How Do You Say Clueless?

It was the season of dreadful heat and dust storms in Baghdad. Bremer kept the massive number of Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) staff working almost nonstop. In addition to interpreting for him in his meetings with Iraqi political leaders, I kept a hectic schedule translating his documents and correspondence.

Nothing was working right in Baghdad. Electricity, water and other services were in short supply. My family, whom I had finally managed to contact, informed me of the terrible situation. They came to fetch me and on the way from the palace to their home, I asked my nephew to drive me through Rasheed Street. It was a ghost town, nothing like the lively street I had known and loved. My mind flashed to a deserted place in Arizona where they used to shoot westerns. I wondered how long it would take to transform this shabbiness into a city center like that of Beirut. U.S. resourcefulness will make this happen very soon, I told my nephew as he cursed the old regime.

At home with my family, I deeply felt the expanse that separated us for so many years. I, in the full comfort of my Virginia surroundings, and my entire family, in Saddam's abyss, were worlds apart. They complained about how bad things were. Food and services were scarce, but they all chipped in to load the dining room table with everything they knew I liked. They were joyful that the nightmare was over, but like most Iraqis lectured me that "you Americans" should do this and that in order to get Iraq moving in the right direction. I assured them of our efforts to institute democracy and revealed to them that we were forming a Governing Council. It would, I promised, lead the country into a true democracy.

My niece, Akila al-Hashimi, a French-educated senior career diplomat, declared that such a dream would unquestionably require some time. "In the conduct of our daily lives," she said, "we Iraqis must liberate ourselves of autocratic ideals, in order to make such a dream a reality." With immense enthusiasm, she pressed our family to do its share in the efforts to achieve this goal. Later, after I introduced her to Bodine and Bremer, she became a prominent member of the council.

Lt. Col. Bill came over to my office to enlist my help in finding him an interpreter. He complained that the officials of the former Ministry of Culture could not speak English. Pointing at a book on my desk, he asked, "So what is this book you are reading?"

"The bible," I started to say.

"But I thought you are Shia!" he cut me off.

I told him that the book, "The Old Social Classes and the Revolutionary Movements of Iraq," was Hanna Batatu's book on Iraq and that it was a must-read for anyone dealing with modern Iraq's political history.

Bill pulled from his back pocket a green paperback, published in the mid-'80s by Iraq's Ministry of Tourism and with a straight face told me, "All I need to know about Iraq is in here."

I yawned.

By then, the process of selecting members to the Governing Council was in full swing. Assorted Iraqi figures were delivered to the palace to be interviewed and evaluated for their political, social and economic views, as well as their attitudes toward the coalition. Often, I asked myself or my colleagues: Who nominated this person? Where did they find this woman? We had people who must have borrowed Col. Bill's book scouting cities and villages in Iraq for candidates to the "GC," as we came to call it. Those who did the recruiting had Arabic vocabularies approaching that of my friend Col. Bill, although their résumés attested to their fluency in Arabic.

From a helicopter, Baghdad looked dusty and pale ocher. In all directions, patches of palm groves dotted the landscape below. On one trip that summer, I found myself surveying the satellite dishes springing up from the roofs and wondered how TV and the Internet would affect future generations.