On a plane full of mercenaries I arrived from Jordan in the early afternoon at Baghdad International Airport. The flight was perhaps the most dangerous part of the journey. The mercenaries ("contractors" the Americans call them) from countries like South Africa, Bosnia and the United States, weren't so happy about the video I was making on board. Although none of their faces were shown, they came to protest loudly.

...
It's a cold, dark evening in Baghdad. Deathly quiet too, especially in this hotel. I'm the only guest. Surprised by my unexpected visit, a couple of hotel staff are trying to get the electricity working. Internet is meant to be the next step.

But what does it matter? I'm back, in the city which until two years ago I so much liked to visit.

In those two years Baghdad has become an even stronger fortress. More concrete walls, roadblocks and barbed wire. But in particular it's also become an almost impregnable fortress for journalism. Organisations like CNN and the BBC stayed, but mainly withdrew into their secure houses. And like the New York Times, for example, they had their local staff do the real work on the ground.

But OK, at least they were there. And hopefully they didn't do what a Scandinavian journalist told me - he was even proud of it. He had everything staged. An item on the refuse collection service, for instance, featured a garbage truck doing a round of the blocked off road outside his hotel...

Personally, since being in Iraq as an 'unembedded' journalist during the invasion five years ago, I've often had the feeling I was seriously pushing my luck. Or I had the feeling thrust upon me, sometimes by other Iraq-goers, more and more of whom were quitting.

Indeed, when my interpreter was killed a couple of years ago, beheaded by extremists, I also nearly quit. But then Iraq kept calling me.

After this incident the family left for Syria, but they recently returned to Iraq. Because it's safer now. But also because they felt completely unwelcome in Syria. They were treated like second class citizens.

Ammar's mother beams when I ask her whether it wouldn't have been wiser to stay in Syria. "No, Iraq is our home." And Ammar adds, "Whatever happens, we'll never leave here again. It's still the place to be." And despite all the trouble, I can see what he means. Iraq's the place to be. At least, as long as I make it through my stay without getting a blindfold over my eyes.