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CommentsEscape from Baghdad
Missionaries from Branson West found themselves trapped in Baghdad in the midst of the Fallujah crisis. Somehow, they had to make it to the airport to get out alive.
BY HELEN TODD
Photo Courtesy Helen Todd
Branson West missionaries were helping newly opened Baghdad churches such as this St. George’s (pictured above) celebrate Palm Sunday in 2004. Then, Fallujah happened.
With 13 other Americans doing missionary work, we arrived in Baghdad on April 2, two days after four American private contractors were killed in Fallujah, their bodies burned and mutilated, two of them hung from a bridge over the Euphrates River. Our bags were packed with blue jeans for the girls at a Catholic orphanage, plus medical and school supplies.
This was our third trip in four months, and the staff at the Petra Hotel greeted us like family. “Madam Helen,” asked the shy bellboy, “can you give me medicine for my mother? Her stomach is very bad.” Touched by the genuine concern in his eyes, I urged him to be more specific, fearing it was cancer or a bleeding ulcer. “She has gas,” the young man eagerly explained. I bit my lip, trying not to laugh.
General Georges Sada had left a note with his new cell number at the front desk. He had just been appointed by L. Paul Bremer, administrator of the Coalition Provisional Authority, as the minister of defense for Iraq. “You come with no security, no weapons, no bullet-proof vests… you give me headache,” General Sada told us gruffly every time we came. But he respected our tenacity, and, despite his busy schedule in the Green Zone, he helped us whenever he could. We cherished his stories about serving in the Iraqi Air Force under Saddam Hussein and studying at the top military academies of the Soviet Union and the United States in the ’50s.
Since our first mission trip (on behalf of Branson West–based World Missions Alliance) to Baghdad in November 2003, clumsy satellite phones had been replaced by cell phones, the power outages had become less frequent, and there was hope in the eyes of the shop owners who kept the doors open late into the night. We felt safe in the streets patrolled by tanks and the U.S. soldiers, intimidating and almost glamorous in their faded camouflage and dark shades. There was a persistent rumor around Baghdad that with sunglasses, the servicemen could see through women’s clothes.
Palm Sunday was a spectacular event that spring. The crowds in the newly opened churches celebrated their freedom as much as the upcoming Easter. Children waved palm and olive branches. We almost forgot about the war.
That night, everything changed. It was as if a dark shadow passed over Baghdad. In the morning Chuck and General Sada attended a meeting at the office of Grand Ayatollah al-Sadr, a well-respected Muslim cleric. “You must leave Baghdad now,” the Ayatollah urged Chuck. His rebellious nephew, Muqtada al-Sadr, took over the northeastern suburbs of Baghdad with an army of 5,000. At the same time, the Fallujah crisis was erupting, as the U.S. bombed the city in retaliation for the brutal murders of the contractors, while the fledgling Iraqi insurgency used Fallujah as a cause to unite the populace. The highway by which we traveled east from Amman, Jordan was now cut off by U.S. troops. A quick call confirmed that all flights out of Baghdad were booked for the next three weeks. We were trapped.
$20,000 Per American
With two women from our team, I went to deliver supplies as we usually do during mission trips. Our translator, Armen, was unusually anxious. It had become very dangerous to be seen with the foreigners. The insurgents issued death threats for all Iraqis cooperating with the “infidels.” Sister Bushra at the Al Hayat Hospital, one of Baghdad’s Catholic hospitals, looked pale and exhausted. They had visitors with machine guns last night who told them, “You Christians are killing us in Fallujah.” The school we were helping, our next stop, was blocked off with barbed wire. They had been bombed. Fortunately, none of the children were harmed.
On the way back to the hotel, Armen announced we were being followed. As the taxi driver zigzagged through Baghdad trying to lose our “escort,” I wanted to wake up from this James Bondian dream.
Our room at Petra Hotel became the command center for our own “Operation Escape.” General Sada phoned one of his pilot buddies in the U.S. Air Force and lined up a military plane to take us to Amman. “Now all we need is Paul Bremer’s signature,” he said. “Wait for my call.” Then he hurried off in an armored SUV with his bodyguard’s AK-47 pointing out the window.
Armen had his own plan. He arranged for experienced drivers to take us to Amman by an obscure desert route. So in the early morning hours, we sat in the cold lobby with our suitcases packed and Bibles opened. Our faith was the source of peace in one of the most uncertain moments in our lives. When the drivers arrived, they immediately knew we were not European businessmen, as Armen had told them. They had orders from the insurgents to deliver Americans for a reward of $20,000 each. “We are not murderers,” they said, and left.
That day was filled with more bad news. General Sada informed Chuck that Paul Bremer would not allow 15 civilians on an uninsured military plane. Then we found out that the Korean missionaries we had met last Sunday were kidnapped in the desert en route to Amman.
Night fell over Baghdad like a black veil. Our hotel shook from the nearby explosions. In the dark room (the hotel manager warned us to keep the lights off) we drank countless cups of strong Arabic coffee and dialed every contact number in the cell phone. Finally, Chuck was able to charter a small plane through Airserv, a nonprofit organization in Jordan. The plane would wait for us at the airport the next morning.
“You come with no security, no weapons, no bullet-proof vests… you give me headache,” General Sada told us gruffly every time we came.
The highway to Baghdad International Airport is one of the most dangerous roads in the world, the scene of many kidnappings, bombings and ambushes. No amount of money could get us a ride to the airport that evening. General Sada called after midnight to tell us that four Chevy Suburbans from one of Saddam’s palaces (now the headquarters of the U.S. military in Iraq) would pick us up early in the morning.
The entire hotel staff gathered in the courtyard to wave us good-bye. The drivers used an evasive maneuver, weaving through the city’s morning traffic at the speed of 120 miles per hour. The little plane took off in a spiral in order to avoid aircraft missiles. I watched Baghdad disappear with a mix of relief and regret.
Two months later, in the waiting room of the new Prime Minister Ayad Allawi, General Sada introduced us to an insurgency leader. Was he the one willing to pay $40,000 to cut our heads off? I didn’t ask. What a peculiar group we were—missionaries from Branson, an insurgent Islamist and an Iraqi general carrying on a polite chit-chat in the office that now symbolized the future of Iraq.
That was the last time I saw Baghdad. At least most recently. I believe the greatest hope of Iraq is in its awe-inspiring people. They are selfless, like Dr. Abdullah of St. Raphael’s Hospital in Baghdad. After work, he volunteers at a free clinic for the poor. They are courageous, like General Sada. Once he was the No. 2 man in Saddam Hussein’s Air Force. During the Gulf War in 1991, he saved the lives of American POWs. Iraqis are hopeful, like the retired school teachers Sabah and Faiza. After receiving a long-awaited refugee visa to Canada, they declined it politely and returned to Mosul to start a church. This is why, someday, I believe we will be back.
