[2398] in peace2
Mirror article on market attack in Iraq
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Jan Outcalt)
Thu Mar 27 10:14:51 2003
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Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2003 10:14:23 -0500
To: peace-announce@mit.edu, no-war@mit.edu
From: Jan Outcalt <jano@MIT.EDU>
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Just in case "someone" decides to hack the London Mirror website as
well (up to now mostly anti-war), I copied this article from their
web page. I am also downloading images and articles to keep just in
case "someone" decides to continue this attack on freedom of the
press. I suggest others do the same.
Jan
March 27, 2003
CARNAGE OF BAGHDAD MISSILE ATTACKS
THE man's dismembered hand lay in the mud by the side of the road.
Another man pointed to it furiously and then to the woman, dressed in
black, who was screaming at the sky. "Husband dead, husband dead,"
the second man repeated.
Suddenly the weeping woman began to run, directionless, hysterical,
her feet splashing through the water and a pool of blood a yard
across.
Others, their faces set in anger, began a chant of "long live Saddam"
while all around was charred, blackened, mangled and reeked of death.
It was day seven of this invasion. Two o'clock in the afternoon by
the time we arrived - almost three hours after this horrifying
explosion. And still they had not removed that hand.
TERROR: In the bomb's aftermath
They wanted us, the foreign journalists, to see it. They wanted us to
feel the full force of their misery and anger. And you could not
blame them for it.
It is said here, although unconfirmed, that 27 people died in this
incident in Al-Sahab, six kilometres north of Baghdad's city centre.
Eye-witnesses claimed a fighter swept down firing two rockets at the
high street. The missiles exploded on either side of the road,
sending shrapnel and fire into a row of electrical shops, the flats
above them, some car spares kiosks and a restaurant.
"Too many dead, too many dead," said 55-year-old Salah Yusseff.
"Bodies turned black, heads gone. I saw that plane - I don't know if
British or American - then, about four seconds later, its rockets
exploded.
"Why here. Why attack civilians. This is an ordinary place. No one
here is very rich. Why do something like this?"
Why indeed. We do not know who was responsible and, in the midst of
war, it is unlikely we shall discover the truth.
All I know is what I saw with my eyes. Burntout cars parked neatly in a row.
The Nasser restaurant, its front blown out, a fridge door covered in
blood, cabling hanging in the rain like dripping hair. Two men, they
say, brothers aged 25 and 26, were killed there.
The electrical shop where two other brothers, Tahir and Sarmad,
worked. The shop wrecked. The men dead.
The apartment upstairs where a family of four lived. The rooms turned
upside down, water spouting from a broken pipe, walls charred black.
All dead.
A fire was still reducing a once-stately palm tree to ashes. A
watchman at the largest spares shop beside it was also killed.
Everyone to whom I spoke swore there was no military target in the area.
A "fixer" I know was desperately worried. He, his widowed mother,
brother and sister, are living just down the street.
"My mother is frantic," he said. "She is screaming at me to get her
out. I thought it would be safe round here. There's nothing worth
attacking. But where can I take her now?
There is nowhere we can go."
AS HE spoke, the jammed traffic screamed around us. The air was thick
with the choking dust of this, what everyone says, is the worst
sandstorm in memory.
It seemed evening at lunchtime. But the light had a strange,
red-tinged glow. And then the rain fell, splattering our bodies and
our notebooks in dark, sandy splashes. That light, those sounds, the
sight before me, as if we had opened the door to Hell.
I hear another journalist say: "I'd give all my tomorrow's for a
single yesterday." No one disagreed.
The devastation in Al-Sahab was the third and last venue to which we
were convoyed yesterday.
The first was to Al Adhamiea, a residential area which was bombed two days ago.
This is the street in which Zina Sabeh, the 22- year-old mother and
her daughter Mina, aged four, were walking when the missile exploded.
We had seen them and seven-year-old Shehed - "Honey" - Khalil in
hospital. Now we were viewing the site.
Locals said that four women and two children are now confirmed to
have died and 27 "wounded". Three houses were destroyed. People's
homes denuded, torn asunder.
A white Mercedes, about 10 years old but still some family's pride
and joy, a wreck now, roof stoved, bonnet disappeared beneath girders
and bricks and concrete slabs. There is a smell of gas escaping. And
the smell of sewers.
Sundaz Abdul-Karim Zedan stands in the street with her 15-year-old
daughter. Sundaz, 43, has a grimy bandage patched to the left side of
her face.
Both her hands are bound in surgical dressings. "I got these wounds
from flying glass," she said.
"I was doing the cooking for lunch, standing by the kitchen window,
when the whole thing crashed in. I still can hardly hear.
"My 12-year-old son was taking a shower. He fell down but wasn't
hurt. My 11-year-old son was out with his relatives. My daughter, she
was buying some vegetables. Thank God my kids are all right.
"But what I'm saying is that everything was normal until that
explosion. Everything normal until Bush and Blair decided to launch
this war.
"And what have I done to deserve it? I just want to live in peace. I
don't know what I'm guilty of. I don't know what's my fault that they
should wish to punish me.
"I wish I could send God a message. God, I pray that Saddam Hussein
beats Bush."
It was the general feeling in that little street named Raghba Khatoon
yesterday.
On the main road beside it I asked greengrocer Hassan Hussein
Muhammed Ali, aged 45, why he has remained open for business.
"For the same reason I have stayed open since the beginning of the
war," he said. "Our president taught us that we should be used to
this.
And I am.
IHAVE four sons, all soldiers, who are at the front. If they are
prepared to offer their lives for Iraq, I think I can manage to sell
a few bananas."
I buy one off him and climb back on the bus to the next destination.
We are told we will see yet more bomb damage, this time at the Iraqi
Family Village some 10 miles out of town, travelling west.
This is little more than 10 miles from the Iraqi front line, although
thankfully I didn't know it until Rageh Omar, the BBC's TV reporter,
pointed it out to me on the way back.
The Family Village lies behind 12-feet high walls and guarded gates.
A "minder" says Saddam decreed 1,000 orphans should live there in a
style "fit for my own sons".
The children, mainly boys aged between 13 and 18, lost their parents
in the Iran-Iraq war of the 1980s. He said the bombs which hit the
place fell last Friday. "Mercifully all the children had been
removed," he added.
It's a strange place, more military camp than a children's camp.
Although six horses are grazing in a field nearby.
The missiles hit what was described as "a laundry".
And you could see the ironing boards and washing machines beneath the rubble.
But a third room contained 50 large drums of chemicals. Perklone made
by ICI in Runcorn, Cheshire. Warning notices said: "Harmful. Stow
away from foodstuffs. Marine pollutant. Do not breath vapour. Risk of
irreversible effects."
None of us had a clue as to what this was. Or what the barrels might
actually contain. But we all recorded it just in case this
Perchloroethylene might be part of something more sinister than
bleach.
An internet search later at the hotel reveals it is harmless
industrial dry-cleaning fluid. But we're still left with the obvious
question and that is, did the contents reflect the label? And do
1,000 orphans have their clothes dry-cleaned.
The main orphanage building had taken a slight pounding but we were
invited to stroll around the dormitories - 12 beds to a room - to
view the ceiling tiles smashed upon the floor and the cracked
glass-framed portraits of the President hanging from every wall.
Then back to the press centre passing the Al Rasheed Hotel where a
high perimeter wall appeared to have been smashed.
This is the hotel where, it is claimed, Saddam has underground
bunkers. The motto of the place is, "Al-Rasheed - it's more than a
hotel."
We try to visit the TV Centre, only a few hundred yards from our HQ.
Word has it that it was bombed at dawn. But all access is sealed and,
with this howling dust storm, visibility is awful.
It is 6pm local time now. The dust is thick once more, slowing the
war and the whole pace of life here.
Sa'la, my driver and friend, has found me a case of beer and says
he'll bring some chicken and rice in an hour. Hot food would be
welcome.
The bombings seem to have decreased. And, for the first time on this
terrible day, I feel almost cheerful. But, as ever, who knows what
the night shall have in store?
Never mind. At least I am not out there in that almighty mess like so
many young men, be they Iraqi, American, Australian, Nepalese or
British.
mirrorfeatures@mgn.co.uk
Top
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<html><head><style type="text/css"><!--
blockquote, dl, ul, ol, li { margin-top: 0 ; margin-bottom: 0 }
--></style><title>Mirror article on market attack in
Iraq</title></head><body>
<div>Just in case "someone" decides to hack the London
Mirror website as well (up to now mostly anti-war), I copied this
article from their web page. I am also downloading images and
articles to keep just in case "someone" decides to continue
this attack on freedom of the press. I suggest others do
the same.</div>
<div>Jan</div>
<div><font face="Charcoal" color="#000000"> <br>
March 27, 2003<br>
</font><font face="Helvetica" size="+1" color="#000000"><b>CARNAGE OF
BAGHDAD MISSILE ATTACKS<br>
<br>
</b></font><font face="Helvetica" size="-1" color="#000000">THE man's
dismembered hand lay in the mud by the side of the road. Another man
pointed to it furiously and then to the woman, dressed in black, who
was screaming at the sky. "Husband dead, husband dead," the
second man repeated.<br>
<br>
Suddenly the weeping woman began to run, directionless, hysterical,
her feet splashing through the water and a pool of blood a yard
across.<br>
<br>
Others, their faces set in anger, began a chant of "long live
Saddam" while all around was charred, blackened, mangled and
reeked of death.<br>
<br>
It was day seven of this invasion. Two o'clock in the afternoon by the
time we arrived - almost three hours after this horrifying explosion.
And still they had not removed that hand.<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<i>TERROR: In the bomb's aftermath<br>
<br>
</i>They wanted us, the foreign journalists, to see it. They wanted us
to feel the full force of their misery and anger. And you could not
blame them for it.<br>
<br>
It is said here, although unconfirmed, that 27 people died in this
incident in Al-Sahab, six kilometres north of Baghdad's city
centre.<br>
<br>
Eye-witnesses claimed a fighter swept down firing two rockets at the
high street. The missiles exploded on either side of the road, sending
shrapnel and fire into a row of electrical shops, the flats above
them, some car spares kiosks and a restaurant.<br>
<br>
"Too many dead, too many dead," said 55-year-old Salah
Yusseff.<br>
<br>
"Bodies turned black, heads gone. I saw that plane - I don't know
if British or American - then, about four seconds later, its rockets
exploded.<br>
<br>
"Why here. Why attack civilians. This is an ordinary place. No
one here is very rich. Why do something like this?"<br>
<br>
Why indeed. We do not know who was responsible and, in the midst of
war, it is unlikely we shall discover the truth.<br>
<br>
All I know is what I saw with my eyes. Burntout cars parked neatly in
a row.<br>
<br>
The Nasser restaurant, its front blown out, a fridge door covered in
blood, cabling hanging in the rain like dripping hair. Two men, they
say, brothers aged 25 and 26, were killed there.<br>
<br>
The electrical shop where two other brothers, Tahir and Sarmad,
worked. The shop wrecked. The men dead.<br>
<br>
The apartment upstairs where a family of four lived. The rooms turned
upside down, water spouting from a broken pipe, walls charred black.
All dead.<br>
<br>
A fire was still reducing a once-stately palm tree to ashes. A
watchman at the largest spares shop beside it was also killed.<br>
<br>
Everyone to whom I spoke swore there was no military target in the
area.<br>
<br>
A "fixer" I know was desperately worried. He, his widowed
mother, brother and sister, are living just down the street.<br>
<br>
"My mother is frantic," he said. "She is screaming at
me to get her out. I thought it would be safe round here. There's
nothing worth attacking. But where can I take her now?<br>
<br>
There is nowhere we can go."<br>
<br>
AS HE spoke, the jammed traffic screamed around us. The air was thick
with the choking dust of this, what everyone says, is the worst
sandstorm in memory.<br>
<br>
It seemed evening at lunchtime. But the light had a strange,
red-tinged glow. And then the rain fell, splattering our bodies and
our notebooks in dark, sandy splashes. That light, those sounds, the
sight before me, as if we had opened the door to Hell.<br>
<br>
I hear another journalist say: "I'd give all my tomorrow's for a
single yesterday." No one disagreed.<br>
<br>
The devastation in Al-Sahab was the third and last venue to which we
were convoyed yesterday.<br>
<br>
The first was to Al Adhamiea, a residential area which was bombed two
days ago.<br>
<br>
This is the street in which Zina Sabeh, the 22- year-old mother and
her daughter Mina, aged four, were walking when the missile
exploded.</font></div>
<div><font face="Helvetica" size="-1" color="#000000"><br>
We had seen them and seven-year-old Shehed - "Honey" -
Khalil in hospital. Now we were viewing the site.<br>
<br>
Locals said that four women and two children are now confirmed to have
died and 27 "wounded". Three houses were destroyed. People's
homes denuded, torn asunder.<br>
<br>
A white Mercedes, about 10 years old but still some family's pride and
joy, a wreck now, roof stoved, bonnet disappeared beneath girders and
bricks and concrete slabs. There is a smell of gas escaping. And the
smell of sewers.<br>
<br>
Sundaz Abdul-Karim Zedan stands in the street with her 15-year-old
daughter. Sundaz, 43, has a grimy bandage patched to the left side of
her face.<br>
<br>
Both her hands are bound in surgical dressings. "I got these
wounds from flying glass," she said.<br>
<br>
"I was doing the cooking for lunch, standing by the kitchen
window, when the whole thing crashed in. I still can hardly hear.<br>
<br>
"My 12-year-old son was taking a shower. He fell down but wasn't
hurt. My 11-year-old son was out with his relatives. My daughter, she
was buying some vegetables. Thank God my kids are all right.<br>
<br>
"But what I'm saying is that everything was normal until that
explosion. Everything normal until Bush and Blair decided to launch
this war.<br>
<br>
"And what have I done to deserve it? I just want to live in
peace. I don't know what I'm guilty of. I don't know what's my fault
that they should wish to punish me.<br>
<br>
"I wish I could send God a message. God, I pray that Saddam
Hussein beats Bush."<br>
<br>
It was the general feeling in that little street named Raghba Khatoon
yesterday.<br>
<br>
On the main road beside it I asked greengrocer Hassan Hussein Muhammed
Ali, aged 45, why he has remained open for business.<br>
<br>
"For the same reason I have stayed open since the beginning of
the war," he said. "Our president taught us that we should
be used to this.<br>
<br>
And I am.<br>
<br>
IHAVE four sons, all soldiers, who are at the front. If they are
prepared to offer their lives for Iraq, I think I can manage to sell a
few bananas."<br>
<br>
I buy one off him and climb back on the bus to the next destination.
We are told we will see yet more bomb damage, this time at the Iraqi
Family Village some 10 miles out of town, travelling west.<br>
<br>
This is little more than 10 miles from the Iraqi front line, although
thankfully I didn't know it until Rageh Omar, the BBC's TV reporter,
pointed it out to me on the way back.<br>
<br>
The Family Village lies behind 12-feet high walls and guarded gates. A
"minder" says Saddam decreed 1,000 orphans should live there
in a style "fit for my own sons".<br>
<br>
The children, mainly boys aged between 13 and 18, lost their parents
in the Iran-Iraq war of the 1980s. He said the bombs which hit the
place fell last Friday. "Mercifully all the children had been
removed," he added.<br>
<br>
It's a strange place, more military camp than a children's camp.
Although six horses are grazing in a field nearby.<br>
<br>
The missiles hit what was described as "a laundry".<br>
<br>
And you could see the ironing boards and washing machines beneath the
rubble.<br>
<br>
But a third room contained 50 large drums of chemicals. Perklone made
by ICI in Runcorn, Cheshire. Warning notices said: "Harmful. Stow
away from foodstuffs. Marine pollutant. Do not breath vapour. Risk of
irreversible effects."<br>
<br>
None of us had a clue as to what this was. Or what the barrels might
actually contain. But we all recorded it just in case this
Perchloroethylene might be part of something more sinister than
bleach.<br>
<br>
An internet search later at the hotel reveals it is harmless
industrial dry-cleaning fluid. But we're still left with the obvious
question and that is, did the contents reflect the label? And do 1,000
orphans have their clothes dry-cleaned.<br>
<br>
The main orphanage building had taken a slight pounding but we were
invited to stroll around the dormitories - 12 beds to a room - to view
the ceiling tiles smashed upon the floor and the cracked glass-framed
portraits of the President hanging from every wall.<br>
<br>
Then back to the press centre passing the Al Rasheed Hotel where a
high perimeter wall appeared to have been smashed.<br>
<br>
This is the hotel where, it is claimed, Saddam has underground
bunkers. The motto of the place is, "Al-Rasheed - it's more than
a hotel."</font></div>
<div><font face="Helvetica" size="-1" color="#000000"><br>
We try to visit the TV Centre, only a few hundred yards from our HQ.
Word has it that it was bombed at dawn. But all access is sealed and,
with this howling dust storm, visibility is awful.<br>
<br>
It is 6pm local time now. The dust is thick once more, slowing the war
and the whole pace of life here.<br>
<br>
Sa'la, my driver and friend, has found me a case of beer and says
he'll bring some chicken and rice in an hour. Hot food would be
welcome.<br>
<br>
The bombings seem to have decreased. And, for the first time on this
terrible day, I feel almost cheerful. But, as ever, who knows what the
night shall have in store?<br>
<br>
Never mind. At least I am not out there in that almighty mess like so
many young men, be they Iraqi, American, Australian, Nepalese or
British.<br>
<br>
<u>mirrorfeatures@mgn.co.uk<br>
<br>
<br>
</u></font><font face="Helvetica" size="-2" color="#000000"> <br>
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<br>
<br>
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