USIP's Iraq program aims to reduce interethnic and interreligious violence, speed up stabilization and democratization, and reduce the need for a U.S. presence in Iraq. As part of this program, USIP has maintained a small office in the Green Zone in Baghdad since early 2004. Rusty Barber, a former political officer in the Foreign Service, has run the office since March 2007. His regular dispatches offer a lively and sobering insider's view of the promise and peril facing U.S. efforts in that country. We'll update this section each week, making only minimal changes for security reasons.
Forgive the following lengthy indulgence; I hope you will find its content justifiably entertaining.
ast week's Tribal Outreach trip to the Mahmoudiya sheiks exiled in Amman was one of those truly unique professional experiences that stick with you for the rest of your life. It barely happened. The culmination of a month of planning between USIP and local Mahmoudiya officials, the trip was bedeviled from the start with obstacles: postponement due to scheduling conflicts, Jordan's refusal to issue visas, a curfew imposed by the Iraqi government, and on and on. Even after arrival at the airport under military escort, the fun continued. Thanks to the suddenness of departure, we were without confirmed seats for our nine-member delegation. Only one flight remained, and it was fully booked. I shall refrain from explaining just how we made it on that flight, but will remain forever grateful to the brigade's Iraqi-American "cultural affairs advisor"—a former gynecologist—whose dogged determination and creative problem solving won us exactly nine seats at the last possible moment. Resting my eyes in relief just before take-off, three helicopter gunships dropped onto the tarmac next to the plane. Out stepped Vice President Hashimi and his family. As the entourage serenely took the 20-odd seats reserved for them, I wondered if anyone behind the scenes sweated that little logistical maneuver half as much as we did ours.
Our delegation was carefully chosen by its leader, Muayad Fadhil Hussein, the "mayor" of Mahmoudiya, to reflect the diverse stakeholders in his community: a mix of Shia and Sunni political, tribal, military and civil society leaders. Sheik Fareeq, chief of the Al Ghorari tribe, was a particularly intriguing character. Tall, slightly stooped and unassuming in ordinary clothes, he made little impression at first glance—a figure easily lost in a crowd. I was therefore caught off guard when he arrived to our first delegation dinner in full regalia, suddenly transformed by his flowing robes and headdress into a dignified tribal leader.
His conversation proved no less interesting. Inquiring as to whether I ever wondered why no Iraqi villages had been named for American generals, as had been the case with the British in the last century (I confessed the question hadn't been a preoccupation), he launched into a homily on how poor we Americans are at balancing and manipulating tribal interests compared with our predecessors. Having studied the role played by British civil/military officers in the tribal areas in modern-day Pakistan, I'm familiar with the phenomenon. Villages like "Abbotabad" today bear witness to the reverence locals still hold for these "soldier sahibs" who spoke their dialects and fought alongside and against them. I had no choice but to acknowledge our American shortcomings in the Great Game talent fest.
Image on left: General Ali briefs Rusty on the security situation in the "Sunni Triangle" prior to their departure to Amman.
Elaborating on a theme he was to expound continually in subsequent meetings, Sheikh Fareeq lamented the failure of the U.S. to recognize and harness the key role played by tribal structures in Iraqi society. As the evening broke up, we agreed to pursue the conversation at a later time. As the sheik turned to leave, robes billowing out in his wake, I could not suppress a smile at the flap of his keffiyeh, which bore the label "Made in China."
Image on left:Sheikh Fareeq and Mayor Hussein wait for the flight to Amman at the airport.
At just 36, General Ali Jasim Mohammed is the youngest general in the Iraqi army. As commander of the 4th Brigade of Southern Baghdad, he has a nearly impossible task: in addition to tracking down al-Qaeda and rampaging militias, his meager forces must also secure two rival cities (Latifyah and Mahmoudiya), guard power stations, roads, schools and other key infrastructure, and man over a hundred checkpoints throughout the district. Due to infiltration by sectarian militants and criminals, his army must also oversee the regional Iraqi police force. Dark circles under his eyes and a five-pack a day smoking habit make him look fifteen years older and attest to the toll of his responsibilities. A Shia, he is married to a Sunni and has two boys named Omar and Hussein, Sunni and Shia names respectively. He is fiercely anti-sectarian, driving home his point on more than one occasion by asking rhetorically, "Am I to make war on my own family?"
Image on right: General Ali and the mayor tour a modern supermarket in Amman.
When General Ali invited me to accompany him and the mayor for an evening out, I readily accepted, though a little apprehensive as to just what a "night on the town" might entail for a soldier who had not had leave or vacation in three years of war. Our first stop was a shopping mall where Ali, the mayor and I strolled up and down the aisles of a Carrefour supermarket, the general's ever-watchful Sunni bodyguard, Lt. Fehmi, trailing behind. "We don't have these and I've never seen one," the General explained. "Perhaps one day when Iraq has stabilized there will be an opportunity to build them," I responded lamely. The General's expressionless nod allowed no undue optimism that this might come to pass.
After they had had their fill of frozen foods and blue light specials, we moved on to an Iraqi expat club on the fringes of Amman where Ali assured me we would hear some good singing. We arrived at 11PM to an Iraqi band playing to an empty house. I looked questioningly at the General and the mayor. "Just wait," Ali smiled. Plates of food began to arrive unsummoned and the club owner dropped by to say hello; clearly the General was known here, though this was his first visit. Just before midnight, droves of Iraqis started to pour in sporting all manner of dress: some in full black chador and robes, others in midriff-barring halters and miniskirts. The place went from mausoleum to Manhattan in less than 30 minutes.
The dance floor was hopping and the male singer wove in and out of the throng with a cordless microphone. We ordered beer and sheeshas and sat back to take in the scene. Refraining from food or drink, Lt. Fehmi scanned the crowd, never allowing the General or the Mayor to go to the men's room or smoke a cigarette outside unaccompanied. "Al-Qaeda," he responded simply when I asked whom they most feared trouble from.
Image on right: Mahmoudiya Tribal Outreach, Amman, Jordan.
I asked Ali if there was anyplace in Baghdad where you could still have an evening like this. "No," he replied, "not for a long time now...I feel like a baby learning to walk again." At one point, the mayor pointed toward the dance floor, eyes wide with delighted disbelief. There were two women on the dance floor in full burka—gloved hands in the air—swaying with their mates to an up-tempo beat. I felt I was on the set of the galactic bar scene in Star Wars.
Image on right: Delegation from Mahmoudiya in deliberations in Amman, Jordan.
We stayed until 3:30 in the morning, during which time neither the 60 year-old mayor nor the burdened General—both of them doubtless exhausted—gave any hint of flagging. But, then, with burka-clad women spinning about the dance floor, you didn't want to miss anything.
