Baghdad Journal

Welcome to Baghdad

Our mission is to get press credentials. In front of the Iraq Forum Conference Center, U.S. soldiers stand beneath a thirsty-looking tree checking people's papers and identification. We stand in line and watch some soldiers give an Iraqi man a hard time. They yell at him, push him a little. The other Iraqis behind him shift on their feet. They are waiting to get in, most likely looking for work with the Coalition Provisional Authority inside.

After waiting a couple of minutes, I by-pass the line to ask another soldier where to go to get my press credentials. "If you don't have them already, you aren't getting in here," he says without looking at me, his hands on the gun hung from his shoulder. He doesn't say anything else. He's not in charge.

There's a shorter and older man talking with a kind of easy authority to a woman trying to get in without the proper papers. He's full of energy, but looks weighted down by his large helmet, his thick vest and gear. She wants an answer from him. He's a captain, and he's giving her a story, an anecdote which leads to the reason why he can't give her what she wants.

When I approach the captain, "Where's your I.D.?" is the first thing he wants to know. Brandon is behind me, distracted by the rough treatment of the Iraqis. Our driver and guide, Abu Abdullah, a well-established businessman in Baghdad, is watching from a distance. When I get their attention, the three of us stand before the captain for judgement.

In the 120 degree heat, sweat pours from underneath the captian's big silver sunglasses. We hand him our passports. "You from Mississippi?" he asks. "Well, you must be a good ol' boy then! I just might let you right in." He wants to know where I went to school. When I tell him he shakes his head and says, "Massachusetts! Man. I might have to change my mind about lettin' you in." He wonders why I didn't go to Ole Miss. When he was in school there he used to drink at Roosters, used to sit at the bar with a fat bartender, "but I won't hold that against him," named Jimmy. I tell him I used to live in Oxford, but never drank at Roosters. I didn't have the heart to tell him it didn't exist any more. We both agreed the town was great for saucing your brains out. I ask him where he's from. "Well, I got some land just outside Brookhaven, in Mississippi," he says. "You know where that is?" I tell him it's not far from where I grew up. His home is in Louisiana. I tell him I go fishing with my family down in Cocodrie. "Well, that's right in my backyard. I've got property that runs through Cocodrie."

While I'm having the "hometown" talk with the Louisiana captain, the Iraqis aren't getting anywhere with the other troops. They're getting plenty of reprimands and admonishments.

Brandon asks the captain if Abu Abdullah can come in with us. Sweat drips from the corners of the captain's otherwise dry, cracked lips. He wants to know if he has his papers. He's using some Arabic, the word for "my papers," when he means to say, "your papers." He asks a number of times, slowing his English and ununciating, then using the wrong word in Arabic. "Do you have my papers? Do you have my papers?" Abu Abdullah doesn't have either. He tells the captain in near-perfect English, No, he didn't bring them. "You have to stay here," he says, still articulating, and then ushers Brandon and I through. "Enjoy your stay," the captain says.

Abu Abdullah watches us go into the maze of sandbags, concrete bricks and razor-wire , then stands back near a large metal sign and watches the other men continue to try to gain entry. He tells us later he had to leave the area, to get away from the troops, because he was getting sick watching how the Iraqis were being treated. He left to sit and talk with his people further away from the Conference Center, under withered trees pitiful for shade, where vendors were selling lukewarm sodas from duck-taped coolers. "I saw them. They pull people from here [from their shoulders] and they tell them, 'Go out! Go out!' They didn't do anything these people," Abu Abdullah says. "There was a problem with their papers, that's all. They are not treated with dignity. Even Saddam's regime, those powerful men, they didn't do like that to the people in public. Even the biggest dictator in the world didn't do that to the people." He raises his finger in the air, and his round, brown eyes seem too sad and tired to be too angry. "So I respect myself, so I go to my people, because I didn't want to see or hear that, what they were doing to the Iraqi people."

While Abu Abdullah sweats in the half-shade and chats with the vendors, Brandon and I register in the U.S. Consul, something all Americans are supposed to do when they come to Iraq. There are portraits of Bush, Cheney and Powell on the wall behind the front desk man. We fill out our forms with some real and feigned confusion. There's an interesting conversation happening in the corner of the room.

The head of the U.S. consul is talking with two military officers. Crime is going to prevent economic growth in Iraq, she says. All it will take is for one foreign businessman to be kidnapped for randsom to scare people from investing here, to seriously stunt economic development and reconstruction. Kidnapping has been a problem in Iraq since the end of the war.

The woman and the two officers are agreeing that their offices aren't coordinated well enough, and that the soldiers in the field seeing and hearing about the crimes need to be reporting better. "They focus on the stupid stuff," she says. The head of the consul says she's worked in Kuwait, Israel and Rwanda. The officers tell her they're headed out tomorrow for Tanzania, their next assignment. "Really," she said, leaning over her desk. "I was actually checking out Tanzania as a potential onward assignment." She tells them she's in Iraq working for a year. She tells them it's been great talking, communicating with them, a relief really. "We need this kind of continuity," she says. "A lot more of it." One of the men asks her who exactly she answers to at the end of the day, "I work for Bremer, who works for Rumsfeld, who works for Bush." Brandon and I half-finish our forms. The man behind the desk asks to make a copy of the business card of our apartment building. "Great, now we know where to find you when we need to," he says. Somehow his words don't sound so reassuring.

Now that we are the 100th and 101st U.S. citizens to register with the government in Iraq, we make our way to the media registration desk, to the man in charge of media inquiries, U.S. Army Officer Ingham. He's an Oklahoma man with a kind of clean southern articulation. Leaning back in his chair he smiles and tells us he's here to help. He hands us a form. "Just fill out this form right here," the Oklahoma officer says. "It's that easy."

A man in a blue jumpsuit approaches him and says something in Arabic. "You come to vacuum?" the Oklahoma officer says. The man points to a door behind the officer and says something else in Arabic. (A posted sign on the door reads, Authorized Personnel Only. People like General Sanchez and spokesman for the Coalition Provisional Authority meet in the room with other officials and officers before press conferences.) The Oklahoma officer doesn't try to understand. He slows down his English, sticks out his hands and makes some mechanical gestures. They talk over one another. The officer then proceeds to have a conversation with himself:

"You want to get back there to vacuum?"
"Well, right now is not a very good time."
"Uh, there's still a couple of people back there right now. Not many, but a few."
"Yeah, it's lunch time. Why don't you come back after one o'clock. What time is it now?" He checks his own watch.
"Well, yeah, that's too soon. Why don't you come back around two? Fine. Great."

The man walks away clearly confused. The Oklahoma officer seems as sure of himself as ever. Another problem solved, he gives us his attention again.

"So now, where were we...yes, that's right, during the interviews with press officers, No means No," he says. "Now I'm well aware that journalists have a hard time taking No for an answer, but that's how it is." He leans back again, relaxes. He has said all this a hundred times, even wrote it down, the words in the copied memo for journalists on his desk. "Some things are private. That's just the way they are. I don't go asking about your gay brother or you're mother with ovarian cancer, and you don't go asking about mine. Some things we got to keep to ourselves. Understand?" He rocks in his chair the way he probably has for weeks, months--a quiet assignment, but boring as all hell.

We fill out another registration form, something that shows we're in the country working as journalists. The Oklahona officer tells us there's no official press badge. "If you got into the building today, then you're fine," he says. "You can come to as many briefings as you'd like." He tells us to come back tomorrow. A CPA spokesperson and General Sanchez will brief the media. If we want we can stick around for the president of the World Bank. Maybe we could get a loan, he jokes. Other than that, there's not much more he has to say. By that time we were wondering why we'd just spent a couple of hours going through a lot of empty formalities. Remember, you attract more bees with honey (and money) than vinegar, the memo from the press desk says. Not too sure what it means, but it sounds like the Oklahoma officer's words. As we step away from his desk, he gives us a good smile and a half-wave and adds, "Welcome to Baghdad."

Posted by Adam Shemper at July 31, 2003 11:45 PM | TrackBack