|
|
Executive Times |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
2006 Book Reviews |
|||
|
|
The
Prince of the Marshes by Rory Stewart |
|||
|
Rating: |
*** |
|||
|
|
(Recommended) |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
Chaos Rory Stewart’s
memoir of the year he spent in Everyone
knows how praiseworthy it is for a ruler to keep his promises . . . Nevertheless
experience shows in our times the rulers who have done great things are those
who have set little store by keeping their word, being skillful rather in
cunningly deceiving men. —Machiavelli,
The
Prince, Chapter 18 THURSDAY, OCTOBER 9,
2003 On the morning of the third day, there was a knock at my
office door and a tall man with heavy-rimmed glasses, a balding head, and a
two-day stubble appeared. “Hello, I am your
chief interpreter,” he said, emphasizing the “chief.” I asked him to sit
down. “It is not appropriate
for me to sit in the governor’s office,” he replied. He explained that he had
been an English teacher under the old regime. I asked him what he thought of
the situation. “Uneducated people,
tribal people, without reading and writing, are now in the city. This is very
bad. These men have no culture. They do not understand what is government. Because they do not understand what is
religion. Let me ask you, what is the religion?” I said I didn’t know. “You don’t know?” he
asked with great surprise. “Religion is about the respect for the other human
being. Each of us is created by one God. Each of us is respected. This is
religion. Even the Jewish religion. But these men do not respect one
another. Things are very bad now.” “And what should we do?” “You know already We are
not stupid. We know what games your government is playing here with oil and
with I thanked
him. “There is no need to thank
me. It is you who must be thanked.” As the translator left, I joined the civil
affairs team mustered outside my office. Everyone but A.J. was in full
desert camouflage with weapons and body armor, which in their case was a
small Kevlar breast and back plate. A.J. was wearing his body armor above a
pair of yellow trousers, but he had put aside his chrome-plated Kalashnikov.
Charlie Morris, I noticed, had managed to tuck most of her blonde fringe
under her helmet. We were on our way to the central event of their week: the
meeting with the ministry directors. It would be my first public appearance
as acting governor. “Do not make any promises,”
Major Butler warned me as we gathered. “Show them you are the
boss,” whispered the interpreter. “You are young and you must show them you
are strong. Tell them you are going to bring change.” We marched down the path
beside the river to the compound wall. The policemen swung back the metal
gates and we stepped out into the bright sun and crossed the main road,
returning smiles from Iraqi men. We marched past the sentry at the gate of
the pink-tiled provincial council building and the crowd of petitioners in
the courtyard and up the cool dark stairs and into a dark room, where the
ministry directors stood to greet us. I walked the lines, shaking
hands and returning embraces. “A salaam
aleikum.” (Peace be
with you.) “Waleikum a salaam.”
(And
also with you.) “Ahlan wa sahlan.” (Welcome.) “Ahlan.” “Shlion hadartak?” (How is the respected one?) “Al hamdulillah.” (God be praised.) “Shlon hadartak?” “Al hamdulillah.” Almost all the British
governorate coordinators spoke fluent Arabic or Kurdish, and dozens of
Foreign Office Arabists had been deployed in I sat at
the head of the room beside the man I knew to be the brother of the Prince of
the Marshes. Riyadh Mahood Hattab
was stocky, with a thick black mustache and big hair. As I sat beside him he
gave a weary smile and shrugged his shoulders. Many foreigners had sat beside
him in the months since the invasion, and I guessed he was tired of them. His
baggy black suit seemed to reflect his identity as an Arab modernist who had
spent twenty years as an engineer at the ministry of roads and bridges. He
was now coordinating chair of the “regeneration committee,” which was
supposed to iron out problems between ministries. In front
of us were more than eighty other directors: mostly middle-aged men, some in
safari suits, some in business suits. Most had gold
pens in their breast pockets and wore shiny watches and strong colognes. They
belonged to twenty-six different ministries that dealt with everything from
electricity to health. Since the invasion, communications with George
Butler sat slightly behind me to my left; the translator stood on my right. First to stand was a short
middle-aged man in the front row. “Mr. Laith, the
education director,” whispered George. “Seyyed
Rory, welcome,” he began. “Now that you have arrived I will ask you to do what
the Coalition has promised and failed to do, which is to evict the political
parties from the main school sports facility in Amara.”
He sat down. All readers will find much of interest
on the pages of The
Prince of the Marshes. Steve Hopkins,
October 25, 2006 |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
Go to Executive Times
Archives |
||||
|
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the November 2006
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Prince of the Marshes.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
|
|||
