I didn’t know how to say hello or thank you, please or good-bye. I ate simit, sesame-covered loops of bread, for breakfast and lunch, because they were for sale on every street corner and I was too shy to ask for anything else in Turkish. The television in my room offered only Turkish channels, and I kept turning it on, hoping that all of a sudden I would understand the soap operas and news broadcasts.
I was biding time before the start of the war. In early February Colin Powell made his speech at the United Nations claiming that the United States had proof that Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction, and we journalists were just waiting for the invasion date. Although the United States’ war in Afghanistan seemed a justifiable response to the September 11 attacks, many journalists believed that the Bush administration was fabricating reasons to go to war with Iraq. But we were riding this wave of war that was defining the first decade of the twenty-first century, imbued with the same sense of purpose I imagine war correspondents felt covering Vietnam: a desire to be with our countrymen as they were dragged into a dubious American invasion.
The New York Times Magazine assigned me to work with Elizabeth Rubin in northern Iraq, the Kurdish region that was opposed to Saddam and supportive of the American intervention. I was to meet Elizabeth in Iran—a country not particularly friendly to Americans at the time, but that did allow journalists to cross the border into Iraq. We would arrive some weeks before the invasion and stay to document the aftermath. In 2003 editorial budgets were healthy. Editors didn’t think twice about putting me on assignment for a month or two at a time, at a rate of $400 per day, just to make sure I was available and in position as a story evolved. Those days are over.
The war in Iraq was the first time in my career the U.S. military offered journalists the chance to accompany them on the front lines of war, that is, to “embed” with the troops. So I had three options: embedding with the U.S. troops as they made their way through the desert toward Baghdad and photographing combat; renting a car and traveling without the protection of the military through the vast deserts of Iraq, which seemed slightly crazy; or reporting from northern Iraq—otherwise known as Kurdistan, home to millions of Kurds who had been oppressed by Saddam—and moving toward Baghdad only after Saddam fell. I chose the last option, because I, like many others, felt it would expose me to the least amount of combat. And it seemed the best way to cover the humanitarian disaster that might follow the invasion: a refugee crisis of Iraqis fleeing southern Iraq to the north. I wasn’t sure I would be able to keep up with the soldiers physically—I still had never actually been in combat—so I decided to work around the edges.
? ? ?
SEVERAL WEEKS BEFORE the start of the Iraq war, I was on assignment in South Korea for the Times Magazine, photographing North Korean refugees who had escaped to South Korea. In the middle of the assignment, I got an e-mail from Scott Braut, one of my editors at my new photo agency, Corbis. One of his roles in the lead-up to the invasion was to ensure that all Corbis photographers planning on going into Iraq were well equipped with the necessary gear to cover the war, including combat and possible chemical attacks. I responded to him in a state of panic and bewilderment.
From:
lynsey addario
Sent:
Tuesday, February 11, 2003 11:25 AM
To:
Scott Braut
Subject:
Re: Body Armor
Scott,
I am trying to buy body armor for my impending departure for Iraq, and am starting to break out in hives. I called AKE War Outfitters like you suggested, and they put me on hold for about 3 minutes, knowing I was calling from Korea. I hung up.
I then checked out the websites you recommended, and am not sure if I just tried to read Korean. Basically, I have no idea what I am looking at—ballistic, six-point adjustable, tactical armor, etc. Please understand that this language is not familiar to me—I grew up in Connecticut, was raised by hairdressers.
Would it be possible for you to call Second Chance in the states, and explain to them that I am a photographer, I am going to either Baghdad with the US troops or into Northern Iraq with god knows which terrorists and tribal leaders, I am not as worried about bullets as I am about shrapnel, don’t want anything too heavy (guess this would mean ceramic plates), don’t want to spend a million dollars (though my life may be worth a fraction of that one day), and these are my measurements: (sorry if this is too much info for you, but I photographed for 13 hours today, it is 1:30am, and just want to get this planning over with . . .)