"It’s for your own safety,” a feisty employee of the bank said.
She made me leave my cell phone with the guard at the front door.
The bank was hidden in a townhouse in a residential neighborhood of Baghdad. I was there to pick up money that had been wired to me.
ATMs do exist in Baghdad – I saw one today – but they are rare, and they don’t seem to accept foreign bankcards.
Inside the bank there were three men, one of them sat in a wheelchair. Both his legs were missing.
I had to go upstairs, where two young men started looking for my money transfer in their computer while a woman in her late twenties was playing with a necklace.
There was something peaceful about the transaction. It could take another fifteen minutes; it could take another hour. Time was not of the essence.