REPORTER'S NOTEBOOK
Return to Iraq
Wednesday 09 July 2008
FRANCE 24's senior reporter Lucas Menget is back in Iraq with video-journalist Guillaume Martin. Read about his experiences in the war-torn country, watch his news chronicles and send him your questions.
Special Report Iraq: 5 years of warWednesday 09 July 2008
By Lucas Menget/ FRANCE 24
The pool is empty. Empty, or dirty. I haven’t been able to take a single dip during my whole stay. When I arrived, its water was yellow. Storms had blown sand into the water. Then it turned brown. Dirt, maybe? A few days ago, the hotel managers decided to empty it. And they’re having a huge amount of trouble filling it up again. “Tomorrow!” they say every day. So the pool is empty, yet I’ve never been in greater need of a swim. The heat, trouble with “logistics”, and plenty of doubts.
In doubt, people seek reassurance in something concrete, something tangible. Money, for instance. Money is something one can believe in. There is corruption at every level. Among the poor, among the rich, among the weak or the powerful. Everything can be bought, everything comes at a price. And that price is high. Life, information, access, time. One often has to pay for nothing. “Because that’s life.” Because no one dares to wonder what the next day or the next year will bring. Meanwhile, there has to be some way to keep busy: try to make a little more money. It’s exasperating, but necessary. And
Today, it’s hard to believe that
There are long queues at gas stations. How can this be in what is probably one of the most oil-rich countries in the world? The tanks are empty “because of the strike.” But who’s on strike? “Gas station employees! They’re civil servants but they’re no longer being paid.”
Tomorrow, my road diary comes to an end. We’ll be on our way off (if the sandstorm allows us to). But also because words are even more absurd than the situation they seek to describe.
“Using ordinary words in the midst of all this has become as difficult as standing my own thoughts. War has used up words, they have weakened, they have deteriorated.”
Henry James, the New York Times, 1915
Basra, Fao, July 5 & 6, 2008 - Storm under the turbans
A promenade on Basra ridge. The air by Shatt-el-Arab River grows pleasant as the day ends. There are fishermen. And people. Men, women, children. The men sit together, smoking their hookahs. The women, all in black, stay with the children. In this southern Shia region, religion is not to be taken lightly. But at least these Iraqis are finally outside. They can finally breathe their country’s air. Take one young man: medium-long hair, carefully applied gel, fake Dior sunglasses, tight jeans and a stylish shirt. “For five years, we couldn’t come here. It was too risky, there were too many attacks, too much violence. Militias held the city.” Then, one month ago, the army deployed. With help from American and British troops, the Iraqi army is now patrolling the city streets. “We don’t know how long the quiet will last, so we enjoy it while we can.”
Soldiers patrol the Basra ridge, July 6
Basra. Iraq’s second largest city. Held by militias for five years, despite the presence of British battalions who more or less let them be. It isn’t easy to understand the complex checkerboard formed by the many different factions. Never has the Shia world seemed more complex and fascinating to me than today, although I read, during long drives, my friend Patrick Cockburn’s impressive report on Moqtada al-Sadr. Who controls the city? A little bit of everybody, depending on the neighborhood. The Badr militia over here, the Sadr militia over there, the Iraqi Hezbollah in this suburb, Al-Haqim’s followers in the next. All of them more or less enjoyed tacit blessing of the police and authorities. In Najaf, further north, the religious elite pronounce their fatwas. In Basra, the faithful carry them out. Their kalashnikovs fight for ideas debated behind the walls of Najaf’s houses, far away and invisible. Nobody in the Shia world can ignore these debates. You can’t be both a partisan of the Grand Ayatollah Sistani or the young chief Moqtada. You must take sides. At every level.
The operation launched by Nuri Al Maliki’s government, also Shia, began two months ago when several police officers were sacked. They were corrupt (of course), but above all they were more loyal to their parties than concerned about public order.
A bridge over Shatt-el-Arab in Basra, July 5
Colonel Abbas is a wiry man. Tall, with a sunken face. His dark skin is almost black, as is often the case in the south. His uniform is impeccable. He’s the one who greets us at Basra’s military barracks. Tea, talk, tea, wait. “All is quiet now. There’s no risk.” Yuri and I go smoke a cigarette. We observe a Scottish major inquire about the state of Iraqi jeeps. Trim mustache and big smile. But an Iraqi officer approaches us: “you can’t stay here, the Mahdi army’s combatants are not far, and they can shoot mortars into the barrack’s yard. It’s for your own safety.” All is quiet, they say. Tea, talk, tea, wait. Five hours later, here we go again. Colonel Abbas summoned a convoy of 10 armoured tanks and pick-up trucks “to show us”. He isn’t comfortable bringing up specific religious or political leaders. “For me, it’s only militias. Period. I don’t want to point to so-and-so’s specific responsibility.” The colonel is prudent. He knows that any order in the region is temporary. And that today’s leaders may be tomorrow’s suspects.
Basra’s palm trees give way to the desert: we’re entering the Fao peninsula. “You’re the first journalists to come here since 2003.” The claim is hard to confirm, but colonel Abbas is formal. Under the sand on either side of the car lie the bodies of thousands of combatants killed in the Fao battles. Not the Gulf wars. Worse. The Iran-Iraq war. The trenches, the mustard gas. The kids sent up front to clear the way of mines before tanks went through. It was Shia against Shia. Saddam had deserters’ ears and noses cut off. Khomeini against Saddam. Arabs against Persians. And death as the only horizon, whether it be in or outside the trenches. Those unwilling to fight were shot in the head, and their family had to pay back the price of the bullet.
The soldiers sweep their arms towards Iran, pointing to the flare of Iranian oil wells on the other side of the river. Friends or enemies? No one in the region is quite sure anymore. Friends, because after all, “we are all Shia, on either side of this border.” No matter whether Ayatollahs diverge on certain points of doctrine, they are similar in many respects. Sometimes, only a slight accent can tell apart an Iraqi religious refugee in Iran from an Iranian religious figure living in Iraq.
The city of Fao could have been an Arizona town. Low houses. Dogs. Dust swirling in the crushing heat. A huge blue sky. Wide empty streets. And a sheriff. Except that here, he’s a Lieutenant-Colonel. He greets us in his air-conditioned office, playing with his cell phones. His bed lies left of his desk. One pillow, one blanket. A small cup for tea. An air conditioner. A television set on a cartoon channel, which he watches distractedly as he answers our questions. He was deployed here with a company to show militans that Bagdad intends to re-conquer the south. His window has a view on Iran, and the Shatt-el-Arab. What does this soldier think of at night, when he isn’t asleep, as he watches the moonlight reflect on the mingled waters of the Tigris and the Euphrates?
Inside an Iraqi army convoy on the Fao peninsula, July 6
Our convoy heads towards the edge of the river. Here, it measures 200 meters wide. A building lies in front of us: the Iranian border post. A flag floats in the air, next to a portrait of Khamenei. “For years, everything came through here. Arms. Men. Drugs” explains the soldier. The arms come from all over the world, from old Kalashnikovs to the latest anti-tank guided missile. The men come from Iran: to and fros between the two countries for a quick operation or to hide out for a few days. “Sometimes, religious men in turbans cross the river at night in small boats” whispers an officer. “We can’t do anything about it. They’re important religious men.” The drugs come from Afghanistan. Via Iran. In Iraq, drugs enjoy a growing success. They offer a more accessible, less radical paradise for those who don’t choose the heaven of martyrs.
Fao peninsula: an Iraki soldier faces the border with Iran
“Since the border has been reinforced, nothing can cross over!” The colonel smiles at his own words, words he learnt by heart. He knows it isn’t true. He knows that for centuries, the Shatt-el-Arab hasn’t stopped anybody, quite the opposite. It’s a link between two worlds: the Arab world and the Persian World. And it’s a win-win situation, even for Americans. According to the New Yorker’s Seymour Hersh, it’s also where US special forces apparently cross to spy the Iranian side of the border and check to see whether a new war is absolutely necessary or not…
Back to Basra. On the side of a road, kids are playing football, heedless of the heat. Portraits are plastered everywhere, at every crossroad. Moqtada, his father, his stepfather. One ayatollah, then another. An Iranian, an Iraqi… Not a single portrait of a political figure. The soldiers at checkpoints salute colonel Abbas in his convoy, back from Fao. The military operation is a success. A real success. Military caps have triumphed over turbans. But turbans don’t find it necessary to salute them out of respect.
Amara, July 3rd, 2008 - Let’s go out for dinner
I had forgotten that the sun rose so early. At 4:30 am, the sky was already blue when we discovered the new face of Ingrid Betancourt on television. Outside, our guards were waiting but didn’t really understand why we were so gripped by it.
A coffee. Eggs. On the road. Workers in the streets of Baghdad. Work starts early on construction sites. Highway junctions are used by pedestrians as well. The driver knows it and avoids them. We’re driving fast, four cars in a convoy. We invited Yuri and Abigail, of Time, to come along. Over walkie-talkies, drivers and guards discuss how to behave at checkpoints and make up lies to tell as we go along. Foreigners haven’t been driving that road without military escort for a long time. Abigail is suffering from the heat under her black nylon abaya, just like any Iraqi woman. Through the open window, the wind gets hotter by the kilometre. The South road.
Here’s the Euphrates, about to reach the Shatt al Arab. But not yet, patience. Five hours on the road and Amara appears on the river bank. That’s really the south. Palm trees everywhere. Men wearing dishdasha, women wearing abaya. Kids everywhere. And the heat. Dreadful. “Wait, it’s going to be 10 degrees hotter in Basra,” says Sammy, one of the drivers, laughing. “10 degrees hotter, but it’s impossible at this point!” We conclude that beyond 50 degrees Celsius, you can't really tell the difference. The hair dryer has been replaced by a giant drying machine. You don’t even have time to sweat, perspiration dries immediately.
An Iraqi soldier guards a police convoy in Amara, July 3
Cops wrap scarves around their heads. They’ve just retaken control of the city. The general comes from Baghdad. He trained in Italy. He admits that “the previous administration was a bit too weak.” A gentle understatement to explain that the city was in the hands of the Mahdi Army, Moqtada al-Sadr’s militia. The governor and the mayor have been arrested. The army and the police patrol everywhere. The new masters from Baghdad can take us around the city without risking incident.
A woman protests as police arrest her son in Amara, July 3
Officially the Americans are not here anymore. They “handed back” power to Iraqis. On the military bases, outside the city, several dozens of soldiers are still wearing the US uniform and speak nothing but English. One of them comes forward. “You cannot film us. We cannot talk to you. In fact, we’re not here.”
Except they are there. Special and regular forces. Probably just to help out their colleagues. The hypocrisy of the Iraq war gets on our nerves. A lieutenant-colonel, probably alerted to our presence, finally comes to us. He asks for our numbers and promises to call back, although his look and intonations tell us exactly the contrary. He never called.
A police operation in the main street of Amara, July 3
Night falls suddenly. 7 pm. Within minutes, it’s dark. The air becomes barely breathable. Electricity comes and goes. The streets are pitch black.
By the river, restaurants. We look, stunned. Yuri wonders just like I do. “When was the last time you want to a restaurant in Iraq? 2004.” Same for me.
Shall we have dinner outside? Our guards are happy, not as much as we are. There are people. The meat is good. We’re eating outside. It’s simple. For us, it’s historic.
Good night, good day. Lucas
Driving a car, looking for Baghdad’s Christians. We want to know how many of them there are. How they are doing. Whether they have run away. What those who stayed are now doing. We’re on our way to Karrada, a central Baghdad neighbourhood where there are many churches. There are 17 Christian communities in Iraq. From the most mainstream to the most obscure. From churches to sects.
A big concrete cross above a cubic church. The street is blocked on both sides. Impenetrable faces. Men with guns and walkie-talkies watch the churches. They have all been attacked in recent years. Some burned down. Others blown up. Masses have been rare and the faithful are hiding.
Glances are exchanged on the street. But they are lowered at the sight of our cameras. Hiding is the only way to survive. Just like anywhere else in Iraq, but maybe even more in this neighbourhood. We try and knock at the doors of churches. We insist a little. But nobody wants to talk. “The priest isn’t there,” they say. “He’s in Kurdistan. He’s in Lebanon. He’s in Europe. He’s tired.”
In reality, the priest is probably there. But he doesn’t want to come out. He doesn’t want to talk. He wants to be seen as little as possible. A few weeks ago, a priest was killed in front of the door to his apartment in Karrada at three in the afternoon. Just like that. Because he was a priest.
Some Christians from Karrada come closer to us. Ask questions. They disappear. They don’t want to answer our questions. The big concrete cross is sad-looking. Our feet get caught in the barbed wire that surrounds the empty church.
We hear that two liquor stores have just reopened on Saadoun street after three years. They say the salesmen are Christian. The stores are open and business is good. Beer and small whisky bottles sell quickly. I ask if the salesmen are Christian. Embarrassment. Confusion. No, then yes, shyly, then no. The secrecy, always. All the liquor stores on Saadoun street blew up one day.
The priest isn’t there. The salesmen aren’t Christian. They live in hiding.
The night will be short. We’re taking off for the South in the middle of the night.
Good night, good day. Lucas
Two Iraqis sit on their armchairs. Night has fallen, sand continues to swirl in the air. All the airports and heliports in the area are closed. No one can enter or leave the country. Going out into the street is an adventure, a battle against the sand. Everyone is sheltered in their homes. It is a good moment to stop. And talk.
Two Iraqis. A Shia and a Sunni They have decided to talk about their country. They are cultivated, funny and proud. They laugh today about the escapades of Saddam Hussein’s sons. Qusay, the younger of the two, was as fierce as his brother Uday, but more secretive, more intelligent, they say. And possibly less traumatised. Qusay could have children. But not Uday. That explains, they suggest, why Uday’s wives were so obsessive.
The two men switch between Arabic and English, speaking of the past and future, but rarely the present. “This country is rich. It has oil, right here, under our very feet. All over
Small water bottles are lined up on the coffee table. As much to combat thirst as to combat the taste of sand in one’s mouth. It’s 500 dinars for a half-litre bottle, close to a dollar. That’s twice the price of petrol at the pump – when it works.
Babylon. Hammurabi. Nebuchadnezzar. Ur. “The Iraquis have a history, did you know that Mister Lucas? We musn’t forget where we come from. This war, this is nothing. One more, that’s all. We have always been at war. The American invasion, Mister Lucas, will just be four pages in the history of Iraq.” Presumably so will the destruction of Baghdad by the Mongol Hulagu in 1258, or the big battle of Al-Qadisiyya, in 637, when the Arab armies defeated the Persian ones.
The two Iraqis fight against their fear by saying life was even worse before, and that it will be no better in the future. “At any rate, it’s always the Arabs against the Persians. It’s not going to be you who ends it.”
Iraq is a country of ghosts. Each family, each tribe, each religion has its own ghosts.
Good night, good day. Lucas.
Baghdad, June 30, 2008 – The smell of sand
Al-Garma is a little village near Fallujah – a name that has become notorious in Iraq of late. Last Friday, a man clad in an Iraqi army uniform entered the headquarters of Al-Garma’s local authority, where a meeting was being held between tribal chiefs and American officers.
They were preparing for Saturday’s transfer of Anbar province from American forces to Iraqi authorities. This was a reward for the sheikhs: they had been working with the Americans for more than a year now (after having fiercely resisted them earlier) and had succeeded in ridding Anbar al Qaeda.
But the man in the Iraqi army uniform blew himself up, leaving 25 dead – 20 tribal chiefs and five American military officers. Saturday’s ceremony was thus postponed indefinitely.
Baghdad said it was because of a sandstorm.
We met the Al-Garma sheikhs – those who survived, that is. Security was not optimal as yet, they said. They were wondering whether the Americans should wait a bit more before handing over the former Islamist bastion to Iraqi forces. We saw the sheikhs dressed in their magnificient white dishdasha (traditional men’s dress). But we didn’t see much of Al-Garma. A new sandstorm had struck western Iraq.
First, you feel the heat. Suddenly, the body starts to boil. You feel that your skin is burning. Your back is soaking wet. Then the electricity goes off – a cable has snapped somewhere in the desert. The light fails, and the sky turns from blue to yellow, then orange, then red. The palm trees bend over and their leaves turn ochre.
Quickly, the chauffeur starts the car. The sand gets in through the air conditioning. We can hardly see the end of the street, but faintly distinguish some kids splashing about in a dirty stream.
An Al Sahwa ("awakening") militiaman near Al Garma, in the Al Anbar province of Iraq, June 30
Destination Baghdad – right into the heart of the moving sandstorm. It is 4 pm, and the militants who escort us have full headlights on.
There are a few trucks on the road. We stop at a bridge to take pictures. A deserted railway track, a factory with closed doors, a sheik who watches, proud of his red desert.
The heavy sand carries strong smells over hundreds of kilometres. It smells of Iraq – of heat, diesel, fruits and soft asphalt. Near Fallujah, the sand smells of the Euphrates, rotten dates and mutton. It burns your nostrils, but at least hides the odour of death that one can always smell a little in Iraq.
Walid accelerates then slams on the brakes, in time to avoid being shot by a tank. Tyres screech. Impossible to see the tank from less than 30 metres away. One would think that the tank’s drivers had never seen a road safety warning.
Policeman on the road between Fallujah and Baghdad, June 30
Walid accelerates again. Full speed ahead against the sandstorm. The sky turns from red to orange. Then yellow, then white.
The curtain rises. We’ve won. The sandstorm is behind us. But as soon as we’re back to our room in Baghdad, the light turns yellow, orange, red. One can’t beat the Iraq sands.
Read Lucas Menget’s earlier notebooks:
April 2008: Sadr City - The forbidden city
April 2008: Chola - Life Under ceasefire
April 2008: Najaf - Home of the Shia
April 2008: Back in Baghdad
January 2008: Inside Iraq
Be the first to react.
-
CHRISTIANS LIVING IN FEAR
Special report by Lucas Menget, Guillaume Martin, and Muthanna Ibrahim. 08/07
-
IN THE FIELD
"It's a small political earthquake in the country" - France 24's Lucas Menget reports from Baghdad 08/07
-
On the Iranian border
"US special forces are crossing this river to enter Iranian territory" - L. Menget in the Fao Peninsula, Iraq 06/07 7am (GMT+2)
-
SANDSTORMS AND SUICIDE BOMBERS
FRANCE 24's Lucas Menget and Guillaume Martin report from the Al Anbar province in Iraq, 30/06
-
IN THE FIELD
"The handover could take a few weeks or days" F24's Lucas Menget reports. 29/06 1am (GMT+2)
Vidéo
Images
FRANCE 24's Guillaume Martin accompanies reporter Lucas Menget on his trip to Iraq
