Reporter's Notebook: Friend Killed In Iraq Bombing
Aftermath of the Hamra Hotel bomb blast - An Iraqi man walks past a municipal worker clearing debris a day after a bomb blast near the Hamra Hotel in Jadriyah. One of the 25 who were killed was a colleague and a close friend of NPR's Lourdes Garcia-Navarro. (Ahmad Al-Rybaye / AFP/Getty Images)
I first met Yasser in 2003 just after the fall of Baghdad. He was hired as a driver for my partner, a correspondent for The Times of London.
When he was serious, Yasser looked intense and watchful, but when he laughed he emitted a high-pitched giggle that was incongruous but infectious.
He was fearless and saved my life many times. On one terrifying occasion he swerved the car away from a knife-wielding attacker who wanted to steal the vehicle.
In Iraq, the people you work with hold your life in their hands. Yasser took that role extremely seriously. He was loyal, devout, kind and curious.
We became close. I met his family, ate at their home, traveled with him across the country on assignments. I often spent more time with him than with my own family.
And over the many years I lived in Iraq, he was a steady presence in the almost unimaginable chaos. His English wasn't the best — he used to call me "prince," though I knew he meant "princess."
On Monday, he had just returned to the Hamra Hotel compound when a minibus drove up near him and exploded. He had been out interviewing Iraqi soldiers about the ability of bombers to go through checkpoints undetected.
In the frenzied aftermath, I was running around trying to find out what happened when I saw his brother. He asked me if I had seen Yasser, who was nowhere to be found.
After a day of searching in hospitals, Yasser's family finally found enough of his body to make an identification.
He was buried in Najaf yesterday in the Valley of Peace — the vast Shiite cemetery that is the final resting place of so many of Iraq's recent dead.
Yasser died on my first day back in Iraq after an eight-month absence. I didn't have a chance to see him.
The Iraq war is slowly fading from America's newspapers and consciousness. Military men and politicians say it's better here now, and indeed, these days there is less death.
But people are still being killed. On Monday, I happened to know one of them.
The legacy of the Iraq war is measured in these losses. The people who have died here cannot be forgotten.
And I will not forget my friend, Yasser.
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STEVE INSKEEP, host:
Let's turn now to Iraq, where we've seen a surge in bombings this week. A car bomb in Baghdad tore the front off of Iraq's main crime lab yesterday, killing more than 20 people. More than 30 Iraqis died in three bombings that were just minutes apart on Monday.
One of these attacks targeted the Hamra Hotel, home to a number of news organizations, including NPR. Now, to many people, of course, death tolls like these are simply grim statistics. We hear more of them all the time. But for NPR's Lourdes Garcia-Navarro, this was a bombing that took a colleague and close friend.
LOURDES GARCIA-NAVARRO: I first met Yasser in 2003, just after the fall of Baghdad. He was hired as a driver for my partner, a London Times correspondent. When he was serious, Yasser looked intense and watchful. But when he laughed, he emitted a high pitched giggle that was incongruous, but infectious.
He was fearless, and saved my life many times. On one terrifying occasion, he swerved the car away from a knife-wielding attacker who wanted to steal the vehicle.
In Iraq, the people you work with hold your life in their hands. Yasser took that role extremely seriously. He was loyal, devout, kind and curious. We became close. I met his family, ate at their home, traveled with him across the country on assignments. I often spent more time with him than with my own family.
And over the many years I lived in Iraq, he was a steady presence in the almost unimaginable chaos. His English wasn't the best. He used to call me prince, though I knew he meant princess.
On Monday, he had just returned to the Hamra Hotel compound when a minibus drove up near him and exploded. He had been out interviewing Iraqi soldiers about the ability of bombers to go through checkpoints undetected.
In the frenzied aftermath, as I was running round trying to find out what happened, I saw his brother. He asked me if I'd seen Yasser. His car had taken the brunt of the blast, but Yasser was nowhere to be found.
After a day of searching in hospitals, Yasser's family finally found enough of his body to make an identification. He was buried in Najaf yesterday in the Valley of Peace, the vast Shiite cemetery that is the final resting place of so many of Iraq's recent dead. Yasser died on my first day back in Iraq after an eight-month-long absence. I didn't have a chance to see him.
The Iraq War is slowly fading from America's newspapers and consciousness. Military men and politicians say that it's better here now. And indeed, these days, there is less death. But every day, people are still being killed.
On Monday, I happened to know one of them. The legacy of the Iraq War is measured in these losses. The people who have died here cannot be forgotten. And I will not forget my friend Yasser.
Lourdes Garcia-Navarro, NPR News, Baghdad.
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INSKEEP: This is NPR News. Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright National Public Radio.
