The worst stress for Babak [her boyfriend] and me was when one of us was safe and the other in harm's way. In September 2004, I was on the phone with Babak, who was out of Iraq, when a car bomb exploded outside the house in Mansur that we shared with other foreigners. The force of the explosion threw me to the floor, but it didn't disconnect the line. He heard the boom, then my scream, the glass shattering and the chaotic shouts of the staff in Arabic. Pieces of flesh and metal rained into our garden. For hours, we stayed trapped inside the house as we pondered what to do next. If we left, the insurgents could be around the corner and abduct us. If we stayed, they could storm the house or mortar it. Babak called at least once every half hour. The next day, we evacuated. [she moved eight times]

[...]

Drivers made sure our armored car and "chase" car -- which follows the first car as a surveillance vehicle -- were running smoothly. A guard loaded his AK-47 rifle and secured a handgun to his waist. Haqi, our translator and office manager, tested the walkie-talkie radios and placed the first-aid kit in the back seat. I draped myself in a head-to-toe black abbaya covering, the traditional attire of conservative Arab women, and sat in the back.

The goal was to be invisible, to not be noticed as a foreigner when stuck in traffic, behind a red light or whizzing through Baghdad streets. You just never knew who was sitting in the car next to you. Would they pull out a gun? Would they spot the car and chase you down the road? Would they drag you out? Who would sell you out? Would they have mercy on your Iraqi staff?