Under the Gun
For three years, a Journal reporter in Baghdad tried to work and live normally -- as the war closed in.
Two days before leaving Baghdad, I canceled my last interviews, abandoned the carefully planned trips around town to say good-bye to Iraqi friends and ditched the farewell party with fellow journalists.
It wasn't how I imagined my departure from Iraq would be, after three years of living and working there as a correspondent for The Wall Street Journal. But the British security firm we hired had warned in an email that insurgents were plotting to kidnap a female American journalist and advised women not to leave their hotel unless absolutely necessary.
Several weeks later, my friend Jill Carroll, a correspondent for the Christian Science Monitor, was abducted in broad daylight at gunpoint as she left an interview in Baghdad. Her Iraqi translator was murdered. As I write this, despite pleas for her release the world over, Jill remains in captivity.
I began going to Iraq in October of 2002, when it was still ruled by Saddam Hussein. I covered the war from the Kurdish northern area, moving to Baghdad after the regime fell. For about a year after the U.S.-led invasion -- from the spring of 2003 to 2004 -- reporting in Iraq was challenging, but didn't always seem life-threatening. I shared the job of running our Baghdad bureau with my colleague Yochi Dreazen. We had a small staff of dedicated Iraqi employees who assisted us in gathering news. We could go almost anywhere in Iraq on a moment's notice and discover fascinating stories. We traveled in a regular car, unprotected. I wore Western clothes -- pants and T-shirts, skirts, sandals -- and walked freely around Baghdad, chatting with shopkeepers and having lunch or dinner with people I met.
'LIFE STILL DOES GO ON'
Farnaz Fassihi speaks with Patrice Sikora of Wall Street Journal Radio about her time in Iraq. Listen to the short interview:
Windows Media | RealPlayerI tried to make a home in Iraq, a task that seemed feasible at first, but grew more and more difficult. In the quest for a safe place, I moved eight times. Each location was more heavily fortified than the last. For a time, I lived with other journalists in a villa with black marble floors and wood-paneled walls and a garden dotted with orange and date trees, in the upscale neighborhood of Mansur. We left that house in 2004, after, within the space of a few weeks, a car bomb exploded outside our house and several foreigners were abducted and beheaded in the neighborhood.
The Hamra Hotel, where we maintained an office, is now barricaded behind blast walls, cement road blocks, checkpoints manned by armed guards and iron gates installed at the entrance. But even that didn't deter an attack on the hotel last November, when a truck packed with 1,000 tons of explosive detonated at the gate. Fortunately, it was too early for anyone to be in our office. It was demolished.
My Iraq assignment, at first a source of pride, eventually became my family's worst nightmare. They battled enormous anxiety, struggling to support my decision to stay in Baghdad. My grandmother, who lives in Iran, couldn't comprehend that I had volunteered for the post and kept insisting I immediately resign. I tried to protect them by being vague and downplaying the danger. I called and emailed after every massive explosion. My younger sister and only sibling, Tannaz, got engaged last summer. She had one request: "Your only gift to me is if you stop going back to Iraq. I just want you alive and at my wedding."
I was incredibly fortunate to be in Iraq with my boyfriend, Babak Dehghanpisheh, a correspondent for Newsweek magazine, whom I met while covering the war in Afghanistan. Being in Baghdad together was remarkable, but it also multiplied the fear and anxiety. Once, early on, we were stuck behind a bombed-out bridge in Tikrit when an angry mob swarmed our car, slamming sticks and rifles on the windows, shouting "Infidels, we will kill you."
"Sahafi, Sahafi," we shouted, using the Arabic word for "journalist." The Marines, who were on the other side of the river, noticed the commotion and came to our rescue. They dispersed the crowd and gave us refuge inside Saddam Hussein's Palace, where they had just arrived.
Another time, we were chased and fired on by a gang of men on the highway north of Baghdad. Babak threw our flak jackets on our bodies and pinned me to the floor of the car, promising he wouldn't let them take me. Our driver saved our lives by outrunning the gunmen.
As the madness around us grew, the desire to create something resembling a domestic life intensified. We became experts in turning the dingiest rooms into somewhat cheerful spaces. I lit vanilla candles to get rid of the rotten smell and threw an orange and red tribal Kilim on the torn-up carpet of one room. Babak put Kevlar blankets on the window and taped up the glass to protect us from shrapnel and bullets. I had a coffee-maker and decent coffee. He had DVDs of the latest Hollywood movies and a selection of music.
If the hotel or house happened to have a kitchen, I cooked dinner, preferably the most non-Iraqi recipe I could think of, like pad thai, tacos, coconut curries or banana pancakes for Valentine's Day. I cherished mundane tasks like grocery shopping, lingering in the aisles of the Honey Market, a Christian-owned supermarket that imported exotic goods such as bacon and lemongrass. There were candle-lit dinners interrupted by gunfire outside and movie nights cut short when electricity went out.
Ms. Fassihi at the site of a civilian home bombed by Americans in Baghdad
We formed intense friendships with other journalists, monitoring each other for security. If we had people over for dinner, we had to count not just the number of plates, but also the number of beds and linens we could provide; it had become too dangerous for guests to go home after dark. Among reporters, a favorite escape was surfing the Internet, planning vacations, preferably as far from the Middle East as possible. We exchanged tips on diving and hiking expeditions, airline deals and restaurants in the Caribbean and Africa.
The worst stress for Babak and me was when one of us was safe and the other in harm's way. In September 2004, I was on the phone with Babak, who was out of Iraq, when a car bomb exploded outside the house in Mansur that we shared with other foreigners. The force of the explosion threw me to the floor, but it didn't disconnect the line. He heard the boom, then my scream, the glass shattering and the chaotic shouts of the staff in Arabic. Pieces of flesh and metal rained into our garden. For hours, we stayed trapped inside the house as we pondered what to do next. If we left, the insurgents could be around the corner and abduct us. If we stayed, they could storm the house or mortar it. Babak called at least once every half hour. The next day, we evacuated.
In November 2004, Babak embedded with the third battalion, first Marine division entering Fallujah, one of the first units to take on the insurgents. I was dispatched to Ramallah, West Bank, to cover Yasser Arafat's impending death. On the day Arafat died, Babak called. He told me the unit had suffered casualties. Midway through the conversation, I heard machine gunfire and the Marines shouting at him. "Gotta go, gotta go," he said abruptly, and the line went dead.
It took 36 hours for him to call back. I remember barely being able to function, wandering around among mobs of Palestinians who had poured onto the streets to grieve for Arafat. I spotted a satellite truck parked in the square and a news photographer, whom I didn't know, filing his pictures. I asked him if he had access to the newswires and could check for an update on Fallujah. I must have been crying because he only asked "Who's there?" He didn't even wait for a reply, just handed me his laptop.
Being a woman correspondent in an Arab Muslim culture proved to be a huge asset. Men -- even politicians -- are often less guarded, and women allow you inside their homes and into their lives. When security deteriorated, it was much easier for women reporters to travel incognito under local garb and head scarves. My Iranian-American identity became particularly useful. I was born in Idaho to Iranian parents, who were Muslim but secular. As a small child, I was raised in Tehran, then moved back to the U.S. in 1979, after the Islamic revolution in Iran.
I wore and shed my heritage and upbringing depending on the situation. With American soldiers, I stressed growing up in Oregon and going to school in New York. With Iraqis, being Iranian was a source of bonding; the bitter war between the two nations is mostly blamed on the governments and the people often feel more kinship than animosity. Even our staff in Iraq told me I wasn't "entirely American." In their eyes, I wasn't from a distant, privileged nation but from a country next door that, like Iraq, had known -- to a much-lesser degree -- war, upheaval, sanctions and suffering.
The current climate of fear in Iraq was a gradual transformation. It began in April of 2004 with the murder and mutilation of four security contractors in Fallujah and the uprising of Shiite militia in Sadr City. The insurgency was spreading and gaining strength faster than we had imagined possible. For the first time, I hired armed guards and began traveling in a fully armored car. Outings were measured and limited and road trips were few and far between.
By the fall of 2004, insurgents were abducting foreigners from their homes in Baghdad. I began relying heavily on our staff for setting up interviews, conducting street reporting and being my eyes and ears in Baghdad. Occasionally, they managed to persuade Iraqis to come to our hotel for interviews, giving me a chance to interact personally with sources and subjects.
As security deteriorated around the country, the areas in which we could safely operate shrank. We could no longer jump in the car and travel to various provinces and find out how things were faring. For stories outside Baghdad, we had to travel with the U.S. military or the State Department. Embedding with the American military or government wasn't the perfect solution, but it still offered a glimpse, albeit limited, into what was happening in areas where we couldn't travel independently. We also relied on Iraqi reporters we hired to provide information about places we could not go.
Their help allowed us to get stories on how regular Iraqi citizens were coping. For a story about how the rise of sectarian violence was changing relationships among neighbors in the mixed Shiite-Sunni neighborhood of Doura, our Iraqi team set out to local mosques, barber shops, grocery stores and cafs, talking to dozens of people. When we determined we had a story, the Iraq staff chose several people and drove them to our hotel, where I spent hours interviewing each of them.
I marvel at the commitment and courage of our Iraqi staffers, in helping tell the story of their country, despite grave risks to them and their families. I have withheld their last names for their protection. We went to great lengths to make sure they weren't associated with us; if they were seen working with Americans it would endanger them.
By the end of last year, we had strict security measures in place and reviewed them each time we left the house, whether to conduct an interview or to buy milk. As a rule of thumb, we never stayed anywhere for more than half an hour because any longer would allow time for a kidnapping to be orchestrated.
Drivers made sure our armored car and "chase" car -- which follows the first car as a surveillance vehicle -- were running smoothly. A guard loaded his AK-47 rifle and secured a handgun to his waist. Haqi, our translator and office manager, tested the walkie-talkie radios and placed the first-aid kit in the back seat. I draped myself in a head-to-toe black abbaya covering, the traditional attire of conservative Arab women, and sat in the back.
The goal was to be invisible, to not be noticed as a foreigner when stuck in traffic, behind a red light or whizzing through Baghdad streets. You just never knew who was sitting in the car next to you. Would they pull out a gun? Would they spot the car and chase you down the road? Would they drag you out? Who would sell you out? Would they have mercy on your Iraqi staff?
In addition to the Iraqis I met and interviewed for stories, the war was unfolding intimately before me, through day-to-day contact with the staff. They would come to work sleep-deprived because, in summer heat of 120 degrees, they had no electricity to turn on air conditioning nor could they sleep outside because of stray bullets and random gunfire. One staffer invested two years of savings from work for us into a shop -- and then robbers stormed in one afternoon and swept it clean of cash and goods.
The random nature of the violence was devastating. In Baghdad, kidnappings of Iraqis for money became common, with dozens of people abducted daily. One of our drivers was kidnapped one afternoon when he went to pick up a relative from the hospital. The kidnappers hung him upside down and went through every name in his cellphone and asked who they were. Like many Iraqis, he didn't keep foreign names in his phone, as a safety precaution. He was released after his family paid a cash ransom. A Shiite doctor, the 32-year-old cousin of one of our translators, was murdered outside his house, in a wave of sectarian attacks on doctors.
"We live like animals in the wild," Munaf, another driver, would often say. "We eat, we sleep and we try not to get killed each day."
I left Iraq on Dec. 18. On the morning of my departure, the Iraqi staff arrived early to review security procedures and prepare for the airport journey. I made them tea and we sat in the garden munching cookies stuffed with fresh dates, baked for me by my driver's mother.
The six miles ride to the airport, which is located inside an American military base, is on one of the most dangerous roads in the country due to landmines, shooting sprees and car bombs aimed at military convoys. Missiles frequently hit the airport, landing near the runway; I counted two that day. Planes corkscrew sharply, like a rocket, as they land and take off to avoid being downed by enemy fire. At the airport, the staff and I had a tearful good-bye. I wished I was leaving them in better circumstances. Our relationship had grown from working together to find stories to trusting each other with our lives.
"This isn't good-bye," I told them. Haqi, my gregarious assistant and office manager, hugged me and said, "They can take you out of Iraq but they won't be able to take Iraq out of you."
I have now settled into my new home in Beirut, Lebanon, where as the Journal's senior Middle East correspondent, I will be covering Iran and the Arab world. A new correspondent will succeed me in Baghdad.
Beirut, a once dangerous, war-torn city is now relatively safe, cosmopolitan and booming. Two decades ago, foreign correspondents fled Lebanon in fear for their lives; now they are flocking back, setting up homes and regional bureaus as the city reclaims its reputation as the "Paris of the Middle East." I can only hope for a similar future for Iraq.
战火笼罩下的巴格达记者（上）
离开巴格达前两天，我取消了最后几次采访，不再按照精心策划过的路线绕城探望我的伊拉克朋友们，和他们道别，也取消了和记者朋友们的告别宴会。
作为《华尔街日报》(The Wall Street Journal)的记者，在伊拉克工作和生活了整整三年，我从没想过要这样离开。但我们聘请的英国保安公司发来电子邮件警告说，反抗派别正在策划绑架一名美国女记者，建议女性除非必要否则不要离开入住的酒店。
几周以后，我的朋友、《基督教科学箴言报》(Christian Science Monitor)记者吉尔?卡洛尔(Jill Carroll)就在光天化日之被持枪者绑架了，当时她刚在巴格达完成了一次采访。陪同她采访的伊拉克翻译被枪杀。就在我写这篇文章的时候，尽管大家都在为她的获释努力，她仍然被囚禁著。
我是在2002年10月、萨达姆?侯赛因(Saddam Hussein)仍然在位时动身前往伊拉克的。起初，我报道伊拉克北部地区库尔德人的战争，在萨达姆倒台后到了巴格达。美军入侵后大约一年时间里──从2003年春季到2004年──在伊拉克的采访报道活动都是困境重重，但并不总是遇到生命危险。我和同事Yochi Dreazen一起负责本报巴格达分社的工作。我们在当地雇了少量的员工，他们非常敬业，帮我们四处找新闻。我几乎总能在最短时间达到伊拉克的任何地方，采写各类精彩的消息和报道。我们用一辆没有任何防护的汽车四处采访。我一身西方打扮──短裤、T恤衫、衬衫和便鞋──在巴格达四处随意游走，和店主聊天、和遇到的人们共进午餐或者晚餐。
我尽力把伊拉克当作自己的家，这最开始看起来不难，但后来就变得越来越难了。为了找一个安全的住处，我搬了足足八次家。每一处的安全防御都比前一处更多。还有一次，我和另外几位记者朋友一起住进摩苏尔郊外一处别墅，黑色大理石地板配著镶木墙面，还有橘子树和枣树点缀著花园里的美景。2004年我们匆匆搬离了这里，因为在几周时间内，院外发生了汽车炸弹爆炸事件，周围还有几名外国人被绑架后斩首。
我们在Hamra酒店有一间办公室，现在已经被重重街垒包围起来，卫兵们荷枪实弹在关键处防守，入口处安装了厚重的铁门。但就这样也没能躲过去年11月的一次袭击，一辆满载了1,000吨爆炸物的卡车在酒店大门爆炸。幸运的是，爆炸时间很早，我们办公室里没人。但办公室已被严重毁坏。
我在伊拉克的工作最初还是我家人的骄傲，后来就成了全家人的噩梦。他们整日被无边的焦虑困扰，克服无数内心的挣扎才能支持我继续留下来。我的祖母住在伊朗，她没法理解我竟然自愿申请这份工作，不断催促我赶快辞职。我总是报喜不报忧，或者尽量少报忧，想以此安慰他们。每一次巴格达发生大规模爆炸事件之后，我都会打电话或者发电子邮件回家，报个平安。我唯一的妹妹去年夏天订婚。她对我只有一个愿望：“你能给我的唯一的礼物就是不要再回巴格达了。我只想你能活著，参加我的婚礼。”
我能和男朋友Babak Dehghanpisheh一起留在巴格拉，真的是万幸。他是《新闻周刊》(Newsweek)的记者，我们在报道阿富汗战争时相遇。能一起呆在巴格达真是太难得了，不过恐惧和焦虑也同样加倍。曾经有一次，我们去提克利特采访，被困在一处炸毁的大桥前。车外一群暴徒蜂涌过来，冲我们挥舞著棍棒和步枪，大喊“异教徒，我们要杀了你们。”
“Sahafi, Sahafi”我们冲著窗外大喊，这是阿拉伯语“记者”的意思。对岸的美国海军陆战队士兵发现了情况，赶过来把我们解救出来。他们驱散了聚众之徒，在他们刚刚占领的萨达姆宫殿里给我们找了一处地方。
还有一次，我们在巴格达北部的高速公路上遭一群人追赶、射击。Babak赶紧把防弹背心扔到我们身上，把我按到车厢地板上，向我保证不会让他们抓住我。司机救了我们一命，他开车成功甩掉了那些持枪歹徒。
身边的疯狂气息一天天加重，我们渴望感受故乡生活气息的念头也随之加深。我俩成了改造专家，能在昏暗邋遢的陋室营造欢乐的气氛。屋里味道不好，我就点上香蜡；有一间屋子的地毯破败不堪了，我就用一块橙色搭配红色的土耳其风格的花毯替代；Babak用一块Kevlar毛毯遮住窗户，用胶带贴好窗玻璃，以防我们被流弹击中。我有一个咖啡机，还有很棒的咖啡。他有最新的好莱坞大片影碟，还有一套精选的音乐光盘。
如果酒店或者住处碰巧有厨房，我就自己下厨。绞尽脑汁准备一份最没有伊拉克风味的大餐，像泰式炒饭、墨西哥玉米卷、椰汁咖喱或者香蕉薄饼等等。就连去杂货店也被我视如珍宝，每每在Honey Market的货架之间流连忘返。这是一家基督教徒开的超市，进口各种难得的食品，像熏肉和柠檬香草等等。我们在一起，无数次的烛光晚餐被外面的枪声打断，无数个共赏影碟的夜晚因停电不得不中断。
我们和其他的记者朋友们在战火和炮声中结下了深厚的友谊，互相关照注意安全。如果有朋友来吃晚饭，我们不但要数数盘子够不够，还要准备好床铺和亚麻床单，因为深夜离开太危险了。在记者圈里，最受欢迎的解脱之道就是在网上冲浪、安排假期，离中东越远越好。我们互相交流潜水和徒步旅行的心得，告知在加勒比和非洲哪里能买到打折的机票，哪家餐厅美食诱人。
我和Babak最担心的时候就是我俩一个人安然无恙，而另一个吉凶未卜。2004年9月的一次，我跟当时不在伊拉克的Babak通电话，我们在摩苏尔寄居的那处别墅外面突然有一辆汽车爆炸，炸弹的冲击力把我撞倒在地板上，但是电话线没断。他先是听到一声巨响，然后就是我的尖叫，玻璃被炸碎四处掉落，别的人用阿拉伯语大声嚷嚷著什么。血肉残肢和金属碎片一起掉落到花园里。好几个小时，我们被困在房子里，不知道接下来该怎么办。如果离开，暴乱分子可能就等在街角，正好绑架我们。如果不走，他们可能会冲进来，或者干脆用大炮炸平这里。Babak至少每隔半小时打过来一次电话，看我们是否平安。直到第二天，我们才得救。
2004年11月还有一次，Babak随军进入费卢杰，那是进入该地区镇压叛乱的第一支军队。当时我被派往西岸拉马拉，采访奄奄一息的阿拉法特的病情。阿拉法特去世那天，Babak打来电话，说他跟随的那支部队有伤亡。正说到一半，我就听到冲锋枪开火，士兵冲他大喊。他匆忙说了句，“我得走了！我得走了！”，线就断了。
整整36个小时之后，他才又一次打进来。我记得自己当时已经快要崩溃了，四周都是涌上街头悼念阿拉法特的巴勒斯坦民众。我一眼瞄见广场上停著的一辆卫星通讯卡车，有位新闻摄影师正在处理照片文件。我根本不认识他，但还是走过去向他打听费卢杰的近况。我当时肯定已经泣不成声，因为他只问了一句“谁在哪儿？”就毫不犹豫地把他的笔记本电脑塞给了我。
战火笼罩下的巴格达记者（下）
在阿拉伯穆斯林世界里，一位女记者具有很大的优势：男性──甚至是政客们往往对女记者都不那么戒备，而女性则会允许你进入他们的家庭和他们的生活。当时局变得危险时，女记者也更易隐入人群，只要穿上当地服装、围上头巾就可以了。我的美籍伊朗裔身份变得尤其有用。我出生在美国爱达荷州，父母都是伊朗穆斯林，但并非教徒。从小我在德黑兰长大，1979年伊朗伊斯兰革命后又回到了美国。
在不同的环境里，我所展现的自己的文化传承和成长经历都不同。和美军士兵在一起时，我体现的是在俄勒冈州长大、在纽约念书的经历。和伊拉克人在一起时，表现自己是个伊朗人能让他们感到亲近；残酷的两伊战争主要是因政府而起，两国人民之间还是常常感到亲近，而非仇恨。即使是我们的伊拉克雇员也告诉我，我并非是个彻头彻尾的美国人。在他们眼中，我并非来自一个遥远、受到上天眷爱的国家，而是来自一个熟知战争、动乱、禁运和苦难的邻国，比如伊拉克。
如今伊拉克挥之不去的恐怖气氛是逐步形成的。最初是2004年4月，费卢杰的四个保安人员被杀，萨德尔什叶派游击队发动暴动。叛乱四处蔓延，势头越来越猛，发展之快超出我们任何人的想像。我破天荒地聘请了武装保镖，并开始用一辆全副武装的汽车作为代步工具。每次外出都要经过仔细考虑，出行次数和范围大大缩减。
2004年秋天，叛乱分子闯入了巴格达一些外国人的家里，绑架了外国人质。我开始高度依赖伊拉克雇员来安排采访和进行街头报导，他们成为了我在巴格达的眼睛和耳朵。有时，他们能成功地说服伊拉克人来到我们的酒店接受采访，使我有机会与消息人士和当事人有直接的互动。
随著伊拉克全国的安全局势恶化，我们的安全活动范围也越来越小。我们再也不能随时跳上车，开到不同的省份，亲眼看看情况究竟如何进展。如果要报导巴格达以外地区，我们就必须和美军士兵或美国国务院的官员同行。虽然和美军或政府人员混在一起，并非最佳的解决办法，但它还是能让我们一睹那些我们无法独自到达地区的情况，虽然这种观察也是有限的。我们也依赖雇佣的伊拉克记者为我们提供那些我们无法到达地区的信息。
他们的帮助使得我们能写出描述普通伊拉克公民现状的那些报导。比如，有一篇报导是关于在巴格达南部什叶派-逊尼派混居的杜拉区、宗派暴力正在如何改变邻里关系，为此我们的伊拉克雇员走访了那里的清真寺、理发店、杂货铺和咖啡吧，并和几十个人进行了交谈。当我们决定值得为此写一篇报导时，伊拉克雇员选了几个人，并驾车将他们送到了我们的酒店，在酒店里我对他们每个人都进行了几个小时的采访。
我惊叹于伊拉克雇员们在协助报导该国真实情况时体现出来的执著和勇气，虽然这给他们及其家人带来了巨大的风险。为了保护他们，我一直不透露他们的名字。我们花了很大的努力确保他们不与我们有任何关联；如果他们被看到和美国人一起工作，这会给他们带来危险。
到去年年底，我们已采取了严格的安全措施，每次出门时都会按步骤仔细审查一番，不管是出门去采访、还是买牛奶。我们从不在一个地方停留超过半个小时，因为如果超过这个时间犯罪分子就可能有时间导演一场绑架。
驾驶员确保我们全副武装的汽车和跟车（即跟在第一辆车后作为侦察车用）能顺利行驶。保镖会将AK-47步枪上膛，并在腰里别一只手枪。我们的翻译兼办公室主任Haqi负责测试对讲无线电，并在汽车后座放上急救箱。我身穿一件保守的阿拉伯妇女传统著装、从头到脚的黑色长袍，坐在汽车后排。
这样做的目的就是不要惹眼：如果遇上堵车、红灯或穿越巴格达街道时，不要被认出是外国人。你永远都不知道坐在旁边一辆车里的是谁。他们会不会开枪？他们会不会认出你的车，一路追上来？他们会不会把你从车里拖出来？会不会有人出卖你？他们会不会对伊拉克雇员手下留情？
除了那些采访遇到的伊拉克人，从那些每天接触到的伊拉克雇员身上，我也能时时刻刻感到战争的存在。有时他们来上班时能明显看出睡眠不足，因为在夏天华氏120度的高温下，他们没有电力启动空调。由于流弹和零星的交火，他们也不敢睡到屋外去。一个伊拉克雇员将为我们工作了两年、积攒下来的钱投资了一家小店，但一个下午强盗们将小店内的现金和货物一抢而空。
暴力事件随时可能发生。在巴格达，劫持伊拉克人索取赎金的情况越来越普遍，每天都会有几十个人被绑架。有一天下午，我们的一个司机在去接一个亲戚出院的时候被劫持了。劫匪将他倒挂起来，打他手机中的每个电话，并问他们是谁。和许多伊拉克人一样，为了避免麻烦，他没有在手机通讯录中保存外国人的名字。在家人支付了一笔现金赎金后，他被释放了。一位32岁的什叶派医生是我们一个翻译的亲戚，在一轮针对医生的宗派袭击中死在了家门外。
“我们就像野外的动物一样生活著，”另一位驾驶员Munaf常常说，“除了吃和睡，我们每天还要避免自己被杀。”
12月18日，我离开了伊拉克。在我离开的那天早上，伊拉克雇员们提前来到办公室，检查了一遍安全措施，并为前往机场作准备。我为他们准备了茶，坐在花园里高兴地吃著新鲜的枣子饼干，这是我的驾驶员的母亲为我烘烤的。
到达设在美军基地内的机场有6英里路，这是伊拉克境内又一条最危险的道路，有地雷、流弹威胁以及针对美军运输车队的汽车炸弹。常常会有导弹落在机场跑道附近，当天我就看到了两枚。为了防止被敌方火力击中，飞机著陆和起飞时就像火箭一样迅速上升或下降。在机场，伊拉克雇员们和我含泪告别。我真希望走的时候情况不是这样糟糕。在一起工作寻找新闻线索、在危险面前肝胆相照，我们已建立了深厚的友谊。
“这不是告别，”我说。Haqi拥抱了我，说：“他们能把你带出伊拉克，但不能把伊拉克从你的心中带走。”
我现在已在黎巴嫩贝鲁特的新家安顿下来，作为《华尔街日报》高级中东记者。我将负责报导伊朗和阿拉伯世界。一位新的记者将接任我在巴格达的职位。
曾经危险丛生、饱受战争摧残的贝鲁特如今是一个相对安全、都市化和蓬勃发展的城市。二十年前，担心生命安全的外国记者纷纷撤离黎巴嫩，如今他们正大批返回，在黎巴嫩建立新家，设立地区记者站，这个城市又重获其“中东巴黎”的称号。我只能希望伊拉克也会有一个类似的明天。
