I was in Fallujah's ICDC station, so I was not particularly afraid. These people are legendary for their anti-occupation stance, and are essentially subverting American money against the Americans.
It is no secret that the Americans got their asses handed to them on a plate in Fallujah. Instead of just admitting defeat and withdrawing, American pride led to the creation of a police force that got well armed with weapons and armour. Everybody who has looked at the forces armed here by the Americans, however, can clearly see that they are either Mujahideen or under the direction and command of the Mujahideen.
One officer after another came to interview me and ask why I was here. Yep. Palestinian. Here alone. Want to help. Know first aid. In Med School. Please don't call me "doctor".
First, a guy with no stars, then one, then two, then three. I was obviously running up the chain of command. Finally, two guys in plain clothes came..
"What are you, stupid? You come in with a digital camera and a laptop? What are we supposed to think?"
I explained the necessity of the camera by example of Sadiq Zoman, and left it at that a picture is worth a thousand words.
The Mujahideen interrogation was by far the most intense, and after about half an hour, they were satisfied enough to take me with them to a Mujahideen safehouse - a "hornet's nest of terror" as it would probably be described.
The safehouse was more like a regular house - a regular ole house of a regular ole resistance fighter, complete with kids and wife and lunch and that powdery orange Tang-like shit everyone drinks.
The massive bombing was lost on no one, and the windows would occasionally shake. When the explosions got too close, I was moved again. This time, I sat on an RPG, three machine guns and a belt of bullets where my feet should have been.
"Please forgive us, Tarek. Almost every car is like this. Wherever you go in Fallujah, the chances are people have taken up arms against the occupation."
In my new home, I received another interrogator. He fingered his bayonet knife as he spoke, and I didn't doubt for a moment that he was the boss of me.
"And if you're a spy?"
"What? You want me to teach you what to do with spies? If I'm a spy, kill me."
I had left the station a few hours ago, and people were already starting to trust me.
"He knows his shit, man. When we were driving over, there was a car with a guy who was shot in it. He jumped out of our car, into his, and took care of him, then jumped back in ours."
It was a graze. I washed it with alcohol and gauzed the guy. My narrator turned to me. "It was great. You an athlete?"
"Yeah. I'm a swimmer. If you saw me in swimming shorts, you would say Ma'Sha Allah - Behold God's creation!"
I was trash-talkin' the Mooj, but I kept a straight face.
"Good, good. Listen. I want you to know that you are not a hostage, nor are you a prisoner. You are our guest, and you are free to do as you please. Tomorrow, we'll take you to a hospital, and you can see how you can help them. But tonight, rest, eat, and be our honoured guest. You will always remain our honoured guest, unless you turn out to be a spy or working for the occupation. Then, of course, we will kill you."
tarek