Orville Schell

Almost nowhere in our homogenized world does crossing an international frontier deliver a traveler to a truly unique land. There is, however, noplace in the world like Iraq. Even at Amman’s Queen Alia International Airport, one finds hints of this mutant land to come. Affixed to the wall above a baggage carousel is an advertisement for “The AS Beck Company, Bonn, Germany: CERTIFIED ARMORED CARS.” The company’s logo is a sedan with the crosshairs of an assault rifle’s telescopic scope trained on the windshield on the driver’s side. “WHEN GOING TO IRAQ, MAKE SURE YOU DRIVE ARMORED!” the ad proclaims cheerfully. At the departure gate, a crimson placard warns against carrying FORBIDDEN ITEMS: “Gun Powder, Golf Clubs, Hand Grenades, Ice Axes, Cattle Prods, Hocket Sticks [sic], Meat Cleavers and Big Guns,” making one wonder if “little guns” are OK.

The small Royal Jordanian Fokker F-28-4000, which makes daily trips to Baghdad, sits out on the tarmac away from the jetways as if some airport official feared it might prove to be an airborne IED (improvised explosive device, a U.S. military acronym). Those of us on this hajj to the global epicenter of anti-Western and Islamic sectarian strife are an odd assortment of private security guards, military contractors, U.S. officials, Iraqi businessmen, and journalists; a young man in a sweatshirt announces himself as part of the “Military Police K-9 Corps” (bomb-sniffing dogs).

The Baghdad International Airport terminal is full of armed guards and ringed by armored vehicles. I saw no buses or taxis awaiting arriving passengers. Almost everyone is “met.” I am picked up by the New York Times’ full-time British security chief, who has come in a miniature motorcade of “hardened,” or bomb-proof, cars, escorted by several armed Iraqi guards in constant radio contact with each other.

As America approached the third anniversary of its involvement in Iraq, I had gone to Baghdad to observe not the war itself, but how it is being covered by the press. But, of course, the war is inescapable. It has no battle lines, no fronts, not even the rural-urban divide that has usually characterized guerrilla wars. Instead, the conflict is everywhere and nowhere.

It starts on the way into Baghdad, the cluttered seven-mile gauntlet that has come to be known as Route Irish after the Fighting 69th “Irish” Brigade of the New York National Guard, which patrolled it after the invasion. Some also now call it Death Road, because so many attacks have occurred along its length. Now largely patrolled by Iraqi forces, it is not quite the firing range it used to be. But it is still the most nerve-racking trip from an airport that any traveler is likely to make.

Although prewar Iraq had a relatively modern highway system, with multilane roads and overpasses, an occasional clover leaf, and even international standard green and white signs in both Arabic and English, it has been eroded by neglect, fighting, bombings, and tank treads, which have ground up curbs and center dividers. Everywhere there is churned-up earth, trash and rubble, loops of razor wire draped with dirty plastic bags, decapitated palm trees, wrecked equipment, broken streetlights, and packs of roaming yellow dogs sniffing at piles of garbage, the perfect places for insurgents wishing to hide cellphonetriggered IEDs to greet the next passing convoy of patrolling American troops. Much of the roadside looks like a combat zone, even when it hasn’t been under attack.

Many of Baghdad’s main roads are a nightmare of traffic congestion. When American or Iraqi patrols of Humvees mounted with 50-caliber machine guns, M-1 Abrams tanks, and Bradley Fighting Vehicles pull onto a street, everything slows to a crawl. Signs tied on their tailgates warn in English and Arabic: “DANGER: Stay Back!” Every driver gets the message. Failure to maintain one’s distance can draw fire. And so, like a herd of cold and hungry animals fearful of getting too close to a campfire, traffic cringes behind such patrols, while frustrated drivers are left to wait, breathe one another’s exhaust, and curse the occupation.

It has not helped that when Saddam Hussein fell, almost all ordinary governmental activities — such as registering cars and issuing drivers’ licenses — ceased, and thousands of vehicles flooded the market in Iraq from other countries. Traffic lights rarely work since electric power is still sporadic; the only control comes from a few street cops who have been recently posted at key intersections to direct the relentless crush of vehicles. To make matters worse, after several attacks or bombings, the U.S. military or the Iraqi government will often simply prop up a sign in the center of a main artery saying: “HAIFA STREET IS CODE RED! DON’T USE!” Moreover, as the city has become ever more violent and chaotic, people have begun blocking off streets on their own to create safety zones. Since there has been little law enforcement, there is no one to stop this private appropriation of public space.

At first people made themselves feel more secure after the invasion by piling sandbags along streets or in front of their houses and offices. But as suicide bombers began to proliferate and their explosive charges grew larger and more destructive, private defense efforts became more elaborate as well. The advent of the “blast wall” changed the Baghdad landscape.

Developed by the Israelis in order to put up a physical barrier between themselves and the Palestinians, the Iraq version of these segmented walls is constructed out of thousands of portable, 12-foot-high slabs of steel-reinforced concrete. When stood upright on their pedestals, these “T-walls” look something like giant tombstones, totems perhaps from some long-lost Easter Island culture gone minimalist. When placed together edge-to-edge as “blast walls,” they form the gray undulations that have now become Baghdad’s most distinguishing feature. And because they proliferated during the administration of L. Paul Bremer III, they became known to some as “Bremer walls.”

For example, when one major news organization became alarmed at the deteriorating security situation in the city, it occupied part of Abu Nawas, a main road along the Tigris River that the U.S. military had already blocked in front of two adjacent hotels in order to erect a maze of protective blast walls, guard towers, and other fortifications. So, where there was once a major highway complete with a center divider shaded by trees, there is now a relatively quiet, garden-like parking lot, surrounded by 12-foot-high protective concrete walls.

As the quest for greater private security increases, a new and unexpected kind of public insecurity has grown alongside it. With vehicles rerouted through an ever-diminishing number of open streets, traffic jams have become more frequent, exposing foreigners, rich Baghdadis, and anyone else out of favor with one or another group of insurgents to a greater danger of being kidnapped, shot, or blown up. It is unnerving (to say the least) to be stuck in such traffic, wedged into a welter of dilapidated sedans, vans, and pickup trucks with heavily armed Iraqis staring sullenly through the window of your expensively reinforced car, as security guards sitting next to you cradle their automatic weapons. With no possibility of escape, you can’t help wondering when your unlucky moment will come. And when traffic completely stops and frustrated drivers begin to break out of line, gun their vehicles up sidewalks, veer across center dividers, or just charge up the opposite lane against the flow of oncoming traffic, it is difficult to remain calm.

The worst offenders are private security guards who are committed to protecting their charges any way they can, and the Iraqi police, who now have brand-new fleets of green and white cruisers with whooping sirens, allowing them to plow their way through traffic-clogged streets as if they were kids on joy rides.

Adding to the overall racket and general sense of anxiety is the fact that it is hard to tell if the incessant sounds of sirens, the periodic bursts of automatic weapons fire, or the occasional explosions that are heard throughout the day mean anything or not. There are police firing ranges within the city, and sometimes a bored guard will just harmlessly fire off a few shots by way of a warning. As Borzou Daragahi of the Los Angeles Times explained, “Squeezing off a few rounds of automatic weapons fire here in Baghdad is the equivalent of honking your horn in America.”

So unless an explosion is quite close, people hardly break step. At most, if there is a particularly loud report, a journalist might go up onto his bureau’s rooftop to see where the smoke is coming from.

There is undeniably a “Blade Runner”-like feel to this city. The violence is so pervasive and unfathomable that you wonder what people think they are dying for. Nevertheless, despite the fact that the everyday violence is horrendous, it does not take too many days before the deadly noises and the devastation everywhere seem to become just part of the ordinary landscape. Soon, quite to your surprise, you find yourself paying hardly more attention to the sounds of gunshots than a New Yorker does to the car alarms that go off every night … until, that is, someone you know, a neighbor, or just someone you have heard about, gets blown up, shot on patrol, or kidnapped by insurgents.

Just a few days after I left Baghdad, Iraqi newspapers carried a short notice that a well-to-do Iraqi banker, Ghalib Abdul Hussein, had been kidnapped from his fortified house by gunmen wearing Iraqi army uniforms. Five of his personal guards were shot execution-style in his yard. This is just one of thousands of such occurrences. But except for obeying the security guards responsible for you (if you have them), there isn’t much else you can do.

Driving through the streets of Baghdad, one now sees members of the newly created, blue-uniformed Iraqi Police Service, extolled by the Bush administration as another hopeful sign of “Iraqization.” But because police recruitment stations, training schools, and district precincts are favorite targets of the insurgents, many of these new police are afraid of being identified as collaborators with the Americans or the new Iraqi government. Their remedy is to wear black stocking caps with eye, nose, and mouth holes pulled down over their faces so they look like so many bank robbers. One sees these sinister-looking protectors of the peace at traffic circles and intersections, or brandishing automatic weapons in the back of American-bought pickup trucks, which makes them seem far more menacing than reassuring.

Visiting any of the news bureaus gives an immediate sense of how embattled foreign journalists now are and how difficult it has become for them to do their jobs. Everyone I spoke to complained that the deteriorating security situation has increasingly made them prisoners of their bureaus.

“We could go almost anywhere in Iraq in a regular car, unprotected,” wrote the Wall Street Journal correspondent Farnaz Fassihi this February, in a wistful front-page story for her paper about the situation she found when she first arrived in 2003. “I wore Western clothes — pants and T-shirts, skirts, sandals — walked freely around Baghdad chatting with shopkeepers and having lunch or dinner with people I met.” By the spring of 2004, she writes, “the insurgency had been spreading and gaining strength faster than we had imagined possible. For the first time, I hired armed guards and began traveling in a fully armored car. Outings were measured and limited and road trips were few and far between … As security deteriorated around the country, the areas in which we could safely operate shrank.”

Foreign news bureaus are either in or near the few operating hotels such as the Al Hamra, the Rashid, or the Palestine. Like battleships that have been badly damaged but are still at sea, these hotels have survived repeated bomb attacks and yet have managed to stay open. A few hotels like the Rashid, where once there was a mosaic depicting George Bush Sr. on the floor of the lobby, are sheltered within the Green Zone. A few other bureaus have their own houses, usually somewhat shabby villas that have the advantage of being included inside some collective defense perimeter that makes the resulting neighborhood feel like a walled medieval town.

Wherever in the city the news bureaus are, they have become fortified installations with their own mini-armies of private guards on duty 24 hours a day at the gates, in watch towers, and around perimeters. To reach these bureaus, one has to run through a maze of checkpoints, armed guards, blast-wall fortifications, and concertina-wired no man’s lands where all visitors and their cars are repeatedly searched.

The bitter truth is that doing any kind of work outside these American fortified zones has become so dangerous for foreigners as to be virtually suicidal. More and more journalists find themselves hunkered down inside whatever bubbles of refuge they have managed to create in order to insulate themselves from the lawlessness outside. (A January USAID “annex” to bid applications for government contracts warns how “the absence of state control and an effective police force” has allowed “criminal elements within Iraqi society [to] have almost free rein.”)

Nearly every foreign group working in Iraq has felt it necessary to hire a PSD, or “personal security detail,” from more than 60 “private military firms” (PMFs) — Triple Canopy, Erinys International Ltd., and Blackwater USA — now doing a brisk business in Iraq. In fact, there are now reported to be at least 25,000 armed men from such private firms on duty in the country today. Led mostly by Brits, South Africans, and Americans, these subterranean paramilitary PSDs form a parallel universe to America’s occupation force. Indeed, they even have their own organization, the Private Security Company Association of Iraq.

It has not escaped the attention of U.S. National Guardsmen, reservists, regular Army soldiers, and Marines that their mercenary counterparts get paid four or five times more than they do, sometimes as much as $1,000 a day. Understandably, there is a good deal of resentment about this inequity, and not a few American soldiers now aspire to nothing more than getting out of their low-paying jobs working for the military so that they can sign on with one of these companies.

“I look at it this way,” one young former Marine told me. “The Corps was an all-expenses-paid training ground to graduate me into the private sector.”

But being in a PSD is a dangerous occupation, as four guards from Blackwater learned in 2004 when, while on a mission to pick up some kitchen equipment from an 82nd Airborne base in Falluja, their SUVs were attacked and set on fire, and they were killed and hung from a bridge over the Euphrates River. (As this issue went to press, 50 employees of a private Sunni Arabowned security company were abducted in Baghdad.)

The U.S. government has ended up hiring thousands of private guards to protect its contractors and even high-ranking officials such as Paul Bremer. In fact, a 2005 U.S. government audit reported that between 16 and 22 percent of reconstruction project budgets in Iraq now go for security, almost 10 percent more than had been anticipated. As one private security guard told PBS Frontline’s Martin Smith, “We are a taxi service, and we’re equipped to defend ourselves if we’re attacked.”

Security is a very costly business, which has meant that most stringers and freelance journalists who could never afford such protection have been driven out of Baghdad. Bureaus like that of the New York Times, which can afford it and are still in Iraq, now carry costly insurance policies and require that all coming and going — indeed, all aspects of life outside the compound, including trips to the airport — be under the control of a full-time security chief, who acts as an earthbound air-traffic controller for the bureau. His job is to carefully set times and routes for reporters’ trips, and then maintain almost constant contact with their cars until they are safely back. If you want to have an interview outside the bureau, there is always a chance that it will be canceled or delayed for security reasons. Security chiefs are also in charge of the armed guard details that protect the bureau around the clock. No one goes anywhere without a plan worked out in advance, and then preferably in a “hardened,” or reinforced, vehicle followed by a “chase” car with several trusted Iraqi guards ready to shoot if necessary.

Even if a reporter wants to conduct an interview in another secure zone, it has become increasingly foolhardy not to coordinate the meeting in advance. If a photographer is out covering the aftermath of a suicide bombing or a reporter is interviewing an Iraqi, for example, he or she is advised to stay no more than a very short time, because someone may be tempted to phone the sighting to a jihadi group, often for a payoff.

Some critics, like the London Independent’s Robert Fisk, have written about how Western reporters have been reduced to “hotel journalism,” or what the former Washington Post bureau chief Rajiv Chandrasekaran somewhat more charitably describes as “journalism by remote control.” The Guardian war correspondent Maggie O’Kane was even more emphatic: “We no longer know what is going on, but we are pretending we do.”

The Washington Post, which has been forced for security reasons to move several times, now occupies a large house next to the run-down Al Hamra Hotel. When I stop there for lunch with a group of other journalists, the Post’s Jonathan Finer tells me that concern for reporters’ lives has “completely changed the way people move around the city.”

“In the summer of 2003, you could walk out of the Al Hamra and get a cab or even drive to Falluja for dinner, chill out, or go to a CD shop,” I was told by the Los Angeles Times’s Borzou Daragahi, whose bureau is in the Al Hamra. “Now, the AP won’t even let its people leave the city.”

“It’s amazing now to think back to November 2003 when the insurgency was starting to gain momentum, and all we had were a few sandbags in front of our house and a few guards,” Ed Wong, who is on his seventh rotation at the New York Times Baghdad bureau, later recalls. “Back then, you might have met a few angry people, but you didn’t fear for your life. Then, things started to change. At first, a few civilians became targets, but not journalists. Then, in the spring of 2004, we started changing our security protocols, using two-car convoys and guards. It felt very weird. For the first time I confronted that barrier between me and the people I was supposed to be reporting on.”

Dexter Filkins of the New York Times, who was in Afghanistan before he went to Iraq, told me: “When I first got here in March of 2003, it was like any war zone I have covered: dangerous, but lines were clear. We went all around the Sunni Triangle at night. I went to Uday and Qusay’s [Saddam Hussein's sons] funeral. Saddam’s family stared at us, but I had no trepidation. Now, only a lunatic would do something like that! It all started to change in the fall of 2003 when all of us started to have a lot of close calls. I was shot at, attacked by a mob and had bricks thrown at my car. We had one car raked by gunfire. Then, everything totally changed after April 2004 and Falluja and the uprising of the Mahdi Army [the militia run by Moqtada al-Sadr]. John Burns was captured, blindfolded, and walked into a field. He thought he was a goner. Later in 2004 came the beheadings.” According to Filkins, “the situation has just truncated the center of being a reporter. We can still talk to Iraqis and do journalism, but it’s dangerous and unpredictable.”

As Larry Kaplow of the Cox Newspapers said, it is “frustrating not being able to talk to the insurgents” and not to be able to find out what is happening in other parts of Baghdad.

The price of staying in Baghdad is to have Iraqi surrogates perform more and more tasks, from driving and shopping to getting exit visas and plane tickets — and reporting. This situation deeply frustrates Western journalists, who pride themselves on their independence; but they know, as the Committee to Protect Journalists reports, that some 61 reporters (many of them Iraqis) have been killed here, and many others wounded, since the 2003 invasion.

The New York Times reporter Sabrina Tavernise, who had spent several years reporting from Russia and had been to Baghdad several times before her most recent rotation, said: “I sometimes think that all I know are tiny little pieces of the larger puzzle. If you can get into someone’s house, you can tell that other side of the story. But the hurdles to doing that, just going to a hospital after a bombing, are now huge. During a recent Muslim holiday, I went to a park to talk to people and children. But, I had a translator, a photographer, three guards and two drivers.” It was, she said, “intimidating.”

This is the first of two parts.

I had arrived here in Baghdad naively expecting that as an antidote to their isolation from Iraqi society, journalists might have kept up something of a fraternity among themselves. What I discovered was that even the most basic social interactions have become difficult. It is true that some of the larger and better-appointed news bureaus (with kitchens and cooks) have tried to organize informal evening dinners with colleagues. But while guests were able to get to an early dinner, there was the problem of getting back again to their compounds or hotels by dark, when the odds of being attacked vastly increase. The only alternative was to stay the night, which posed many difficulties for everyone, especially Iraqi drivers and guards.

The result is that reporters find themselves living in a strangely retro mode where their days end before sunset, and they are pulled back to their bureaus for dinner like an American family of the 1950s. Not a few have sought solace in cooking.

One evening while I was in Baghdad, a British security guard mentioned that Fox News was giving a “party” in the nearby Palestine Hotel, once the almost elegant, five-star Le Meridien Palestine on the banks of the Tigris River. I was curious both to see what had happened to this legendary hotel and also what now passed for a social gathering among foreign reporters here. So at dusk, accompanied by two armed guards, I walked over to the Palestine through the maze of blast walls.

The first thing I noticed was that the hotel, which had become something of a household name when U.S. tanks opened fire on it in April 2003, killing three journalists, was now largely dark. Of the major bureaus, only Fox News and APTN are still here. The Palestine and the equally fabled Ishtar Sheraton, known as “the Missile Magnet,” are the two tallest buildings in Baghdad. They are situated adjacent to the roundabout in Firdos Square, made famous when a statue of Saddam Hussein was pulled down by a U.S. tank in 2003. Although the Ishtar has long since been excommunicated by the Sheraton chain, the hotel continues to call itself a Sheraton, like some aging divorcie who cannot quite bear the thought of giving up her former husband’s last name.

In October of 2005, both hotels were the target of attacks by three vehicles with explosives driven by suicide bombers. The last of them, a cement mixer loaded with explosives that drove through a hole just blasted in the wall by another suicide bomber, might have brought both hotels down if its axle had not got snarled in a razor-wire barricade. Snipers on the roof of the Palestine Hotel then opened fire on the truck, setting off an explosion that, among other things, blew out windows at Reuters, the New York Times, and the BBC several hundred yards away. The Sheraton Ishtar was so badly damaged that it never really reopened, while the Palestine, which had much of its lobby blown out, somehow manages to keep going in a state of suspended animation.

Inside its darkened lobby, a lone Iraqi sits dozing at a battered wooden desk under a caved-in ceiling that is hemorrhaging wires, electrical fixtures, and plumbing. A faded placard still marks the closed Orient Express Restaurant, once the meeting place of all the correspondents who used to live here.

In our search for the alleged Fox News party, we ask the attendant in the lobby for directions. He tells me and my guards to go to the fifth floor, but adds that in order to get upstairs, we must first go downstairs, evidently a strategy to prevent suicide bombers from going directly to their targets. In the basement, amid a stack of discarded cardboard boxes and heaps of broken plate-glass windows, an Iraqi man is kneeling on a rug in front of a cement block wall, presumably facing toward Mecca, in prayer. When we finally arrive on the fifth floor, we have to leave our guards at a checkpoint fortified with a steel door. Inside, we are greeted by the stink of disinfectant and stale air filled with the smell of curry and cigarette smoke. Down a hallway with a greasy carpet I find a small sitting room with shabby furniture and a soccer game playing on a TV. The Fox News staffers who are smoking and drinking seem glad to see almost anyone. The scene makes me think of a group of elderly retired people clinging to a residential hotel slated for demolition.

“Where are all the other guests?” I ask, as one of them thrusts a bottle of beer into my hand. Zoran Kusovac, Fox’s bulky, unshaven bureau chief, takes a long drag on his cigarette and explains in his Croatian accent, “Everybody’s gone home.” He laughs. “It’s Saturday. We wanted to have some fun. We used to be able to have parties until late at night. But now our security people told us that if we wanted to have a party, it would have to end no later than 6:00 PM, so that everyone could get home before dark. We started at 3:00!”

“It’s a little like being in third grade, where everybody has to be home before dark,” someone else says. Everyone laughs.

“TV means you have to get close to the action,” Kusovac complains when I ask how Fox’s coverage has been going. “After all, we have to get pictures. It’s absolutely essential. If you’re a print reporter and out in a Humvee, you can look through the window. But as a TV reporter, you have to stand up and get tape.” Everyone nods, thinking, no doubt, about ABC TV’s Bob Woodruff and his cameraman, Doug Vogt, who had just been wounded while out on patrol. “All of us,” Kusovac said, “depend on our Iraqis whom we have learned to trust … Our ‘bona fiders.’ But still, they’re filters.”

The BBC’s Baghdad bureau is housed at an adjacent compound in a shabby old villa occupied in the 1930s by a Jewish school, which still has Star of David patterns on its floor tiles and its old rickety wrought-iron porch railings. “The challenge here is always getting there to get the story,” the Canadian-born bureau chief, Owen Lloyd, tells me. “And then, when we do get there, we can only stay for 15 to 30 minutes. Finally, the focus has to be as much about safety as it is about the story.” I ask Lloyd how the BBC deals with these problems. “We have a staff in the newsroom with four Iraqis who work as fixers,” he tells me. “They are from different Muslim factions and give us a sense of what people in their neighborhoods think. We couldn’t get by without them!”

The days when journalists could move around Iraq just by keeping a low profile — traveling in beat-up old cars, growing an Iraqi-style mustache, and dyeing their hair black, or when women reporters could safely shroud themselves in a black abbaya and veil — are gone. When Jill Carroll of the Christian Science Monitor tried such tactics this January, she was kidnapped while trying to get to an interview with a Sunni politician, Adnan al-Dulaimi.

What journalists have learned to do in this unprecedented situation is to give increasing responsibility to their Iraqi staff — readers of the Arab press, drivers, fixers, researchers, translators, or stringers whom the larger bureaus have placed around the country or in key government offices.

Farnaz Fassihi has written how at the Wall Street Journal she “began relying heavily on our staff for setting up interviews, conducting street reporting and being my eyes and ears in Baghdad.”

Occasionally the Washington Post’s local staff “managed to persuade Iraqis to come to our hotel for interviews, giving me a chance to interact personally with sources and subjects,” Jackie Spinner, a former Post Baghdad bureau chief, acknowledges in her soon-to-be-published book, “Tell Them I Didn’t Cry.” She recounts how she “spent the nights writing stories pasted together from reports gathered by our Iraqi staff, my only access to the war outside my window…”

But while Western journalists are relying on surrogates, what I observed at the bureaus I visited in Baghdad was far from a dereliction of duty. If anything, it showed how the old overseas bureau model of independent reporters has been forced to evolve under very extreme pressure to survive. Much of the basic reporting now is done by Iraqis, while most of the writing and analysis is still done by Westerners. Some of the Iraqis I met are impressive in their knowledge and commitment to this new kind of team journalism. But one question being frequently asked is whether these local reporters were getting adequate credit. Omar Fekeiki, a young Iraqi at the Washington Post’s Baghdad bureau, was quick to say, “Of course we want a byline! This is practically all we get.”

Iraqis who contribute to a story do get mentioned, although often at the end of the article and in somewhat smaller print than the Western correspondent — an unfortunate inequity. This practice has started to change, especially at the Post. Still, the reality is that because of the dangers of being associated with a Western news bureau, many Iraqis do not want their names published. Out of fear of reprisal, many do not even tell their families and friends where they work.

Few reporters I talked to, whether Western or Iraqi, have any direct contact with the insurgents or with the sectarian militias: it is too difficult and dangerous, they say, to talk with Iraqis who do the fighting and set off the explosives. And thus, the various attacks, suicide bombings, and the pervasive anti-Western sentiment, as well as the sectarian hatred that has erupted during the occupation, continue to be largely unexplored and unexplained from the viewpoint of the Iraqis, whether they are Sunni insurgents, members of the Shia militias, or from the American-supplied Iraqi forces that are attacking them.

Sooner or later, anyone involved with the Americans must go to the so-called Green Zone. Since it is so dangerous and difficult for Westerners to circulate in the everyday world of Baghdad, the Green Zone is one of the very few places to which a journalist can go to actually “report” a story. The alternative is to become embedded in the U.S. military. That Western journalists now find being embedded a kind of liberation from imprisonment in their bureaus is something of an irony, especially in view of the debate three years ago whether embedded reporters were accepting conditions that restricted their freedom to describe the war. Now they readily accept these limitations, because working as a “unilateral” has become practically impossible. At least with the military they see the killing in the streets at first hand.

The Green Zone is a 4.5-square-mile compound in the middle of Baghdad surrounded by an eight-mile-long, Christo-like running fence of blast walls. Someone dubbed it “the largest gated community in the world.” The easy way to enter it is to “chopper in” to the zone’s helicopter pad — code-name “Washington” — from Baghdad International Airport or one of the many other U.S. military bases that now form a growing American archipelago throughout Iraq. Indeed, all day and night choppers carrying military brass, diplomats, security specialists, contractors, and VIP civilians rattle a few hundred feet over Baghdad.

Reporters seeking access to the Green Zone must drive there and then negotiate passage through a heavily fortified access gate. Since these have been magnets for suicide bombers, they are ringed by armored vehicles, guard towers, and squads of heavily armed troops. If a visitor does not have the requisite U.S. military-issued special pass for his vehicle, he or she must get dropped off at a special place outside a gate in a maze of blast walls, rubble, razor wire, and armaments. But cars dare not linger for more than a brief moment, lest soldiers presume that your vehicle is that of a bomber and open fire.

Once disembarked, the visitor walks across a dangerous no man’s land to the outermost checkpoint. As cars whiz by and as you thread your way through corridors of blast walls, razor wire, and chessboard-like configurations of metal mesh bins filled with dirt and sand as blast barriers, you feel utterly exposed. There have, in fact, been many attacks on these gates. In December 2004, for example, a car loaded with explosives blew up at Harithiya Gate, killing seven people and wounding 19. A Web-published message purporting to be from Abu Musab al-Zarqawi triumphantly proclaimed: “On this blessed day, one of the lions of the martyrdom-seeking brigade struck a gathering of apostates and Americans in the Green Zone.”

At the gate itself, you are greeted by signs in English and Arabic: “Do Not Enter or You Will be Shot,” “Stop Here and Wait,” or “No Cell Phone Use at Check Point.” (The fear, of course, is that an insurgent with a cellphone will detonate a bomb by remote control.)

And then, you must begin navigating numerous checkpoints manned by guards who check IDs again and again, pass you through metal detectors and scanning machines, introduce you to bomb-sniffing dogs, and give you pat-down searches. Their object is to make certain that no terrorist breaches these walls, as happened in October 2004 when suicide bombers blew themselves up inside the Green Zone Cafi, killing several contractors, and reminding everyone that even the seemingly secure barriers dividing the Green Zone from the rest of Baghdad could be breached.

The first few checkpoints are now manned by teams of soldiers from the country of Georgia in full combat gear. The names on their identity badges all end in “-villi,” and none of them seems to speak English. Next, one encounters phalanxes of Spanish-speaking guards who, in pidgin English, tell me they are from Peru, Colombia, Honduras, and Chile. Because U.S. troops are both overstretched and expensive, the Pentagon has for some time taken to outsourcing guard duty here at the Green Zone to foreign contract laborers — in somewhat the same way the news bureaus are outsourcing their work to Iraqis. At first, the U.S. hired the U.K.-based firm Global Strategies Group Ltd., which imported British-trained Sri Lankans, Fijians, and Nepalese Gurkha mercenaries. But in November 2004, after the U.S. reopened bidding for the contract, Triple Canopy Inc., a Virginia-based outfit started in 2003 by a group of veterans from the U.S. Delta Force, won the job. In order to keep costs down, it brought in recruits from Latin America.

These guards joined an already vast force of foreign truck drivers and food and service workers in the Green Zone (and on other U.S. bases) who come from countries as varied as the Philippines, Bangladesh, Bulgaria, and India. The result is a globalized labor force that makes the Green Zone look something like one of the United Arab Emirates, where Asian contract workers often far outnumber actual citizens. These “private warriors” and service workers in Iraq are estimated to make up the equivalent of an extra 30 battalions of military troops.

Knowledge of English does not seem to have been a requirement for Triple Canopy workers in this new Tower of Babel. Since the Latins are cut off from any regular Spanish-language publications or broadcasts, it is hard to imagine what they make of the imbroglio in which they find themselves. When I ask a Peruvian who is standing at a checkpoint under a tent fly in front of a giant stele inscribed in Arabic with a quotation from Saddam Hussein what he thinks of Iraq, he frowns and points one thumb down.

Several people told me that the Green Zone’s name was derived from military parlance: when a soldier clears the chamber of his M-16, he is said to have his weapon “on green,” while “red” means that a rifle is “locked and loaded” and ready to fire. Hence, this relatively safe zone occupied by American “liberators” came to be known as the Green Zone, while everything else outside, where weapons were ubiquitous and gunfire was almost incessant, came to be known as the Red Zone.

When one first lands “inside the wire,” as the world inside the Green Zone is known, one has the feeling of having gained access to some large resort in which soldiers have been turned into staff. Walking among the trailers, modular offices, generators, shipping containers (filled with thousands of items of equipment), PXs, fast food outlets, swimming pools and other recreational facilities, and seemingly inexhaustible supplies of American soft drinks, even the sight of the former palaces and buildings of Saddam Hussein and rows of date palms is not enough to jolt one back into Iraq.

The Green Zone houses almost everything that matters in Iraq: the so-called U.S. embassy, which has taken up residence in Saddam Hussein’s old Republican Palace; other favored foreign legations (the British, but not the French, who remain across the river on their own); a remnant U.N. mission; the offices of big construction firms like Kellogg-Brown-Root and Bechtel; American military command centers; a Pizza Inn; a bar called the Bunker; and CNN and the Wall Street Journal. All have sought haven here in the Green Zone. There is also the Convention Center, future home for the new Iraqi parliament, as well as important offices of the new Iraqi government. Just as the foreign “concessions” in cities like Shanghai once allowed “Westernized” Chinese to live inside them, together with ex-pats enjoying extraterritorial rights, select Iraqis are protected in the Green Zone.

It is here also that the Combined Press Information Center, known as CPIC, is located and where it holds its Thursday press briefings, which remind some veterans of the surreal “Five o’clock Follies” held each day at 5:00 PM in the windowless JUSPAO (Joint U.S. Public Affairs Office) theater in Saigon. There, an earlier generation of “press information officers” gave journalists briefings, complete with four-color overlay charts tabulating “body counts,” “targets hit,” “structures destroyed,” and “villages pacified” in a war that seemed to be getting statistically won, even as it was actually being lost.

It is to CPIC that arriving journalists must go to be photographed, finger-printed, and accredited. Indeed, without the official CPIC plastic badge, it is virtually impossible for a reporter to survive in the parallel universe of American installations that, with few exceptions, provide the country’s only working systems of transport, food delivery, overnight quarters, communications, and emergency medical care.

Inside the Green Zone, one encounters a world that is nowhere to be found outside. The zone has its own taxi service. There are women joggers; men in rakish safari hats; 30-year-olds in neckties who have vaguely described jobs “advising” the Iraqis on political and administrative matters; sweating women in halter tops, short skirts, and flip-flops. And almost everyone has an identity pouch hung around his or her neck with double transparent windows for all those important plastic ID cards. If most of the wearers weren’t so tall, white, and overweight, they might be confused with those tagged refugees who are found in U.S. airports waiting in groups to be put on mercy flights to a new host city.

These oversized badges are prominently embossed with the words “International Zone,” part of an ongoing, multipronged U.S. government public relations effort to “rebrand” the Green Zone. This January, following the legislative elections, nominal control over some 20 buildings in the zone was passed over to Iraqis in a ceremony that featured a brass band and a chocolate cake.

That the Bush administration keeps trying to change the Green Zone’s name is only one of its many battles over language. Its tireless use of didactic labels — “Coalition Forces,” “Operation Iraqi Freedom,” or “The 27 Nation Multi-National Force” — only seems to end up creating an ever-widening gulf between official language and the reality of the actual situation in Baghdad. While official language is relentlessly upbeat, the already nightmarish reality has been getting worse with each passing day. As the Green Zone has become safer and ever more tightly controlled, and as the government’s language continues to project a bright future for the U.S. effort in Iraq, much of the rest of the country has descended into an ever more violent maelstrom. Meanwhile, during their tours of duty here in Iraq, only a very few American missionaries of democracy learn Arabic or ever touch an Iraqi dinar, buy anything Iraqi except in the trinket shops within the Green Zone, or share a meal in the house of an Iraqi citizen.

“A critical mistake was made,” observed the American security analyst Anthony Cordesman as early as September 2003. “By creating U.S. security zones around U.S. headquarters in Central Baghdad, it created a no-go zone for Iraqis and has allowed the attackers to push the U.S. into a fortress that tends to separate U.S. personnel from the Iraqis.”

Since then, the insurgent attacks on the U.S. forces and Iraqi government and the sectarian fighting between Sunnis and Shiites have become destructive beyond what most journalists have been able to convey. Every morning, the residents of Baghdad find piles of bodies, hands manacled, skulls riddled with bullet holes, that have been dumped without identity cards beside some road. Insofar as there is any semblance of government control, it is all too often by the new Iraqi Ministry of the Interior, which remains in Shia hands but is widely suspected of complicity in the sectarian killings. According to official announcements, the ministry is supposed to be carrying out a comprehensive new plan by U.S. Lieutenant General Martin Dempsey and Major General Joseph Peterson to construct a reformed national army and police force. In fact, as I was told by those few Iraqis I was able to meet, the Ministry of the Interior has a deserved reputation for lawless, Shia partisanship. Until Edward Wong’s story on the ministry in the New York Times of March 7, no journalist I know of has been able to show in any detail just how the ministry works and what relations it may have with the Shia militias.

The unraveling of Iraq into incipient civil war took another ominous step forward when on Feb. 22, Sunni partisans dressed as members of the Iraqi military blew up al-Askariya, the sacred Shia Golden Mosque in Samarra. In retaliation, some 20 Sunni mosques were then attacked. The Washington Post of Feb. 28 was the only American newspaper I’ve seen which reported that “more than 1,300 Iraqis” were killed in the days that followed. The claims of President Bush to have calmed violence by talking with Iraqi religious leaders sounded ever more hollow as dozens more people were killed in the following days. Although it is difficult to imagine Baghdad in an even worse state, as such violence escalates, this strife could plunge Iraq into a widening conflict that may eventually overshadow both the daily violence against Americans and the already intense anti-American nationalism.

Adnan Pachachi, the much-respected politician in his mid-80s who has long been in exile but was recently elected to Parliament and so moved back to the well-to-do Mansur neighborhood of Baghdad where he lives sequestered in his own compound, with a private militia of bodyguards and a diesel generator, represents a saner but probably unrealizable vision of Iraq’s future. Pachachi is a Shiite Muslim who deplores the rise of sectarian violence, and like some other well-known exiles, he did not anticipate it. “The Iraqis are known as the least religious people in the Middle East,” he says. And so, he adds, “It was a great disappointment that 80 percent of Iraqis voting did so according to sectarian affiliations, not political beliefs.”

What is needed, says Pachachi, is “a new federal allegiance … some time for the country to stabilize.” But he told me that “there is so much violence, fear and distrust, that my optimism is dwindling. We seem to be descending into a situation of civil strife between sects … organized killings on each side. Three years ago when the Saddam Hussein regime was toppled, no one thought the situation would now be as bad as it is.”

It may well be that the besieged American press in Iraq will find that the main story is not about Americans fighting Iraqi insurgents, but Americans standing powerlessly aside in their armed compounds, Green Zone, and military bases, watching as Iraqis kill other Iraqis and the country disintegrates. It would be all too ironic if this were the result of the invasion of March 2003, which was promoted as a critical step in bringing peace to the Middle East.

Indeed, many of the participants — who quickly grew in number to around 10,000 — were middle-aged women of no particular political inclination. They were, instead, members of the Falun Gong, a rapidly expanding sect that combines traditional Chinese breathing exercises (qigong) and a belief in miracle cures with a mish-mash of Buddhist and Taoist mysticism. Despite the fact demonstrators insisted that they were apolitical — wishing only to protest the detention in nearby Tianjin of fellow believers who had taken up the cause against a magazine that had editorially attacked the sect — party leaders were deeply disturbed by their appearance in the capital, and set up a special task force within the Central Committee to look into the group. It was a measure of how seriously this task force took the sect’s challenge that this week, after accusing Falun Gong of wanting “to provoke those who do not know the truth to stage massive gatherings, inciting trouble and chaos in a bid to violate social stability,” police moved to detain thousands of sect followers in more than 30 Chinese cities.

The mass detention of the followers of Falun Gong that have been carried out in China this past week are a dangerous panic response that has added fuel to the most widespread movement of organized protest since 1989. They also highlight an unexpected threat to Chinese Communist Party rule that could, if not handled prudently, be far more menacing to stability in China than any student protest movements that have preceded it.

What makes this crypto Buddhist-Taoist sect so potent is not only its broad-based support but its inchoateness, which renders it extremely difficult to control. But what is perhaps even more threatening to established power is the fact that this mass cult turned protest movement is led by a traditionalistic leader whose sudden state of charismatic rebelliousness evokes for many Chinese a deeply ingrained sense of historical memory of how many past ruling dynasties fell after they were challenged by just such internal cultic upheaval.

What Falun Gong adherents seem to want is to be left alone, something that the party has never been able to countenance of an independent organization, especially one with such a vast and growing following. But by turning on the sect, the party risks transforming what was basically an apolitical religious group into a potentially volatile and extremely destabilizing opposition movement.

There are several reasons why the Falung Gong must now be viewed as a more ominous threat to party hegemony than any of the protest movements that have preceded it, even the student movements of the 1980s. First, because it has such deeply traditional and nativist roots, its message cannot be branded as an imported and inappropriate foreign ideology for China the way notions of Western democracy have been dismissed by nationalists and xenophobes.

Second, because the destruction of traditional Confucian values during the revolution and then the implosion of Marxist ideology as a belief system during Deng Xiaoping’s economic reforms have left China bereft of any coherent belief system, Chinese are susceptible to any group that seems to offer basic answers to questions about the meaning of life.

Third, unlike student protesters, who were basically rationalists and usually had clearly delineated demands to which the party could have responded if it wished, there is no quick and easy response for Falun Gong founder Li Hongzhi’s critique of contemporary life as having fallen into a morass of immorality and venality.

Fourth, this curiously diffuse but mass-based sect has managed to communicate with its members by word of mouth and over the Internet rather than by conventional means, making it virtually impossible for the party to disrupt its nerve center. In this sense it is a paradox — the first traditionalistic but cyber-savvy Chinese protest movement to confront the party.

But what may be the most ominous aspect of this sudden upwelling of nativistic superstitiousness that has so suddenly and enigmatically managed to knit itself together into a movement is not simply its demands to be left alone, but its symbolic significance. For Chinese, such a millennarian movement evokes an indelible association with the idea of dynastic decay and collapse. There is hardly a Chinese citizen alive who does not know the legends and stories from history that have been passed down in novels, operas, plays, films, comic books and even TV series of how the Han Dynasty’s (206 B.C.-220 A.D.) end was presaged by the mystical Yellow Turban Rebellion or how the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911), China’s last, ran afoul of the equally mystically inclined White Lotus and Boxer rebellions.

Such cult-animated uprisings against unjust authority — with which Falun Gong will now be unalterably identified — have always been viewed by Chinese as portents that the legitimacy — or the “mandate of heaven” — of a ruling dynasty has been withdrawn. And for a government such as the one that presently rules China, which does not derive its legitimacy from the will of the people, the deeply rooted cultural presumption of ordinary people that the cosmic forces of heaven no longer shines kindly on it could deal it a potentially devastating psychological blow. Nothing in China ever happens quite the way “the experts” predict. Virtually no expert foresaw the events of 1989, and no expert I know imagined that China’s next wave of destabilizing protest might come from a mass movement of middle-aged, middle-class citizens dedicated to recycled notions of Buddhist and Taoist clean living, health through meditation and breathing exercises.

But by detaining thousands of sect followers, which has sent tens of thousands more into the streets in protest all across China, the party may have unalterably transformed a spiritual movement into a dangerous political force. And when people take to the streets in China, it raises the specter of another tragedy like Tiananmen Square. “Take another look: Isn’t the act of imperiously pushing 100 million good people into opposition producing another ‘June 4th’ incident?” the sect’s Web site has recently warned. “The authorities should quickly sober up to avoid an even more severe consequence.”

Students of Chinese history know that the country’s humiliating experience of victimization by foreign powers in the past translated directly into support for Lenin’s theories about imperialism. For me, being there at the end of the Cultural Revolution was also an important reminder of just how much of China’s modern identity had been forged in opposition to the West.

Official propaganda at the time was still so alienated from America that it was hard to imagine how the Chinese Communist Party would ever feel comfortable cooperating with foreign imperialists like me, let alone becoming fully integrated into the global market system. After all, historically speaking, America and the West were exploiters and oppressors who had “cut up China like a melon,” humiliated the Chinese race and soiled China’s once proud national escutcheon.

Twenty years of reform have changed many things in China, but the collective memory of “national humiliation” is one of the most resistant parts of China’s historical legacy. It will not be overcome simply by increasing trade, by allowing students to study abroad or by more American fast-food restaurants opening in Beijing.

Like an afterglow that lingers on the screen long after a television set has been turned off, images from its history keep haunting China. Each time another country does something the party finds provocative — especially in relation to Taiwan, Tibet or sovereignty and human rights issues — party leaders proclaim the offending nation as having “wounded the feelings of the Chinese people.” To a Westerner, such an accusation sounds absurdly childish. But actually it is a carefully chosen figure of speech that resonates among Chinese precisely because it emotionally summons up China’s experience of being historically “wounded.”

In a similar vein, what the recent demonstrations and expressions of indignation (and denial) about the Cox Report allegations suggest is that China has still not transcended its old antagonistic attitudes about foreign powers unfairly preying on it. In witnessing this latest new spasm of anti-imperialist, or anti-American, sentiment, one is still left to wonder: Why does China feel so wounded? With such ambiguous feelings toward countries with which it is now ever more deeply involved economically, what is its future in the world?

It is true that no large nation has been more historically aggrieved by foreigners than China. Unlike much of the rest of Asia, it never became an outright colony, although Hong Kong and Taiwan were colonized (the former after the Opium War by the British in l842, and the latter after the Sino-Japanese War in l894 by the Japanese.) Because it was technologically less advanced, China was nibbled away at by the West, Japan and even Russia, until by the l920s it was a patchwork of “foreign spheres of influence” “and “foreign concessions,” in which overseas missionaries, soldiers, businessmen, diplomats and freebooters all enjoyed extra-territorial privileges.

Then, in the l930s, came the final indignity. Japan occupied a large portion of China. The experience of this once strong and culturally preeminent country finding itself defenseless before so many implacable powers left a deep scar on China’s pride. And it is this “humiliation” that has led to so many up-wellings of Chinese nationalistic sentiment since.

The Boxer Rebellion of l900 was a milestone of sorts in this sorry process of China being bullied. The Boxers were a mystical anti-Christian sect that arose in north China in opposition to Western missionaries. Of course, the sometimes contemptuous and bullying manner of missionaries, whose rights to evangelize in China had been secured by gunboat diplomacy, prejudiced many Chinese, especially conservatives, against all foreigners. While many
missionaries were selfless in their service to China and engendered a great deal of good feeling, others fomented anti-foreign sentiment by interfering in local politics and treating Chinese with arrogant condescension.

As the missionary-turned-diplomat A. Wells Williams so indelicately put it at the time, the Chinese “grant nothing unless fear stimulated their sense of justice for they are among the most craven of people, cruel, selfish as heathenism can make men, so we must be backed by force, if we wish them to listen.”

Just as the current Chinese government sought to ride the genuine popular sentiment against the NATO bombing by aiding and abetting the demonstrators, the ailing Qing court adopted the anti-foreign cause of the Boxers, even issuing an imperial edict commanding: “Whenever you meet a foreigner, you must kill him.”

It did not help China’s collective state of mind that the Boxer Rebellion was finally put down by an eight-nation “international relief force” that punitively laid waste to much of Beijing and other north China cities, and that the government was then burdened with a huge indemnity.

China’s intelligentsia concluded that China was being preyed upon because of its weakness and lack of national cohesion. Not only had China suffered four “unequal treaties,” beginning with the first Opium War and the Treaty of Nanking in 1842 and culminating with the punitive Boxer Protocol of
l901, but it had lost the Sino-French War of 1884, the Sino-Japanese War in l894 and the scramble for foreign concessions in 1897-98, and then had been forced to yield German rights in China to Japan at the Versaille Treaty of 1919.

It was hardly surprising, therefore, that the Chinese soon concluded that nationalism was the best antidote for foreign intervention. A deep sensitivity to such foreign predation soon became encoded on China’s attitudinal DNA, where, like a recessive gene, it has found expression ever since through the efforts of successive generations to “save the nation.” By the 1920s, protest demonstrations, strikes against foreign companies and boycotts of foreign goods were regularly disrupting China’s relations with the West.

When the Qing dynasty fell in 1911 and Sun Yat-sen came on the scene, he made nationalism the first of his Three People’s Principles. In response to the Versaille Treaty, on May 4, 1919, students proclaimed “National Humiliation Day.” “China’s territory may be conquered, but it cannot be given away,” declared a manifesto. “The Chinese people may be massacred, but they will not surrender. Our country is about to be annihilated! Up brethren!”

And when Chiang Kai-shek followed Sun Yat-sen as leader of the Nationalist Party, he, too, displayed a strong nationalistic bias. Even as a wartime ally, he was anti-imperialist in tone. Writing in China’s Destiny, he blamed the “unequal treaties” for causing a “loss of self-confidence, servile dependence on and blind following of others, fear and subservience to foreigners, hypocrisy, and self-deceit.”

Chiang saw Chinese as having lost their national confidence under foreign domination. “The attitude of self-abasement was carried to such an
extreme,” he wrote, “that they despised and mocked the heritage of their own civilization.”

Explaining perfectly the dilemma of intellectuals who are both drawn to and repelled by the West today, Chiang described how “unconsciously, the people developed the habit of ignoring their own traditions and cultivating foreign ways; of respecting foreign theories and despising their native teachings; of depending on others and blindly following them rather than themselves … Where the influence of these ideas prevailed, the people regarded everything foreign as right, and everything Chinese as wrong.” Chiang’s remedy was “psychological reconstruction” built around what he called “the most mysterious of all emotions,” namely, nationalism.

When Chiang fled to Taiwan in l949, Mao Zedong highlighted China’s grievances against imperialism more starkly by adopting an even more aggressive agenda of revolutionary nationalism. “The imperialists and their running dogs, Chinese reactionaries, will not resign themselves to defeat in this land of China,” he declared in 1949. “They will continue to gang up against the Chinese people in every possible way … They will do this as long as it is possible … We must not relax our vigilance … No imperialist will be allowed to invade our territory again.”

By the time of the “Resist America, Aid Korea” campaign in l952, anti-American sentiment reached such a crescendo that one party-controlled paper could accuse Hu Shih, China’s brilliant Columbia-educated former ambassador to Washington, of being unpatriotic because he was “incapable of fostering hatred for America.” And, by l967, Red Guards had burned the British Charge d’Affaires Mission in Beijing to the ground. It is crucial to remember that it was in this political culture that China’s present leaders came of age.

Although anti-U.S. sentiment did begin to moderate after President Nixon’s breakthrough visit to China in l972, when I made my first trip three years later, it was still very much in evidence. Not until Deng Xiaoping became “paramount leader” in 1978 did the situation show signs of real change, because Deng restrained himself from overtly playing the anti-foreign, anti-American
card.

In fact, in the years following the Tiananmen Square Massacre in 1989, when references to “hostile foreign forces” abounded, Deng weighed-in boldly against xenophobic forces. In l992, he insisted that although the United States and China had different political systems, there was “no conflict between fundamental interests,” and he disavowed using phrases such as “Western hostile forces headed by the U.S.”

Of course, Deng’s insistence on “not seeking confrontation” did little to resolve the basic ambiguity about the intentions of the West and Japan that remained latent in the hearts of China’s aging leaders. In l990, for example, current party chief and president Jiang Zemin gave a speech titled “Patriotism and the Mission of the Chinese Intellectual,” in which he could not resist drawing on the reservoir of ambivalent sentiment that still lay just beneath the surface. Alluding to old fears of “hostile forces at home and abroad,” he suggested that America and the West were trying to “subvert the socialist system” and to “turn China into a vassal state dependent on the Western superpowers.”

With the ideology of Mao’s Marxist-Leninist revolution still officially enshrined as sacred canon, and with an important part of the leadership periodically egging on the Chinese people to reconnect with anti-foreign feelings, it was hardly surprising that the Chinese might erupt in yet
another bout of anti-Western protests after the NATO bombing, and that the demonstrations might receive party support.

We forget at out peril that we are always communicating with China through a history, and that however factually murky that history is in the minds of contemporary Chinese, it has nonetheless left an aquifer of residual sentiment beneath the surface filled with inchoate but powerful feelings about weakness, insecurity, inferiority and wounded national pride.

But there is another underground river flowing into this subterranean reservoir that Chinese themselves rarely discuss, perhaps because its implications are even more humiliating than foreign predation. While China was indisputedly abused by foreigners, it has also been equally abused by itself and its own leaders who have so frequently been as savage as the worst foreign imperialists.

Who can forget the tens of millions dead as a result of Mao’s Great Leap
Forward, the anguish brought to intellectuals “sent down” in the anti-rightist movement, the insanity and brutality of the Cultural Revolution and the savagery of the crackdown on the “counter-revolutionary turmoil” of l989?

What could be more ruinous to China’s stature and national pride than having to defend as “the correct line” its virtual colonization of Tibet; murderous leaders such as Kang Sheng, Lin Biao and even Mao himself; the arrest of millions of its own citizens for nonviolent protest; the gratuitous shooting of missiles toward “fellow compatriots” on Taiwan; and support for the likes of Serbia’s Slobodan Milosevic, North Korea’s Kim Il-sung and Burma’s military junta?

Each of these self-inflicted insults heaped as much ignominy on China as any foreign intrusion. And they left many Chinese filled with a quotient of
repressed resentment that they would have, if they had been permitted to, addressed against their own government.

Alas, this combination of abuse from within and without has only tended to make China more jingoistic and nationalistic. After all, when misrule occurs at home, emphasizing injury at the hands of foreigners and exporting blame for one’s afflictions is a convenient way to distract attention from the real issues.

In indulging itself in this syndrome, China has made itself something of a professional victim. It is a curious fact that being viewed as a “victim” no longer seems to confer the stigma of weakness and incompetence on a country, but, instead, a badge of honor — bona fides of being among the elect of the oppressed. Such an election provides a powerful catalyst for the excitation of nationalist or racial sentiments.

But a pedigree of victimhood also has a way of allowing emotions to eclipse the ambiguities of both history and reason. When leaders claim that actions of another country have “wounded the feelings” of their people, it becomes logical for that people to rise in indignant defense, even to burn down foreign legations. The only problem is, such behavior is often inimical to a country’s real interest.

A year ago in Beijing, when Jiang Zemin got to insouciantly bantering with President Clinton in the Great Hall of the People, it was momentarily possible to hope that China was emerging from this old mind-set. Indeed, it was tempting to think that both countries were emerging from their deep-seated ambivalence about each other — that they might vault over the century and a half of history where the roles of victim and oppressor had taken such firm root to some sort of new “strategic partnership.” And when Premier Zhu Rongji showed up for a state dinner in the White House this April and — despite disagreements over Kosovo and the fact that a final agreement admitting China into the World Trade Organization was not forthcoming — managed to radiate a sense of ease, confidence and cosmopolitanism, it was all the more tempting to hope that enough distance had opened between the present and China’s bitter past to allow for a different sort of future.

As I watched both events, the old anti-imperialist slogans on smokestacks and walls circa l975 did seem as if, at last, they might be slipping into oblivion. Watching Jiang and Zhu, I wondered if China might not, at last, be actually escaping the gravity of all the past incursions and humiliations that had so animated Mao’s revolution and churned its populace up into so many demonstrations of anti-foreignism. Now, of course, one is far less confident that China’s escape from the burdens of history will be quite so easy.

Just as China’s definition of sovereignty — as conferring an almost absolute right on a nation to do whatever it pleases within its borders — is out-of-step with these globalized times, so, too, the way it sometimes comports itself on the international stage is often more appropriate to a century ago, when China really was the victim of colonialism and imperialism. Although party
leaders know that both China and the world have radically changed, they nonetheless seem unable, or unwilling, to let go of old and confirmed ways of emotionally responding to real and imagined insults.

However, until China’s leaders are able to jettison the stale Maoist ideology that keeps encouraging their people to see their country as victimized by more powerful nations, they will not be able to break their often self-defeating pattern of response to the West, much less help their nation take its rightful place as a truly “great power.”

Given the abiding nature of Chinese ambivalence toward America, it is important to remember that just as Americans have evinced a certain historical tendency to lurch from viewing China first as enemy and then as friend, China, too, has a yin-yang-like, love/hate relationship with the United States. Despite all the incipient anti-Americanism, the Chinese people have also evidenced an almost equally strong tendency toward respect, even infatuation with the U.S., especially in regard to American education, democracy, entertainment and lifestyle. But even during periods of friendly relations, most Chinese officials have been loath to publicly celebrate this connection. And so, wariness about our intentions keeps surfacing unchallenged like leitmotifs in a Wagner opera.

Because it will help allay Chinese fears of hidden conspiracies, “constructive engagement” is surely the wisest policy for the United States. But, it would be both arrogant and foolish to assume that even the most friendly and ardent recipe for engagement will be enough to “fix” the relationship. The truth is that in certain crucial ways China needs to “fix” itself, first by realigning its
own relationship to its past, a past that has been badly distorted by party historians, even as the party has slipped into oblivion. Until it manages this complex task of historical archeology, its relations with the U.S. and the West will exist on a weak ideological foundation, and be periodically disrupted by overheated nationalistic incidents that become all the more tectonic because they are so invested with a century and a half of unresolved and humiliated feelings.

I was intrigued by the idea of trying to reshape a school that did justify itself by being in the real world of journalism, intellectually exciting and capable of passing on some of the best aspects of the craft from one generation to another. The question I was left to ponder in thinking about taking my present job was: How would one best accomplish this goal?

My answer was to try to create a collegium of working journalists in photography, magazine writing, newspaper reporting, documentary film, television, radio and new media who would teach at Berkeley by doing as much as by pedagogically holding forth. After all, I thought, hadn’t I begun to learn the craft as a graduate student by being asked to work on a three-volume book by a senior professor, and then by being let in the door at the New Yorker as a neophyte and getting to work with several truly great editors? Alas, this is no longer the kind of environment that most media outlets present young aficionados of the craft. So, in becoming dean at the Graduate School of Journalism, my challenge was to try to replicate such an environment by putting together a collegium of great journalists who would come to Berkeley to continue working on their own projects, teach and hopefully enjoy and profit from each other’s company.

Crucial to doing this was an inspiring faculty, people like former New York Times Latin America bureau chief Lydia Chavez; NPR reporter William Drummond; former Washington Post Africa bureau chief Neil Henry; former Mother Jones editor Doug Foster; ABC television producer Paul Mason; MacArthur Foundation “genius award”-winning documentary filmmaker Jon Else; and author and Wall Street Journal columnist David Littlejohn, who spent a year with his students going back and forth to Las Vegas putting together a collectively written book that Oxford University Press is about to publish. And while we’re at it, let’s not forget those Berkeley faculty who at school expense will take their students to Nicaragua and El Salvador, Hong Kong and South Africa this spring on international reporting trips.

Another way to help create this “different kind of school” was to bring to Berkeley what we call “teaching fellows,” practicing journalists who come from around the world for a semester or a full year to be in-residence, work on their own projects and teach a class. We have been graced with people like New Yorker staff writer Mark Danner, who is just completing a monumental 10-part series on Bosnia for the New York Review of Books; author, Time magazine essayist and Harper’s contributor Barbara Ehrenreich; PBS “Frontline” correspondent and “60 Minutes” producer Lowell Bergmann; Los Angeles Times investigative team leader Tim Reiterman; Vogue writer Kennedy Fraser; Vanity Fair and Nation staff writer (and Salon contributor) Christopher Hitchens; former St. Louis Post Dispatch editor Bill Woo; Fortune Hong Kong bureau chief Jeffery Bartholet; Los Angeles Times film critic Ken Turan; Newsday science writer Laurie Garrett; and syndicated columnist Molly Ivins, among others. They come not to preach, but to get matched up with 10 or so students in what usually end up being tutorials more than classes. The job of teaching fellows is to roll up their sleeves and help students work on pieces and then get them out into the real world.

Do we go for what Aschkenas describes as “big-name visiting professors”? You bet. I want the very best people in the world at Berkeley. But just because they have “big names” does not mean that we don’t expect them to be attentive, to work hard with students and to be part of life at the school. Of course, teaching fellows also have their own projects to do. After all, the reason we want them is because they are in the real world. (Our object is to get the real world running through our doorway and our students out into the real world.) I’ve seen teaching fellows work out to miraculous good effect. Nonetheless, the chemistry doesn’t always work. To work out at our kind of school, a student must be proactive in building relationships with these senior people. Here, as everywhere else in life, the squeaking hinge gets the most oil. After all, the relationship between students and faculty at Berkeley is not so dissimilar from that which exists between journalists and editors and producers in the “real world.” It’s a two-way street. It takes two to fail — or to succeed. Sometimes the chemistry works, and sometimes it doesn’t. When it does work and students get published someplace good like Harper’s, the Los Angeles Times or Wired, or get jobs at the New York Times, CNN or Salon, it’s wonderful.

So what happened to Aschkenas? Hard to say. Her manifold internships may have made school seem redundant. I had three or four talks with her while she was still at Berkeley and even ended up spending most of a New York to San Francisco flight editing a piece of writing she’d done set in Latin America. My impression was that she seemed more inclined to fiction than nonfiction. It’s an honorable calling, but one that is likely to be frustrated at a journalism school.

In any event, I hope Aschkenas finds the kind of mentoring in the “real world” that seems to have eluded her at Berkeley. She writes that “I left journalism school to do journalism.” She got it just right. After all, journalism school is hardly an end in itself. Indeed, for some the end may come before it begins. Some may go only halfway through before exiting. Most, however, do finish our two-year program. (We even have students who stay on an extra year before taking the plunge into a full-time job because there are still people they want to work with.)

Nonetheless, journalism schools are not ends in themselves. As Zen masters have been fond of pointing out, one must never mistake the finger pointing at the moon for the moon itself.

Deprived of the right to mourn in public, Ding Zilin, a professor of philosophy at People’s University in Beijing who lost a son that night, has taken to marking the loss in another way: She has been compiling a public list of the names of all those who died — something that the government has steadfastly refused to release. In an open letter to the 1993 World Conference on Human Rights in Vienna, Professor Ding explained her urge this way: “As a mother of a victim, there is no way for me to forget these boys and girls… I want the people of the world to know that they once lived in this world, that this world belonged to them, and why and how they disappeared from it.”

Outsiders may be tempted to imagine that the events of 1989 are now all but forgotten in China except by a few such die-hards. After all, seven years have elapsed since the tragedy, and ever more Chinese citizens are plunging into commerce and business with an abandon that seems to have eclipsed all else. But an event of such tectonic and sorrowful proportions that occurred in a place of such profound symbolic significance as Tiananmen Square cannot be so easily forgotten. It remains all the more indelible because China’s leaders have not only refused to apologize, but have refused to allow others to give the massacre a proper burial. Without such a ritual interment, its memory will continue to float over Tiananmen Square, and the rest of China, like a disembodied spirit denied a final resting place.

Lu Xun, China’s greatest modern writer, who died in 1936, called this uniquely Chinese form of inner sentiment paralyzed from outer expressions as “frozen fire.” Within China, the Party and the Public Security Bureau have relentlessly suppressed almost all unregulated political events, censoring all “incorrect” references about the Tiananmen Square debacle from the press and silencing all independent political voices. They still, however, have found no way to deal with the unruly outside world which, because it has not shared their commitment to censoring history, keeps intruding into China’s historical airspace with reminders of what actually happened.

On Tuesday, PBS’s Frontline broadcasts “The Gate of Heavenly Peace,” a two and a half hour documentary on the 1989 protest movement and its bloody suppression. When a version of the U.S.-made film was scheduled last fall at the New York Film Festival, the Chinese government demanded the screening be canceled. When the demand was rejected by festival organizers, Beijing leaders canceled a long scheduled appearance by the celebrated Chinese director Zhang Yimou, who was due to host a festival premier of his film “Shanghai Triad.”

When the documentary was later featured at the Washington D.C. Film Festival in April, the Chinese Embassy sent a letter to that Festival’s director alleging that it “sings praises … in total disregard of the facts … of a very small number of people [who] engaged themselves in anti-government violence in Beijing in 1989 but failed … If this film is shown during the festival, it will mislead the audience and hurt the feelings of 1.2 billion Chinese people.”

What Embassy officials seemed to be afraid of was not so much that the film would remind the world of the brutality that they had visited on their own people, but that it would remind the Chinese people themselves that the dead were still indecently buried while the living had never been given a chance to openly mourn them.

The events of 1989 were an unprecedented moment of struggle to make China politically less repressive. Since then, Party leaders have revved up the marketplace to such a distracting extent that it sometimes appears as if all China has been swept away on a wave of historical amnesia about the events. However, in this age of the information highway, controlling how people remember history, and judge those who make it, is no more possible — even for a dictatorship — than controlling someone’s inner dreams.

It may be that for now, Chinese of good conscience can do little more than wait passively as another June 4th anniversary ticks past. But as the saturnine Lu Xun reminded his fellow countrymen during an earlier and equally repressive period of Chinese history more than half a century ago, “As long as there is flint, the seeds of fire will not die.”

Quotes of the day

Who needs Marilyn Monroe?

“If you look right now at all the magazines, the trend is for thin girls. That’s what’s selling. There was a time when the girls were voluptuous. But today a girl who is busty and voluptuous won’t sell. The advertisers are the ones who decide. They hire our talent.”

– Corinne Nicolas of Elite Model Management, which represents model Trish Goff, whose “skeletal” looks featured in British Vogue prompted the Omega Watch Corporation to threaten to pull its ads from the magazine.

Who needs the Energizer bunny?

“I saw President Clinton. Very interesting. He said, ‘You know, this job is a hell of a lot of fun!’ Yeah, and I believe him. I know this guy. He’s the most tenacious guy I’ve ever met in this business. You can knock him down a hundred times and he gets up with a smile on his face and just keeps coming at you.”

– Former Democratic presidential candidate, Michael Dukakis, on a recent visit to the White House. The one-time governor of Massachusetts now teaches politics and government at Northeastern University.