When to chase the story in Iraq

Then it turned out we didn't have a satellite phone in the car. Cellphones are notoriously unreliable in Iraq because the US military often blocks the signals when it undertakes operations. Traveling without a satellite telephone as an alternative is foolhardy. But we had already left the office, so I resigned myself to traveling without it.

We wove through the Baghdad traffic. The road was crowded and people could easily stare at us through the car windows. Although I usually look out at the passing scene, I forced myself to look into the car so that passersby would not see my eyes and skin.

The most dangerous part of the trip is crossing out of Baghdad proper and traversing the next 15 miles of road to the south. It is a largely Sunni farming area and one where headless, mutilated bodies turn up often. It feels like outlaw country: Someone could grab you and no one would say anything.

As we went through the last Baghdad checkpoint, the policeman told our driver that a new security plan was in effect and we would not be able to reenter for 48 hours. The driver pulled off and turned to me: Did I still want to go?

It was a moment of truth. I had to get back that night. Was there any other way I could get into Baghdad if the roads were closed? Yes, my driver said. "You can walk across the Diyala bridge, and the office can send a car to meet you."

He nodded to a stream of people who were doing that right now, women in their swirling abbayas, men striding along. "How far would I have to walk?" I asked. About a mile. "Is it safe?" The driver shook his head. "There are bad people here. Everyone can see you when you are walking. We cannot honestly tell you it is safe."

I appealed to my translator. "What do you think? Is it that unsafe?" She turned and looked at me. "I'll go with you if that's what you decide to do, but the driver wants to know what he can do with his car. He can't leave it outside of Baghdad on the road for the night. It would be stolen. He can't stay with it - it's dangerous. And then we have the chase car. What do you want them to do?"

I was silent. I had come back to Iraq to do a small number of interviews. If I didn't go to the one in Kut, I wouldn't finish the story I was writing.

I thought about close calls I had had in the past. About my translator, who said she would go with me no matter what. About my parents, who hated that I was in Iraq. About Jill, whom I imagined alone in a room, perhaps cold.

And I thought about an autumn night more than a year ago when a colleague had rushed off into western Iraq to cover a suicide bombing. I remembered how worried I had been, and when I finally reached him on the satellite phone as he drove I had said, "It's not about us. We can die if we want to here, but we can't put those who work for us in more danger than they already are. We're making decisions for more than ourselves."

I remember that he had listened and, hard as it must have been, said, "You're right, I'm coming back."

I heard my own words now in my head. There was no choice. "We can't go. There's no way to make it a safe trip," I said. "Let's turn around and go back to the office."

Was it the right decision? Could I have walked across the bridge unnoticed? Did the drivers really assess the danger correctly? I don't know. But what I do know is that Iraq is hostile ground and nothing I do can make it safe.

©2006 The Los Angeles Times.

• Alissa J. Rubin is a Los Angeles Times reporter. This piece was first syndicated on Jan. 26.

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