Civil-Military Dialogue — The Early Days
Iraq, June 2003
Our spiral descent began with the left wing of the Beechcraft pointed over the Baghdad International Airport directly below. An efficient few minutes later, a dozen nauseous, slightly dizzy civilians exited the aircraft onto the blistering tarmac in Occupied Iraq. Judging from the activity around us, it was lunch by MREs in the shade you could find with no imminent threat. Also “major combat operations in Iraq had ended” over a month ago.
It was so hot the heels of my shoes sunk into the molten tarmac with each step. This embarrassed me. As if I, as a civilian, had arrived unprepared to a war zone. A small, pick-up truck with “mini-Humvee” written in the window dust approached to guide us through the maze of military vehicles towards whatever “arrivals” means now.
Entering Iraq via the airport was nothing more than pausing at a desk in the hall formerly known as Immigration where a uniformed female entered our information into one of those thick laptops that is supposed to be dust, drop, and kick proof. I hear grit between the keys as she types.
Post-security check in the portable latrine I read the universal soldier’s lament for home: “Iraq Sucks.” “Amen” was scrawled beneath. There were several submissions of anti-army graffiti and poems too vulgar to record. Over time, biology disadvantages the female occupant from exposure to these sentiments.
Green Zone
Security is light at the palace. My NGO ID pressed to the car window gets us past the staggered tanks and coils of concertina wire. At the vehicle and personal search the American soldiers are friendly and talkative. They are ready to go home. “There’s nothing we can do here, just being the police. It’s not our job.”
From the UN HQ at the Canal Hotel, we were given an address for the next humanitarian coordination meeting somewhere in these sprawling palace grounds. The soldiers at the outer gate have no information on our meeting nor do they recognize the address we were given. Our vehicle with 1 x Dane, 1 x American aid workers and 1 x Iraqi driver is allowed to pass.
We drive up to a grand building where several identical, oversized heads of the president-now-in-hiding stare down at us from the rooftop. The soldiers on guard outside have no information and we are not allowed inside to see if this is the right place. If the soldiers are unmotivated to help us it’s probably because this too is “not their job.” That or it’s 122°F in the shade if you can find it.
The soldiers at the outer gate have no information on our meeting nor do they recognize the address we were given.
After 20 minutes driving along largely empty roads in every direction — and you can drive for miles within this palace estate, we eventually give up and return to the main palace building. After a few phones calls we wait for a voice from the Coalition Provincial Authority (CPA) who says he is coming to meet us. I chat with the Florida National Guardsman who stopped us from entering.
His call sign is 1. While we wait he calls for 0.
“Zero this is one.”
“Zero this is one.”
“Zero this is one. Nothing heard.”
“So how’s it going so far?”
“I am ready to go home. I don’t even know what we are doing here, but every National Guardsman I know in Florida was mobilized. They are probably going to keep us here longer than the regular army. At a fraction of the cost, too.”
“Do you know how long you will be here?”
“Nope. We are told nothing.”
“Have you seen the rumoured 30-foot doors and gold faucets?”
“No.”
“What will happen if I run right past you guys and up to the palace?”
He answers without looking at me.
“We’ll shoot you.”
“What? Not even give me a chance and at least tackle me to the ground?”
“Maybe.”
The sun is at their backs not in their eyes. I decide it’s not the day to test their humor.
Kurdistan. Pizzeria in the Christian quarter of Erbil.
Three American soldiers at the next table are dreaming aloud by faux ordering what they wish were on the menu. The thin, Kurdish waiter waits patiently.
“Hey man, four T-bone steaks, medium rare.”
The waiter stands confused as if not sure it is their English or his that’s amiss. When the soldiers burst into laughter he knows it’s not his English. One soldier keeps looking in my direction.
Wish I could do something for the seriously maimed boy on crutches who keeps coming by my table. I give him a couple USD but feel pathetic for doing so. No chance his condition is not being exploited by family or “protective” types at this intersection of local plight and foreign good intentions. 1000 curses.
Pizzas arrive and the soldiers have forgotten their steaks. The translators and drivers each nibble at a slice without much interest. They prefer to eat at home.
Four pizzas and sodas comes to $28. There is confusion over each soldier wanting to pay for his own pizza but no one has less than a $20. The first two quickest drop their bills and stand up. I shrug at the third one, “your money’s no good here.” He laughs, “Hey, its all in the name of fun.”
Later, as I leave, the crippled boy is suddenly at my side, hoping for a last round of generosity. He maneuvers alongside me on his mangled limbs so fast I have no doubt he could take me in the 100m.
Holly Hughson writes on the intersection of Western humanitarian and military intervention in traditional cultures. Holly has worked in Kosovo, Sudan, Iraq, Russian Federation and Afghanistan. She has worked as an instructor and advisor on humanitarian aid and early recovery to joint, coalition and inter-agency training exercises at multiple US bases in the United States and Europe. Presently she is writing a personal history of war from the perspective of a Western female living and working in Muslim countries.
