Title: Peace Activists in Baghdad

Activists in Baghdad Brace for Consequences of War 
by Greg Barrett
Gannett News Service 
Wednesday 12 March 2003

BAGHDAD - If the invasion that the Pentagon has dubbed "Operation Shock and
Awe" commences, Charlie Liteky is unlikely to feel either.
He expects the United States to bomb Iraq. He expects noise and destruction
more powerful and frightening than he has ever known. He expects the Earth to
shake and houses to go dark and children to scream themselves hoarse.
But Liteky sounds more determined than frightened.
Like 20 other members of the Chicago-based Iraq Peace Team who remain in
Baghdad even as hostilities appear certain, Liteky abhors cluster bombs,
cruise missiles and the civil unrest that combat causes. As a decorated
Vietnam veteran, he knows firsthand the chaos and carnage of war.
That's precisely why he sounded elated Tuesday morning when he told his wife
that the Iraqi government had extended his tourist visa 10 days and is likely
to extend it again, long enough for him to help Iraqi children through the
difficult time.
Most of the peace activists who descended by the hundreds on Baghdad this
fall and winter have fled. Those who remain have no intentions of leaving.
They are anchored to the bull's-eye despite the fact - or maybe because of it
- that the World Health Organization predicts 100,000 Iraqis could die.
"I'm here because I hear the children cry," Liteky said. "In my mind ... I
imagine the bombing and the noise and the windows shattering and something
coming down from the ceiling and children looking up and parents grabbing
them and fear being transferred from parents to children."
Save yourselves
Washington has warned the activists to clear out. The Pentagon has said its
assault will leave no place in Baghdad to hide. So the rundown hotels that
enjoyed full houses as recently as February are shuttering their windows.
At the Hotel Al-Fanar on the Tigris river, the Iraq Peace Team is moving to
the lower floors because the eight-story building is old and seems unsteady.
Its bomb shelter is a musty basement that stores the hotel's chemical
cleaning supplies.
Members of the peace team have signed an ominous-sounding contract: "In the
event of your death, you agree to your body not being returned to your own
country but being disposed of in the most convenient way."
They have had awkward discussions about what to do with the corpses that
might collect around them. Wrap the dead in hotel drapes, they decided. Pray
for help.
Iraq Peace Team founder Kathy Kelly had a photo enlarged that shows her with
some of her dearest friends - the family of an Iraqi widow and her nine
children. The photo is being mailed to Kelly's mother in Chicago.
"She can see by that photo that I am very, very happy," Kelly said, sounding
serenely calm despite the gathering storm.
On Monday, Kelly helped an Iraqi friend pack to leave. Teacher and artist
Amal Alwan rushed her three young children into a taxi and paid $300 for the
10-hour drive from Baghdad to Damascus, Syria. Alwan doesn't have relatives
in Syria and couldn't tell the cabbie exactly where to go.
"She doesn't have a clue where she will stay, but she can't possibly stay in
Baghdad, not with children," Kelly said. "Her house is next to a
communications center."
As Kelly spoke it was almost 1:30 a.m. on Tuesday in Baghdad and she was
awake reading "A Fine Balance," a novel about civil war in India. She planned
to rise six hours later for a daily prayer meeting then go with the peace
team to the United Nations offices in Baghdad. They would hold aloft several
enlarged photos of Iraqi families.
Each photo would carry a single question: "Doomed?"
"I don't have the slightest sense of not belonging exactly where I am right
now," said Kelly, 50, a three-time Nobel Peace Prize nominee. "The thought of
leaving has not even crossed my mind."
The Pentagon says the presence of U.S. pacifists will not deter the course of
war. Although there are no plans to arrest them for violating sanctions on
Iraq by traveling to Baghdad, officials throughout the U.S. government, from
the White House to the State Department to the Pentagon, sound confused about
how to best to deal with them.
"There's not a whole lot of precedence," said Pentagon spokesman Lt. Dan
Hetlage. "It's not like you had human shields protecting the Taliban."
Armed for war
Members of the Iraq Peace Team say they are as prepared for war as they will
ever be. They have "crash kits" packed neatly and set by their hotel doors.
Liteky's is the size of carryon luggage. It bulges with bandages,
antibiotics, water-purification tablets, three liters of water, dried fruit,
canned tuna, biscuits, power bars and a short-wave radio.
He hopes to ride out Operation Shock and Awe in Baghdad's Orphanage of the
Sisters of Mother Teresa. Or at least to rush there as soon as the bombing
subsides. He's compelled to at least try to quell the inevitable trembling of
the children.
"I'd rather die doing something," he told his wife, Judy, "then die ... in
some old folks home."
Liteky, 72, is a former Roman Catholic priest and Vietnam war hero awarded
the congressional Medal of Honor for crawling under volleys of gunfire in
1967 to rescue 23 injured U.S. soldiers.
According to Army reports, during the firefight near Phuoc-Lac the wounded
became too heavy to carry so Liteky turned onto his back in the mud, pulled
the men on top of him and crawled backward under gunfire, using only his
heels and elbows.
He's plenty scared of war, he said, but his fear is for the children.
When the attack comes, he said, "the most beautiful thing that can happen for
me is if I am permitted to be at the orphanage. At least I could pick the
children up, hold them, and try to let my calm and love transfer to them."
Liteky speaks every morning to his wife 11 times zones away in San Francisco.
Since arriving in Baghdad three weeks ago, it has become increasingly
difficult to hang up the phone. On Tuesday they spoke for 40 minutes, said
goodbye twice, and kept talking.
"I don't have a death wish," he said in an interview Monday. "I have
everything to live for. I have a wonderful wife and a wonderful life back
home."
Liteky and his wife have thought for a week that the invasion of Iraq would
begin sometime between March 10 and 17. So when Judy Liteky, a math teacher
at a community college, left for work on Monday, she put a bumper sticker on
her car.
"Attack Iraq? No!," it read.
"The bumper sticker made me feel just a little bit better," she said
Kelly heard late Monday that the United Nations would evacuate most of its
remaining office staff on Tuesday. Still, she sounded steadfast in her
decision to stay in Baghdad, even if it meant dying.
"A lot of people are concerned for the foreigners who remain here; you wonder
if anyone is concerned for these very ordinary Iraqi people who are going to
die here," she said.
When photographer Thorne Anderson chose to travel to Baghdad with Kelly in
January to document the people and the war, he informed his family of the
trip in an email.
Anderson, who has freelanced for Gannett News Service, Newsweek, The New York
Times and other publications, said he expected a little preaching, lots of
concern, and some pleas to reconsider.
Instead, his father, the Rev. Eade Anderson of Montreat, N.C., was succinct
in his reply.
"I've always said life shouldn't be wasted on the small things," he wrote in
an email. "Love, Dad."
(In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, this material is distributed
without profit to those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving the
included information for research and educational purposes.)
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