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A few more followed, and then I joined them, sneaking a quick look at the cleric as I walked past. They work in murky times and murky places. Landing at Baghdad International Airport, where a friendly West Indian security contractor advised us to not get "captured"—that was intense.
I felt relaxed. Previous Article. In Nimrud, a 3,year-old Assyrian imperial city, our designated protector was a talkative, sun-pinked soldier who said he'd spent two years in the mountains fighting in the Kurdish uprising against Saddam.
To show them a human face.
There were screams, gunshots.
Fat and pale, they filed out of buses with expensive cameras dangling from their necks, blinking like newborns in the stark sunlight. Before the war he had been a fashion model in Baghdad—he showed me his portfolio—and he was still vain, refusing to tone down his rock-star attire of tight black T-shirt and white-framed sunglasses even when we were working. I felt certain we were about to be arrested.