Battlefield Tourist

Roanoke Times Headline: COUNCIL POWERS CALL FOR MORE TIME

Around 7:00 I got tired of twisting and turning and decided I would try to cross the border. I really didn't think I had a chance. In military terms, I was "probing" the crossing. I was unable to find any information on its status before leaving, so I decided I'd give it a shot.
This is where it gets complicated in the decision making process. The strategy all along was to have two bags: A military sea bag which acted as my closet and my day bag. Now my day bag is as big as a rucksack and fits my essentials. The problem is that if I get into Iraq, what will happen to my other gear? My essentials include my helmet, flak jacket, gas mask, one change of clothes, shortwave radio, a satellite phone, and some food. Pretty much everything else stayed.
I didn't think about it long; maybe because I wasn't expecting to get in, I guess. So I headed downstairs and paid for a weeks worth for my room and headed out into the street.
I'd never been to the crossing and had no idea what to expect. Known as Habur Gate, it turns out it's the only legal crossing between Turkey and Iraq. I also find out that journalists have been barred from crossing over for the past seven years while the Turks chase down P.K.K. rebels. To top it off, I hear a story as I leave about a Spanish crew that tried the previous day, but were turned back by the guards. Only ones getting in were the locals, and even for them, it could be difficult. Especially for those that truck oil for a living, which many here do, or used to do before the sanctions.
In this area the local public transportation is a taxi or these little mini buses. A type of which I've never seen. I decide to go with a bunch of locals in the hopes that this white guy American was getting into pre war Iraq. Just walk right in. With me were some fudged up stuff that was supposed to translate into a pseudo UN/ Red Crescent ID card. Didn't think that would work either, but combined with real information that could be checked easy enough, I decided I'd rather try than not.
Obviously, the site of what most assumed was a Brit, hopping into a local taxi/van was a bit shocking. I could feel it. The feelings weren't bad though. In fact, since I've been here, the locals have been nothing but kind.
I think that's what sets me apart from most of the others: I respect these people and I want to prove to them I 'm no better than they are. To me, it's my way of showing I care. I feel whenever I go abroad, I need to be an ambassador for the United States. I want people to remember the "nice American, David, who came before the war". Why? Not sure. That's just how I feel. I've definitely gotten the buzz from the local media and from talking with other reporters that the US is on everyone's shitlist. Even for things we have no control over. It's very frustrating.
It doesn't take long to cover the 13km to the border. We pass a couple of Turkish Army bases, some houses, a tent city beginning to spring up, and miles of oil trucks waiting days to get permission to get into Iraq.
As we approached the border, the van pulled over and the people signaled and motioned for me to get out and walk toward the guards while the van was waved through the checkpoint and into the crossing area. As I expected, I was met by a young soldier. What I didn't expect, was that he was smiling. Soon, two young enlisted soldiers and an officer were looking at my credentials. At this point I was not representing myself as a journalist. I was hoping the language barrier and the decent looking credentials would get me in. Soon, a plain clothes officer came and looked at the credentials as well. This definitely was positive and I was truly thinking they were going to let me in.
My story was that I was going to Iraq to document the tide of refugees as an independent monitor. When I got back, I would file anything I saw with the UN. All of which was true. I just had no direct affiliation with anyone. The rest of my team was already in place in different places in Iraq and Kuwait, and I was the last to get in. That part, of course, was a lie.
Everything was working fine until a female officer came. She could speak some English and definitely seemed to have some major authority there. Her arrival was not unlike that of a submarine. She quickly overruled everyone and told me I would need permission from the governor of Sirnak if I was to cross that border. A mere 90km away. Torpedoes away!
So I headed back toward town. A few hundred yards up the road, I stopped to take pictures of the soldiers and the crossing. Within seconds, the soldiers were yelling something at me prompting a young boy to come over. In pigeon sign language, he told me the soldiers didn't want me to be there doing that. So I walked farther down and started taping again. This time, a jeep came toward me and the soldiers pointed to a huge FORD sign about a mile away. He told me that is where I could take my pictures. Big fun. So I spent a few hours walking, hitching rides, and taking pictures.
Back in Silopi, I post my shot sheet and number, just in case some of the video I had was needed by anyone. As I get ready to enter the hotel where most of the journos were staying, I ran into a black guy. Stopped me dead in my tracks. You have to understand that up to this point I had seen no other Americans, and I thought, "this could be an American". There are also no other black folks (that I've seen) anywhere near this area. So not only did I take a double look, but I also noticed that wherever he walked, heads would turn.
His name is Bernard and turns out to be a native of Belize. He claims to be here to meet his wife, who is trapped in Iraq and can't get out.
Bernard is an interesting fellow. His card says he's a doctor and professor from an Ivy League School and met his Iraqi Kurd wife while studying in England. He says he hasn't seen her in three years and that his wife's family have no clue they're married. Bernard says his wife's family will not give her permission to leave Iraq (custom), so she is effectively "trapped" in Dohuk. Apparently she is working at the hospital there and Bernard is very worried with the impending war. He plans to meet her soon (at the border) and get out of the region before the war starts. Bernard also claims to be a published author. He has a book, which I've seen, that is a bible on proper eating. He's very proud of it. Unfortunately, this writer didn't bring the proper power converter, so I loan him mine so he can get power to his laptop, and we start to walk up the street.
Didn't take long after that, that the two most conspicuous guys in town were stopped by a plain clothes police officer. It's the same guy I'd seen the night before with an AK-47 strapped across his back. In a very friendly way, he takes our names and passport numbers and lets us on our way. It's about then that we part for the time being.
Lunch is about here and I find this great restaurant a few doors down from my sleeping room. I eat there the night before and the food was good. Also no signs of the runs either. I take it as a good sign and decide that is where I'll eat while in Silopi.
I decide to eat outside where they have a covered table. It's cold and rainy, but I'm waiting for any sign of a military convoy or Americans. Pictures of Americans would fetch some good money here. Knowing the success of this trip is one lucky moment away, keeps me on guard most of the time. I guess with the Americans coming yesterday... I'm nervous to miss anything (since I know they're here with more coming).
So here I eat and write in my journal for a couple of hours. In that span of time I draw a lot of attention, making a complete thought on this entry nearly impossible. Mostly the inquiries are from children. There's no doubt that many people here like Americans. I feel completely welcome and unfortunately, too popular. Many people stop by just to say "Thank you". Others quiz me in English about various things. At first people ask if I'm British. When I tell them, "no, American". They smile and say, ..."ahhh, American." Almost as if it is a special thing to be American. I guess it is out here in the post-911 world and I'm not sure if that's good or bad just yet. I still have seen no other Americans, so for now, I'm the popular guy. At least it feels that way.
I finally decide to get warm and move back to the hotel where I find four young men in the lobby talking. After introductions and all, one asks in English, "What's your problem with Iraqis?" He then says, "We're Iraqis". Then they all look up at me. Kind of like the movies.
I start to explain that I don't have a problem with Iraqis at all, but felt that Saddam had to go. The one Iraqi who spoke English begin to translate to his friends and they all seem to agree. He also wants to know if soldiers are coming. I tell him that no matter what, I feel the soldiers will come, and that once Saddam is gone, they will help re-build their country. They all seemed to appreciate that very much. They were very agreeable over the fact that Saddam was using the country for his sole benefit, all while his people starved.
After a few cups of tea, we wish each other luck and I head to the internet cafe to write Heidi.
It's after this conversation that I really see the complexity of my role here. It's a mix between journalist, tourist, and ambassador. Very unique.