Arab Summit

The Arab Summit came and went in Damascus over the weekend, with the same showdowns and no-shows that always mar the annual gathering of the 22 Arab League member nations. I managed to escape Syrian media purgatory and avoid covering the Damascus summit, but here's all you need to know about the meeting, with thanks to the AP and AFP wire services:

What and where:
The annual meeting of the League of Arab Nations, ostensibly to discuss issues of mutual concern, resolve debates and quell conflicts in the region. This year the summit took place in the Syrian capital of Damascus, a controversial venue because of the tense Syrian-Lebanese relations over the power vacuum and internecine squabbling in Beirut.

On the agenda:
The political crisis in Lebanon, fighting in Gaza, bloodshed in Iraq, Iraq's refugee crisis, pressure on Sudan over Darfur, enhancing trade ties with China, joint nuclear power program.

Snubs:
The U.S.-allied leaders of Egypt, Saudi Arabia and Jordan all boycotted amid accusations that Syria is blocking the appointment of a new Lebanese president. Lebanon sent no officials at all. In all, only half the 22 member states attended the Damascus summit.

Sticking points:
-- Iraq refused to endorse a resolution because the wording stopped short of condemning terrorism in Iraq. The resolution calls for an end to foreign occupation and ordered "Iraqi brothers to stop bloodshed immediately," but does not mention terrorists such as Iraq's mostly homegrown al Qaida spinoff.
-- U.S. allies such as Saudi Arabia, Egypt and Jordan, along with Lebanon, blame the Syrians for fueling Beirut's protracted political crisis. There's been no president in Lebanon since November.
-- Iran, which is Persian and therefore not a member of the Arab League, is upset with its Arab neighbors over a resolution from the summit that calls for the peaceful return of three disputed islands that Iran controls and the United Arab Emirates claims.

Memorable moments:
-- During the summit, Saudi Foreign Minister Prince Saud al-Faisal accused Syria of blocking the compromise proposal on the Lebanese crisis and called on the Arab League to punish Damascus.

"A prudent person must make all his calculations, especially when we have to deal with an administration which knows how to strike but does not know how to withdraw."
-- Syrian Foreign Minister Walid Muallem, discussing the threat of a U.S. attack on Syria

Comic relief
He's baaack! We missed good old Moammar Gadhafi at recent Arab gatherings, but the Libyan leader was on hand to liven up Damascus with his usual insults, narcissism and general craziness. He showed up in lush purple and pink robes with a traditional Libyan cloak and cap. No word on whether his infamous coterie of female bodyguards was in tow or whether he pitched his own tent instead of staying in a hotel, as on previous state visits.

Gadhafi let loose on his amused or irritated Arab brethren, lambasting them for failing to stand up to U.S. imperialism and ridiculing talk of Arab compromise on regional conflicts. He had some gems, which I've listed below, but he was generally more reserved this time than on some of his previous appearances at Arab Summits.

AP had a funny little timeline of Gadhafi antics at the gatherings. Last year, he boycotted the summit in Riyadh and instead gave a televised speech saying that "Liza," a reference to US Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, had dictated the agenda. In 2005, he told the summit in Algeria that Palestinians and Israelis are "stupid." In 2004, he sat smoking cigars on the conference floor of the Tunisia summit to show his contempt for the other leaders. In 2003, he traded insults with the Saudi king in a fight that got so heated it had to be taken off air. 

Here are my top three Gadhafi quotes from this year's summit in Damascus:

-- "Your turn is next," Gadhafi told Arab leaders, referring to the U.S. removal of Saddam Hussein. "Destruction will be yours."

-- "How can we do that? We hate each other."
-- Gadhafi, ridiculing a proposal for a joint Arab nuclear program

"There is nothing new to mention in this summit. It is like previous Arab summits."
-- Gadhafi, in an interview with AFP

Resolution:

-- The leaders backed a compromise proposal for ending Lebanon's presidential dispute. It calls for Lebanon's army chief to be elected president and for a unity government to be formed.

-- The Arab League called on Israel to accept a 2002 Arab land-for-peace proposal and said "international momentum" from a U.S.-sponsored peace conference in November should be maintained. 

Next year:
Doha, Qatar. This Persian Gulf capital is home to the region's massive U.S. military command, Centcom, and is the headquarters for the al Jazeera satellite channel.

Intelligence gathering

A Marine friend of mine is working on a memoir of his time in Iraq's deadly Anbar province. He's struggling with combat stress and it seems that writing has become therapeutic for him, a way to confront all the transgressions, killings, ambushes, close calls.

The Marine has been sending me sample chapters, and one striking part of his book-in-progress is the number of little missteps that have hobbled the U.S. mission; even mishaps of a single Marine unit can chip away at gains. The major stumbles of the occupational authority are well documented by now, from the rampant post-invasion looting to the early loss of Fallujah to Islamist extremists. Less documented are the little everyday ways this massive foreign military gains new enemies in Iraq. Here's one excerpt from my friend's journal, used with his permission on condition of anonymity:

While on an intelligence gathering mission, we got word to go to a house and bring back an Iraqi for questioning.We weren't given much more information than that, so we thought we were arresting him. So we get to his house, confirm his ID, which wasn't hard as he welcomed us in with open arms, and proceeed to cuff him and stuff him.

It was such an ordeal, he put up quite a fight this old man. Eventually, after being slammed to the ground, Gunny drills the end of his M-4 into the man's temple, with the solemn promise that if he didn't shut up and stop resisting, he would put a bullet in his head. The man, his spirit broken and his body exhausted, gave up and was tossed in the trunk of the Hummer, as per S.O.P.

He screamed and kicked the whole way back to base. We couldn't fathom why this guy was causing such a drama, insurgents more or less go rather quietly when we take them to their hells. In front of the interrogation facility, we opened the trunk and found that he had broken his Flexi-cuffs. He was kicking and screaming the entire way to the room. The intel guy and the translator asked us what the problem was, so we told him how he was resisting arrest and had to be forcibly detained.

The translator, obviously disgusted, curtly told us that the man was not a detainee, but an informant, a good guy. Through the magic of military bureaucracy, our marching orders were miscommunicated and we screwed up a valuable source of information, and turned an Iraqi against us. I felt so ashamed, and stupid.

I spoke with the interrogator some more. It turns out that the man was against Saddam, and was imprisoned and tortured by his regime for years. That was why he had such an outburst, he was having a panic attack because he no doubt had PTSD. Had we only understood what he was telling us out there, this whole thing could have been avoided.

Goodbye, Baghdad

There's so much to love about Kadhemiya.

First off, there's the imposing shrine of Imam Moussa Kadhim, with golden domes and brilliant mosaic tilework, the anchor of this vibrant bazaar district in Baghdad. Upon first sight of the revered mosque, visitors stop in the middle of the street and whisper prayers. Shiite pilgrims -- not only from Iraq, but Iran, Bahrain, Kuwait -- kiss its massive doors for luck when they enter. Mothers haul their ailing babies into the sanctuary and pray over them. Grown men sob, pleading at the shrine for the release of kidnapped relatives, for job opportunities, for love.

On a recent visit I was searched from head to toe before I was allowed to enter the shrine area; the stepped-up security measures come from the recent rash of female suicide bombers with explosives hidden under their abayas. The Mahdi Army provides most of the protection for the compound, and the Sadr social services office is just a few meters away on the same street as the shrine. Before thugs and insurgents began infiltrating the Mahdi Army, the Sadr office was a serene and soothing stop on a visit to Kadhemiya. Once upon a time, baby-faced seminary students shyly chatted about their dreams of becoming marjas, high religious authorities. Now the courtyard is ruled by gun-toting toughs who dole out compensation payments to the mothers of young militiamen who've been killed or wounded in action.

Walking down the narrow streets, the bazaar's sensory overload kicks in.

The air smells of Najaf's signature pickles, rose water from passing pilgrims, fresh diamond-shaped bread and steaming trays of my personal favorite: snood al-sitt, which literally means "a lady's upper arm," and refers to a cream-filled, delicately flaky confection. You can stop to feed the pigeons in the shrine's courtyard or have a souvenir picture taken by a bilingual (Farsi and Arabic) photographer with a weatherbeaten Polaroid camera slung around his neck. A large and rapturous group of Iranian pilgrims was giving their tour guide a headache; the poor man was shouting in Farsi through a bullhorn in a fruitless effort to round them up.

Kadhemiya is a knickknack collector's heaven. Take your pick from electric waterfall fountains, toy sniper rifles, worry beads made from the clay of Karbala, lacy thong underwear, Iranian chadors, silver talisman rings and small whips for the self-flagellation ritual performed on certain Shiite holidays.Little boys hawking sets of miniature golden spoons to stir Iraqi chai tug on the sleeves of women's black abayas, imploring "Khala, khala!" Auntie, auntie.

Kadhemiya's gold souq is old and considered one of the best in Baghdad. The latest styles from Dubai compete with locally made jewelry such as the wildly popular gold pendants in the shape of the Iraqi map, with two indentions signifying the Tigris and the Euphrates.

But what I really love is the silversmiths' row, with rings of semiprecious stones etched with protective verses from the Quran. An old friend, a third-generation bazaari called Abu Ali, sells cheap pendants of tiny clear amulets filled with Zamzam water and a scrap of paper with a protective verse on it.

"Be sure to take it off before you go to the bathroom," Abu Ali reminds customers. "You shouldn't wear God's name to the bathroom."

It's been a ritual of mine for the past five years to visit Kadhemiya on the eve of my departure from Baghdad. I consider it a living tableau of Iraqi resilience, a reminder that life can be vivid and fun even against the backdrop of war. Right before I left, my friend and Baghdad bureau chief, Leila, and I set off for a couple of hours of shopping, with some Iraqi colleagues escorting us and watching our backs. We had a fabulous time, walking outdoors through the market's festive decorations for the Moulid al Nabi, the Prophet Muhammad's birthday.

It now seems that we were very lucky to have caught that last perfect day before the Mahdi Army's ceasefire frayed and areas such as Kadhemiya once again return to the rule of masked gunmen and mortar teams. From Basra to Baghdad, a rebellion is spreading and already is turning bloody.

Now I'm in back in Cairo, feeling guilty over leaving right before things fell apart, and hoping that all those pilgrims worshiping at the Kadhemiya shrine added an extra prayer for Iraq.

 

Easter Sunday

Couldn't find any Peeps, bunnies or dyed eggs, but my favorite bakery in Baghdad did have these Easter cakes for sale. We also passed a couple of churches that were crowded for Easter service today.

Happy holidays!

Saturday drive with Hussein

A beautiful Baghdad morning. I'm riding shotgun with Hussein, who's behind the wheel of a 1983 Toyota hoopty. The air conditioner is broken. Windows down, clear skies, Hussam al Rassam on the radio singing about his lying lover.

We drive through palm groves, checkpoints, abandoned soccer fields. Past bored guards, wary militiamen, SUV convoys with commandos hanging out the windows, five U.S. Strykers that look like visitors from another galaxy.

Past American graffiti: Long live USA! 100% Samoan. I love April Renee. Past Iraqi graffiti: Long live Jaysh al Mahdi! Welcome back, returning families. At your service, Hussein.

Past billboards and storefronts with unintentionally funny English translations. "Hear Dressing" outside a beauty shop. "Al Hussein infant is an obiation for religion and humanity" at an Iraqi army checkpoint.

Animals have the run of deserted alleyways: wild dogs, emaciated cats, filthy sheep, goats grazing on trash. Banners are ubiquitous. Black funeral banners, green banners, red banners, banners for the Prophet's birthday, banners for the imams, banners for the Mahdi Army. And Iraqi flags, with and without the controversial stars.

We visit all the places that would get us into trouble with our British security adviser, but we drive quickly and don't stop anywhere for too long. Besides, white guys don't get to call the shots here anymore, not even the ones in Kevlar spaceman outfits, clutching M16s with the safetys off, wishing they were back in Kansas instead of in an up-armored Humvee patrolling Jihad.

These streets -- in the districts of Jihad, Amil, Saidiyah, Bayaa and many more -- mostly belong to the Mahdi Army now, with Sunni pockets where fighters and families only now are grasping that they've lost. And Shiites are either the world's worst sportsmen or they don't realize they've won. Their clerics and saints and martyrs and militia leaders gloat from posters in every public space. Bus depots, police stations, recruiting centers, hospitals, parks, ministries and train stations might as well be husseiniyas.

We visit a family in Janabat,  a district named for a Sunni tribe but now controlled by Sadr's foot soldiers. Inside the home, we nibble chocolate cake and sip 7-Up, pinch the baby's cheeks and chat with his adoring grandmother, a Shiite. She whispers that the villa next door is a Mahdi Army safehouse. She keeps her beautiful daughters indoors, she says, and tries not to make eye contact with the new neighbors.

At the national reconciliation conference, they say the new Iraq is for everybody, meaning everybody who prays with their hands at their sides and murmurs, "Ya Ali!" at the sound of an explosion. This is what Hussein, a Sunni, tells me from the driver's seat.

Where are we now? I ask. Saddam neighborhood, comes the reply. Hussein, you know it's not called that anymore! He smiles, lights a cigarette. They call it Salaam neighborhood now, he concedes.

We drive and drive and drive, could've driven all day in such perfect spring weather. But we're re-routed by a dismounted U.S. patrol. An American is somewhere inside all that body armor, but all we can see is his arms waving frantically, shooing us down another road.

The diversion takes us to a checkpoint under a bridge in Shurta. This is where Iraqi government forces decided to stop Mahdi Army vehicles a few days ago. They found weapons and reported the militants. The militia responded by kidnapping all the officers they could from every checkpoint along this stretch. We hear they were released last night, chastened but unharmed. Rumor is, the Mahdi Army burned all their uniforms and ID cards as a warning. You can bet they won't be stopping any more Mahdi Army vehicles.

We get a call from the worried office manager, who tells us, "That's enough." So we head back to the hotel, fast-forwarding the cassette until we find the song we're looking for, the one that goes, "I have a country that I always miss." We sing along and pick up speed to create a breeze inside the hot car. We check the rearview window to make sure our chase vehicle is still within sight. The driver of the second car is a Dulaimy, from a famous Sunni tribe, so he can't afford to be stopped at a checkpoint in these parts. He's fine.

A guard holds a mirror under our car to look for bombs before allowing us into the hotel compound. All clear, we park and Hussein and I exchange the customary Arabic greeting for travelers who arrive safely at their destination. As we wait for the elevator, the driver of the chase car turns to me. He looks pale.

"I haven't driven those streets in two years."

Martha Stewart living

One of the best parts of staying in this particular hotel in Baghdad is the first-floor cafeteria -- not because of the food (it's horrendous), but because of the irreverent, hilarious guys from Sadr City and Doura who work behind the counter.

They're dirt-poor, they pull double shifts several times a week and one of them has a bullet wound on his chest that's a reminder of the harsh lives they lead once they clock out and return to their violent neighborhoods. And yet, for five years and counting, they've retained a mischievous humor and warm camaraderie that transcends their disparate faiths, sects and political beliefs. When the overbearing manager isn't around, the workers crack themselves up by answering room-service calls in menacing tones: "Interior Ministry. Who are you and what do you want?"

I had an hour to kill before the morning meeting today, so I went downstairs to have breakfast with them. They had the door to the courtyard open and a refreshing breeze aired out the stale dining area that looks to have been last renovated sometime in the early 1980s. It was 9 a.m. on a Friday morning, like a lazy Sunday in the States, so they didn't expect any customers until much later.

I found them smearing processed cheese on yesterday's hard leftover bread as they gathered around a suspended TV set to watch Martha Stewart's talk show, which was broadcast with Arabic subtitles. They oohed and ahhed over Martha's sample autumn table, laid out with sparkling crystal and a centerpiece of pumpkins and gourds.

"What's that orange thing?" a waiter asked. I couldn't recall the Arabic word for pumpkin, so I just said it was a really big squash.

They followed the subtitles as Martha explained how you arrange silverware from the outside in, salad fork and then dinner fork and so on.

"Why do Americans need so many forks?" one of the guys asked me. Beats me, I told him.

"But how does she eat her tishreeb?!" another joked, referring to the delicious Iraqi stew that can only be scooped up with a spoon or pieces of bread.

At the commercial break, the youngest waiter pointed to the crew leader and told me, "You see this guy? He's so mean. I worked two shifts yesterday and I'm still here serving breakfast!"

"Oh, go file a complaint at the human rights ministry!" the crew leader shot back.

The young waiter grabbed a tissue and pretended to cry. He told me he was in love with a Palestinian girl whose family still lived in Baghdad. Yesterday had been her birthday. He'd used his paltry salary to buy a cake and some perfume, but couldn't get the time off to arrange a secret meeting to give his sweetheart her gifts.

"They won't even let me spoil my Sou-sou!" he wailed, using his girlfriend's nickname. "I swear, if her family marries her off to that 51-year-old donkey who asked for her hand, then I'm going to die and it will be this guy's fault!"

"Nobody wants to hear your Hindi-film love story," the crew leader said. "Shh, Marrrrtha! Marrrrtha!"

Martha was back on and it was time for questions from the audience. First up was a pretty blonde woman who introduced herself as Suzy.

"Hi, ya Suzy!" a portly waiter said, "My name is Haider. Can I get to know you? Do you have a cell phone? You know, the land lines don't work so great here."

They laughed till they cried. Martha began chopping onions and dropping them into a pan, but before we could figure out what she was making, the electricity went off and the screen went dark.

Back to work, for them and for me. Before heading upstairs, I wished them a happy Norouz, the Iranian new year that's celebrated in Iraq as a spring festival. In the past, families would fill the parks with picnics and dancing.

"Is it Norouz?" the crew leader asked in disbelief. "My God! I'd completely forgotten. I really need a day off."

 

About that Obama speech

These are some of the descriptions several of my American friends and colleagues offered about Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama's landmark speech on race relations: riveting, amazing, honest, brilliant. One warned that it might bring me to tears.

I'd been too busy here in Baghdad to pay much attention to the speech when it first aired Tuesday. But after hearing rave reviews from people whose opinions I respect, I was eager to take a look for myself. I downloaded this transcript of the speech and started reading.

It started out as a smooth and compelling treatise on the state of race relations. Then I hit a road bump when Obama reiterated his condemnation of his pastor's incendiary remarks and suggested that, like him, "many of you have heard remarks from your pastors, priests or rabbis with which you strongly disagreed."

I was surprised that he didn't include "imams" in that line, given that Islam is one of the country's fastest-growing religions and that African Americans make up roughly a quarter of all Muslims in the United States, according to several reputable groups that track such figures. Oh, well. Minor peeve. Better to be invisible than stereotyped, I thought.

Then came the stereotyping, in this section:

"The remarks that have caused this recent firestorm weren't simply controversial. They weren't simply a religious leader's effort to speak out against perceived injustice. Instead, they expressed a profoundly distorted view of this country -- a view that sees white racism as endemic, and that elevates what is wrong with America above all that we know is right with America; a view that sees the conflicts in the Middle East as rooted primarily in the actions of stalwart allies like Israel, instead of emanating from the perverse and hateful ideologies of radical Islam."

Wait a sec -- did he just segue from domestic race relations to conflicts thousands of miles away that have zilch to do with the legacy of the American slave trade? How odd. I made some phone calls, dropped some Facebook notes and scoured the Internet to see if other Muslims or Arab Americans were similarly taken aback.

They were.

Nobody disagreed that there are some pretty perverse ideologies of "radical Islam." None of the friends or acquaintances I pestered about this could stand to live in the U.S.-friendly Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, much less under some even more draconian leadership such as the Taliban or al Qaida. But they were miffed that (a) Muslim Americans were left out of the line about the pastors and rabbis, as if their faith didn't exist or as if they never disagreed with their imams, and (b) that in a speech about healing and unity, the only mention of Islam was in a throwaway line that reinforced the stereotype of a hate-mongering, death-to-the-infidels faith.

Didn't Obama realize that in today's post-9/11 political climate, with U.S.-led wars raging in two Muslim countries and unrest in several others, that "radical Islam" already sounds redundant to many American ears? Of course he did, according to the people I informally polled.

So why inject a potentially incendiary remark into a speech meant to quell the backlash from an incendiary remark? Among the reasons my sources offered: Obama was overcompensating for the smear campaign about his own Muslim roots, he was reassuring the powerful pro-Israeli lobby that he wouldn't change the age-old policy of unconditional U.S. support, that he was trying to outdo McCain on Muslim-bashing to gain conservative votes. Others reasons were given, but those were the main ones that cropped up in my calls and email exchanges.

The Angry Arab website picked up on the debate, as did IslamOnline.net. Some Muslim or Arab Obama supporters gave him a pass, saying he's just playing the game he needs to play in order to get elected. Once in office, they wrote, surely he would pursue good relations with the Muslim and Arab voting bloc that's so enamored of him. They also noted his work in the past with Arab and Muslim groups in Chicago.

Other Arabs and Muslims felt a deep sense of betrayal from the candidate who adorns their Facebook and MySpace pages, the one whose middle name is so familiar, the one they campaign for at their universities. And yet most of these discussions are unfolding in private circles such as closed listservs, personal social-networking pages and through email trees, showing a lingering reluctance to gripe publicly about their favorite contender for the White House.

Nevertheless, a few did. Over at Democracy Arsenal, I found this comment:

"Considering how much he gets attacked for being a Muslim, this speech seemed like the perfect time for him to address that issue as well. He was giving a major speech about race and religion, yet he didn't even mention the issues that Muslims in the USA have. That would not bother me from someone like Clinton or McCain because they would have no particular reason to care about Muslims. But Obama is consistently slandered (if you can call if that) with false accusations of being Muslim. I am actually shocked that he did not confront that problem during this speech. At least to defend Islam, or to talk about the relationship between those attacks and other types of intolerance that he did talk about...that was a very sad omission. And one that almost seemed purposeful."

One commentator on the Angry Arab page wrote that he no longer felt like he had an option in this fiercely contested presidential race. He explained:

"I thought his speech was courageous about the race issue. However, it showed that Obama has some prejudice when it comes to one religion, Islam, and to one issue, Israel/Palestine. So he is reinforcing some prejudices while trying to alleviate others. Although his remark about Islam and Israel hurts, his approach is one of healing internal fractures. For the time being, it seems that Obama is casting out American Muslims and Arab Americans. They are the ones who will be the new blacks in Obama's perspective."

(photo taken from the Facebook page for the group "American Muslims for Obama.")

Five years

What is Iraq like five years since the U.S.-led invasion?

We asked some of our Iraqi staff members that question. You can hear their answers here in brief audio clips that speak to the disappointment, frustration and daily dangers shared by many, if not most, Iraqis.

We simply asked Iraqi colleagues to share an anecdote or two, to tell us what they remember most about that first night of "shock and awe" and to paint a picture for the listener about how their own lives have changed in the years since. Keep it conversational, they were advised. Plenty of other folks will make speeches.

But Laith, one of our hard-working correspondents, couldn't help but add a final flourish. After sharing his memories in a calm, even voice, he signed off with a defiant "God bless Iraq."

Of all the anniversary-related personal essays and lofty analyses I read this week, for some reason it was that last line from Laith that stuck.

A Shiite Tikriti

The other day I was interviewing a young Iraqi woman I'll call K about the lack of services in Baghdad when the conversation veered off track and we began discussing her family's unusual background and the problems it's caused.

K's father is a Sunni Muslim from Tikrit, Saddam's hometown, and comes from the same tribe as the late dictator. Her mother is a Shiite Muslim from Baghdad. Religion -- including sect -- is typically passed down through the father in Islam, but the children in K's family were raised as practicing Shiites and the entire family still lives in a Shiite area of Baghdad that is now controlled by the feared Mahdi Army militia.

K said the family grew nervous in the past year as the Mahdi Army attacked five Sunni homes on their street and drove all the Sunnis from the neighborhood. Yet they refused to move even after K's sister saw one of their neighbors killed right before her eyes.

One day, her brother was chatting with some of the neighborhood militiamen when one of them whispered that they'd heard there was still a Tikriti family living in the area.

"Tikritis here among us!" K's brother replied, trying to mask his terror. "May God Himself kill them immediately!"

He quickly ran home and alerted the family. The father, the only actual Tikriti in the family, is extremely ill with a neurological disorder and never leaves the home, offering him a degree of protection. And even the Mahdi Army has been known to show mercy upon women, especially if they're Shiites, so the family decided that the mother and daughters probably were safe. The ideal target was K's brother, the only young man in the family and the one who has to leave home every day to fetch groceries and fuel.

The very same night, K and her sisters dressed their brother in an abaya, the flowing black traditional robe worn by many Iraqi women, and smuggled him out of the neighborhood to the safety of a relative's home in another area.

Now it's K, the self-described "manager" of the family, who's in charge of the household affairs.

There's only one problem. K is a practicing Muslim, but she adamantly refuses to cover her hair and she favors snug fashionable clothing. For example, she showed up to our interview in a tight pink satin blouse, a skirt that reached only mid-calf and pointy-toed high heels. Dark eyeliner and lip gloss highlighted her beautiful face, and her hair swung to and fro in a coquettish ponytail. She also drives alone in her own car to and from work every day, establishing a pattern that couldn't have gone unnoticed by the ever-watchful militants.

We veered off track in the interview because I couldn't repress my curiosity. How on earth, I asked her, does a Shiite Tikriti living under control of the Mahdi Army get away with dressing as she does when these days even Christian women have begun to cover their hair to deflect attention?

K replied that she is simply tired of the fundamentalists who now rule Iraq, both in the government and in the streets, both Shiite and Sunni. The Mahdi Army doesn't mind if she drives, K said, but she has been warned by "concerned friends" about her exposed hair. Before the sectarian cleansing of her neighborhood, it was actually Sunni militants who were worse in their targeting of women, K said.

The threats got so numerous that one day she stopped caring. She went on about her daily routine, driving and dressing and praying as she wished, crediting only God with allowing her to survive each day.

"Remember when Zarqawi wrote that if you see a woman driving, kill her? Well, they might kill two or three to teach a lesson, but they can't kill all the women," K said casually, popping a pistachio candy in her mouth. She began to laugh triumphantly.

"And now what?" she asked. "Zarqawi is dead and I'm alive. I'm still here."

The distinguished visitor

Vice President Dick Cheney didn’t even give us time to recover from McCain’s visit before popping up unannounced in Baghdad today. Journalists traveling with the veep reported that he made at least six stealthy moves in and around the Green Zone, with details trickling out only after he’d departed the undisclosed locations.

I was scheduled to meet a U.S. military officer for lunch today in the Green Zone, but found our usual route into the fortress-like compound blocked by concrete barriers and coils of concertina wire. The bridge we use has been under construction lately, but today even the pedestrian entrance was closed, most likely as a precaution for Cheney’s visit.

To make the appointment on time, my driver and I had to travel across town through traffic jams and squares known for frequent roadside bombs targeting police or military patrols. We arrived at the official public entrance, the one Iraqi journalists are still forced to use, the one we sometimes call “Walk of Death” because we have to exit our cars and scurry to the gate at the risk of being caught in sniper fire from nearby rooftops or explosions aimed at the adjacent Iraqi foreign and defense ministries. (Note: This checkpoint has experienced considerably fewer attacks in the past year or so, though it’s still a creepy place with blast walls scarred by bullets and shrapnel.)

This labyrinthine series of checkpoints unsettles me not only because of the personal dangers, but because I always get the feeling that some official in the Green Zone decided which forces would man the stations according to a dubious sliding scale of the value of human life: the first and most exposed checkpoint is Iraqi, then come the Ugandans, then the Peruvians and, finally, Americans in the most protected interior part.

The U.S. military officer met me on the other side of the checkpoint. After eight days of chai and grilled meat in the outside world, I was looking forward to iced tea and American comfort food at the dining hall of the U.S. embassy, where the officer works. I climbed into his SUV and remembered to fasten my seat belt only after he did – outside the Green Zone, we don’t wear seatbelts in case we have to jump out if attacked.

Observing the posted speed limits (another departure from life outside the GZ), the officer drove us toward the palace only to find the streets blocked by U.S. military vehicles.

“But I work there!” protested the officer to a young soldier who waved us in the opposite direction of the palace.

“Orders,” the soldier replied curtly. “DV.”

“What’s DV?” I asked the officer.

“Distinguished visitor,” he said.

The officer said he knew of another entrance, so we tried and again failed to make it past heavily armed guards with strict orders to protect the DV’s route. (I won't stoop to say it could be for our own protection, but perhaps you remember that fateful hunting incident.) By this time, the officer was visibly frustrated and I sat silently in the passenger seat, my dreams of a salad bar and pecan pie quickly evaporating. As we reversed and prepared to leave the area, we noticed a ruckus at the gate.

“There he is!” the officer said.

A convoy of armored SUVs with darkened windows zipped down the street just a few yards from our vehicle. The convoy was escorted by a coterie of rumbling Humvees with the gunners’ posts spinning around like tops. There were other armored vehicles equipped with bomb-detecting sensors; attack helicopters circled overhead.

And then, in a flash, Cheney was gone.

“Wow,” I said. “His motorcade is smaller than Maliki’s!”

“Well, Maliki is pretty full of himself,” the officer answered.

We finally ended up eating a lackluster lunch with European troops at the NATO headquarters, which was actually kind of cool because it allowed me to see a corner of the Green Zone that’s normally off-limits to reporters. After the meeting, I was deposited at the “Walk of Death” checkpoint, where I was scooped up by my driver, Haider.

“You know what would be good surprise for Dick Cheney?” Haider asked, unprompted, in his broken English as soon as I got in the car. “He come and find Ahmadinejad wait for him in Green Zone. Hello, my friend!”

Haider giggled at the thought of this improbable meeting for the entire way back to the hotel. Once inside, I set about writing the daily round-up, taking feeds from Hussein, the stellar Iraqi correspondent who happened to be on the night shift. As I rewrote pool reports in which Cheney was quoted as praising the "phenomenal" security improvements in Iraq, Hussein alerted me to roadside bombs, mortar attacks and the horrific suicide bombing that killed more than 40 pilgrims in the southern holy city of Karbala.

Then Hussein excused himself for evening prayers. My American colleague, Steve, jokingly asked if Hussein would pray for him, too.

“I’ll pray for all Iraqis,” Hussein said. “And everyone in Iraq."

“Hey, you know Dick Cheney’s in Iraq,” I teased him.

“He is not included,” Hussein said tersely, heading off to his prayers.