We took the road to Salman Pak rather late in the morning. I had scrambled to find a fixer for the day, finally running into Rana. Rana has worked as a fixer for everyone from Al Jazeera to ABC's Nightline. Needless to say, I had to spend most of the time dropping references to my totally unpaid work and meager means. She found a driver outside the Palestine Hotel and we set on the way, listening to Armed Forces Network's Freedom Radio and smoking stale Iraqi cigarettes. There is something oddly soothing about passing through Baghdad's poor southern neighborhoods while listening to ACDC's Those Who Are About to Rock We Salute You throbbing in the speakers.
Salman Pak made sense for a simple day trip outside of Baghdad. Its along the road to Al Kut which follows the Euphrates River. It was notorious for the poor quality of water. As we drove on, Rana pointed out Dialia Nuclear Plant, hidden behind high concrete walls and barbed wire. It was there that ignorant locals broke into the facility to loot it, many making off with nuclear material drums for use in cooking and washing. Some four hundred drums had found there way through the rural area and even yet not all have been returned. Needless to say, its a highly toxic area, in addition to all of the normal waste that floats south from Baghdad in the river.
Salman Pak is a small town famous for the ancient site of Cstephon as well as the location of a great battle between early Muslims against the Persian empire. Cstephon is a remarkable structure, noted as housing the oldest standing archway in the world. Otherwise, its basically a large monolithic building, torn apart by thousands of years of earthquakes and neglect.
In the neighboring village of Al Dariyah, we came upon the home of Mohammed Jassim from whose backyard Cstephon's arch can be seen. Here two boys, Ahmed and Ali, were busy standing almost knee deep in mud scooping out water with buckets. Their entire yard outside their small home had been flooded by a broken pipe. It seemed like a fine place to begin a story about water issues.
The Jassim home was fed by an improvised plastic tube that served as their water source. It was installed after the war when the previous main was broken. But a few days ago this pipe broke as well, leaking pumped river water all over their land. "In the past the city would come and fix this no problem," Mohammed explained. "But now you have to pay them to do anything." The city had asked for at least 50,000 ID (almost $40), which is far beyond the poor family's means. Even if the pipe was fixed, it wouldn't be of much help. There is only electrisity for a few hours each day, at which times the pumps die. Mohammed is pensive about having his photo taken, for he is wearing his old army jacket for warmth.
Further down the road we came across two women busy fertilizing a cucumber and tomato farm just on the banks of the Euphrates. The thick brown waters rushed past rocks outlining the greenery. Their grandaughters, a baby boy and girl, sat in the leafy patches playing with the plants. The farmer that the women worked for was able to afford chlorine to sterilize the water they used, but otherwise it was taken straight from the neighboring river. In the course of our poking around, we had aroused the curiosity of the locals.

Soon enough a very helpful lawyer named Ali Ahmed arrived and offered to show us around the community of Al Dariyah. Wearing a dirty gray jebbah shirt, and broken sandles he looks unremarkable in contrast to the other famers. He first showed us a site where the a small water treatment plant was to have been built. The ground was already dug out and a concrete base had been laid down, but no work had been done in years. It was an empty promise to the local population, first not upheld by the Iraqi government and later by the UN who had originally promised to have it running by December 2002. Now of course there was no UN presence in the country. The facility would have been able to provide clean water to some 500,000 people, according to Ali. Now he explains, "no one is sure who is responsible for it."
Ali then took us down to the current water source - the Euphrates River. At one shore several pumps in flimsy brick and corrugated tin housings forced water into pipes that ran out in to the village. Some forty families depend on this highly contaminated water to work their farms, as well as provide other basic functions. And Al Daliyah is lucky - most villages in the region cannot even afford to have pumps. As we walk around the pumps, flocked by local school children who keep poking in front of the cameras, I step on large patches of white crystals. Water that has evaporated on the soil reveals enormous amounts of salt - hardly something helpful for farming.
There is a slight improvement for power though, they claim. "During Saddam we had power for two days a week," Ali claims. "Now we have it for a few hours each day." There has been one huge benefit from the fall of Saddam here. It turns out that the town now takes its power from the nearby Republican Guard army base just a mile away. Additionally, across the river was one of Saddam's favorite spots to relax at, and hence with a superb power infrastructure.
On the otherhand, the regime provided some benefits to the farmers. Chemical fertilizers were subsidized by the government, and now with the price has risen over seven times the original cost. This has led to the shut down of several small farms and put out many families. (A few days later we were to meet economic refugees from the area who moved to a garbage dump in Baghdad because they could make more money there.)

We paid a visit to one of the city's medical centers. Here we spoke to one of the doctors, Yehia Bakr. He was unable to provide us with much comprehensive information, but told us a few things about the problems in the community from the water. Most cases that came in were from gastro-entritus and other stomach ailments as well as respiratory diseases. Cholera seemed to be on the rise as well. And he asserts that at least 10% of people who come in complaining of fever turn out to have malaria. All the factors Iraq has faced have led to grave problems. "Because of the blocade from the UN, the war and now no law or distribution, we have only minimal abilities to treat anyone," Dr. Bakr complained.

Remarkably one of Khazi Faisal's children, Yousif, had to be treated for dehydration a few months before, even though their small farm neighbor's Salman Pak's water treatment plant. Khazi's small plot just off the road to the plant, is mainly used for growing food for his few cows and chickens. His home consists of only a couple rooms, yet he manages to fit inside himself, his wife and seven children.
I run through my usual survey, asking about power and water. Khazi claims to only have two hours of electrisity, if even that per day. And he asserts that the water was cleaner and much more ample before the war. His income however has risen quite a bit, although he now has to deal with lost subsities and soaring prices.
We stopped also at another large farm, where tennants rent out sections of a field of three square kilometers. Here Mohammed Abdul, 47, and his nine children work along side some five other families in growing a variety of vegetables. Mohammed, unlike everyone else, has absolutely nothing bad to say about living standards and the civil situation of the town. Mainly this is because he is well connected with his local tribe who all support and look out for eachother. His boys run circles around us as we walk through the fields for a look.
Rana stops me and asks for me to take her photo among the tomato stalks. Just another city girl in the country.

Shortly after an MRE lunch of beef stew, I suited up. A small squad was to head out under the command of Lt. Joshua Schneider. At 27, he had a two year old sun back in Illinois whom he hadn't seen since November. I reflected on our respective ages. He was younger than me, looked even younger than that and was a very quiet man. But he was able and focused. He freely joked with his soldiers but wore responsibility well. We were to do a foot patrol in a village outside of Balad, look for suspicous vehicles and later on set up an ambush at a site frequently used for mortar attacks.

"We've driven Bradleys past these farms and the kids don't wave," Lt. Schneider explained. "That's why we have to check it out. Something is up if they aren't waving." So for the first time, soldiers were to head out on foot and check out a variety of houses. The orders were to also confiscate illegal weapons. Every family was entitled to own one rifle and one clip which was to be kept at home. Anything additional would be confiscated. A red truck had been seen near some mortar attacks, so we were to document the plates for any family owning one.

The day was bright and clear. For early February in Iraq, it was rather warm and soon enough under my shirt, jacket and flak vest, I was gushing sweat. The American soldiers don't knock. There is no warning other than gossip in the village that they are there. The gate is opened and in they walk. Young children begin crying while older ones look on with confusion. As this was midday, we were basically running into all female households although many unemployed men remained indoors too.

Once on the property and after a scout around the home, a small squad would stand guard as Lt. Schneider and the translator moved inside. They demanded to see the family's weapon and took down names. Our entrances seemed rather random, mainly only visiting families with pickup trucks. Dogs barked the entire way. It seemed as if they were trained to smell Americans. At one farm a soldier wound up pointing his weapon at a particular animal that wouldn't stay quiet. Family members scrambled to curtail the dogs. And on we went, into a half dozen farm homes and spending a few hours walking around.

It was at that point that it happened. I took one for the US Army.
As the soldiers darted through the apartment, and the old woman stammered about, crying for her grandchildren, I hurried to get my camera ready. In my fumbling way, I lost its grip and dropped it onto the tiled floor. And, just as I bent down to retrieve my camera, RRRRAAAAPP!!
It wasn't a gunshot. It wasn't destroyed property. It was my tired slacks tearing apart from one end to the other in an astonishingly rapid manner.
I stumbled for a recovery. Grabbed the camera and spun so as to have my partially exposed ass against a wall. No one heard it. The soldiers were still milling about in the kitchen and the old woman had followed them with her unceasing complaints. I slung my camera bag across my behind to cover my faux pas, and did my best to recover. A few nominal photographs. Picture of a girl. A soldier. Yeah, no one will notice my horrible shame. No one will know that American tax dollars were spent on a campaign where my exposed Perry Ellis' were the only casualty.

The strategy for the ambush was simple. A site of previous known mortar attacks was chosen and a couple hundred meters away the troops fan out into the orchards and lie in wait. It was a hit or miss game, as nothing could be certain. Locations had to be somewhat consistant, as the insurgents were presumed to get a fix from a few sites and so as to not have to recalibrate all the time, they would reuse these locations. The times however, could change. Months before, the mortar attacks were in the mid-evening. Now they seemed to come just before twilight. And there were an average of two attacks per week, so it was really a random stab.

"We're watching for either a red pickup or a white one with a red stripe," Lt. Schneider explained. And almost, as if on cue, a white pickup with said red stripe rumbled past our position with two old men inside. The lieutenant grabbed his radio. "Watch that truck," he called to one of the other positions. Nothing. Some five minutes later the same truck came past again. It was odd, but ultimately proved to be nothing. Slowly Lt. Schneider moved from kneeling to laying on his belly with his gun at the ready. I looked behind. The translator was napping in the grass and on his back ala Beetle Bailey with his cap over his face.

Somehow I found myself involved. I began to watch the sporatic traffic along the farm road as well. I even made a suggestion. I asked the Lieutenant if the low rumble of the Bradleys not too far off would warn away any potential attackers. He seemed to think that it might be a factor and radioed for them to stop moving around. What was I doing?

But after some 45 minutes, the Lieutenant had had enough. The sun was not even setting yet, but Lt. Schneider decided that we had spent long enough waiting in the orchards. The Bradleys pulled up and we loaded in. After a short ride, we were back at the Alpha FOB and chowing down on chicken that seemed as if it had been waxed with grease.

That evening as I waited around for the midnight raid to be prepared, I passed the time in the TV lounge with the translator. He was a Kurd who had earlier made comments about how all the Arabs were "fucking thieves" and had nothing but disdain and contempt for them. I wanted to check his degree of religious fervor and so when the news focused on the controversy in France about banning the wearing of headscarves in schools, I asked for his thoughts. "Its the Jews. The Jews are making them do this." Finally, I had met someone who hated Arabs >and< Jews alike. A true anti-semite.