Read Online We Meant Well by Peter Van Buren - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Van Buren
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Coalition cash rather than Iraqi institutions set back efforts to foster self-reliance. Many small towns gave up lobbying the central government for money, knowing the Americans would pay for everything. Instead of encouraging growth and capacity of civic functions, our massive hemorrhaging of cash discouraged them. When we grew weary of paying or were diverted by some other shiny object, there was no one around to pick up the problem, and the trash piled up.
Complicating matters further, the contractors we employed often distorted local labor markets. The USAID inspector general found wages paid for trash pickup by its Community Stabilization Program were higher than the average for even skilled laborers. It was more lucrative to be overpaid by the United States to pick up trash than it was to run a shop or fix cars. Possibly people went out and found more trash to throw around so that they could be paid by us to pick it up. We overpaid for everything, creating and then fueling a vast market for corruption. It wasnât so much that we were conned, it was as if we demanded to be cheated and would not take no for an answer.
When Secretary of State Colin Powell warned President George W. Bush that after invading Iraq he would assume responsibility for thirty million people, it is doubtful anyone thought that years later the US government would be worrying about trash pickup in the central market of a rural town outside Baghdad. The maps consulted in dark, air-conditioned bunkers with blue arrows indicating an armored thrust had no strategy to offer for getting the garbage picked up. Had anyone known that nearby Baghdad produced eight thousand tons of trash a day, most of it now left uncollected just like in Yasmineâs town, would we still have invaded? It was unlikely that anyone in the United States knew trash collection was now a major front in the Global War on Terror. To be honest, who cared about garbage in Iraq, except maybe the Iraqis who lived around the central market? They, after all, stayed in our war while we only visited.
There was no AC in Yasmineâs office. One window had only busted-out glass, there was no electricity most of the time, and any AC unit would be stolen within the day. Near the end of our visit, Yasmine looked out the broken window at the garbage being picked over by goats in the heat and let out a sigh. Though Iraqis will shout their opinions at you in the street and wave their hands like a crack-crazed aerobics teacher to make a point, it was hard to sort out what they said from what they meant from what they thought you wanted to hear. Add in a bad translator who reduced three minutes of rapid speech to âHe disagrees but loves all Americans and Obama presidentâ and you often had no idea what was going on.
Yasmine spoke carefully, making sure the translator got it right. She was of an age, she said, where all she could remember were the wars with Iran in the 1980s, the long years of sanctions in the 1990s, and the US occupation from 2003. She asked when her daughter would lead a peaceful life. I thought she was talking to me, so I told her I didnât know and it was time for us to leave, as our security team said we had been in one place too long. Good-byes in these situations were always hasty and awkward, as the traditional final greetings and handshakes were hard to negotiate when everyone was pulling on their helmets and body armor, with the scratch of Velcro cutting through the exchange of formalities. Wearing that gear outside made a hot day even hotter, so it was nice to get back to the air-conditioning. Nothing was resolved with the trash pickup, but in the AC it seemed far away, for us at least, though maybe less so for Yasmine. Sheâs still out there, weâre still in here.
Democracy in Iraq: A Story of Local Politics
Since God first created sand, Iraq has been organized politically and socially by tribe. Essentially a series of semiautonomous,
Complicating matters further, the contractors we employed often distorted local labor markets. The USAID inspector general found wages paid for trash pickup by its Community Stabilization Program were higher than the average for even skilled laborers. It was more lucrative to be overpaid by the United States to pick up trash than it was to run a shop or fix cars. Possibly people went out and found more trash to throw around so that they could be paid by us to pick it up. We overpaid for everything, creating and then fueling a vast market for corruption. It wasnât so much that we were conned, it was as if we demanded to be cheated and would not take no for an answer.
When Secretary of State Colin Powell warned President George W. Bush that after invading Iraq he would assume responsibility for thirty million people, it is doubtful anyone thought that years later the US government would be worrying about trash pickup in the central market of a rural town outside Baghdad. The maps consulted in dark, air-conditioned bunkers with blue arrows indicating an armored thrust had no strategy to offer for getting the garbage picked up. Had anyone known that nearby Baghdad produced eight thousand tons of trash a day, most of it now left uncollected just like in Yasmineâs town, would we still have invaded? It was unlikely that anyone in the United States knew trash collection was now a major front in the Global War on Terror. To be honest, who cared about garbage in Iraq, except maybe the Iraqis who lived around the central market? They, after all, stayed in our war while we only visited.
There was no AC in Yasmineâs office. One window had only busted-out glass, there was no electricity most of the time, and any AC unit would be stolen within the day. Near the end of our visit, Yasmine looked out the broken window at the garbage being picked over by goats in the heat and let out a sigh. Though Iraqis will shout their opinions at you in the street and wave their hands like a crack-crazed aerobics teacher to make a point, it was hard to sort out what they said from what they meant from what they thought you wanted to hear. Add in a bad translator who reduced three minutes of rapid speech to âHe disagrees but loves all Americans and Obama presidentâ and you often had no idea what was going on.
Yasmine spoke carefully, making sure the translator got it right. She was of an age, she said, where all she could remember were the wars with Iran in the 1980s, the long years of sanctions in the 1990s, and the US occupation from 2003. She asked when her daughter would lead a peaceful life. I thought she was talking to me, so I told her I didnât know and it was time for us to leave, as our security team said we had been in one place too long. Good-byes in these situations were always hasty and awkward, as the traditional final greetings and handshakes were hard to negotiate when everyone was pulling on their helmets and body armor, with the scratch of Velcro cutting through the exchange of formalities. Wearing that gear outside made a hot day even hotter, so it was nice to get back to the air-conditioning. Nothing was resolved with the trash pickup, but in the AC it seemed far away, for us at least, though maybe less so for Yasmine. Sheâs still out there, weâre still in here.
Democracy in Iraq: A Story of Local Politics
Since God first created sand, Iraq has been organized politically and socially by tribe. Essentially a series of semiautonomous,
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