Politics > Politics-USA > The Iraqi army is stepping up the fight against terror. On Saturday, I saw the terrorists strike back.
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Politics > Politics-USA |
| User: |
"Ubiquitous" |
| Date: |
23 May 2007 06:32:33 AM |
| Object: |
The Iraqi army is stepping up the fight against terror. On Saturday, I saw the terrorists strike back. |
BY MELIK KAYLAN
Monday, May 21, 2007 12:01 a.m.
Diyala Province, Iraq--Saturday I witnessed a violent and dramatic
illustration of how the Iraqi Army has, in places, begun to work effectively
with tribesmen against determined al Qaeda insurgents.
The incident occurred some 50 miles north of Baghdad at a remote dusty
village in Diyala province, which is now a kind of frontline between the two
sides. We were there in the punishing noonday heat, with a rustic crowd on
hand, to witness an emotional meeting between tribal chiefs in long robes
and a lone, clean-shaven figure in a suit and tie--Ahmed Chalabi. Mr.
Chalabi, the elite Shiite politician and former exile, a controversial
figure in the U.S., came to thank the elders for their courage and
sacrifice.
Until recently, Sunnis and Shiites had tilled the land together for miles
around, intermarried and mutually inhabited a checkerboard of villages. A
year ago, al Qaeda had forced its strategy of sectarian hatred on the area,
purging the Shiites while executing Sunnis who resisted their authority. It
remains one of Iraq's most volatile zones. Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi, the
sanguinary leader of al Qaeda in Iraq, had his headquarters in the area and
was ultimately killed less than 20 miles away.
Suddenly hefty explosions shook the ground while automatic gunfire rent the
air. We were under attack, and al Qaeda had chosen a perfect moment to
ignite disaster. All their local opponents were there, plus Mr. Chalabi, a
top Iraqi government figure known around the world.
Mr. Chalabi lives outside the security of the Baghdad's Green Zone, albeit
in a well-defended series of cul-de-sacs. One of his official functions
requires him to raise public support for Baghdad's security plan, so he
likes to be mobile and takes risks to stay in touch with things. Abroad, he
has been accused of everything from luring the U.S. and other allies into
toppling Saddam to passing sensitive information to Iran. Among Iraqis he is
highly respected.
At about 10 a.m. on Saturday, we had taken off across Baghdad in a convoy of
a dozen white pickups and SUVs, some with mounted machine guns, on our way
to Diyala. We passed through notorious neighborhoods: one infamous for
kidnapping, another where street battles have been fought between Shiites
and Palestinian gangs. Often there were miles of static cars queuing for
gasoline. We passed by the old U.N. High Commission building, truck-bombed
in 2003, now empty. We passed Saddam's giant, turquoise, egg-shaped
"Monument to the Martyrs" of the Iran-Iraq war, a bright contrast to the
faded saffron brick of Baghdad's peeling facades. Suddenly a sharp explosive
sound went off nearby and Ali, the security chief shouted "go, go, go" into
the intercom. Our convoy raced off.
Out in the country, cracked dry earth and chalky bare scrubland stretched
away. An hour out, the convoy slowed almost to standstill and stayed that
way. Never a good thing. Al Qaeda had blown up all the bridges linking
Baghdad to Iran, and a mile or more of trucks waited to cross a makeshift
mud-and-stone bridge across the Diyala river. A bulldozer helped us jump the
queue by carving an improvised path. We passed some miles of mud-brick
dwellings and arrived at a village square encircled by earthen ramparts with
a T-55 tank, a cannon and a bunker embedded along it. We had arrived at the
front line in the village of Dafaa. Nearby stood a long, low reception hall,
and, just in front, a large tent with long tables for the tribal buffet
lunch.
Mr. Chalabi entered the building followed by Al-Iraqiyya TV crews. An aging
sheik, in black-checkered headdress and sheer ochre robe--said to be the
richest landowner--came in and sat beside him. Much of his property lay
fallow out in no man's land. He'd lost seven sons and grandsons to the
conflict there. "We've had no support from the government since the fighting
started," he said, "no one has visited us or asked what we need. We've been
on our own fighting al Qaeda which gets money and arms from around the
world. Only recently, the Iraqi Army has given us some soldiers and weapons,
and that has helped very much, but we need more, much more help, money,
arms, provisions. We ask that you pass this on to the government." Above his
head hung a moonlit poster of the Shiite martyr Imam Ali on a white horse
crossing a river. One sheik after another came in and repeated the same
concerns.
Dafaa has perforce become an exclusively Shiite village, an international
force of militant Sunnis having occupied the villages roundabout. They are
led, according to locals, by Afghans who have forced farmers to give them
their daughters in marriage and "made everyone look Afghani like them, with
long beards." They decapitate doubters and float them down the river to
Dafaa village. "No fish anymore," say the locals.
In wider Diyala province, wedged strategically between Iran and Baghdad,
many of the Sunnis were in Saddam's security forces, and for a while the al
Qaeda leader was a former Saddam army colonel, according to Mr. Chalabi.
They consider themselves a last line of resistance to the Shiite continuum
between Iran and Iraqi Shiites to the south, so they accommodate foreign
Sunni fighters more readily than, say, the Sunni tribes in Anbar province
who feel more secure.
In the last year, al Qaeda rolled up the front until Dafaa village lay
exposed like an arrowhead surrounded on three sides. It served as the final
redoubt protecting the last bridge open to vital goods from the north
directly supplying Baghdad. Finally, some months ago, a small contingent of
15 Iraqi Army troops moved in with high-caliber armor and stabilized the
front. "That's all it took," said the young lieutenant in charge as he
showed us and the 20-foot earthen ramparts, "because we fight alongside the
people." Listening to anecdotes and viewing bullet marks from snipers, we
stood outlined on the ridge squinting across empty cracked fields. The
nearest village shaded by date trees sat a mere 900 meters away. Our
self-exposure proved foolhardy in short order.
As the buffet lunch got going, a soldier ran over and reported two pickups
racing across no man's land towards us. He was told to report developments.
He raced back saying that they seemed to be unloading mortars. This time, he
was told to repel them. The opposition had no doubt seen all the ridge-top
activity, the civilians, camera crews, berobed sheiks--and responded
briskly. The first high-explosive shell, later identified as launched from
an 82mm heavy mortar, must have landed to the left of the village. It shook
everything and blurred my sight. Our side opened fire with Kalashnikovs,
perhaps some 30 fighters in all slithering up the slope, one standing on the
skyline with a full machine gun while being fed the magazine-belt by his
friend. The tank too thundered away. Then the APC cannon.
I lost my head somewhat and ran at the rampart to look over the top but was
thankfully tackled and stopped. The visiting sheiks crowded into the
community hall. Mr. Chalabi never ceased talking to the TV camera, demanding
help for the village. The second shell landed closer and behind us and fine
yellow earth-dust floated over us. The sheiks were herded outside as a
direct hit would have killed them all. It seemed the enemy had hit the
structure before, maybe even had its GPS coordinates. The chaos intensified,
the fighters now ducking from incoming fire. It was frustrating not to see
the full picture. Two U.S. choppers flew overhead toward the opposition. The
third mortar detonated, quite close this time, perhaps some 30 yards to the
left, behind shuddering mud-brick structures, making my clothing flicker in
the blast and my breath drop out. The tank fired again. The sheiks ran
around ascending their SUVs with help from villagers. I counted three shells
in all but some say six landed. It was hard to tell in the confusion.
Suddenly a shout rose up and the fighters danced up and down below the ridge
and came running down to us laughing. They'd destroyed one of the targets,
it seemed.
What about the other? "It's OK, it's OK," someone shouted to me, and
everyone began firing into the air to the great anger of a visiting army
officer. They could scarcely afford the ammunition. We later found out,
though, that the combined sound of gunfire, added to by bodyguards, had
impressed the attackers--they apparently feared the presence of a much
bigger force. They stopped, at least for now, which gave us the chance to
leap into our vehicles, with Mr. Chalabi in his blue Parisian suit and
poplin shirt pleading to the last in front of the cameras, before being
bundled off to safety.
As we drove away from the village along the raised earth road, I looked back
to see perhaps a hundred SUVs, a mile long, belting along behind carrying
the elders. An Iraqi Army Humvee with mounted machine gun charged past us to
the front. They'd been helping to guard the last bridge to Baghdad. But now,
one felt, the villagers could guard it handily. They no longer felt isolated
and forgotten by the world, as the television sets showed this night all
over the Mideast.
** Mr. Kaylan is an Istanbul-born writer based in New York.**
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