Re looked at and Re Organised post April 2010

By W.D Fleming GSM BSc

Taken from

Glish Business By Warren Fleming

The Arabs Old version pre 08/10/2008

As far as the civilian rebuilding Iraq was going, again was not seeing much of it in action; the Iraqi middle management seemed to be getting richer, dressed in their ubiquitous leather jackets. While the workers out on the ground often did not even have shoes for their feet, or enough water to carry out their work in the boiling conditions. It was demoralising to see the amount of death and destruction not really correlating with the amount of rebuilding meant to be underway, and the amount of law and order and democracy supposedly being nurtured. Over the year I had decided, I was only a small cog in a huge machine and (like many other men in many other wars over the years, I imagine), I hoped that larger cogs out there somewhere knew what they were doing. It usually seemed to work out right. The Arabs I had met out here had also puzzled me, greatly. They were an strange lot. I had travelled to Iraq expecting to find a few million replicas of that head-case who preached outside Londons Finsbury Mosque - the one with the hook for hands; a whole multitude of ranting and raving extremists. Instead what I had found were a reserved, polite, people. I had occupied some strange ground in some of my relationships with the Iraqis, which over the year had traversed many thoughtful and at times illuminating areas of their personal philosophy and mentality. Even with the loud industrial war machine, incessantly hammering away around me, it was within my interactions with the Iraqi people that the real interesting happenings took place. It had only been yesterday evening that I had had a conversation with an Iraqi living on our compound, and it had spooked me. It was the culmination of many in depth exchanges under the constant pressure of heat and attacks, and it had seriously altered my present concerns; (but you will have to ride the ride with me if you want to know about that. I explored far and I fought a hard battle along the way. I went right to the edge and then like a fool stared over it, into the abyss itself, and these words written here are a piece of war, a slice of the darkness, on paper. Run with me brave reader and Ill show you the show. Do you want to see? And if any of you ever find yourself walking this desert path, then just maybe these words will make you that little bit safer on your journey. Who knows what can spring forth from the word!)

The Arabs Re-write 08/10/2008

The Iraqi middle managements efforts at reconstructing a new country were bloody infuriating. Here was an opportunity, an almost limitless supply of money and equipment, to use on rebuilding, and to generally create with, as they saw fit. And what I was seeing was greed, involving an overly obscene amount of snatching,

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scheming and taking. A typical group of working class Iraqis would include three or four bosses, dressed expensively, always in leather jackets and wearing sun glasses. Then under those bosses would be between four and forty rag-tag, workers. Whenever I was tasked with looking after a client that had to have dealings with these work gangs, things would always play out the same, time and again, a constant repetition. We would arrive at the work site on time, and then wait. Often the clients had large engineering work to be done around the airport and the only option was to use the local population. Necessity dictated. We would be standing, the insects buzzing, the distant skyline shimmering, and the U.S army evident. All under a bright blue sky and blazing white sun. And we would wait. Then whenever the Iraqis felt like it, they would turn up. It could be 10 minutes, it could be two hours, or it could be not at all. If they finally did arrive, then at the front of their convey three or four BMWs would be snaking, followed by a flat bed loaded with workers, or if they were lucky a few clapped out, old mini-buses. The vehicles always casually pulled to a halt, absolutely no rush evident, at all. Out of the BMWs stepped the bosses, each out of his own, air-conditioned vehicle. The Iraqis on mass then slowly disembarked their transport and begin to mill about. Then through long dialogue and not much action my client would explain to the Iraqi boss what needed doing and he would usually translate, seemingly not too well. The workers then slowly began to do nothing that the client wanted, or at best some of what he wanted, done wrong. During our initial encounters they would always try something on. And Ill tell you. They went straight for the heart. During one of our first meetings, I was watching one of the clientss as he was trying to explain to the Iraqi boss that what was being done by the workers was not what he had had asked for. One of the workers sauntered up to me. He was wearing a shirt that was two sizes to big for him, and had on old brown trousers, tied with string. He had no shoes and was obviously gasping for water. Water he repeated, motioning to his mouth. I turned to the Iraqi in the leather jacket, as if to say well its your problem. He turned to me and then just looked straight back at me, as if to say, its not my problem, you sort it out. Im sorry but Im not an aid agency. I had a hard enough task securing water and supplies for all the westerners, without feeding the five thousand. I gave the thirsty Iraqi half a bottle of warm water, it was all I had to spare, and should have really kept it, but what can you do? As I handed over the precious water to the worker I talked directly to the Iraqi in charge. I told him It is not my job to supply food and water for your workforce, and I wont be doing it again. The Iraqi gaffer just turned away, without saying a word. The Arabs always seemed to be on something or another. From my own heart it was demoralising to see that much destruction, sitting alongside that little creation. There was simply no balance, everything appeared out of kilter. But here I was, just a small cog in a huge machine. And I imagine, like many men in other wars over the years, I hoped that out there somewhere, larger cogs knew what they were doing. Call it a leap of faith. I had not much more than passing encounters with the Iraqi working class. However the Iraqs that lived on our compound, the ex-military members of that same society, were a whole other matter. They were puzzlement to me. Shortly after arriving in Iraq I had learnt that they all, as a unit, had active, intertwined pasts. At first I had expected to find a mentality, not dissimilar to that head-cases that preached hate

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outside Londons Finsbury Mosque. The strange chap with the hooks for hands. (Just a thought mate, but perhaps you should try another profession; your present one appears to be trying to tell you something. Or you could keep going until theres nothing left of you, as you like!) Anyway, I initially arrived in Iraq to find little or nothing of the expected, outwardly, in-your-face hard-line attitude. First impressions were of a calm, reserved, polite people, who gave off an unmistakable underlying sense of pride. When in talking with them on important matters, they would often almost stand to attention. And if you said something that they found agreeable they would slightly bow their head, it seemed out of respect. Deep inside I hoped it was some inbuilt psychological trait, an inescapable need to at least acknowledge a good idea from another human being (well Ive got one of those anyway). Or as my dark side whispered in quiet moments, perhaps it was something altogether darker itself. Was it linked in some way to submission? I prayed not. Now, I had had from the beginning of my stay out here had been working to a theory that possibly the Iraqis we were living alongside, may have had loyalties that were not that instantly obvious. I assumed that just because the States and crew had rocked up with a big new idea for everyone. Iraqi men who were connected, tribally, politically, and militarily with each other, would not suddenly have all had en-masse epiphanies that came along nicely with an instant change of heart. Especially those that had maybe fought for the old regime, and possibly even lost friends and family for that cause. I had guessed that out of the whole populace, the ex-military members would probably be the staunchest, and the most likely to hold onto any old beliefs. So with this working hypothesis I pushed forwards, keeping on my toes as I went. And it turned out to be a prudent measure, so much so that even with the loud industrial war machine, incessantly hammering away around me, it was within my dealings with our local guard force, traversing hard mental ground, that the trickiest of happenings took place. This verbal sparring had been ongoing for the previous year by this time, confined to the pressure cooker of a blazing hot, war-torn Iraq. I had always tried to be as attentive as I could, whenever possible. Unless necessity was dictating again, and Im sorry to say I had to then employ more lowly tactics. On occasion I was forced into using the rather annoying skills of the humble wind-up, usually to illicit a less measured response, whenever I felt they were being overly guarded with their answers on a particular topic. Im not proud of the fact. But ever since first arriving in Iraq I had prioritised the need to hear their voiced opinion as something that I could have done with, yesterday. To sound it out, directly from it from the horses mouth, as it were. Like some mad poker player I was constantly searching for any reactions, no matter how small or insignificant, trying simply to second-guess them. I soon realised that what they said and what they did were sometimes two totally different things, (that issue, Ill cover later). More recently however, and more worryingly, was the fact that our discussions had increasingly been steering into more uncomfortable territory. I now felt as if I were practically alone on this one, deep in uncharted waters. And I knew that if I wasnt careful, I was going to end up in some serious trouble. It had only been last night that I had had an interaction with three of the Iraqis on our compound, and it had spooked me, a great deal. It had been late into the night and I had been up near the front gate of our compound, our home here in Baghdad. The night was warm and balmy, the sky an inky black.

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The only light hazed outwards from a line of strip lights strung up along our perimeter wall. The lights constantly hummed. A large swarm of insects were skitting around the lights, as if on a collective suicidal mission, drawn towards the soft radiance deep in the darkness. Two big army-green metal swing doors stood next too me, and on the other side of the gates lay bandit country. The gates broke the line of a ten-foot high, barbed wire topped wall, the outer perimeter of our compound. The strip lights weekly attempted to push back the night, which served to create hundreds of vaguely menacing shadows; each inward corner and recess on the compound being painted a depthless pitch black. Three Iraqis guards stood a few feet in front of me, all armed with pistols. As a group we were bathed in the orange glow from the lights, which then cast our long shadows out across the ground. As was common by that stage, I was carrying only a pistol as protection. It was placed in a holster on the right hand side of my waist, and only a quarter of a second away from use, if need be. I was relatively at ease, as much relaxed as I ever let myself get out here anyway. I was talking about some of the problems I was encountering, listening out for any good advice on offer. The locals had always been more than good at giving reliable advice, so long as you kept up your guard. But as the conversation went on this particular evening I began to instinctively feel something was wrong. I was feeling what seemed to be apprehensiveness amongst the small group of Iraqis. And as we talked on I became even surer, something was not right. They all seemed slightly edgy. I casually scanned about the group, but no one was giving any inkling of making any dodgy moves, not yet anyway. My deepest concerns were that perhaps they were waiting on a particular moment. And then it arrived at our group, what unfortunately had now turned into the unavoidable. The moment. OK then dear reader, Im afraid to tell you that you will have to ride all the way, to the very last stop, if you really want to find out about all of that entanglement. I will let you know that I explored far, and had to fight a hard battle along the way. I went right to the edge of the abyss and then like an idiot I stared into the void. If you think you have a strong heart and are of a slightly foolish disposition then why not run with me, and I will take you to the place that I reached. It is your choice alone, as the Arabs would say, As you like. Now then, ideally, exploring this experience with me through this writing would be enough for any of your wanting souls. But I do know many of you are too much like me to ask for that much. So lets say that some of you, just as I did, then decide to go for yourselves, to see it with your own eyes. Perhaps some of you will even choose to run further than I did, (but truly, I do not wish it upon you). So your time has come, youve thrown caution to the wind and now consequently you find yourself one day traversing similar ground to that found and written down on these pages. If that moment ever comes to pass then all I can do is hope that these words, here, will help keep you that little bit safer, as you run about your thing. It is all I can really ask, and fingers crossed, expect. And please sharp reader, always remember, always keep in mind, the hard truth, which is this; the word is just one of many exceptionally powerful forces existing in this creation, so trust me, please just be careful. Poem, taken from Runnings by Warren Fleming

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Blood pumping, sweat flowing, heckles growing. Heart beating, eyes seeking. Hunting prey. Bombs falling, roads exploding, bullets flying. Guns blazing, aircraft screaming, enemy scheming. To take your head, every single day.

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