Kathianne
02-18-2008, 12:42 PM
Not an easy read, but what journalists should do. This seems like a long quote, but it's about a third of the post:
http://www.michaeltotten.com/archives/2008/02/the-dungeon-of.php
February 18, 2008
The Dungeon of Fallujah
“This is not Norway here, and it is not Denmark.” – Lebanese Forces militia leader Bashir Gemayel.
FALLUJAH – Next to the Joint Communications Center in downtown Fallujah is a squalid and war-shattered warehouse for human beings. Most detainees are common criminals. Others are captured insurgents – terrorists, car-bombers, IED makers, and throat-slashers. A few are even innocent family members of Al Qaeda leaders at large. The Iraqi Police call it a jail, but it's nothing like a jail you've ever seen, at least not in any civilized country. It was built to house 120 prisoners. Recently it held 900.
“Have you seen that place yet?” one Marine said. “It is absolutely disgraceful.”
...
I picked up my notebook and camera.
“Leave the camera,” he said. “The Iraqis won't let you take pictures.”
“Don't you have any say in it?” I said. This was the first and only time during my trip to Fallujah that somebody told me not to take pictures.
“Nope,” he said. “The jail is completely run by Iraqis. They'll freak out if you show up with that camera. If it were up to me, yeah, you could take 'em. But it's not.”
If the Marines wouldn't mind if I took pictures, I think it's safe to say the No Photograph policy is not a security measure. The Iraqis, it seems, don't want you to see what I saw.
Sergeant Dehaan and I were joined by Rich Crawford, a civilian Law Enforcement Professional who works with the Marines and helps them train the Iraqi Police.
“It's bad in there,” he said as we walked toward the jail. “But I've seen worse.”
“Where have you seen worse?” I said. He looked like someone who had been around. The hard lines in his face looked as though they were carved by sobering experience as much as by time.
“In Latin America,” he said. “In Colombia. I was a DEA agent there. The jail here is bad, and it might be the worst you'll ever see. But you need to know it isn’t the worst in the world.”
“Actually,” I said. “This will be the first time I've ever been inside a functioning jail.”
Sergeant Dehaan rapped on the gate. An Iraqi Police officer grinned when he saw us and let us in.
“I brought you something,” Sergeant Dehaan said and handed him boxes of instant oatmeal and toothpaste.
“Is this food?” the Iraqi said as he squinted at a box of oatmeal. It was a Quaker Oats Variety Pack. Iraqi stores do not sell oatmeal.
“Yeah, you mix it with water,” Sergeant Dehaan said.
“It’s good,” I said.
The officer did not understand, so Sergeant Dehaan pantomimed pouring boiling water into a cup and stirring the oatmeal with a spoon. I don’t think the message got across, but one of the Iraqi Police officers at the jail probably figured it out eventually.
“And this?” the Iraqi said as he held up the toothpaste. He made a brushing motion across his teeth with his finger.
“Yep,” Sergeant Dehaan said. “It’s toothpaste.”
Our Iraqi host grinned again, put his hand on his heart, and bowed slightly. He then led us into the back toward the prisoners.
“This guy is great,” Sergeant Dehaan said, referring to the Iraqi officer. “He has two wives and six daughters. Al Qaeda murdered four of his brothers.”
....
A handful of Iraqi Police emerged into the hallway and greeted Sergeant Dehaan with hugs and kisses on his cheeks. They shook my hand and said welcome. One offered a cigarette. Iraqis are always offering cigarettes. It was strange to think that these people ran such a terrible jail. Did they ever offer cigarettes to prisoners?
Frankly, I doubt it, although I did not think to ask at the time.
Sergeant Dehaan led me and Rich Crawford to Major Ibrahim's office. The major is the warden, so to speak, and has worked as an Iraqi Police officer in cities all over Iraq. We sat in plush chairs set up in a semi-circle in front of his desk. A young boy brought us hot glasses of sweet tea.
“How many prisoners are here right now?” I said.
“320,” Major Ibrahim said.
So the jail is “only” at triple capacity now.
“It's a jail,” Rich Crawford said. “Not a prison. None of them have been tried yet. Later they'll move to a prison if they're found guilty.”
“I can fill you in on all this stuff,” Sergeant Dehaan said. “These two have business to discuss. Come on, I'll show you the cells.”
We left the major's office and Sergeant Dehaan rapped on the door of another office. A prison guard emerged with a key ring in hand and led us through a secure door and into the hallway that took us to the prisoners. I didn't feel like we were in a jail. The doors to the cells looked like doors leading to offices or sleeping quarters. There were no bars. I could not see the prisoners from the hallway.
The guard opened the first door and walked right in. He didn’t even slow down. I gingerly stepped inside and found myself surrounded by children. They lounged on the floor. Some stood up when they saw us.
What the hell?
“This is the room for minors,” Sergeant Dehaan said. “They're treated better.”
They are? The cell was the size of my living room. Two dozen children lived in this place. They slept on the floor on blankets and had no personal space whatsoever. The kids were grubby, but they didn't appear beaten down or even in bad spirits necessarily.
“Some of them are related to wanted men,” he said.
“Is that the only reason they're here?” I said. “What are they, hostages?” This would be a real scandal if Americans were running the jail.
Sergeant Dehaan ignored my question, but he seemed to sympathize with what I was getting at.
http://www.michaeltotten.com/archives/2008/02/the-dungeon-of.php
February 18, 2008
The Dungeon of Fallujah
“This is not Norway here, and it is not Denmark.” – Lebanese Forces militia leader Bashir Gemayel.
FALLUJAH – Next to the Joint Communications Center in downtown Fallujah is a squalid and war-shattered warehouse for human beings. Most detainees are common criminals. Others are captured insurgents – terrorists, car-bombers, IED makers, and throat-slashers. A few are even innocent family members of Al Qaeda leaders at large. The Iraqi Police call it a jail, but it's nothing like a jail you've ever seen, at least not in any civilized country. It was built to house 120 prisoners. Recently it held 900.
“Have you seen that place yet?” one Marine said. “It is absolutely disgraceful.”
...
I picked up my notebook and camera.
“Leave the camera,” he said. “The Iraqis won't let you take pictures.”
“Don't you have any say in it?” I said. This was the first and only time during my trip to Fallujah that somebody told me not to take pictures.
“Nope,” he said. “The jail is completely run by Iraqis. They'll freak out if you show up with that camera. If it were up to me, yeah, you could take 'em. But it's not.”
If the Marines wouldn't mind if I took pictures, I think it's safe to say the No Photograph policy is not a security measure. The Iraqis, it seems, don't want you to see what I saw.
Sergeant Dehaan and I were joined by Rich Crawford, a civilian Law Enforcement Professional who works with the Marines and helps them train the Iraqi Police.
“It's bad in there,” he said as we walked toward the jail. “But I've seen worse.”
“Where have you seen worse?” I said. He looked like someone who had been around. The hard lines in his face looked as though they were carved by sobering experience as much as by time.
“In Latin America,” he said. “In Colombia. I was a DEA agent there. The jail here is bad, and it might be the worst you'll ever see. But you need to know it isn’t the worst in the world.”
“Actually,” I said. “This will be the first time I've ever been inside a functioning jail.”
Sergeant Dehaan rapped on the gate. An Iraqi Police officer grinned when he saw us and let us in.
“I brought you something,” Sergeant Dehaan said and handed him boxes of instant oatmeal and toothpaste.
“Is this food?” the Iraqi said as he squinted at a box of oatmeal. It was a Quaker Oats Variety Pack. Iraqi stores do not sell oatmeal.
“Yeah, you mix it with water,” Sergeant Dehaan said.
“It’s good,” I said.
The officer did not understand, so Sergeant Dehaan pantomimed pouring boiling water into a cup and stirring the oatmeal with a spoon. I don’t think the message got across, but one of the Iraqi Police officers at the jail probably figured it out eventually.
“And this?” the Iraqi said as he held up the toothpaste. He made a brushing motion across his teeth with his finger.
“Yep,” Sergeant Dehaan said. “It’s toothpaste.”
Our Iraqi host grinned again, put his hand on his heart, and bowed slightly. He then led us into the back toward the prisoners.
“This guy is great,” Sergeant Dehaan said, referring to the Iraqi officer. “He has two wives and six daughters. Al Qaeda murdered four of his brothers.”
....
A handful of Iraqi Police emerged into the hallway and greeted Sergeant Dehaan with hugs and kisses on his cheeks. They shook my hand and said welcome. One offered a cigarette. Iraqis are always offering cigarettes. It was strange to think that these people ran such a terrible jail. Did they ever offer cigarettes to prisoners?
Frankly, I doubt it, although I did not think to ask at the time.
Sergeant Dehaan led me and Rich Crawford to Major Ibrahim's office. The major is the warden, so to speak, and has worked as an Iraqi Police officer in cities all over Iraq. We sat in plush chairs set up in a semi-circle in front of his desk. A young boy brought us hot glasses of sweet tea.
“How many prisoners are here right now?” I said.
“320,” Major Ibrahim said.
So the jail is “only” at triple capacity now.
“It's a jail,” Rich Crawford said. “Not a prison. None of them have been tried yet. Later they'll move to a prison if they're found guilty.”
“I can fill you in on all this stuff,” Sergeant Dehaan said. “These two have business to discuss. Come on, I'll show you the cells.”
We left the major's office and Sergeant Dehaan rapped on the door of another office. A prison guard emerged with a key ring in hand and led us through a secure door and into the hallway that took us to the prisoners. I didn't feel like we were in a jail. The doors to the cells looked like doors leading to offices or sleeping quarters. There were no bars. I could not see the prisoners from the hallway.
The guard opened the first door and walked right in. He didn’t even slow down. I gingerly stepped inside and found myself surrounded by children. They lounged on the floor. Some stood up when they saw us.
What the hell?
“This is the room for minors,” Sergeant Dehaan said. “They're treated better.”
They are? The cell was the size of my living room. Two dozen children lived in this place. They slept on the floor on blankets and had no personal space whatsoever. The kids were grubby, but they didn't appear beaten down or even in bad spirits necessarily.
“Some of them are related to wanted men,” he said.
“Is that the only reason they're here?” I said. “What are they, hostages?” This would be a real scandal if Americans were running the jail.
Sergeant Dehaan ignored my question, but he seemed to sympathize with what I was getting at.