Iraq Journal, Part I

By Jay Nordlinger
Wednesday, October 8, 2008

EDITOR’S NOTE: Jay Nordlinger was in Iraq from October 4 to October 7. Below is the first installment of his journal.

The State Department is taking four of us to Iraq — four journalists. State has never done this before; it is a first. Why are they doing it? They think, I believe, that the story of Iraq is being underreported now. For years, Iraq was the dominant issue of the day. And now, it seems barely to make the news. There are reasons for this, of course — benign ones: such as the excitement of a presidential election. But it also may be that Iraq is going relatively well now, and an improving Iraq, to some, is not as interesting as a deteriorating one.

If it’s not a debacle, is it newsworthy?

We land at Kuwait City, in a fairly sleek, modern airport. You see people of every clime and race in this airport. It is a hub of the world, in particular the Middle East and Asia. How many inhabitants of Kuwait are Kuwaiti? A modest portion: The others are “guest workers,” businessmen, etc. In the airport, you see women in burkas. You also see slicked up ones. Here is pulsing humanity, and if it is “diversity” you’re seeking — visit the Kuwait airport.

Of course, I could say the same about the Amsterdam airport. Or the Frankfurt. Or JFK . . .

(One thing about the Amsterdam airport is that the women in burkas — may be light-skinned, blue-eyed Dutchwomen.)

At the hotel — this is the Crowne Plaza — you put your bag through security screening, as you do all over the Middle East. It’s a pain, but it may do some good. Who can know for sure? And in this hotel — very luxurious — you get the same variety as in the airport. Well, maybe the general run of people is more upscale. One of the stores is Fauchon. There is a multiplicity of excellent restaurants.

And, by the way, there are Indian workers — polite, efficient, neat Indian workers, just as there are all over the world: in Africa, the Caribbean, North America. And, yes — in India, too.

Is there a wider diaspora than the Indian one now? And has it not been thus for decades?

P.S. If you must have a wakeup call, you could do worse than to have it administered by a lilting-voiced Indian. What lovely music, comes out of Indian mouths. (Are you still allowed to write like this post-19th century? Thank heaven for the First Amendment and National Review.)

I have mentioned this before, in journals concerning Islamic countries: The sound of the muezzin (the call to prayer) is interesting. Sometimes it’s comforting, soothing — reassuringly timeless. It has a spiritualizing effect. At other times, it is intrusive, bothersome — sort of bullying. It all depends on your attitude (and the hour).

Was it so long ago that an American-led coalition liberated Kuwait — and is “liberated” too strong a word? No, we expelled Saddam Hussein’s army from this country, and spared it prolonged Saddam-style occupation. We can also be assumed to have saved Saudi Arabia in the bargain. We did not “finish the job” against Saddam, of course — although 41 went as far as the U.N. mandate, just as he always said he would. That remained to be done about twelve years later. And that job has proven to be difficult — not the taking out of Saddam and his regime, but the “standing up” of Iraq thereafter.

After a night in the Crowne Plaza, we make our way to a military base, for a flight into Iraq. I see the smog — the hazy pollution — that I associate with the Third World. But, of course, one could associate that with L.A., too.

I further see something that I associate with the Arab world: lots of idle young men. They’re standing around, and what they’re doing, or hope to do, I know not. You can see scenes like this in Egypt, Jordan — all over. (Of course, the Gulf is a magnet for young Arabs such as Egyptians: There are few jobs at home, but there are jobs here.)

The plan is this: We’re to travel by C-130 to Baghdad, or near Baghdad. And from that base, we’re to chopper to the Green Zone, or International Zone. Our State Department companion warns us that the C-130 trip could be rough: extreme temperatures, a corkscrew landing, and so on.

And we are issued our PPE — our Personal Protective Equipment, also known as IBA, or Individual Body Armor. This is a vest and a helmet. Our companion says that, no matter what, civilians, in their PPE, look like Michael Dukakis in that tank. We can’t help it. The soldiers look natural; the rest of us look — dork-o-rama.

My vest says “Harvey” on it, and so does my helmet. I wonder who this Harvey was — and whether he’s alive.

And I have another thought, as I put on the vest: I think of the first day of a cruise, one of our National Review cruises. You do a lifeboat drill, and you fumble with your vest — your flotation device. This is an absurd thought, of course: because what we are doing today is not exactly a cruise. But it comes to me unbidden.

You know the cliché that, in the military, it’s “hurry up and wait”? That is not merely a cliché, I discover.

In due course, we board the plane, strapping in. The men around me — the soldiers — are all hombres. They’re pretty nonchalant. And they seem to have a feeling of being out of control, just as I do: They’re not sure when the plane will take off; they’re not sure what the flight will be like. They may not know what awaits them in Iraq. There is a resignation about them, or so I sense — a grim weariness.

Before it leaves, the plane gets frightfully hot. We’re in the desert, after all, though it’s mercifully October. And we have our PPE on. As I look around, I think of another cliché: In the military, you sleep when you can. And many of the soldiers are sleeping, just because they can. And they seem very, very calm.

A couple of details: There are flags on this plane — American flags — and, somehow, they are more meaningful than flags elsewhere. And amid the pile of luggage is a guitar — or maybe a banjo, because it seems elongated.

Two men look out the window, and they don’t just look: They watch like hawks, pointing guns.

After about an hour and 15 minutes, we whoosh down in a steep descent, landing at the base — the Baghdad-area base. It has been an easy flight. Or, put another way, it could have been a hell of a lot rougher.

When we land, I think of two things, mainly: I think that I’m glad to be on the soil of a country that has meant so much to the United States, and the world, for all these years. And I think of an Iraqi-American friend of mine, back in Michigan. We went to high school together. When they were children, he and his sister were tabbed to greet Saddam Hussein, at their school. They handed him flowers. Later, their family fled to America. And I’d like to tell Eddie (né Oday) that I’m here.

I also see a Polish plane — a jet with Polish words on it. Someone later tells me that the Poles are pulling out, after their years of service. I remember that one of President Bush’s very few state dinners was held for the Polish leader — a good choice.

At the base, I meet a young man from San Diego. He tells me that I can go ahead and take off my PPE: “Nothing’s happened here for months.” Months does not seem like a very long time to me. The man explains that he himself arrived 16 months ago — and things are much different now. Before, the base was chaotic, tense, with fire coming in all the time. “I thought for sure I’d see someone die of a heart attack, because everyone was so tense.” But now things are much, much calmer. Quieter. This is what the surge has wrought, according to this San Diegan.

We board a Blackhawk helicopter — and the doors are open. Or rather, there are no doors. I didn’t bargain on this. The trip into the IZ (International Zone) is very, very — windy. Windy and swervy. I hold on to my luggage, and I hold on to the “helo.” This is not usual living for me: I write at a desk, I sit in a concert hall or opera house — I write at a desk again. Everything now seems more: “vivid” is not the word, because the rest of life is vivid too. If I find the right word, I’ll get back to you. Please accept “on the edge” for now.

And I should mention that, as on the plane, two soldiers sit on either side of the helo, looking out, scanning the terrain, watching like hawks, pointing their guns. They seem very practiced and very competent.

The IZ is a little city within a city — the city of Baghdad. And it is very, very well protected. I have never seen security like this — not in Israel, not anywhere. You go through checkpoint after checkpoint — dogs, sweeping instruments, the whole nine yards. To the side, I see a small structure that says “Duck and Cover Bunker” — one takes note.

As we make our way, slowly, guards keep boarding our bus, saying “Buenas tardes.” They are Hispanic guards. And you know what my little conservative brain thinks? It thinks, “Geez, assimilation isn’t going too well, is it? Why don’t they speak English? They are speaking Spanish, not only with one another, but with us.” And then reality dawns: “These are not Americans, estúpido — they are Peruvians. This is, in fact, a coalition.” One forgets that it is a coalition.

In the course of this trip, I will encounter or hear about Brits, Aussies, Italians, Danes, Romanians, Bulgarians, Ukrainians, Ugandans, Salvadorans, marines from Tonga — unilateral my . . .

Our embassy is in Saddam’s old palace — one of them. And that is an amazing fact. Our men are swimming in his pool — our soldiers, I mean. They have strung together water bottles for lane-markers.

I go to a “hooch” on the palace grounds — my living quarters for a couple of nights. Where did the word “hooch” come from? Perhaps Vietnam, says a lady from the State Department — a different companion from the first-mentioned one. “You know: GIs and their ‘hoochie’ girls.” I’ll have to look it up when I get home. Two seconds on Google will take care of that.

As I enter my hooch, a sandbag — part of a wall of sandbags — leaks onto my shoe. My State Department friend says, “Welcome to Iraq.”

Everyone carries a weapon, or virtually everyone does. My friend says, “I don’t see them anymore” — they’re so normal. Part of the furniture. Everyone carries his weapon, or weapons, pretty much everywhere, because there’s no place to store them. “When they swim,” says my friend, “there’s usually a pile of weapons at some guy’s feet” — one fellow is watching them.

In Saddam’s palace — rather our embassy — there is a ballroom, with some interesting artwork: On the ceiling, horses fly upward; and nearby, missiles fly upward, too. This is sick, sick, and so is the entire palace — revolting. In the ballroom are makeshift offices, and the sign on one of them catches my eye: “U.S. Department of Justice. Commission on Integrity.” History is remarkable, I know you’ll agree.

I should relate this, too: The painting in that ballroom is very crude — I mean, from an artistic point of view. Almost as crude as the ideas the paintings are meant to express.

And look: The people of Iraq hated Saddam — hated him and hate him. He persecuted the majority of them, viciously, psychotically, murderously. Still, one can understand the sting of occupation — even an “occupation” as friendly, wanted, and beneficent as the American one. (More about that later.) Anything that smells of victor’s justice is queasy-making. What would average Iraqis think — what do they think — about our use of Saddam’s palace?

In any case, the joint will be handed over to the Iraqis at the end of the year. We Americans have built ourselves a new, vast embassy. Will the prime minister choose the palace for his own residence? Maybe the symbolism wouldn’t be all that great.

The palace used to be bedecked by huge, huge Saddam heads — busts of the dictator. Speaking of bust, those heads are now in a yard, face down in the dirt — beautiful.

I think — as I will often on this trip — “He was a bad, bad man — as black a dictator as you can imagine. No matter what, I’m glad we brought him down.” And I am.