The Great Divide

Since Sheikh Yaseen first spoke, he had remained silent, listening. He now turned to Captain Cordone, waiting for answers. Cordone looked over his notes. He said he had been working with the city council to remove the barriers, but then a car bomb went off in that area. He had spoken to command about warning signs and flares at checkpoints; the reason nighttime ambulance service was halted is that insurgents were using ambulances as suicide car bombs. One day, Marines didn’t patrol the city, and the next day, Marine patrols found eight bombs. “When you talk to me,” Cordone said, making eye contact with each of the sheikhs, one by one, “it does influence how we do business. When we shoot people and when we make mistakes, no one feels worse than a Marine.”

Then, as he spoke, Cordone looked directly and only at Yaseen. “We’re here talking right now, and we have been working very hard not to kill innocent people, but the insurgents don’t want to talk, and they don’t care who they kill.”

The large and animated Sheikh Mohammed, along with the other two sheikhs, turned silently to Yaseen. Where he chose to go, they would follow. For democracy to work in Iraq, it appeared, the old must lead the young into the new. The old sheikh’s hands were clasped just so on the table; he was looking at the ground. Yaseen looked up and said something. “He says you are right,” the translator said. Yaseen spoke some more. “He says you are a good and educated man. He says it’s clear you do want to help our people.”

Cordone asked Sheikh Yaseen if the sheikhs and imams would encourage their people to vote in October. Yaseen said they would, and with that, he stood. Cordone stood, and then the other sheikhs. With two hands, Yaseen grasped Cordone’s hand and looked directly into the captain’s eyes, nodded, and smiled, and for the first time in three hours, I no longer saw sadness in those eyes. No translator was required to interpret what they conveyed: hope. Yet the purple-clad Sheikh Mohammed stood apart from the group, looking disgusted and eager to leave.

After the meeting, I talked with Cordone in his office. I said it appeared to me that Yaseen and the others were testing him, deciding if he, and the United States and democracy and an Iraqi constitution, were worthy of their trust — and that Yaseen seemed to trust him and Mohammed did not. “Most Iraqis are sitting on the fence to see how this turns out,” Cordone explained. In the end, “You’re dealing with politicians, and you’re dealing with human nature, and their culture and their religion. Most of their primary focus is on self-preservation. And you’ve got to seek out the guys who are less likely to think that way. It’s just like anything — you know, what’s going to make an impact? Well, when I talk with you, how I treat you — that’s going to be the strongest message.”

As we talked, there was an explosion just outside the barracks. Dirt and debris rained on the roof and walls. “Put your shit on,” Cordone barked, pointing at my armor. We hurried into the hall. Marines ran by, their M16s ready. A Marine screamed to some grunts outside the front door: “Did you hear me? I said get in here! Do you want to die?” A Marine major approached Cordone. “How long ago did your sheikhs leave?” he asked. About a half-hour ago, Cordone said. “Gee, what a coincidence,” the major noted, implying that the strike was either coordinated to kill “cooperating” sheikhs, or perhaps had been given their blessing.

“Anything’s possible,” Cordone told me as we stood in the dark hallway, waiting for another blast that wouldn’t come. There was nothing more to say.