Irak-krigen byr på karrrieremuligheter for folk som vil bli journalister. Borzou Daragahi er amerikansk-iraner og glir dermed inn i landskapet så lenge han ikke åpner munnen. I 4,5 år dekket han Irak for Los Angeles Times.

Nå er det over. Borzou Daragahi overlevde, men ble en krigs-junkie. Han levde med krigen døgnet rundt, også når han var hjemme eller på ferie. Først nå kan han fortelle hvor mange close calls han hadde. Kona visste ingenting. En dag tar lykkken slutt.

THE young man with the AK-47 at a checkpoint in the Triangle of Death ordered us out of the car the moment he realized I was a foreigner. A flat gray sky closed in. Dust and diesel exhaust filled the hot air. He led us into the desert, over scrub brush and cigarette butts, toward a grizzled man in a wooden hut.

«And who is he?» the older man asked my Iraqi colleague and interpreter, Raheem.

I had repeatedly promised my bosses, my colleagues, my family and my wife, Delphine, that I wouldn’t take big risks. But here I was in the early summer of 2006 in the middle of a lawless desert between Baghdad and Najaf that had swallowed up hundreds of Iraqis and not a small number of foreigners. I was speaking to a man who acted like a cop but looked like he could have been an insurgent commander, the head of a kidnapping ring or a death squad leader.

We were in a mostly Shiite Muslim part of the country, so I stuck to my cover story: I was an Iranian headed to Najaf, one of the thousands of Shiite pilgrims who make their way there each month to pay their respects at the shrine of Imam Ali.

He demanded to see my passport. To my surprise and terror, he thumbed through it. Then he calmly looked up and asked, «Where’s your entry stamp?»

I had no answer. I had entered Iraq with my U.S. passport, which I wouldn’t dare bring with me on the road. I froze.

Reporter recalls the layers of truth told in Iraq
After 41/2 years ‘in country,’ The Times’ Borzou Daragahi looks back on what it took each day to get to the story and get out alive.