Father of Money

by Jason Whiteley

  They remained impassive as I entered, save for a few muttered “Salaam melekums,” said more as a habit than as a true offering of peace. During introductory remarks, I studied their faces for the first time, comparing them to a sheet with each person’s name and photo. Their emotions remained folded inside their heavily creased faces, creating an aura of silent defiance and steadfast resistance.

  These council members were decidedly more religious. Each member obsessively twirled a small beaded rope, akin to the Catholic rosary, with each of the ninety-nine beads meant to represent a different name of Allah. The subah, flicked from wrists and twirled between fingers, created a constant whir of subconscious prayer just above the table. Further signifying their religious orientation, each subah was trimmed in green, the favorite color of the Prophet Muhammad and a sign of the Shi’a faith. We had entered the holy month of Arba’een, and Muqtada Al-Sadr was constantly urging the Shi’a people to assert themselves after years of repression under Saddam. His calls to action contrasted starkly with those of an older, much more senior Shi’a leader, Ayatollah Sistani. Sistani had adopted a more moderate tone, issuing declarations from the holy city of Najaf to be patient and let negotiations with the new government and the Americans run their course. The council members all openly claimed to support Sistani, but the marked increase of Al-Sadr posters in and around the DAC building revealed an inclination to more martial action. One could hardly enter a Shi’a neighborhood without seeing the snarling face of Sadr or the stylized montage of burning Humvees and insurgent fighters that rallied the Shi’a faithful to action.

  I paid close attention to the man who seemed to command the most respect from the rest of the council. It was not Sami, the lawyer elected as the chairman, although he was the only formally educated man among them. It was the one referred to as “Sheik” and reverently addressed even in moments of dissension. With a raised eyebrow, he could silence an argument or use a simple hand gesture to start heads bobbing in accord. He was an obvious power broker, precisely because he lacked both education and a government title. Said Mallek, alternately Sheik Mallek, would never have been considered by the Green Zone an important person, but here in the streets, he was royalty. Somehow, I would need to learn from him and look for opportunities to gain his trust.

  After a few minutes of remaining silent, I began the meeting with an account of last night’s ambush and the number of anti-American posters that were springing up in their neighborhood. Studiously, several of the council members asserted the absurd statement that they had not noticed the posters or even heard the firefight. Simultaneously, others began to explain why the people felt this animosity. They had ideas for remedies, carefully calculated around the military rotation. No doubt, some of these ideas had been previously ignored by our predecessors, but now was the time to ask again.

  Their demands, peppered between hollow apologies and self-effacing comments, concentrated on three specific plans of action: security, social services, and employment. The first and most important item was security. They wanted to hire “neighborhood watchmen,” Iraqi men from the neighborhood, who would be authorized to carry AK-47s to “guard” the neighborhood against incursions from other Iraqis and insurgents. Second, they requested that the military fund a social-service program to remove the trash and take action to restore and improve the sewer system, because the poisonous air from smoldering trash and standing sewage made them sick. Finally, they each had a contractor, often a relative, who would be perfect for any of the aforementioned jobs. By hiring local contractors who employed local labor, the joblessness and listlessness now plaguing the population would dissipate. According to the council members, this would leave fewer people with sufficient frustration to answer the calls to violence and resistance.

  These projects would be opportunities for us to distinguish ourselves from Saddam. We could show an equality of effort with respect to social services that had not existed previously. The mechanism, of course, would be the contracts flowing from the CERP money. During the transition, I had learned that we would have approval to grant projects up to $5,000 with only my commander’s signature, and considerably higher sums were possible with a higher level of authority. My commander decided that in order to be most efficient with his time and to give me some true negotiating power, I would decide which projects were worthy and which were not by using the council to offer ideas and contractors for consideration. This seemed like an arbitrary process, and it certainly was. The quality of the work was almost irrelevant. What carried greater weight was the effect on the community and the credit it gave us for addressing a perceived social injustice.

  The council members were well aware of these criteria. While these pleas came flying in, the interpreters worked nonstop, sometimes translating directly, other times holding side conversations. I suspected in these moments that the interpreters negotiated a piece of the contract for themselves. I had little say in these sidebars and justified my nonparticipation by assessing the body language of the council members and the interpreters. Invariably, the conversation turned back toward me when there was a pressing need that I could address. In this meeting, the need was the same as it had been for my counterpart.

  “They want to know about weapon cards,” Ali said.

  The change in military regime necessitated an updating of the identification badges and the weapon registrations for DAC members. The council members keenly anticipated a new badge with the First Cavalry Division emblem and my signature. My commander had ordered our soldiers to disregard the older badges from a hodgepodge of units that had passed through prior to us. At a maximum, the units before us had spent six months in the area, leaving a littered trail of authorizations and paperwork that was impossible for us to decipher, but that the Iraqis prized as much as a certificate from Saddam himself. In some ways, their expectations and opinions with respect to the paperwork and the badging illustrated the degree to which government preference played a large role in the previous regime. A letter, a badge, or a token from Saddam represented being part of a chosen class. It meant immunity from civil law and boosted one’s social stature. Although our badges did not mean much, even to us they connoted a certain faith by the badge-holder in the ruling American regime.

  “The new badges will be out in a week or so,” I answered, really just guessing.

  There was no central authority for this process. As long as I could find a computer printer that worked, I could make all of the badges they wanted. To me, the process seemed like a waste of time, printing and distributing paper that carried only sentimental power. Yet watching these members clamor about the possibility of receiving new badges, especially in contrast to their otherwise stoic demeanor, I began to see the possibilities. Napoleon, who was as masterful as anyone at identifying what drives humans to action, allegedly once said, “A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon.” Indeed, the U.S. Army was adept at imbuing certificates with authority and meaning and urging people to act in accordance with the promise of a colored ribbon or two. Saddam had done likewise, investing little money in the trinkets that people saw as omnipotent. Now it was my turn. With a Microsoft program and a digital camera, I could begin to establish a social hierarchy in a society that had become atomized.

  “And the pistols?”

  The two went hand in hand, badges and pistols. Like my counterpart, I had access to a number of weapons that could be dispensed for any reason. At the moment, I did not have any reason to give one out, although I had a Russian-made AK-47 that would be a handsome gift. I had already decided to give it to Said Mallek as a conversation starter.

  I answered their eager questions with a planned air of agitation and impatience: “I will think about it.”

  The meeting had already gone on for an hour, and my only accomplishment had been listening to a laundry list of projects that would make everyone’s life better. I still had not received any real information from the council members about the previous ni
ght’s attack. This was not the forum for threats, but I could sense after an hour that real business would not be conducted here. This meeting was for show and for the encouraging reports to my superiors that Iraqis believed in this system. This circle of Iraqi cooperation represented a wishing well where council members showed up and deposited their wishes, and sometimes a benevolent spirit, in the form of myself, considered the offer or bestowed a gift on them.

  I mentioned to Ali to grab Said Mallek on the way out and take him somewhere private, and then I asked everyone else to leave. He and Said Mallek left together, while the remainder of the council members clustered with Sa’ad and Ammar, ostensibly trying to gather more information about this new authority figure in their lives. Who was this Captain Jason Whiteley, and what did he mean to them? I know this was the most pressing question because it was the one I kept asking myself.

  Through the clusters of postmeeting huddles, I walked briskly to the Humvee to retrieve the Russian AK-47. To the uninitiated, all of these iconic assault rifles look the same, but there is a wide variance in quality. There are versions manufactured by most of the former Soviet satellite countries and China, but the Russian model remains the most reliable, the best built, and, it is important to note, the most expensive. In Baghdad, ordinary AK-47s were sold in the market for $50, but a Russian model would command upward of $150. My presenting the rifle to Said Mallek, whether he kept it or sold it, would essentially give him a vote of support that would indicate his relative value to his peers.

  As I removed the weapon from the Humvee, the guards and a few loitering council members descended on me like wolves on a wounded rabbit. Even from forty yards away, they could tell that this was a Russian model. A lifetime of observing and handling these weapons gave them a keen eye for the details that even I lacked. Within seconds, outstretched hands surrounded me, voices tangled together in competing pleas of excitement and desire. I had never seen grown men so worked up. This scene was more typical of a Christmas Day toy giveaway than a conclusion of a council meeting. Immediately, I put the weapon back in the Humvee, hardly silencing the crowd.

  Ammar was pushing his way to my side, swearing and shoving council members. Slowly, the situation returned to normal, as I repeatedly assured them that the rifle was not for sale, that it was for my personal use, and that there were more to come later. These were all lies. On this first day, I had not yet realized the power that I could wield by blatantly displaying my prejudice toward one council member or another. I still lacked the personal confidence to assert myself so arbitrarily; I somehow valued the more American inclination to objectivity. That would not last long. Even as I pushed my way back toward the DAC building, I could sense a certain level of agitation and helplessness. They wanted too much. They did not want to help themselves and were always demanding. I felt like a parent, watching over dozens of bratty children. I began to understand the clichéd parental reasoning of “because I said so,” and I could sense the attraction of a paternalistic government. In these times, the government of “I said so” definitely had more appeal than the government of “What would you like?”

  Back in the DAC, I found Said Mallek and Ali in the mosque room, quietly talking.

  “Hello,” Said Mallek said in English, momentarily stunning me.

  “You speak English?” I asked incredulously.

  There was obviously more complexity to this man than I had suspected. With his eyes twinkling, Said Mallek did not answer the question directly but rather began what almost sounded like a rehearsed speech. His points each hammered home the fundamental weaknesses of the current American governance approach. In an even voice, he explained the challenges that the Iraqi people now faced and the barriers to American “success” now and in the future, but his best points were the ones well known in tea houses throughout the Middle East. The coalition forces had raced to Baghdad with stunning ease. The air campaign—“shock and awe”—had relentlessly touted its efficiency at preserving some buildings and destroying others. The facts of Iraq’s infrastructure scheme, down to the locations of gas stations and power plants, had even been broadcast by Western news media. Yet six months after the invasion, people were still without water, electricity, sanitation services, and civil police. Looters had destroyed precious artifacts, and street gangs now terrorized formerly safe neighborhoods. From the Iraqi perspective, the state of affairs had been much better under Saddam. Less free, perhaps, but if freedom meant a daily struggle to survive, then stability and security would be preferred. At least Saddam provided that.

  The more damaging observation was the perception that America and the U.S. military knew all of this and had allowed it to happen. Said Mallek referenced a hurricane hitting Miami as an example of the typical American response to an unplanned disaster. He illustrated the difference. Without knowing the magnitude of damage to expect from the hurricane or even its precise land fall, the United States had the capability to restore essential services within days, efficiently importing generators and potable water machines to fill the gap, while the city regained its footing. If the United States knew everything about Iraq before the invasion, then why not bring more generators, more water machines? Why did Americans disband the army and the police, only to watch the city descend into lawlessness? In short, how could we say we knew everything about Iraq, on the one hand, and that we did not expect any of these things, on the other?

  The AK-47 resting in my truck seemed insignificant in the face of this withering dissertation on the perception of the American occupation. For months I had repeatedly read words like “liberation,” “freedom,” and “democracy” and believed that there was at last some truth to those words, some substance to those ideals. Those thoughts washed away within minutes, as I processed what Said Mallek said. While I did not agree with his assessment of everything—namely, that the consequences of the invasion had been intentional—I definitely saw his point. I understood immediately that this message—this version of reality—would move the population to action. This was an easier sell than the current calls from the American interim government for patience and the lofty goals that this long, painful birthing promised to deliver. The Iraqi people did not want to wait for these ideals handed down from an interim occupier that had demonstrated such little competency to date. They wanted accountability and results.

  My face must have reflected my revelation because I think I caught a slight smile on Said Mallek’s lips as he turned to leave. No doubt, he was masterful at persuading people and turning them to his cause. I was more resolved than ever to learn this way of thinking and prove that the American presence here could deliver results. I hurriedly went after him and stopped him just short of the Humvee. I thanked him for his time and reached into the Humvee to hand over the AK-47. Without even extending a hand, he rejected the offer.

  “I have enough of those,” he said plainly, in English. Then he added, “Bye-bye.”

  My pride was more than a little hurt. I felt as if I had misplayed my hand and telegraphed that I already respected him too much. Ali appeared and eagerly took the weapon. As he examined it, I asked what I should do.

  “Wait,” he said. “Things happen slower here, and the timing is not right yet to do anything.”

  I sank back into the Humvee, and the soldiers filed back into their respective trucks. I thought about the meeting and the subsequent conversations. In one moment I knew what I had to do, and then I didn’t know anything. I was so lost in these thoughts that I did not even notice until we were leaving the gate that Ali had walked off with the AK-47. From the rearview mirror, I saw him showing it to another guard and then handing it over.

  “He probably just sold it,” I thought, caring a lot less than I thought I would. All in all, my first day in charge had left me feeling fully exploited, and I had nothing to show for it. This was not a very auspicious beginning to my grand plan.

  The month of March passed quickly into chaos. In late April the council meetings were suspended
while Arba’een rituals and processions took place. The height of this religious zeal, which included pilgrims marching through the streets and beating themselves until they bled, coincided with a Coalition Provisional Authority decision to reexamine the power distribution in the provisional government. Early promises of a simple majority rule to the Shi’a were being overturned by a more complex system of vetoes and minority overrides that were difficult to explain to the layperson and signaled an additional obstruction to their accumulation of political power. This perceived reversal of an American promise reverberated through the Shi’a community, which was already riled up from the commemoration of centuries-old injustices.

  My relationship with the Shi’a council members had improved more quickly than my relationship with their Sunni counterparts did. I keenly empathized with the Shi’a struggle to balance their potential for righting ancient wrongs with a more equitable approach to a power-sharing government. For the most part, the Sunni council members saw all of this as a defeat. Their power had been absolute prior to the invasion, and any agreement, whether it was simple majority rule or a more complex system of vetoes that preserved minority interests, meant ceding bundles of rights that they had previously enjoyed. The Sunni meetings were sullen and unenthusiastic. Their allegiance remained with the previous regime, and they were not willing to even entertain the idea that the American occupation was anything other than transitory—a passing blemish on decades of Sunni dominance.