Writing Assignment #8

Identity

Is it something you create for yourself or are given?
Does it exist in a name, a degree, a profession, a place?
It’s there, whether you sense it or not.

You won’t know it truly,
Until one day someone tries to strip you of it.
They can veil it or try to remove it from you permanently,
They can even try to terminate it.

It is once you feel it slipping from you completely,
That you realize it fully and struggle dearly.
Struggle dearly to get back to that place where it exists truly and freely.

Memoir of a Journalist in Baghdad

My identity, as I knew it, revolved around a couple things in life. My name given to me at birth, Maggie Avery Graceson, my undergraduate degree from Yale University, and my graduate degree in Journalism from Columbia University. Before the spring of 2004, I was consumed with my ambitions and progressing in my career was all that had mattered. When the opportunity presented itself within my company’s publication, I immediately volunteered to be a correspondent covering the war in Iraq. I knew that I would be chosen; it wasn’t exactly everyone’s first choice to submerge themselves in that environment of international conflict, plus I was one of the top journalists working and no one was as obviously equipped to take on such an important job or subject matter as I was.

I boarded a plane, on March 9, 2004, eager and excited to prove myself as a journalist even more than I already had. My heart fluttered in my chest like a butterfly struggling to release from its cocoon; not because I was scared of the impending danger that I was about to encounter, but I was anxious to have adventures and produce some riveting material. I stepped off the plane and immediately wanted to go maneuver about the city, finding the dangerous, glorious stories that would seal my career as a journalist; I don’t know at that time that I was to become the story.

I met up with the team of people I was to work in the center of Baghdad. We were to stay at this hotel that the U.S. army had taken over and was protecting in order to provide a place for some of the media teams covering the current events of the war. I dropped off my luggage and immediately felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my entire body. I’m here, I’m actually here, I thought to myself. I couldn’t wait to defy all those people back home who said I shouldn’t come here, that I would be in grave danger, blah blah blah. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I would be fine and I’m going to break a great story. Filled with an energy that I could no longer suppress, I grabbed my worn-out messenger bag, my moleskin notebook, my Canon power-shot, and my hardy Nalgene water bottle, ready to explore and research. The daylight had only started to fade, so I figured I would utilize the sun’s last hours of productivity.

Covered in dust, my feet were experiencing unparalleled levels of grim after only thirty minutes of walking. The swarms of warm breezes propelled by dust were overwhelming. It was an entirely new feeling to be in the Middle East – not only were the sights, smells, and sounds completely foreign to me, but it was obvious that I was out of place. I didn’t adorn one of the black veils that cover my body head to toe, including my face. I was out in the open with my American attire and blonde hair waving in the desert air. I hadn’t actually considered it before I left my group, that maybe I shouldn’t have gone out in the city unaccompanied. I was starting to feel a little unsettled with all the attention I seemed to be getting. Two hours had passed and dusk was upon me, so I thought I had better head back to the sanctuary of my hotel.

As I headed back, I began to notice a couple of stragglers that seemed to be following me, but I thought I might just be getting a little paranoid (first day jitters and all). I walked a little more, but I cringed when I realized that I had lost track of how to get back. I reluctantly pulled out my map of Baghdad, betraying my foreigner identity even further. I had just found my location on the map, when a figure dressed in black startled me in my peripheral vision. Before I could act, a strange hand that smelled of earth smothered my mouth and another covered my eyes. I struggled as I felt myself being dragged away, but I was quickly encouraged not to do so by a smash atop my head that rendered my body unconscious.

I woke up after an unknown period of time, to find myself in what appeared to be a cave. How had I gotten there? Who had taken me there? I didn’t know. I sat alone, tied up, slouched against a stone wall for quite some time. My eyes were no longer covered so I could see what was around me, though it was not much since there was barely any light. The only light source dimly shone through a nearby tunnel. I could hear faint voices coming from the end of the tunnel. Rapid, foreign words, that seemed filled with anger came from the distant figures that I could not see.

Someone from the tunnel finally started to approach my direction. The person was tall, but completely covered in haunting black garments. Their head was completely wrapped in a turban as well. I was sure it was a man by the look of the sturdy, rough, thick hands that appeared to be holding another black garment. He started approaching faster, and by this time I thought I might die from heart failure due to the overwhelming amount of fear that I felt inside. I didn’t know who these people were, why they had taken me, what they were going to do with me, and where they had brought me.

The man in black started shouting at me, while making grand, intimidating gestures. I had no idea what he was saying. I just shook my head, but this seemed to infuriate him. I started crying, “Please, don’t hurt me. Please. Let me go. Don’t hurt me.” He yelled at me, “American…no belong here…you pay.” I started sobbing; I couldn’t control my emotions at this point. I felt entirely helpless and my fate was in the hands of someone who hated me or hated what I represented. Finally, he throw at me the black garment he had been waving in the air as he was ranting. I knew what he wanted me to do, but I just fell to the ground in fear and in pain. He shouted and another man came into the space where we were. The second man proceeded to untie my bonds and grab my body, forcing it to stand when I could no longer stand on my own. I was limp with an all-consuming fear, the kind I imagine you experience at the moment that you realize you are going to die.

The man let go as I stood, but they shoved the black burka in my face demanding that I strip myself of my American clothes, anything that retained a sense of my identity. I was to be unidentifiable to myself. But that didn’t mean that I was to loose all identity. I knew that my identity was the very reason these men had taken me in the first place. It had been done before and I fear it would continue to be done as long as the war was going on.

Some how I had been dressed in the burka. Had I dressed myself, did they strip me and dress me with the oppressive garment themselves? Did they mock my female form as I reluctantly acquired their native dress? I don’t remember. I could still remember my name, Maggie. I could remember the faces of my mom and dad. But how much of myself would I remember when I was released, if I was released. As I slumped back down to the floor, I peered through my tears to see what they were maneuvering. It was a tri-pod. Next, they brought in a video camera. I saw them setting it up and I saw as the record button started flashing red. They walked over to me and propped me up. I was going to have my 15 minutes of fame, but never did I guess it would be in a hostage video.