Yarmuk is just one of many hospitals suffering from neglect in Iraq a year after the invasion. There are a variety of reasons for the desperate conditions: the bureaucratic molasses of the CPA, corruption within the Ministry of Health, and the overriding lack of security that prevents nongovernmental organizations from doing work here.

But security isn't the only reason for the absence of NGOs on the ground in Iraq. An anonymous source who works with NGOs within the Coalition Provisional Authority said that a number of them, especially those related to the United Nations, were sitting out for political reasons as well. When President Bush chose to invade Iraq without the support of the U.N., he created an environment in which many NGOs choose not to work. The absence of NGOs, whether due to the overly dangerous environment (which most Iraqis would say is the fault of the occupation) or political distaste for the occupation (again, the U.S. is to blame), has been hugely detrimental to this past year's rebuilding process. Over the past year, Yarmuk has received occasional aid from NGOs, but not enough to make a real difference.

The events of the past week have shown that security in Iraq is not improving. It may even be getting worse. Dr. Hishan told me that the hospital's ambulances are in constant danger of attack by people who would steal them in order to use them for suicide bombings. Every day the hospital sees gunshot victims and people badly beaten during robberies. In the past year, the U.S. has been moving toward turning the burden of security over to the Iraqis by creating the new Iraqi police force, army and Facility Protection Service. Members of the Facility Protection Service act like a nationwide security service, guarding government installations and keeping watch over crowded public areas. These men, who don't wear body armor like the U.S. soldiers do, are under constant attack by people who see them as traitors for working in conjunction with the American occupying forces.

In Yarmuk, I met a young man named Saddam who had been a member of the service. He was in the hospital because he had been shot in the stomach while on guard at an open market. It was a random attack, not part of a robbery, and his assailant easily disappeared into the crowd. Saddam lay on a rusting hospital bed, covered up to his chest by a blanket that looked like it had probably been brought by his relatives from home. The room held eight beds altogether. The one next to Saddam's was empty and I perched on it carefully because it was broken and couldn't take my weight. On the floor in between us lay a catheter bag nearly filled with urine. A tube attached to the bag snaked upward and disappeared beneath Saddam's blanket.

Dr. Hishan had told me that Saddam had almost certainly been paralyzed from the waist down by the bullet. He couldn't move his legs. But he hadn't been told how slim the chances were that he would walk again. He was desperate to get transferred to the U.S. military in the Green Zone, which he knew to be a state-of-the-art facility. He was sure they could help him where the Yarmuk doctors couldn't. But the army hospital wouldn't take him. Though he was with the Facility Protection Service, they told him he didn't really work for the Americans.

Saddam told me that, because of all the attacks, a lot of men in the service (including his friend who stood at the end of his bed, nodding in agreement) were quitting. They didn't feel adequately supported by the U.S. And they didn't want to get killed. I asked Saddam what he had been thinking a year ago, at the beginning of the war. He told me, "Once the Americans occupied Baghdad I said, 'A day after today, we'll have a better life.' It's been almost a year. Everyone thought it has to get better. Instead it got worse."

Though some aspects of life have improved in Iraq, overall it's hard to feel optimistic. With the recent bombings and the targeted attacks against Westerners (Happy invasion anniversary!), this has been a particularly hard week. I spent part of today entangled in a fraught meeting about security concerns with some fellow journalists. These are all people who, like me, have tended to feel safe in Baghdad. But the last few days have us all a bit wigged out and we are carefully reassessing our security situation.

The people I meet who have the most hope for the country are those who are able to pull back from the day-to-day and see this period in the grander scheme of history. One such person is Donny George of the Baghdad Museum. After the war, as people well know, looters absconded with many of the museum's most precious artifacts; some have since been returned, but a great many are probably gone for good. In a bizarre way, though, in the wake of the looting, the museum has become one of Iraq's success stories. The wing of the museum that houses the offices is spotlessly clean. Each office contains new furniture and new computers, and the museum staff seems like the happiest bunch of people in Baghdad. Since the period of looting, the museum has received $3 million from the U.S. State Department as well as a promise for full U.S. cooperation on any projects, a directive that, according to Donny, came straight from President Bush. UNESCO has contributed another $3.5 million. Though the museum won't reopen for at least a year, when it does, it will be on par with any U.S. facility.

Donny told me that, as an archaeologist and historian, he sees this period differently than those who despair over the current problems.

History is filled with periods like this, he said. Little by little, he told me, stability would come. Then he told me about a Sumerian text he had once studied, written long ago during a bleak period of occupation by the Guteans. Who remembers the Guteans? But the text despaired over the political unrest in the country. Its conclusion, as Donny quoted it to me: "We don't know who's the king and who is not the king."

On days like this, I wish I were an archaeologist.

Recent Stories