The state of the highway, however, was the farthest thing from my mind. I could think of nothing but how we were going to talk our way through the internal checkpoints. I asked Saad how many there would be. “Three, perhaps four,” he shrugged.
I kept quiet. I did not want Saad to know how scared I was about approaching them, but I think he sensed my fear in any case. “Don’t worry about it,” he told me calmly. “If they stop us, leave everything to me.”
I was dressed neatly in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and together we looked perfectly respectable. “We want to give them the impression that you are my son.” He gestured at the jacket of his military uniform, which was neatly folded in the backseat. “When they see that, it will instill some kind of respect into them,” he told me. “If they assume that you are my son, that respect will rub off on you. Let me do the talking.”
We passed the busy town of Ar-Ramaadi and a few miles later approached a fork in the road. The right-hand fork would take us up to Al-Haglanya and then on to the Euphrates River, but our path did not lie that way. Instead we continued straight on, into the desert region of Al-Anbar. From time to time, to our left and right, the roads branched off toward poor desert towns—replicas of any number of the faceless communities I had seen near Mosul or Basra. Houses were built using huge lumps of concrete covered over with mud; cows roamed the streets. Kids played in the dirt tracks with sticks, and colorful market stalls belied the poverty of these places. Inhabitants eked out a living selling homemade drinks on the streets, but only those with the strongest immune systems would be wise to risk them.
It did not take long for us to approach a checkpoint. My uncle slowed down, and a look of intense concentration passed his face. “Give me my jacket, Sarmed,” he said. I reached into the back and handed him the jacket, and he wriggled his way into it, keeping one hand on the steering wheel. “Good,” he said. “Now, open the glove compartment.”
I did so. Stashed inside was a 9mm Beretta handgun. This was not an ordinary Beretta. For a start it was an Iraqi-made tarek, and it had been given to the officers of the Iran-Iraq war who had been awarded bravery medals as a “gift” from Saddam. It bore a small insignia on the handle that identified it as being a special-issue weapon; the owners of such items were afforded special respect by other members of the military. Saad took the gun from me and placed it prominently on the dashboard where it could be easily seen.
As we approached the checkpoint, I saw the usual hubbub of activity. Buses were parked by the roadside, as were white and orange taxis—more modern than the one in which I had journeyed the previous day. Their occupants were hanging around outside, talking, drinking, cooling down, and generally just taking a break from their journeys. The checkpoint itself was little more than a bunker on the side of the road, there to protect the guards from the sun. The Red Berets gripped their AK-47s firmly, and their light-armored vehicles stood nearby as they looked through the papers of those drivers they had decided to stop.
I saw all this from a distance. My uncle continued to slow down and as he did so I felt my heart in my chest. I did my best to look straight ahead and appear calm. But as I strained my face into a look of somber innocence, I could not help but feel that to the trained eyes of the Red Berets I showed all the signs of a guilty man. For a split second I thought I caught the eye of one of them. He had noticed me. Surely the look of fear on my face would arouse his suspicions. I breathed deeply.
“Let-khaaf, Sarmed,” said my uncle. “Don’t be afraid.” He kept looking straight ahead as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but I could not take my eye off the guard. As we passed him, I foolishly turned my head, and our eyes locked; I saw him begin to raise his arm before I quickly jerked my head away. My uncle kept the car moving slowly forward, ignoring the guard’s attention and, suddenly, the checkpoint was behind us. I looked in the rearview mirror, fully expecting to see one of the light-armored vehicles pull away. I wanted to tell Saad to drive more quickly, but I knew that would just arouse suspicion; and gradually the checkpoint faded behind us, without any guards appearing to follow. We had passed our first obstacle, it seemed, without incident.
As we drove farther from Baghdad, the traffic became less and less heavy. From my point of view, this was not good. The fewer vehicles there were along the road, the more chance we had of being stopped at the next checkpoint. Although the Red Berets would be more likely to stop buses or taxis, they would still pull over a substantial number of ordinary vehicles, and that could mean us. Perhaps I should have felt more relaxed having made it through the first checkpoint safely; in fact I just grew more terrified.
Later that afternoon we approached a second checkpoint. It was less busy than the first, but our luck held and we were waved past with no questions asked.
We stopped for the night in one of the small, run-down complexes that lined the road at irregular intervals. Part restaurant, part garage, part mosque, these places catered to the most basic needs of the travelers along the road. We ate a meal in the restaurant, which was the least filthy part of the whole complex, and then made our way to the car to spend the night. I tried to sleep, but without much success.
We left early the next morning. Gradually the traffic, which had been sparse, became more heavy. It did not take long to see why this was happening: there was a checkpoint up ahead, and to my horror they were stopping every car that passed. Terrible scenarios flitted through my brain. Did they know Saad and I were on the road headed west? Had the military police been to my mother’s house and extracted some sort of confession from my family? Why would they be stopping every car that passed if not to look for us? Whether such thoughts were going through Saad’s mind, I cannot say. He simply put his military jacket on once more and made sure his Beretta was in full view. We were silent as we sat in the line of cars awaiting our turn, but the time we spent in that queue gave my mind the opportunity to imagine increasingly awful explanations for this delay.
Eventually, two Red Berets walked up to the car in front of us. They stood there for some minutes asking questions of the driver, before asking him to pull his car over to the side of the road. As he did so, one of the guards followed him; the other unsmilingly waved us forward. He appeared at the driver’s door and gestured at Saad to wind down the window. He took one look at his military uniform and saluted him, but there were no pleasantries. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“We are going to see family in Rutbah.” My uncle smiled at him.
“Is this your son?”
Saad nodded.
“Your papers,” the Red Beret said to me.
Nervously I handed him the fake military pass. He studied it carefully. The seconds ticked by. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the driver of the other car being frisked and then taken into the guards’ hut. There was an anxious silence; even Saad could not think of anything to say. The Red Beret looked at me, looked back at my papers, and then handed them back.
“Do you always keep your Beretta on the dashboard, sir?” he asked my uncle.
Saad flashed him a grin. “Why?” he said. “Are you looking to buy one?”
That was all that was needed. The Red Beret smiled for the first time at my uncle’s joke. “You can go, sir,” he told us. Saad inclined his head politely, they saluted each other; and we were waved on. As we passed the checkpoint, I let out an explosion of breath, and Saad and I laughed with relief. We were through.
We arrived at a small Bedouin village at around seven o’clock that evening. There were perhaps twenty houses made of mud and brick. We knew that the tribesman we were looking for lived in this area, but we had no means of finding him. There was nothing for it but to go knocking on doors.
“Do you know Abu Mustapha?”
At first we were met with blank faces—either they did not know this man, or they did not want to let on to somebody in military uniform that they did. But eventually we found somebody who was willing to help. He pointed to a small road leading a
way from the settlement. “Take that road,” he told us. “It will lead you to another village. He is well known there. Ask anybody and they will point you to his house.”
We returned to the car and followed the road he had indicated. As we drove, the silence of the desert gradually impressed itself upon us, and we grew quiet ourselves. Sure enough, after about half an hour, we came to another village. A group of children were playing in the street, so we stopped and asked them the same question: “Do you know Abu Mustapha?” With typical childish exuberance they shouted that they did and pointed us in the direction of what seemed to me to be a more modern house than the others. As we made our way toward it, a few children who, barefoot and filthy, had been playing their games in the driveway at the front of the house came out toward us.
“What do you want?” they shouted. “Who are you?”
Saad limped up to them. “Is your father at home?” he asked.
The children scurried indoors, calling for their mother, who soon appeared at the door. “Who are you?” she repeated, suspiciously.
“My name is Saad Al-Khatab,” my uncle replied politely, “and this is my nephew Sarmed.”
“What do you want?”
“We are here to see Abu Mustapha.”
“Are you sure it is him you want? What makes you think he lives here?”
“I am a friend of relatives of his in Baghdad. They described to me the place that he lives. I have a business proposition for him.”
Reluctantly, the wife nodded and went inside. “Wait here,” she said as she disappeared.
We stood outside the house and waited for several minutes before a huge figure appeared at the door. He had a thick white mustache and white hair and was wearing a black robe; he was an impressive sight in the failing light of the desert evening. He stood in the doorway and said nothing, so my uncle repeated the introduction he had already given to his wife: “My name is Saad Al-Khatab, and this is my nephew Sarmed.”
Suddenly a smile lit up the tribesman’s face; it was clear that he understood in that instant why we were there. He clapped his hands and shouted at his children to stop playing and make themselves scarce. Then he called to his wife. “Ya marr’a! Prepare supper!” he shouted. He extended his arms to Saad and me, and he ushered us inside. Our presence did not seem to surprise him. Maybe he had been forewarned of our arrival; maybe people like us arrived on his doorstep out of the blue on a regular basis.
We were led into Abu Mustapha’s guest room. It was a peaceful place: there was no television, and the walls were covered with embroidered religious texts. The seating, of course, was all Bedouin style, with cushions scattered across the floor. We sat down, and tea was brought in to us, along with sherbet—concentrated fruit juice diluted with water. We were thirsty after our long journey, and the drinks refreshed us. The tribesman sat opposite Saad and me, a huge imposing figure shrouded in his flowing robe. I glanced at my uncle and saw on his face a look that I recognized, a calm, almost humble aura he emanated before he was to start engaging in any kind of negotiation. As we sat there, there were frequent moments of silence as my uncle and the tribesman smiled and nodded toward each other. Each knew what the other wanted, but there was a ritual to such meetings, and nothing was spoken of the real reason for our presence just yet. Tradition dictated that we should wait until after we had eaten together—or at the very least finished our first round of drinks—before we even began to discuss business.
Abu Mustapha fingered his sibbha—a string of beads—and continued smiling knowingly at us. Every few minutes he shouted, “Allah bilkhair—Welcome! God is good!”
“Allah bilkhair.” We intoned the traditional reply.
Gradually my uncle engaged the tribesman in small talk. He explained that he was acquainted with his relatives in Baghdad, that he had had business dealings with them before now.
“You are interested in guns?” the tribesman asked out of the blue.
My uncle shrugged. “A little,” he replied.
The tribesman stood up suddenly, left the room, and returned with a berrnaw, a rifle with an extra-long barrel. It was the traditional weapon of the Bedouin of that area and could shoot over hugely long distances—even up to two miles. The tribesman had a look of pride as he handled it, mixed with a glint in his eye that spoke volumes: he was, he was demonstrating, a man who could take care of himself.
We admired his gun for a short while, and then food was brought in. His wife presented a steaming dish of baagillah. It was a favorite of mine, an Iraqi dish of lamb, bread, and beans traditionally served on Fridays after prayers. Saad and I fell upon this feast as hungrily as politeness would allow.
When we finished eating, more tea was brought. This was the sign for us to get down to business. I had expected my uncle to explain the situation in more roundabout terms than he did; after all, we did not know yet that we could fully trust this man sitting opposite us. He was full of smiles, but who knew what those smiles could be hiding?
“My nephew here, Sarmed, has deserted from the army.” I gave Saad a sharp look, but he held his hand up to me and continued. “He needs to leave the country, and he wants to go to Jordan. Your relatives told us this might be something you can help with.”
For a while the tribesman said nothing. He just sat there expressionless. The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the sound of the tribesman fingering his sibbha and the constant whir of the fan above us. We had come all this way, and I had never imagined that this man would say no to our request—but he certainly did not seem to be jumping at the chance. I had an uncomfortable feeling that we were about to have to drive back to Baghdad that night. He looked carefully at me, and then at my uncle. It was impossible to read his eyes. Finally he spoke. “I do not recommend that you go to Jordan.”
In that moment I knew we had a chance of persuading him. He had not turned us down outright, so it was clearly something he was prepared to do. But why not Jordan? And if not Jordan, where? As if in response to my unspoken question, the tribesman intoned “Syria.”
Saad shook his head. “Syria will be too dangerous for him.” He was right. The relationship between Iraq and Syria at that time was bad. For starters, Iraqis were not allowed to work in Syria; in Jordan, there was at least a chance. More worryingly, if I was apprehended in Syria, the likelihood was great that I would be taken for a Ba’ath party spy and imprisoned for I don’t know how long.
Abu Mustapha shook his head. “The stretch of land between here and the border to Jordan is much smaller than the land between here and Syria,” he explained. “There are many border patrols. The government spends a great deal of money on surveillance in that stretch of desert. The Syrian border police are poorly paid, and there are fewer of them. There are land mines in that area too. We think we know where most of them are, but…”
Saad was adamant. “It is a risk we are prepared to take.”
The tribesman looked uncomfortable. Maybe he was more familiar with the crossing into Syria, I don’t know. He let out a heavy sigh. “If you choose that route, we will have to make the journey at night. And I cannot guarantee you safe passage. There are wild animals in the desert.” He looked straight at me. “They do not much care what they eat.”
I shuddered, but Saad stood his ground. “If he is captured in Syria, the treatment he will receive will be just as bad as any he can expect in Iraq. Jordan is more civilized, and from there he has a much greater chance of finding his way to the West.”
Again there was a silence. Finally Abu Mustapha closed his eyes and slowly nodded his reluctant acquiescence.
He shouted for one of his children to come. Almost immediately one of his sons entered the room. “Go and find your uncle,” his father told him almost dismissively. The boy said nothing and left the room swiftly. The three of us remained seated; barely a word was spoken between us.
From the corner of my eye I looked at Saad. He seemed as calm as ever, his expressionless face indicating none of the ris
ing panic the tribesman’s reluctance to take the route to Jordan had instilled in me. The Bedouin knew this stretch of land better than anyone—certainly better than Saad or I. They had crossed these borders all their lives, and their ancestors before them had done so for hundreds of years. They knew where the dangers lay. If they were worried about our plan, should we not also be? I tried to push such worries from my mind. I had trusted my uncle this far; he had not let me down. And as I looked at the imposing figure of the tribesman before me, I could tell that he was a person who would be able to look after himself—and me. That, at least, was some small comfort.
After about half an hour, the door opened again and another burly tribesman walked in.
“This is my brother,” our host introduced him. We shook hands in greeting as more tea was brought. “My young guest,” he gestured toward me, “is of a mind to travel to Jordan.”
Immediately his brother shook his head. “No,” he said emphatically. “Too dangerous. We can’t take you all the way into Jordanian territory, but we can take you into Syria.”
It felt like we were back at square one. His look was stern, and he did not appear to be open to negotiation. I think my uncle must have seen that in him; without delay he played his trump card.
“My nephew is not going to Syria. It is Jordan or nothing. If you are unwilling to take that route, we must leave now. It is a long way back to Baghdad.” He sat back without taking his eyes off the Bedouin, and sipped his tea.
The two men looked at each other, aware that their lucrative business arrangement might be disappearing before their eyes. Eventually the brother nodded in agreement. “We have details to discuss,” he told Saad.
My uncle nodded. “Wait here, Sarmed,” he told me as the three of them stood up and went outside. I heard the murmur of hushed negotiations through the door, and I knew that they were discussing what Saad would pay them to undertake this illicit venture, along with payment terms and guarantees. My uncle would then have to persuade them that I would not be a liability to them in the desert—that I knew how to take care of myself. When they returned, there were smiles all around: a deal had been struck.
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