Team Infidel
Forum Spin Doctor
Washington Post
April 1, 2008
Pg. 1
Sudden U.S. Gunfire Claims Child, Her Grandfather and a Neighbor, Residents Say
By Sudarsan Raghavan, Washington Post Foreign Service
BAGHDAD, March 31 -- Abdul Qader, his chest and leg wrapped in white bandages, began to cry -- not out of pain, but loss. He remembered seeing the American Humvees, then a hail of bullets. He remembered seeing his close friend and neighbor, Abbas Ramadan, shot as he clutched his 2-year-old granddaughter, blood oozing from her head. Abdul Qader ran and ran until he collapsed from the bullets that pierced his own body.
"He's gone. He was so kind," said Abdul Qader, crumbling. "I am not crying because of my wounds. I am crying because of my friend. He was like a brother."
Abdul Qader's suffering is part of the human toll of the worst violence in months in Iraq. At least 400 people, from the southern city of Basra to the capital, Baghdad, were killed over six days, including many civilians, according to Iraqi police and other officials. Countless more were injured, joining thousands of Iraqis whose lives have been shattered by five years of conflict.
On Saturday evening, Ramadan and his granddaughter Tabarik were mortally wounded as they sat outside their front door in Baghdad's Zafraniya neighborhood. Witnesses said U.S. troops fired in their direction toward a group of young men who the soldiers may have thought were militiamen. Abbas Fadhil, 25, a neighbor, was also killed as he bought a pack of cigarettes.
A U.S. military spokesman said there were no reports of accidental deaths of civilians at that time, or of U.S. troops engaging hostile forces in the area.
"I'm not saying it didn't happen. If it did happen, we would want them to come forward and let us know," Lt. Col. Steve Stover said. "We don't like making mistakes. We do own up to our mistakes."
Monday, following the lifting of a curfew, was the first day that Ramadan's relatives and friends could mourn properly. They came, through heavy traffic and checkpoints, knowing that violence could erupt again at any moment.
Two funeral tents were erected next to each other, the anguish of the mourners melding together. The larger tent, made of purple and cream fabric printed with pretty flowers befitting a little girl, stood in the middle of this scarred street. Inside, a picture of Ramadan and his son, Hamza, who died in a car bombing last year, stood on a table. Next to it was a picture of a smiling Tabarik, bubbling with life.
A few feet away, large bullet holes pocked the orange-painted gate of a shop. Next door, the wall of a house was riddled with more bullet holes. Ghadeer Abbas, Tabarik's father, pointed at the holes and shook his head. Then he walked over to the next house and sat on a small brick block in front of a tan gate, also peppered with bullet holes. He pointed to a maroon patch on the ground.
"This is my daughter's blood," Abbas said.
Around 6 p.m. on Saturday, his father was sitting on the same brick block, chatting with Abdul Qader about cars and marriage. They had known each other for 20 years. Ramadan was 51, a taxi driver. He had just finished making some repairs on his Chevrolet Malibu. And Tabarik, as usual, was near him. "My daughter was always following her grandfather. She loved him very much," Abbas said.
Down the road, behind short concrete blast walls, U.S. troops could be seen in four Humvees, according to several witnesses.
Abdul Qader recalled that he first heard gunfire rising from buildings behind the American convoy. "If the shooting was close, we would have gone inside," he said. Two seconds later, he said, the U.S. troops were shooting in his direction. "The Americans don't shoot randomly if they were not provoked," he added.
Other witnesses said there was no provocation. Ahmed Abdul Salaam, 20, the owner of the orange-gated shop, said he was cooking falafel for five young men, including Abbas Fadhil. They noticed the U.S. troops, but thought nothing of it, since troops patrol the area daily.
Zafraniya, in southeastern Baghdad, is a stronghold of Shiite cleric Moqtada al-Sadr's Mahdi Army militia. Over the past week, the militiamen, whose ranks include many young, unemployed men, had been battling U.S. troops and Iraqi security forces in many eastern Baghdad enclaves. The clashes were sparked by a government offensive against Shiite militias in the southern city of Basra.
"Suddenly the Americans started shooting," Abdul Salaam recalled. "I think they thought we were Mahdi Army fighters."
Fadhil, who had just bought some cigarettes, was shot in the head and collapsed. The other young men rushed into the shop and took cover. Abdul Salaam dragged Fadhil's body inside, he said. "Nobody exchanged fire with the Americans," he said.
One bullet pierced Tabarik's head and came out the other side, entering the chest of her grandfather. Abdul Qader, in his 60s, tried to pull his friend and the granddaughter inside the compound, but he didn't have the strength.
"The last words I heard him say: 'I got shot,' " Abdul Qader recalled. "I tried to rescue him. When I tried to pull him, I got shot in my leg."
Abdul Qader ran to his own house, where his sons stuffed cotton into his wounds to stop him from bleeding to death.
When Ghadeer Abbas heard the gunfire, he ran out of his house. He saw his daughter and his father on the ground. He grabbed her, while a neighbor tried to drag his father inside their compound. There was too much gunfire. Five minutes later, the shooting ended, Abbas said. Tabarik was unconscious, but there was still hope.
"She was barely breathing, but she was still alive," Abbas said.
His father was bleeding profusely from several gunshot wounds.
Abbas called the nearest hospital for an ambulance. With a curfew in effect, the ambulance driver was too afraid of the U.S. military to drive into the neighborhood.
At 8:30 p.m. his father bled to death.
The ambulance arrived at 9:30 p.m., after U.S. troops had withdrawn, and took Tabarik to a head trauma unit at a nearby hospital, Abbas said.
At 10:30 p.m. the girl died.
"I was angry when she died," her father said. "I was beating my chest."
Inside the funeral tent on Monday, Abu Nader, one of Abbas's relatives, spoke about life's hurdles in this fragile nation. "If the ambulance had been allowed to come here, the grandfather and his granddaughter would be alive today," he said.
When asked if anyone had confronted the U.S. military and demanded an investigation, there was silence. Abdul Salaam spoke up: "No one dares to go and ask them why they did that."
Lying on the floor of his living room under a red-and-white checkered blanket, Abdul Qader refused to blame the U.S. forces. As long as U.S. troops continue to secure his neighborhood, he said, he feels safe.
"Every day they patrol here. They never opened fire. This is the first time," he said with a faint smile. "I love Americans and I respect them. I never expected they would do this."
April 1, 2008
Pg. 1
Sudden U.S. Gunfire Claims Child, Her Grandfather and a Neighbor, Residents Say
By Sudarsan Raghavan, Washington Post Foreign Service
BAGHDAD, March 31 -- Abdul Qader, his chest and leg wrapped in white bandages, began to cry -- not out of pain, but loss. He remembered seeing the American Humvees, then a hail of bullets. He remembered seeing his close friend and neighbor, Abbas Ramadan, shot as he clutched his 2-year-old granddaughter, blood oozing from her head. Abdul Qader ran and ran until he collapsed from the bullets that pierced his own body.
"He's gone. He was so kind," said Abdul Qader, crumbling. "I am not crying because of my wounds. I am crying because of my friend. He was like a brother."
Abdul Qader's suffering is part of the human toll of the worst violence in months in Iraq. At least 400 people, from the southern city of Basra to the capital, Baghdad, were killed over six days, including many civilians, according to Iraqi police and other officials. Countless more were injured, joining thousands of Iraqis whose lives have been shattered by five years of conflict.
On Saturday evening, Ramadan and his granddaughter Tabarik were mortally wounded as they sat outside their front door in Baghdad's Zafraniya neighborhood. Witnesses said U.S. troops fired in their direction toward a group of young men who the soldiers may have thought were militiamen. Abbas Fadhil, 25, a neighbor, was also killed as he bought a pack of cigarettes.
A U.S. military spokesman said there were no reports of accidental deaths of civilians at that time, or of U.S. troops engaging hostile forces in the area.
"I'm not saying it didn't happen. If it did happen, we would want them to come forward and let us know," Lt. Col. Steve Stover said. "We don't like making mistakes. We do own up to our mistakes."
Monday, following the lifting of a curfew, was the first day that Ramadan's relatives and friends could mourn properly. They came, through heavy traffic and checkpoints, knowing that violence could erupt again at any moment.
Two funeral tents were erected next to each other, the anguish of the mourners melding together. The larger tent, made of purple and cream fabric printed with pretty flowers befitting a little girl, stood in the middle of this scarred street. Inside, a picture of Ramadan and his son, Hamza, who died in a car bombing last year, stood on a table. Next to it was a picture of a smiling Tabarik, bubbling with life.
A few feet away, large bullet holes pocked the orange-painted gate of a shop. Next door, the wall of a house was riddled with more bullet holes. Ghadeer Abbas, Tabarik's father, pointed at the holes and shook his head. Then he walked over to the next house and sat on a small brick block in front of a tan gate, also peppered with bullet holes. He pointed to a maroon patch on the ground.
"This is my daughter's blood," Abbas said.
Around 6 p.m. on Saturday, his father was sitting on the same brick block, chatting with Abdul Qader about cars and marriage. They had known each other for 20 years. Ramadan was 51, a taxi driver. He had just finished making some repairs on his Chevrolet Malibu. And Tabarik, as usual, was near him. "My daughter was always following her grandfather. She loved him very much," Abbas said.
Down the road, behind short concrete blast walls, U.S. troops could be seen in four Humvees, according to several witnesses.
Abdul Qader recalled that he first heard gunfire rising from buildings behind the American convoy. "If the shooting was close, we would have gone inside," he said. Two seconds later, he said, the U.S. troops were shooting in his direction. "The Americans don't shoot randomly if they were not provoked," he added.
Other witnesses said there was no provocation. Ahmed Abdul Salaam, 20, the owner of the orange-gated shop, said he was cooking falafel for five young men, including Abbas Fadhil. They noticed the U.S. troops, but thought nothing of it, since troops patrol the area daily.
Zafraniya, in southeastern Baghdad, is a stronghold of Shiite cleric Moqtada al-Sadr's Mahdi Army militia. Over the past week, the militiamen, whose ranks include many young, unemployed men, had been battling U.S. troops and Iraqi security forces in many eastern Baghdad enclaves. The clashes were sparked by a government offensive against Shiite militias in the southern city of Basra.
"Suddenly the Americans started shooting," Abdul Salaam recalled. "I think they thought we were Mahdi Army fighters."
Fadhil, who had just bought some cigarettes, was shot in the head and collapsed. The other young men rushed into the shop and took cover. Abdul Salaam dragged Fadhil's body inside, he said. "Nobody exchanged fire with the Americans," he said.
One bullet pierced Tabarik's head and came out the other side, entering the chest of her grandfather. Abdul Qader, in his 60s, tried to pull his friend and the granddaughter inside the compound, but he didn't have the strength.
"The last words I heard him say: 'I got shot,' " Abdul Qader recalled. "I tried to rescue him. When I tried to pull him, I got shot in my leg."
Abdul Qader ran to his own house, where his sons stuffed cotton into his wounds to stop him from bleeding to death.
When Ghadeer Abbas heard the gunfire, he ran out of his house. He saw his daughter and his father on the ground. He grabbed her, while a neighbor tried to drag his father inside their compound. There was too much gunfire. Five minutes later, the shooting ended, Abbas said. Tabarik was unconscious, but there was still hope.
"She was barely breathing, but she was still alive," Abbas said.
His father was bleeding profusely from several gunshot wounds.
Abbas called the nearest hospital for an ambulance. With a curfew in effect, the ambulance driver was too afraid of the U.S. military to drive into the neighborhood.
At 8:30 p.m. his father bled to death.
The ambulance arrived at 9:30 p.m., after U.S. troops had withdrawn, and took Tabarik to a head trauma unit at a nearby hospital, Abbas said.
At 10:30 p.m. the girl died.
"I was angry when she died," her father said. "I was beating my chest."
Inside the funeral tent on Monday, Abu Nader, one of Abbas's relatives, spoke about life's hurdles in this fragile nation. "If the ambulance had been allowed to come here, the grandfather and his granddaughter would be alive today," he said.
When asked if anyone had confronted the U.S. military and demanded an investigation, there was silence. Abdul Salaam spoke up: "No one dares to go and ask them why they did that."
Lying on the floor of his living room under a red-and-white checkered blanket, Abdul Qader refused to blame the U.S. forces. As long as U.S. troops continue to secure his neighborhood, he said, he feels safe.
"Every day they patrol here. They never opened fire. This is the first time," he said with a faint smile. "I love Americans and I respect them. I never expected they would do this."