Getting The Visa and Our Mission

I hope to post a story each day about my experiences in Iraq as a journalist.

The Iraqi diplomatic corps kept a low profile in Kuwait, and when I finally met with the Iraqi consul, I understood why. We spoke on the phone the day before our meeting, and when I arrived at the embassy, the consul offered a handshake with a right hand that was, I thought, deformed. Later, while talking about the war in Iraq, he told me the insurgents had tried to assassinate him twice while he was in Baghdad because he supported the Americans. The attack left his right hand crippled. A similar fate, he warned, awaited me if I insisted on going to the beleaguered capital.

It wasn’t easy finding the Iraqi embassy. Officials in the U.S. embassy weren’t even aware that Iraq had an embassy in Kuwait. The embassy compounds of other countries were formidable, with guards and security checkpoints. Not so with the Iraqis. Their embassy wasn’t marked with anything that would identify it as such. The villa appeared to be just another home in that affluent section of Kuwait.

After roaming the neighborhood for over an hour with an Arab cab driver who communicated with me through grunts and hand gestures, we saw the address on the large home. I suppose that the Iraqis weren’t anxious to announce their presence in a country they had invaded in 1990. But I couldn’t understand the lack of security, given the assassination attempts on the consul.

The Iraqi consul told me during our phone conversation what to bring so that I could apply for a visa. It wasn’t much – a letter, two pictures and $40 – but there wasn’t any guarantee I would be allowed to enter the country. The consul would send the application to Baghdad for approval, but he told me he would do what he could to get it approved. When I told him I was going to Iraq no matter the danger, he shook his head and said, "You journalists."

We talked for two hours. He quickly established his support for the Bush administration and told me that in a couple of years, the Iraqis will thank the Americans for toppling Saddam’s regime. The news, he said, wasn’t presented in a perspective that would clearly explain to Americans the worsening war in Iraq.

"Yes, it’s true that people are being killed in Baghdad and other parts of the country," he said. "But you have to consider that maybe yesterday 30 people died in Baghdad, and maybe today 40 people will be killed. But under Saddam, hundreds and sometimes thousands of people were killed daily. When we put a shovel in the ground, we didn’t know if we were going to find oil or bones."

As an American who was critical of the mistakes Paul Bremmer and Donald Rumsfeld made during the first year of the war, I offered my doubts to the consul about the Iraqis thanking us in two years or 20.

"Look," he said. "The country has to go through this tough time, and the Americans don’t understand it. Without the Americans in Iraq, the country would be a hundred times worse. This violence will pass after the factions settle their vendettas."

The consul told me that the American lack of understanding of the Arab culture causes us to panic when we see Iraqis killing Iraqis. Some of the vendettas are decades old – family against family, tribe against tribe, and they have to be settled before there can be peace.

"It will pass," he assured me.

The consul told me the American invasion of Iraq has improved life in Iraq, but the Western media offers a conflicting story.

"The Western journalists focus on the sensational," he said. "Yes, it’s true that there are still problems with electricity in Baghdad, but you’re not told that under Saddam, only Baghdad and Fallujah had reliable electricity. The northern and southern parts of the country didn’t have any service. Now all of the country has electricity. Maybe it’s not on 24 hours, but they have it. It will get better."

Looking back on that conversation, I realize the consul must have thought I was a lunatic. I was an American in a part of the world hostile to Americans, and I didn’t know anyone. I arrived in Kuwait and immediately began a campaign to enter Iraq to write about the war, but I don’t speak Arabic, and I didn’t have the support of a major news organization. My organization was comprised of Greg, De’on and me. There would be no knowledgeable drivers to transport me and no security guards to protect me. I had no one in place to translate for me.

Other journalists representing large print and broadcast enterprises had access to funds that bought them safety. I would rely on God and Aaron for protection, a divine force that went into action each time I was in danger. Greg and De’on joked that they were the rear support of our venture, but no one could have asked for better or more dedicated service. Their constant prayers ensured my safety, and I knew that Aaron was, once again, engaged in battle. I couldn’t see him, but I felt him. Always.

Perhaps the consul saw the steadiness of my resolve to enter a country where over a hundred journalists had already been killed, and that’s why he helped me get the visa. I don’t know. I do know that while I might have appeared to be an ill-prepared journalist wearing rose-colored glasses, I was part of a mission that was, in fact, two years in the planning. But those plans weren’t my doing, or Greg or De’on’s. It was Aaron who, in his new Heavenly role, became the planner, the general.

We didn’t question the direction we were going, as wild as the plan seemed to be. We still don’t question it or the roles we are to play. God reveals His plan to us in bits. Too much information would only confuse us and cause us to make mistakes. So it’s one step at a time, one day at a time.

We’re still marching to that beat. Who knows how many legions of angels are now under Aaron’s command.