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I watched as the families arrived in groups, quietly taking their assigned places on one side of the fence. There were about two dozen families in all, kids and women ranging widely in age. The older women wore the traditional black abaya, covering all but their face and hands, some donning hijabs that left only their eyes visible, their hands covered with long black gloves. But surprisingly to me, the younger adult women were dressed in contemporary Western-style clothing. The school-age youngsters were in neatly attired clothing, the girls wearing full-length dresses, or skirts and knit tops, and most with brightly colored bows nestled in their dark hair. The boys had on khaki slacks or jeans, with turtleneck tops or dress shirts. Everyone appeared to be apprehensive. Children fidgeted on their bench seats; adults spoke in hushed tones. Being on an American military base where their fathers, sons, or husbands were imprisoned was doubtless an intimidating experience. The bus eventually arrived with the group of about thirty detainees, who quickly disembarked. The men wore clean clothing and had neatly trimmed beards. Although they were under the watchful eyes of MPs, they were otherwise unrestricted. On entering the visitation building, their pace quickened as they eagerly sought their families. What followed was an emotional scene with mothers embracing their sons, wives hugging their husbands, and children holding onto their fathers. There were many tears and kisses. Faces that only moments before had borne troubled expressions were now smiling. There was even the sound of laughter. This happy scene did not last long. After five minutes, the guards announced the contact visit ending, with detainees required to move to the opposite side of the dividing fence. The adults complied. The younger children were another matter, holding fast to their fathers, refusing to let go. Many of them looked panic-stricken, no doubt fearful of never seeing their fathers again. The young MPs had to physically pry them from their fathers' arms. Most of the children were now crying or screaming, and many of the MPs were tearful as well, some perhaps thinking of younger brothers and sisters back home. I stepped outside, burying my face in my hands. Never before had I witnessed a scene as heartbreaking as this, and for a moment, I felt ashamed of what we were doing in Iraq. After regaining my composure, I went back inside, doing my best to console the families, especially the children, though my efforts were mostly unsuccessful. Recalling that my main purpose was to address any concerns family members had about the health of their loved ones, I walked around with an interpreter who introduced me as "tabib amriki," an American doctor. Cautiously at first, I was approached by a few of the women who asked about their husbands or sons. To the extent possible, I conducted my conversation with them at the dividing fence so their loved ones could participate. As the families began to depart, I tried to catch the dark eyes of some as they passed, especially the women otherwise veiled behind hajibs. I was hoping my kindness bought us some goodwill, but all I saw were eyes ablaze with hatred-hatred for us, hatred for me.
