SUNNI TRIANGLE–Just over the Euphrates River near Ramadi lies Camp Hurricane, a low-slung expanse of Hasco barriers, concertina wire, and camouflaged observation posts, occupied by the First Infantry Division. It’s not a popular place. “Can’t wait to get out of here,” drawls an infantryman, squinting at the surrounding desertscape. “This may not be Vietnam, but the action can get real hot.” A sergeant nods, describing the occasional mortar rounds that Hurricane and other U.S. bases in the Sunni Triangle receive. “Poorly aimed, but annoying.” More worrisome are Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs)–bombs planted by the roadside and detonated when American vehicles pass. “Got to watch those dead dogs,” the soldier remarks. “The bad guys like to pack `em with explosives.” Hardly encouraging advice, given the number of animal carcasses one finds alongside Iraqi roads.
I’m at Camp Hurricane to drop off a journalist embed, then to nose around the Ramadi-Fallujah corridor to gauge the virulence of anti-American sentiment. It’s a plan I nearly abandoned–in an area that has claimed the lives of dozens of U.S. servicemen in recent months, the last four days have been particularly bloody: six soldiers, numerous Iraqi civilians and two CNN employees were killed in Khaldiya alone. “Take a flak jacket and gun and get back to Baghdad by two,” cautioned a Lebanese security consultant. “After then, the Ali Baba”–Iraqi slang for carjackers and thieves–”prowl the roads.” In the end, though, I decided to entrust my safety to Dhia–the driver/translator I worked with on my previous trip to Iraq–and deception: instead of an American, I will identity myself as a Yugoslavian journalist, counting on Iraqi unfamiliarity with southeastern Europe. Insha’allah, as the locals say.
In Ramadi, Dhia and I approach a man preparing for the Friday lunch rush at an outdoor café. “American should leave now, not tomorrow,” he declares, chopping lamb into kebob squares. “Iraq is not safe because they are here. Americans shoot anyone; they break into homes and steal money.” At a tea stand a studious-looking young man shakes his head. “At first we welcomed America. Then the soldiers began killing people.” A crowd gathers, everyone eager to tell the inquisitive Yugoslav why they despise the U.S.: no electricity, no gas; Gils break into houses, arrest people and “touch” women. Life was better under Saddam. I ask nine small goys gawking at me if the former dictator was a “good man.” All nine say yes.
En route to Khaldiya, we turn a bend and encounter a parked Abrams tank, its barrel aimed windshield level at on-coming traffic. Dhia will not enter the town itself: “they kill foreigners there,” he reminds me. Instead, we stop at a roadside fruit stand for another earful of anti-American vituperation. At one point, a young man motions toward three Bradleys lumbering down the road. “There go the Ali Baba,” he spits. I notice that Iraqis either speed up or slow down to distance themselves from the convoy; one car drives off the road. No one wants to be near a potential target of an IED or rocket propelled grenade.
It’s painful to see America the object of so much hatred and fear, the very image of an oppressive occupier. It’s worse when we find ourselves behind a trio of Humvees. Dhia creeps several car lengths behind the vehicles, and I can’t help but reflect on the isolation of the soldiers, how the Iraqis here shun and avoid them, even as the GIs face the threat that a roadside pile of garbage or debris will erupt into fire and shrapnel. This is not how liberation is supposed to be.
In Fallujah, we visit the headquarters of the Islamic Political Party of Iraq. There, I ask a Sunni cleric why his Shia brethren have proven more cooperative with the U.S. He offers a tight smile. “The Shia think America liberated them from Saddam. But America did not come to liberate, they came for oil. America should leave now.” But without the presence of U.S. troops, wouldn’t Iraq slide into civil war? “Let the soldiers leave, then peace will come,” the cleric replies, fingering his prayer beads. “They are foreigners who kill Iraqis and imprison them for no reason.”
How much truth lies behind these accusations–and how much is exaggeration, rumor, and falsehood? At a teahouse, several Fallujans claim that the day before, they witnessed a soldier shoot a woman dead in the street. A week earlier, they continue, another G.I. killed a man and his son who were working as night guards in a garage. Driving to the scene of the woman’s murder, we see a policeman and ask him about the event. No, the men at the teahouse are wrong, the constable relates–the woman’s slayer was a local man whose father had been murdered by her son. “Revenge,” he shrugs.
With his intelligent eyes and burly moustache, the cop seems a decent fellow likely to have some objectivity about reports of American abuses. I ask him about the two Iraqis killed at the garage. “That was done by an American soldier,” he snarls. “And nothing happened to the soldier. Nothing ever happens to the soldiers.” The cop’s face reddens. “Americans have killed thousands since they came here. They killed my brother’s 13 year-old son, his only son. The Americans hate Sunnis and we hate them. We were kings when Saddam was president! Saddam’s shoes are better than George Bush!” Boiling over, the officer exclaims, “Fallujah has 135 mosques, this is a Muslim city–it is forbidden for Americans to be here. The soldiers are mostly Zionists! And they are joined by soldiers from other Arab countries–Jordan, Egypt, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia–all here with Zionist America against Iraq!” Then, calming, he invites us for lunch.
But it’s past two. “It’s not safe now,” Dhia mutters, glancing around. “On Friday afternoon, the police stop working and there are people here who think any foreigner is American.” I get his point. But as we make the 30 miles trip to Baghdad, I find myself more confused than ever. It’s clear that the Iraqis have legitimate complaints about America’s failure to provide such necessities as electricity, gas and jobs. It’s equally clear that U.S. troops do mistreat and kill civilians, perhaps with greater frequency than we know. (The military says it does not tally civilian deaths.) And the Iraqis’ hatred for America is palpable throughout the Sunni Triangle.
Yet, when I asked them what they envisioned in place of the U.S. occupation, most offered the impossible alternative of a renascent Saddam. There is an element of fantasy to their rage, a sense of humiliation and impotency. Nowhere in the Sunni Triangle did I find evidence of an organized political movement: no anti-American posters or graffiti; no initials of some Iraqi guerilla front scrawled on walls. The IED-makers proclaim no ideology, champion no leaders, offer no viable programs. They don’t even give themselves a name. Their goal seems less to “resist” the American occupation than wreak revenge on it. “They’re killing in large part to avoid the shame of their own defeat,” says a Coalition-supporting Iraqi friend.
Recently, attacks against U.S. troops north and west of Baghdad have dropped to around 20 a day from a November high of 50-60. The military credits aggressive counter-measures, although other factors may have contributed. Since Saddam’s capture, the security adviser contends, fedayeen paymasters have reassessed the viability of the “resistance’ and have been pocketing funds that would have otherwise financed further assaults. One hopes. Still, even if the number of attacks is diminishing, their sophistication and lethality is growing: January was the second bloodiest month since the war began. Or, as a Baghdad cabbie once told me, “In Iraq, people are cheap, weapons are cheap, life is cheap.” Especially in the Sunni Triangle, where anonymous killers seek to salvage their honor with the misery and death of others.
–Steven Vincent is a freelance writer. He’s previously written from Iraq for NRO here, here, and here.