Chapter 38 34 Goodbye Baghdad

To sleep after playing, to enter port after sailing through a storm, to rest after war, to die after life, these are the greatest joys. — Spencer, The Faerie Queen On May 7, 1991, I finally got the charter and road conditions issued by the Iraqi government to leave Iraq.Before that, it took me more than two weeks to process the departure application.Due to the serious shortage of medical reagents in Iraq, the blood test alone had to wait 10 days.The resident foreigners entering and leaving the country must continuously provide blood certificates. However, a chubby, fancy-dressed lady from the Jordanian embassy in Baghdad who seemed too young to evolve refused to apply for a transit visa for me because Lao Zhu, who was helping me with the formalities, called her "madam".Fortunately, Lao Zhu was very adaptable, and he immediately said with emotion: "I really never thought that no man has been lucky enough to marry such a beauty as you." Miss Heipang immediately turned her anger into joy: "Sign it now."

The highway from Baghdad to Amman is the only channel for Iraq to communicate with the outside world. It is about 900 kilometers long and passes through the desert from east to west. Western journalists call it the "Road of Death". After the senior senior Zheng Dayong embraced me with open arms, he asked his driver to take me out of the country.The bombed roads along the way have been cleared, and some bomb craters have been filled with fresh sand, and car wreckage is piled up on the side of the road, rusting into lumps of black iron.Although our brand-new "cruiser" is brisk, but because it is a new car, the engine consumes a lot of fuel, and it has only run halfway. The four barrels of spare gasoline on the roof have bottomed out.In order to save fuel, we dare not turn on the air conditioner, and the hot air that hits us is at least 50 ℃.The sun shines on the desert, and in the hazy mist, a green lake suddenly appears in the distance, making people confused whether the sun is in the sky or underground, but in fact it is all an illusion.Five and a half months of intense interviews had dulled my sense of danger.

When the car arrived at the border guard station in Qadishia, the driver and I looked for someone to buy fuel, and the answer was "Maku" (no). When we were desperate, we found a "Mercedes" with the logo of the mission.Upon inquiry, it was the car of the Sri Lankan ambassador to Iraq.The ambassador of the Buddha country clasped his hands and ordered the driver to pump oil for us immediately, and firmly refused to accept the payment. He only charged us two cans of tea.He said "help each other, friendship first", followed by Amitabha and the like.I also recited devoutly "Panajna Paramita".

Xiao Li from the Amman embassy once studied in Syria and speaks fluent Arabic.He took me to Amman Aliyah Airport, and went through various procedures very smoothly. It was not until the third security check that Xiao Li was blocked from the line, and the tall and burly border police searched the passengers one by one.I politely handed over the fax machine first, followed by a large stack of faxed photos.Several security officials swarmed up and rushed to pass on the photos, but they left me alone.At this time, a colonel came over and stopped drinking, and the soldier immediately presented my photo respectfully.The colonel walked to a desk and sat down, put on his glasses, and looked carefully at each desk.After hearing the colonel groan, I took the opportunity to go up and explain the contents of the photo to the colonel. The "July 16" bridge, starving children, the children's milk powder factory bombed by the U.S. military, and Kurdish militants killed by the government forces... I looked up at the glass door and saw Xiao Li was still watching me nervously. I raised my right hand and made an "OK" gesture.The colonel finally returned all the photos to me: "Very well, the whole world should know the evils of war."

At 22:30 on May 12th, Amman time, the flight I was taking started to taxi.A beautiful stewardess asked me: "Are you Japanese?" "No, Chinese, People's China." The lady smiled and said, "Chinese food is delicious." At 11:30 on May 14th local time, I flew to Bangkok.My khaki desert camouflage pants and bulky paratrooper boots amaze people living in peaceful surroundings.I look at the faces of Thai people, which are very similar to Chinese people.Facing the ocean of countless "Chinese faces", I couldn't tell who was the compatriot from the Bangkok branch of Xinhua News Agency who came to pick me up.I was worried that the "Xinhua" logo on my body was not eye-catching enough, so I took out a few 10-inch faxed photos, and wrote the three characters "Xinhua News Agency" on the back of them with a "Shidelou" marker pen, and put it On the pile of luggage.Curious tourists always want to look at the pictures behind the square characters, but I have no intention of holding a film exhibition here.Just when I was impatient and about to call a taxi, Xiao Shao, who came to pick me up from the Bangkok branch of Xinhua News Agency, found me in the crowd.

At noon, we ate a seafood hot pot at the entrance of Chatuchak Park. This was the most delicious meal I had since I joined the Gulf report for more than five months.The Bangkok branch wanted me to stay for two days, but the boss of our photography department ordered me to return to Beijing immediately, otherwise my "duck skin" would be stripped.Corruption was not prevalent back then, and the photography department did not allow reporters to use the opportunity of interviews to travel around.When I left Baghdad, I received instructions from my boss to "stay late". I am about to return to my motherland and my relatives, but my mood is even more restless than when I was in the Gulf under the flames of war.The war has exercised my ability to detect important events that are different from ordinary people. Only the eyes that have been strictly trained can observe the subtle things and get convincingly correct results.The old man Tagore said in a poem: "There are no traces of wings left in the sky, but I am proud, I have flown."

Looking back on the five and a half months of wartime, I miss my colleagues from various countries who fought day and night with me in the Gulf: Kyodo News’s Kono Toshio, Okawa Minato Toshio, CBS’s John Haygood, Associated Press’s Dominique, Tokyo Shimbun’s Shunsuke Kusama, Adley of AFP, Shinichi Murata, a freelance writer... On March 29, just a few days before our interview with Kirkuk, Newsweek photojournalist Gad Gross Resting there forever, he is only 27 years old.I met him once in the Bekaa refugee camp in the Jordan Valley. Guo Chaoren, president of Xinhua News Agency, once said to me: "Photojournalists should be the bravest and most loyal people. Xinhua News Agency photographers should be even more so." Youth, history has made me perfect, let me catch up with a good era and a good collective.The people who are not rich have given me a first class education and training.I'm not doing very well, I'm just trying my best.

The distance between me and my motherland is getting closer by the plane, and I will meet the bosses who direct my interview day and night, the faxman Yuan Man who helps me ensure the smooth flow of the fax line, and the buddies in the news center. When I walked out of the airport, I saw my boss at a glance. I rushed up with my paratrooper boots and put my dirty Arab turban on her head.I meditate in my heart: remember the unsung heroes who lost their lives in the war, and dedicate it to their mothers. The war is over, we rest, But the artillery and tanks did not rest. The war is over, we're coming home,

But our brother never came back. The war is over, we are alive, ...