Mulig det bare er meg, men jeg er ikke fornøyd over måten mediene dekker Irak-okkupasjonen. Det er ingen vestlige journalister utenfor den grønne sonen i Baghdad, da det er altfor utrygt for dem å gå utenfor. Noen få modige irakiske journalister ofrer imidlertid livet sitt hver dag for å bringe oss de få bildene og filmene vi får fra Irak. Dette fører til at "våre" journalister ikke får stilt de spørsmålene de ønsker. Mange spørsmål kan imidlertid besvares dersom man tar seg tid til å lese irakiske blogger.

Jeg har lest gjennom en del blogposter, skrevet av irakere utenfor den grønne sonen, og kom i dag over en jeg mener sier det meste. Temaet til bloggeren Chikitita er "first words, first walk, first.... in IRAQ," og hun skriver 18 april i år:

We're Still Alive, So far

I got used to the fact that I'm not destined to see my only brother ever since he was arrested thanks to some informer whose words are the only tangible evidence against him. First time, after going through the most humiliating searching methods I've ever been through or seen, a US soldier claimed that my ID is fake and that I'm not allowed to visit my brother. She even asked me how much I paid to get it. I didn't have to explain or give a tedious description of the department of civil status, for one thing I knew that no matter what I did, I'm blacklisted already. I felt like crying but I just had to grin and bear it. The second time, they told me that my slip is unauthorized. Without a second thought I was out.


Though I've missed my brother, who's also my best friend, I thought that maybe I was better off without seeing him behind bars. I like the wicked sense of humour he has, the way he used to make fun of my /r/ sound. I like the way he announced that today there will be no soap operas for mom and me; there's a life-and-death Manchester United match. I like the way he used to beg me to make him a pot of black tea. I like the way he used to grimace every time I make the computer crash. I like the way he used to ask me whether his clothes matched, which they always did. But I'm not sure I will like to see him in tacky yellow inmates' uniform, or yelled at by a US soldier half his age. When the Abu Graib pictures were shown, which was old news for all Iraqis at the time, for we all knew what's been going on there, I panicked, "what if they took him!', "what would they do to him!". It turned out that there must be some equity in the new Iraq, all members of the Iraqi society must go to jail, even if they're harmless unless proven otherwise!


First time I set foot outside the fortified prison camp, I found myself all alone, not a soul to be seen, only a cockroach which wanted to keep me company. So I sat on a sandbag and started sifting the sand through my fingers, playing soccer with the tiny stones, humming with some tunes that haven't popped in my head for ages, and watching the camels - I haven't seen a camel in my whole life very beautiful creatures. Few minutes later people started to pour out of the camp; it turned out that I was not the only one with a fake ID. A man in his 50s, shell-shocked as I was said, "they said there's something wrong with my ID", "welcome aboard", I told him. Then came the next, and the next, and the next…..
I was amazed at the mosaic before me; Iraqis from Nasiriyya, Ramadi, Wasit, Mosul, Kirkuk, Falluja, Basra, I was the only one from Baghdad. People with different dialects, sects and ethnicities were all chatting with each other– I thought that it would be a wonderful idea if the Iraqi politicians and the media could see this; Iraqis did not hold grudges against each other at least at this very moment. Why should they? They have a lot in common; they all have their loved ones behind bars, with identical staged charges.


Being the only woman in such a place raised some eyebrows; they all started to ask me, "Why are you here?" I knew that the thing that got them hot under the collar was "what a woman is doing here". "My brother…. ONLY brother," I said with a wan smile. "Your father's dead, huh?". "NO" PERIOD. I had to wait five hours until the woman I came with finished her visitation, which was too much to bear, and patience was my only solace.


Common sense says that I should be scared. It struck me strange that I wasn't, given the situation and place I was in. But how could I possibly get scared when I'm surrounded by my family, with all those so-called strangers calling me "sister", only one preferred "binti" (my daughter). Every one of them kept asking if I needed anything. Even the Iraqi policemen were worried for me. They were so nice and every now and then they came with a cold bottle of water, which I shared with the others, luckily I was the only one who had a metal glass to quench everybody's thirst. They all kept reassuring me that "No need to be scared we're all your family here!"


I wasn't able to see my flesh and blood, who was a few kilometers away, but I felt like God has sent me a message, "You're not alone". I came back home with one thing in mind, the Iraqi people may be bruised and battered, but they're still chivalric and good-natured through and through. Our nation won't die until this spirit is dead, and I'm sure very many politicians are looking forward to killing it.

http://firstwordsfirstwalkfirstiniraq.blogspot.com/2006/04/were-still-alive-so-far.html

Her er et nettsted hvor man finner flere bloggere fra Irak:

http://olivebranchoptimism.net/