUE

  ZIA WAS UP at six o’clock each morning, ready to commute to her new job as an accountant in the Sacramento County government offices. Everyone was really friendly. When they learned she was Iraqi, they all looked at her with curiosity and surprise. But after a few initial questions, no one wanted to know more. She understood—who wanted to spend their lunch hour hearing about suicide bombings and assassinations? As 2008 approached, people changed the channel when Iraq news came on—they were tired of it. Once, when the staff was changing offices, she tried to make a joke. The entire office had been packed up and everything was in boxes. The image reminded Zia of preparations her family had taken before evacuating their neighborhood when Saddam invaded Kuwait. “All we need is some bags of flour and rice and it will be just like the first Gulf War,” she laughed.

  The entire office stopped and stared at her in confusion. Oh well, Zia thought.

  In recent months, Zia had begun to see a therapist. She had been feeling so depressed, she had stopped eating. She was shriveling away to nothing—at five feet six inches, Zia weighed barely one hundred pounds. She and Keith bickered often, and she had begun talking about leaving him and returning to Iraq as a U.S. soldier. In her darker moments, she felt that she would rather die fighting for peace and democracy in her country than stay on the sidelines any longer.

  The therapist helped her a lot. Zia learned that she had posttraumatic stress disorder and survivor’s guilt. Although this didn’t ease the pain of missing her family or her fear for them, she began to see things more clearly. Some of her anger eased, and she began to talk about the war with Keith. Seeing things more clearly, however, made her realize what a dangerous situation her family was still in. Zia began to go online and read the news accounts of the beheadings, and she learned about the suicide bombings at Mustansiriya University and the rocket attacks on their street, all the news her family had shielded her from. She learned that at least 85,000 Iraqis had been killed since the start of the war.

  Zia felt snapped out of a deep sleep. She knew she had to somehow help them to leave.

  Then, one day she couldn’t reach them. At first, she didn’t worry too much, since the Iraqi phone network shut down so frequently. But after several days, she became increasingly concerned. Each time she called she received the same “out of network” message. She felt like stomping on her shiny silver phone, yet for the past two years that little machine was all she had had of her family. Zia tried not to imagine the worst.

  By the fifth day, she was in an absolute panic, and there was nothing Keith could do to calm her. At night, she woke up crying. During the day, she called constantly. Now she did imagine the worst and begged God to spare her family. The landline was working, but no one picked up. Her emails went unanswered.

  THEN, LATE ONE evening, she received a call from a long foreign number that started with 968. She answered. It was Nunu.

  “We left Iraq!” she shouted. “We’re in Oman.”

  Zia was crying so hard she couldn’t even see in front of her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she cried.

  Mamina had taken the phone. “We were afraid to worry you. And then it happened so quickly.”

  They were with Nunu and Zia’s friends Suad and Bedria, two Omani sisters who had studied at Baghdad University; they had returned to Oman in 2004 out of fear they’d be kidnapped. For almost a year, Bedria had been trying to help Nunu get a work visa for Oman, but every avenue seemed closed. Then, finally, in late summer of 2007, Bedria suggested they apply for tourist visas to attend the country’s annual Khareef Festival, in Salalah. Mamina and Nunu were granted permission, but Baba was denied. He refused to allow the women to go until Mamina’s older sister, Aunt Huda, had agreed to cook for Baba and look after him.

  Zia could hear the airport commotion in the background.

  “Do you have residency?” Zia asked.

  “We only have temporary visas,” Mamina said, but she thought they had a good chance of receiving work permits.

  Getting this far had been difficult. Their plan was only short-term, yet it was the best one on offer. They had decided that they had to take a risk, or life would never change. Zia could hear angry voices.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “We’re still at the airport. They’ve lost our bags.”

  Behind Mamina, Zia could hear Nunu’s voice grow louder. She was telling off the baggage-claim man.

  “You’d better find our bags,” she was saying. “Those bags are important.” Zia had never in her life heard her sister sound so demanding.

  When Nunu came back on the phone, Zia was laughing. “Nunu, what’s gotten into you?”

  “Oh, Zia, it’s really hot here and every woman wears an abaya, but at least there are no curfews and no rockets.” Exactly, Zia thought. They were safe, for the moment. Zia took a deep breath. It felt like the first one she’d taken in years.

  “Hey, Nunu,” she said. “I’m really proud of you. It really takes guts to do what you did.”

  FOR AS LONG as they could, Nunu and Mamina had enjoyed their relative freedom in Oman, a small country on the eastern edge of the Arabian Peninsula, at the entrance to the Persian Gulf. They moved into a hotel apartment in a newly developed section of the city, extended their tourist visa to three months, and applied for permanent work visas. Nunu was employed as a secretary at a medical center, and Mamina in a school teaching English.

  The first three months in Oman were wonderful and relaxing, but after that their applications for work visas were rejected and they were forced to quit their jobs. They could stay in Oman illegally for only so long before the police would track them down and they would be sent back to Baghdad. For months they went into hiding in their apartment. Returning to Baghdad seemed the only option.

  Zia was determined not to give up and let her sister and mother return to Iraq—to likely death. So she started furiously working the phones. She called her state senators, her congressman, and Senator Barbara Boxer’s office. She
considered going on a hunger strike outside Governor Schwarzenegger’s office. Day and night she drafted letters to her representatives and called lawyers and friends in Washington, D.C., asking for advice on asylum, visas, or refugee claims. Zia could barely believe her own persistence and determination. In Iraq, people just didn’t do things like this. If you wanted a favor from the government, you had to have a connection or pay a bribe. You couldn’t just ask.

  But Zia had been learning a lot about the United States, and from an unlikely source: Marla Ruzicka. Zia had been reading her biography, Sweet Relief. Marla was the twenty-seven-year-old aid worker from California who had died in the suicide bomb attack on the Baghdad airport road. Zia felt a special connection with Marla. They were close in age, and she had been on the same road where Marla was killed, moments after the bomb had detonated. Had things been different, she could have died, not Marla. And it was Marla’s connection with Senator Patrick Leahy that had helped convince the embassy officials to approve Zia’s visa. Since she’d gotten to the States, Zia had written to Marla’s parents, who lived only a few hours from Sacramento, telling them how much Marla had meant to Iraqis.

  If there was one thing Zia was learning in America, it was that persistence could pay off. Unlike in Iraq, where individuality was crushed, one person could make a difference here. She had cried through most of Marla’s book, as she learned about Marla’s Rollerblading down the halls of the Capitol building, teaming up with aides who would, eventually, earmark $50 million to help innocent victims of war. Why would this beautiful, spirited young American leave her home and travel across the world just to help Iraqis? she wondered. Why was it that even in the most violent, inhumane periods of war, when everything felt dark, there were so many examples of good, kind human beings? Each time Zia felt like giving up, she thought of Marla.

  Zia found that Marla was only one of many Americans who cared about Iraqis. As she continued her campaign to help her mother and sister, she was stunned to see Americans from all walks of life put down what they were doing and help her. Zia’s email campaign eventually made its way to the desk of Jody Lautenschlager, the former sergeant in Iraq who was now working for the State Department. After returning from Iraq, in her free time and with her own money, she had formed a group to help Iraqi refugees. She agreed to take on Zia’s case. Whereas before, Zia couldn’t get past a voice recording, suddenly she had a contact inside the State Department.

  Former army lieutenant Lorne Segerstrom offered to write a letter of support for Zia. He had served as Central Region program manager for IMN while Zia was site manager.

  “I remember very well during the fourteen months while in Iraq, the situation was particularly dangerous for IMN employees …” he wrote. “I have no doubt that Zia’s family has a well-founded fear of serious harm, persecution, and/or death if they were to return to Iraq.”

  Another young woman who responded to Zia’s emails was twenty-six-year-old Erica Gaston, a Harvard Law graduate working on refugee issues in Kabul, Afghanistan. She explained the refugee process to Zia and shared her contacts inside the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) for the Gulf region. When Zia had called the UN in Oman, she had been hung up on. Now, just like that, thanks to Erica, Zia was exchanging emails with officials at the UNHCR in Geneva.

  But the biggest help of all would come from Senator Boxer’s office in San Francisco. Zia knew that Senator Boxer had tens of millions of constituents, and for months she didn’t bother trying. But after she read Marla’s book, Zia felt inspired to beat back her feelings of fear and insecurity and began writing letters.

  Dear US Sen. Barbara Boxer:

  I currently live in California and work for the Sacramento County government, however I am born and raised in Iraq. From 2003 to 2005, I worked for the US government in Baghdad, first as a translator for Iraqi Media Network and later as a facility manager for the US embassy. In 2005, several attempts were made on my life by insurgents, and I was granted a visa to come to the US, where I am now married to an American man.

  I contact you on behalf of my sister and mother, who have just left Baghdad and who I have not seen in more than two years. I kindly ask you to write a letter of support on my behalf, which we can present to the US embassy in Oman.

  My sister, Nariman, 23, graduated with honors from Baghdad University, and speaks fluent English. My mother, Madiha, 50, is a school teacher for 20 years.

  During my two years in the United States, I have established a productive life for myself. My husband and I are fully employed, and I am proud to have a green card, and being on track to becoming an American.

  Zia’s passionate plea and doggedness caught the senator’s attention, and after several months Senator Boxer agreed to write a letter of support. No one thought it possible that the U.S. embassy in Oman would issue American visas to two Iraqis, but Zia called Mamina and Nunu anyway. “Go to the U.S. embassy and apply for visas,” she said. “I think we have a shot.”

  FOUR MONTHS LATER, in the summer of 2008, Nunu’s plane touched down at Sacramento International Airport. Keith had flown to London to meet her and ensure safe passage through U.S. immigration in San Francisco. Bedraggled and exhausted, they struggled off the plane and into the terminal, where Zia waited with arms filled with flowers and balloons.

  After three years apart, during which Zia felt certain she would never see her little sister again, they both let the tears flow unchecked. “Nunu, you’ve gotten so fat!” Zia exclaimed through her sobs. Nunu laughed.

  But Mamina was still in Oman. Her visa had been delayed for unspecified reasons. It would be two months before the good news arrived, before she followed the path Nunu had pioneered, meeting Keith in London and flying with him to America.

  ON A BRIGHT summer day, Zia and Nunu stood anxiously together in the San Francisco airport. Americans in T-shirts and shorts walked past, pulling wheeled suitcases and hurrying to and from different destinations. The day was sunny, and a light breeze swayed the trees outside the glass doors.

  Suddenly, the monitor changed and digitized letters read: LANDED. As Mamina emerged through the sliding doors, Zia saw her own beloved husband smiling broadly by her mother’s side, carrying her luggage. When Mamina caught sight of her daughters standing together, she broke down in tears. They hugged one another fiercely, never wanting to let go. “I have my children gathered around me, at last,” Mamina said.

  THEY HAD LEFT behind a country in pieces, and still the war was not over. Iraq was a nation of desperate women, with millions of war widows, childless mothers, and young girls forced into prostitution. Iraq’s suffering would not soon be healed by a peace treaty or a constitution. Mamina and Nunu were not sure it would ever heal.

  But for Zia, the war was over. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she would not go to bed at night wondering if her sister was still alive. She would not fear that her mother would die before they saw each other again. They would share their lives together and live in peace. Maybe one day Baba would join them, but he was at least safer in Iraq than they ever could have been. A way had been parted for them; a second chance at a new life. And they were finally together.

  Zia hugged her mother as tightly as she could. “We’ll never part again.”

  BY 2009, HEATHER and Manal were both still involved in Iraq, and things were looking up. They teamed up to help a young woman who’d been shot by a militia, and they managed, together, to resettle her and her family in the States. Heather is still working at USIP, focusing on conflict resolution. Manal also joined USIP as a program officer, and she has recently become head of the board of directors of ASUDA-USA and is raising money for it. In Iraq, the security situation has improved since 2007. Elections for local councils were held in January 2009 and hundreds of women ran—even campaigning publicly. The risks continue: one woman candidate was assassinated in Baghdad, but hundreds of others won seats.

  With Zia’s attorney’s help, Nunu and Mamina both applied for
asylum. By 2009, as their cases were being processed, Nunu received another offer of marriage. This one was welcomed. One of Zia’s Iraqi friends who lived in the United States had a brother, Nawar. He saw Nunu on Zia’s Facebook page. After courting her for a month through Facebook, he contacted her male relatives in the UK and informed them of his intentions. They approved, as did Baba, over the phone. In his mid-twenties, Nawar was born in the United States to Iraqi parents and had been raised in both countries. He flew to California, and they spent four days getting to know each other, under Mamina’s supervision. Nunu found her suitor to be gentle, easygoing, and respectful of women. She fell in love. In February 2009, with Zia, Mamina, and Keith by Nunu’s side, they were married.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m grateful to many people for their help in the reporting and writing of this book and for risking their lives to share their stories about this long and confusing war. For their company and conversation in Iraq, I thank the following colleagues: Maya Alleruzzo, Tara Sutton, Matt McAllester, Willis Witter, Adam Davidson, Jen Banbury, Jon Lee Anderson, Ilana Ozernoy, Victoria Whitford, Jeremy Kahn, Ray LeMoine, Jeff Neumann, Jens Munch, Patrick Graham, and Marla Ruzicka. Special thanks to Rajiv Chandrasekaran, whose thoughtfulness opened the door for this book and whose groundbreaking reporting paved the way for many of the ideas in it.

  I’m grateful to The New York Times for giving me the initial assignment in Iraq, to the BBC crew for taking me from Kuwait into Baghdad at the start of the war, and to editors Jimmy Kilpatrick and Xan Smiley for supporting me while I was there. Reporting from Iraq would not have been possible without a staff of dedicated Iraqi journalists and translators who worked under threat of death. I appreciate the work of Abu Hassan, Ali, Sarmaad and his mother, Abu Salah, Quais, Haider, and Ahmed “Triple A.”