The "click" is one of this world's few universal signs, and so the man holding the gun didn't have to say anything. His click was speaking plenty enough.
I was en route to Al-Nouman hospital in the Adhamiya district of Baghdad (the top of the "Sunni triangle"), riding in a "Ford" van (this time a Mitsubishi) when we ran across a road blocked off by the Iraqi Police (IP). The driver ushered us all out, turned his van around and sped away.
One of my riding companions saw that I was lost, and asked where I was going. No sooner had I answered than he grabbed my hand and began a brisk walk. "Don't be afraid. God will protect us." I walked faster so as to not be dragged, and now there were three of us walking as fast as we could. The other two talked politics, and I tried to figure out what was happening.
As it turned out, the IP was tipped off to the presence of an IED (Improvised Explosive Device; essentially a hand-made bomb), and so they cordoned off the street and were attempting to disarm it. The "bomb squad" was just the first patrol that happened across the bomb, and it looked more to me like the guy was fingering the wires with the hopes that something would stand out or look familiar. I turned and asked the man beside me what was going on.
"The brave and honourable Mujahideen (Muslim fighters) are destroying the evil imperialistic colonial American soldiers. However, the cowardly spineless Iraqi police insist on getting in between the evil imperialistic colonial American soldiers and the brave and honourable Mujahideen. This is one such example of the interference of the cowardly spineless Iraqi police."
I was amazed at how consistent the man was with the adjectives describing each of the three parties. Finally, he let my arm go, and wished me luck, rapidly disappearing into the crowd of people on the other side of the cordon.
Huey helicopters loitered in the sky like flies, and I could tell that there had begun further American mobilization. I walked into the Abu Haneefa mosque, drank some cold water, prayed, then asked the guy with the machine gun how I could get to the hospital without passing the police station. Why didn't I want to pass the police station, he asked.
"Because as you can see, the cowardly spineless Iraqi police are interfering with the work of the brave and honourable Mujahideen against the evil imperialistic colonial American soldiers. The response of the brave and honourable Mujahideen will no doubt be swift, and other than seeing the dead bodies of the cowardly spineless Iraqi police afterwards, I don't want to be there." The man laughed, but got the point: I didn't want to be there if the IP and the American occupiers in the station - whom I had seen the day before when I passed the station - were attacked. "Go that way, turn right there, and straight all the way. God be with you."
As I set off on my way, I quickly realized that the man had routed me through a small road in a highly residential area. Everybody and everything stopped as I walked by. To the most intense onlookers, I threw out the traditional Muslim greeting, which reflexively earned me a smile and a response, though probably no love.
So, yeah, I knew that being a stranger in a residential area while the American helicopters were filling the sky was suspicious. I was expecting the guys with the guns at any point, so the only question in my mind was how they would make themselves known to me. Click.
Ah yes, the click. Good choice, that one. I was walking slowly, almost leisurely, and so I came to a natural stop and turned out the empty palms of my hands. A hand gently touched my shoulder, and turned me around. My focus changed between the AK 47's nozzle pointed at my head and the masked face of the man in front of me.
"I'm a Palestinian," I started calmly, "it's been a while since a gun scared me." The man's eyes lit up, and I could tell he was smiling behind the mask. "Stupid thing to say when you're not the man with the gun."
His friends shouldered their guns, though his remained fixed. I told my story, told him he had nothing to apologize for, agreed that the evil imperialist colonial American occupation will end by the sword, and was escorted to the hospital by one of the masked men. In yet another show of absurdity, more than one person along the way said "Yo, Mohammed [name changed], why the mask?" One man even thanked my masked escort for hiding his ugly face, which broke the tension nicely. "Don't listen to him, Mohammed. I can tell from your eyes you're beautiful."
Mohammed shook my hand and kissed me on the cheeks through his mask. I told him to take care of himself, and went into the hospital.
tarek