Al Numan Hospital
Al Aadhmyia, Baghdad, 2007
At the 8:00 a.m. Senior Consultants meeting, it was my turn to speak. I briefly mentioned my recent visit to the Baghdad morgue. Built to hold ten bodies, it was now receiving over a hundred daily. The former Director had fled after death threats; many other doctors and staff weren’t so lucky. The morgue was now guarded by FPS forces aligned with the Sadr militia. Sunni families coming to claim bodies were forced to pay bribes—and many were later killed, simply for being Sunni.
After the meeting, I informed the Ambassador I was heading to Al Numan Hospital, located in a Sunni neighborhood reportedly cut off from Ministry of Health fuel and medical supplies. General Chiarelli had heard about it from local political leaders. I wanted to see the ground truth for myself—because in Iraq, truth rarely matched reports.
I swung by my office, grabbed my flak jacket, helmet, and backpack, and headed to the lot to meet the convoy. I linked up with Ed, my translator, and a Navy Lieutenant representing MNFI. The security briefing noted today’s route was yellow—moderate risk, due to recent IEDs and insurgent activity.
At 9:00 a.m., we rolled out. I was in the back of the Humvee with three soldiers. Traffic crawled, and we occasionally mounted medians or drove against traffic to get through. I kept watch through the window, scanning for fast-moving threats.
We passed a nursery, soldiers, and busy streets. We finally pulled into a narrow alley behind the hospital. The location felt vulnerable. I quietly wondered how we’d extract if things went wrong.
Before exiting, I called Dr. Adel at the Ministry of Health, asking him to alert the hospital director. Like most of my visits, this was unannounced due to security concerns.
The Director met us and escorted me, Ed, the MNFI officer, and two soldiers inside. After removing my gear, I introduced our group. We exchanged tea and small talk before discussing our visit. I told him I’d heard the hospital was receiving no supplies or fuel, and that many staff had been killed or fled.
He confirmed it. “We get barely anything. We have to buy what we can from the market. Fuel deliveries are incomplete, but I’m forced to sign false receipts—or risk my life.” He explained that much of the Ministry’s resources were diverted to Sadr City, including to private clinics tied to party members.
As others joined the meeting—many speaking English—I asked about staff, equipment, and basic needs. The outlook was grim. I asked for a tour. Only the Director came with us.
The hospital was clean. Medical stocks were better than expected. I noticed flowers along the breezeway, a rare touch of beauty. But the Director grew tense as we neared the morgue. He stopped.
“We should turn back,” he said.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
Looking back, I saw about ten armed men approaching, followed by staff. We turned.
A young doctor from the meeting quietly approached. “Ms. Marty, come with me. There’s been an ambush. All the soldiers outside are dead.”
My escorts bolted for the exit. I shouted for them to stop—told them to check before walking into a kill zone. They had no phone. I offered mine, but they didn’t know the number. No one had a radio.
I leaned against the wall, trying to think. The doctor kept trying to separate me from the group. I asked the Director if there was a safe room. He stood in front of me and said, “They’ll have to kill me first to get to you.”
Honorable, though not comforting.
I told the MNFI officer to hand me his sidearm if things got worse—I trusted my training more than his. We agreed one soldier would try to reach the outer team and confirm what was really happening.
And then, we waited—for answers, for movement, for survival.