On the Bus to Baghdad
Beset by logistical crises and personality conflicts, but boosted by idealism, the human shields make their way slowly towards Iraq.
Stephan Faris
February 17, 2003
Had everything gone according to plan, Gordon Sloan would have already been in Baghdad, preparing to take up station as a 'human shield' protecting a hospital or mosque or other institution . Instead, the 30-year-old Australian architect found himself with about 35 other peace activists in a crush of Turkish journalists scrumming under the imposing presence of Istanbul's Hagia Sophia Mosque.
Every so often someone in the mass of bodies begins to make a speech, and cameras swing, crowd, and converge.
"You're stars," one observer tells Sloan, who was coordinating the group's activities while in Istanbul.
"Yeah, for one hour," Sloan answers, and steps into the red, double-decker bus that had been home to the peace activists since they left London two weeks earlier.
In fact, very little has gone according to plan for Sloan and the other human shields.
The group of about 30 peace activists left London on Jan. 25 in a convoy of three double-decker buses and a London taxi. Their plan: Drive the 3,000 miles to Baghdad, picking up volunteers along the route, and, once in Iraq, make an expected U.S.-led bombing campaign politically unpalatable by flooding the Iraqi capital with volunteers willing to station themselves at mosques, hospitals and water treatment plants,
These not-so-merry pranksters were quickly beset by personality conflicts and vehicular catastrophes. Soon after leaving London, the group split, unable to agree on which route to take. Veteran peace activits began griping about the firebrand, high-profile style of the group's leader, fiery former US marine Ken Nichols O'Keefe.
Sometimes, the problems have come in bunches, as when Sloan had to cross the alps in one of the double-decker buses to meet up with O'Keefe. Sloan thought the snow was the worst of his worries until a low bridge caved in the top of the bus.
"It got to the point where the bus driver had a nervous breakdown and actually couldn't drive anymore," Sloan says. "So I got in the driver's seat and that freaked him out even more, so he started driving again."
One of the group's other buses died in Rome, and the group split up again. Most of the activists piled in the remaining buses and departed via ferry for Greece. O'Keefe remained behind in the Italian capital, intending to fly to Istanbul.
The activists on the bus made it through Greece and into Turkey, arriving in Istanbul a week behind schedule. But O'Keefe was turned away by Turkish authorities at Istanbul's airport, sent back to Italy.
For the human shields, even something as mundane as boarding a bus can create conflict. Preparing for what was billed as a one-hour publicity tour through Istanbul, American activist John Ross -- said to be the first person to tear up his draft card during the Vietnam war -- clashes with the driver and disembarks in a huff.
Afterwards, Sloan drops into his seat muttering about "logistical concerns," and the bus swings off. The tour lasts three hours, and deposits the group on the Asian side of the Bosphorus Straits, a 40-minute ferry ride from where they began.
On most evenings, though, such logistical nightmares are easily forgotten. On the night they arrived in Istanbul, the activists celebrated, crowding into an Istanbul bar called Leb-i Derya, and dancing to the Squirrel Nut Zippers ("In the afterlife, you should be ready for some serious strife. Now you make the scene all day, but tomorrow there'll be hell to pay").
In the very likely case that their statement fails to stop a war, the dancers could soon be on the receiving end of what some analysts predict will be a barrage of 3,000 bombs in 48 hours. But most accept the risk -- knowing it is their strongest argument.
"If someone is afraid on our behalf, they should be afraid for the Iraqi people as well," says Peter Kofoe, 23, a Danish student of Political Science.
Still, there are some difficulties individual idealism cannot overcome. The group's deputy leader Christiaan Briggs, 26, figures it would take at least 5,000 to 10,000 volunteers to actually stop a war. The convoy that left Istanbul en route for Ankara and, ultimately, Syria and Iraq carried only 150 activists.
"There's one criticism I hear about this," says Briggs, an architectural draftsman from New Zealand. "People say, 'Hey it's a great idea. But it won't work.' So they don't come. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy."
On the day of the overlong Istanbul bus tour, O'Keefe was in Rome hoping to find 30 more to join him, while organizers in London were chartering planes in the expectation of flying another 200 human shields into Jordan this week.
And the difficulties may only grow if and when the human shield convoy reaches Iraq. The Baghdad regime had already become a source of friction within the group, with O'Keefe attracting the outrage of some activists by demanding that he intends to meet with Saddam Hussein. And, while the shields say they will not voluntarily protect military targets, one senior Iraqi official has reportedly said that the activists will be placed at "vital and strategic installations." In Ankara, the Iraqi ambassador to Turkey, Talib Abid Salih, made a show of handing out flowers to the peace activists before issuing 65 visas for entry into Iraq. It was a made-for-TV moment which the ambassador milked as best he could.
Still, despite the crises, despite the conflicts, despite the potential for disaster that seems to lurk around every bend, the human shields press on. The night before leaving for Ankara, Briggs sleeps on the floor of a stranger's apartment. The next morning, he pulls on a pair of torn pants he hadn't had time to replace while in Istanbul.
"You know, when you've overcome so many obstacles, you become sort of unconcerned," he says. "If they try to stop us at the Iraqi border, I won't worry. I'll say, yeah, I know it's hard now, but in a few hours, we'll be on the other side of that line."
Stephan Faris is a freelance journalists based in Istanbul.