Central: DS79.76 .G373 2004
During the lead up to the U.S. invasion of Iraq, the voice of Anne Garrels became a familiar friend to me. I found myself turning up the radio, and listening more intently, when I heard her voice on NPR. During the invasion, I held my breath, and prayed for her safety.
While reading this book, I heard her voice clearly in my head. I suspect that people who already know and love her work will find this book particularly meaningful, but I don’t want to discourage anyone from reading it.
This is neither pro- nor anti-war; it is a very personal story—detailing the struggles and dangers she met with in attempting to cover the story. She was one of the few western journalists who stayed throughout the invasion, and her narrative conveys the deep sense of comeraderie that developed among this small band of holdouts.
The title refers to a tactic Garrels used to protect her precious (and contraband) broadcast equipment. Terrified that she would be relieved of this equipment, she discovered that when Iraqi police knocked on her door, she simply needed to tell them that she needed to get dressed before she could let them in. They would wait, more or less patiently, outside her door while she rushed around hiding the equipment and throwing on some clothes.
Maybe the manner of her broadcasting, in the dark and in the nude, at least partially influenced the intimate feel of her broadcasts.
Garrels has been home and back to Iraq several times since then. She’s covered Russia and several other countries. And still, her voice draws me in whenever I hear it.