As the Bechtel school refurbishment programme comes under question, representatives of the Coalition Provisional Authority in Baghdad continue to insist on their neo-conservative vision of success in Iraq. Karim El-Gawhary reports from Baghdad Baghdad has always been a city of long and high walls. Saddam Hussein once hid himself behind them. Now it is the American occupation army which patrols them. Curiously, however, what was good enough for despots and assorted governors through history is no longer adequate today. The walls of Baghdad, it seems, are not high enough for the new rulers. To increase security Americans have erected a second kilometre-long concrete wall around Saddam's erstwhile palace, a so-called "Bomb Blaster", covered with barbed wire and signs announcing "No demonstrating". On the upside, the entire complex has been given a more palatable name: it is now "The Green Zone". In US military jargon, the building is a "maximum-security installation". There are, of course, lower security installations in which the occupation authority holds meetings or press conferences. The most important of these structures open to the media, and also located in the "Green Zone" complex, is the Baghdad Conference Centre. It may be called a conference centre, but the building bears all the hallmarks of a modern fortress, surrounded by concrete walls, barbed wire, sandbags and GIs who thoroughly search and question all visitors. One of these soldiers has a rubber, glow-in-the-dark skeleton dangling from his uniform. "This is Jack," he says, pointing to the mascot, explaining that, "he fasted a bit too much during Ramadan". Remnants of the former regime are still in evidence within the complex, with colourful mosaics extolling the virtues of the former government. Now, however, all direct references to former President Saddam Hussein have been covered over, with one of these coverings bearing a congratulatory message from "Woodward Primary School". Congratulations for what remains unclear. Thirteen years have passed since Saddam Hussein attended a summit meeting of Arab leaders in these very halls -- just before ordering his troops to invade Kuwait -- where, in a fit of rage, he upturned a table laden with crockery and threatened to take the war even into the bedrooms of the princes of the Gulf. And only seven months ago, the so-called Iraqi parliament met here for the last time in a bizarre session in which all manner of weapons of mass destruction (WMD) were banned in Iraq. A foreign diplomat in Baghdad previously warned me that the coalition diplomats currently residing in the "palace" had little in the way of practical experience, describing them as a group of "neo-conservative kindergarten" members, who are young, ambitious, plucked by the Pentagon from neo-conservative think tanks and stuffed into uniform for this one stint in Iraq. Despite this pronouncement I was quite unprepared for the representative taking his seat in front of me. He is interested in sharing information about the successes of the American forces in Iraq, he says, but would prefer to be referred to as "Mike" to protect his anonymity. Mike is an employee of the Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA): The word "Coalition" he says, indicates that American troops are not alone in the region, while the word "Provisional" avoids long-term colonial connotations. There was no way around the word "Authority". Seven months previously, the same suite of furniture now sat on by Mike was used for an audience with a group of Iraqi parliamentarians. The Iraqis sat on the same leather armchairs, singing the praises of their leader, uncomfortably. Perched on the edge of their chairs for the duration of the talk, the Iraqis were in a hurry to end the interview; a masquerade in which they were obliged to take part. Mike, on the other hand, is the very picture of relaxation and reclines on the sofa with his arms draped across its back. The message is clear: Mike feels good here, but even more important, he believes firmly in what he says. He describes himself as being a part of a "noble mission". But if this is such a noble mission, why do the Americans come under attack so often? Well, he answers "they are trying to undermine our successes". Those carrying out the attacks, he feels, are the last of the sceptics. Mike's boss, US Chief Administrator in Baghdad Paul Bremer, oddly known to CPA members as "Mr Ambassador", travels regularly to Washington where a change of strategy in Iraq is being actively considered. But Mike remains unruffled, saying "there will be no change of strategy, but we are currently in the process of re-evaluating the situation in tactical terms". But many of his compatriots here, especially the soldiers stationed at the entrance of this palace, are themselves beginning to challenge their mission in Iraq. At the beginning of the week I received a call from a friend who works for an American relief organisation. He told me about a US officer who suffered a nervous breakdown as a result of having to live in a permanent state of conflict. Constantly faced with the threat of attack, he began to question the reasoning behind his tour of duty in Iraq. His father travelled from the US to take his son home, and having obtained his telephone number in Baghdad, I rang to ask if he would tell me his son's story. He said he was willing to do this, but was also afraid of jeopardising his son's army career. For Mike, however, there are no conflicts or contradictions, not even in his curriculum vitae. He prefers not to divulge his age, but he is more than likely in his early 30s. He studied law at an elite American university, was involved in the Bush election campaign, worked for a while in the Pentagon and has been in Iraq for the past three months peddling neo-colonial propaganda to the media using well-worn phrases such as, "our job is to ensure that in the future, we won't have a job" and "the process of Iraqification has progressed tremendously." Especially the police force, continues Mike, which is now in a position to act more independently. Where the army once asserted full control over individual police stations, he explained, the "monitoring phase" of the operation has now begun. My thoughts immediately wander to a police station in Baghdad where I interviewed an Iraqi police officer. During our talk, an American officer entered the room and ordered the Iraqi officer to leave the room, as if he were a disobedient child. I wonder how they treated the police before the "monitoring phase" began. But not only that, enthuses Mike, the joint patrols between the Iraqis and the Americans are a great opportunity for the American soldiers to become "culturally aware" of their surroundings. I actually wanted to interject at this point and ask if Jack, the Ramadan skeleton at the gate, and his carrier had also been on patrol with the Iraqi soldiers. But I balked. Mike has already moved on to his other favourite topic, namely what the Iraqis really think. He introduces this by telling us that, "the Iraqis have finally achieved a feeling of hope for the future". I had come across the word "hope" some time previously, although in a different context. The very morning of the day I met Mike I interviewed the Iraqi sociologist Saadun Duleimi, who has been in exile for many years, hiding from Saddam Hussein. "The Iraqis, and myself, were hoping the American dream would materialise in our country. But instead we got concrete walls and an unemployment rate of 85 per cent," he said, deeply disillusioned. But sitting in front of me now, Mike is warming to his subject, and nothing, it seems, can throw him off balance. Until, perhaps, he was asked how often he had actually left the confines of this palace to immerse himself in the reality of Baghdad and speak with the local people. This is his first visit to the Middle East, he admits, and the drive from the airport to the palace was quite overwhelming, adding that it was "overwhelming, because the country had been neglected by Saddam Hussein". Even if Mike is reluctant to admit this, foreign diplomats and representatives of relief organisations who have regular dealings with these young US representatives agree unanimously that the Americans rarely leave their "island" to visit Baghdad itself. Putting their lives on the line is the job of the young soldiers, who have certainly not been educated at an elite American university. Mike, however, maintains he works 16 hours per day in the centre of Baghdad, without ever having really seen the city. The ambitious young lawyer, hoping one day for a cushy position in the Pentagon or White House, is now living in a type of voluntary open detention centre in Baghdad. Who knows where this marketing genius will end up next. Perhaps the large street sign at the intersection in front of the conference building can provide some direction. The left turn is the motorway to Syria, with directions in both English and Arabic. But this is far beyond the sandbags, concrete walls, barbed wire fences and Jack, the skeleton. To put it into US military jargon, here begins the "hostile environment" -- the enemy territory. A place where Mike, resting on the laurels of his Iraq success story, will almost certainly never set foot. Bend it like Bechtel "Look, this is my own Berlin Wall here in Iraq," says Abdel-Amir Al-Ta, pointing to a hastily built construction running through his school yard. Abdel- Amir is the headmaster of the Kuraisch Primary School in Baghdad and is currently embroiled in what he calls "an absurd occupation within an occupation". The situation in his school is a clear indication that, two months into the academic year in the new Iraq, the security situation in schools still leaves a lot to be desired. And this is how the mini-occupation came to pass: a month after the end of the war, a group of armed men moved onto the premises, claiming that the school, founded in 1932, had been owned by their great-great-great grandfather. The Salameh family then settled into the gymnasium, sold the sports equipment on the black market and separated their new home from the rest of the school by building the wall. In a gesture of generosity, however, the family allowed school business to proceed as usual in the unoccupied section of the building -- rent free. Abdel-Amir has tried everything since then to encourage the family to move. He sent letters to the department of education and went to the Americans as well as the Iraqi police. American soldiers turned up at the school and managed to get into the gymnasium, after which the Salameh family moved out, although only for a few days. This event was followed by a visit from the Iraqi police, who interrogated not only the occupying family, but also the school headmaster. The reason: to find out why he had given permission to the family to use the gymnasium. None of these measures have had an effect in the long run. The Salameh family is still ensconced in the gym. And if the headmaster dares to approach the Americans again for help, they said, then his family, who also live on the premises, will be on the receiving end of a hand- thrown grenade. Khadija Ali Medshwal is also worried about the security situation at her school. The Naguib Pasha Primary School in Baghdad is adjacent to several foreign embassies as well as the homes of several members of the Interim Governing Council (IGC); all are targets for attacks by the resistance. She is also concerned about the safety of the children at the school. Kidnapping the offspring of wealthy parents has been the norm since the end of the war. If this were not enough, she says, US soldiers regularly turn up unannounced at the school -- like today -- and the children can watch the American soldiers drilling in the school yard. Lieutenant Corban Sawyer barks his commands at the troops while an armed soldier covers his back. When Lieutenant Corban Sawyer enters the principal's office, his rearguard takes up his post at the door, automatic weapon resting on his knee, eyes on the yard. Lieutenant Sawyer says he feels good about helping the neighbourhood get back on its feet, even though he is actually responsible for military activities. His job for today: inventory. He asks the head if she needs anything for the school. Khadija hands over a list with a smile and asks if perhaps barbed wire can be added to the top of the wall. She also allows the officer to take her photograph; "for our files", explains Lieutenant Sawyer, leaving the school accompanied by his corporals, though not before expressing his astonishment at the friendliness exhibited by the Iraqi people. This friendliness, however, is short-lived. As soon as the officer leaves the office, Khadija's smile quickly fades. "I hate it when they turn up unannounced," she explains. "The first time they came here, they went from classroom to classroom with guns dangling over their shoulders, asking the terrified children whom they loved more, Saddam Hussein or George Bush." The school principal expects little from the Americans. The list of provisions for the school, she says -- tables, chairs and a television set -- she gave the Americans at least a dozen times. At first she used to write a new list for each visit, now she simply copies the old one. "There is no point, nothing happens anyway," she explains. Khadija, however, is used to difficulties. Schools also had a hard time while Saddam was in power. She managed to build up a good primary school over the past 10 years with the help of donations from parents. Before the start of the war, she spoke to the assembled children in the school yard, expressing the hope that the school would reopen after the war. Speaking to the confused children at the start of the new school year in post-war Iraq, however, she felt an additional explanation was required. "The president is gone, and a new man will take his place, just like a new principal will take my place some time," she explained. But the children were in for even more surprises. On that particular morning instead of singing the usual chants in praise of their leader, the children were asked to stand up and proclaim "peace be with you" to their fellow students. Then they were asked to tear out the first page of their school books, the page with the picture of Saddam Hussein. "Some pupils refused to do this," she said, "considering it tantamount to blasphemy. They still had the slogan 'uncle Saddam is the friend of all children, and we are friends of his' in their heads," continued Khadija. No new school books have appeared so far -- "at the end of the year", promised the Ministry of the Interior somewhat optimistically. This is why local history and geography classes are not currently taught at the Naguib Pasha School. Relics of the past still turn up in school books, many of which contain sentences like "we love you, Saddam Hussein, you will always be our sword, our flag and our saviour." Now, however, it is the parents who are making life difficult for Khadija. Many are interested in researching the past -- questioning, for instance, her long membership of Saddam's Ba'ath Party. Some even wanted to install a new headmaster. "I was running the school not for Saddam Hussein, but for your children," explained Khadija in her defence. And for the first time since the foundation of the school, the parents were allowed to vote on the issue, and the majority voted in favour of Khadija. Many believe she is the best person for the job, and the best also to see the school through these hard times. Many even give her credit for guarding the school against looters in the chaotic days following the end of the war. For Abdel-Razzaq Ali, however, looting has never been a problem at his school. Nor does he worry about any of his students being kidnapped. His school is located in a predominantly Shi'ite quarter in a poor area of Baghdad. More than 1,500 students attend the Anbariyn school in two shifts: boys in the morning, girls in the afternoon. But Abdel-Razzaq also has his share of problems in the new Iraq. "The parents are constantly complaining to me, but who can I complain to," he wonders. He is particularly sceptical about the refurbishment plans for the school, which are being carried out by the American Bechtel Corporation. The Anbariyn school is one of 1,500 schools being refurbished by Bechtel using American funds. Within the framework of its reconstruction programme, Bechtel has subcontracted work to 65 Iraqi companies. The project is referred to on its Web site as "a genuine humanitarian act". "Of all the things we are doing in Iraq, this programme has the greatest influence on individual lives," Thor Christiansen, manager of the Iraqi School Programme, was quoted as saying. Abdel-Razzaq, however, shakes his head in response. "If they had given the money to us directly," he explained, "we would have done a far better job." At the start of the programme Abdel-Razzaq received a visit from a representative of the Iraqi company, Adnan Mussawi, which Bechtel subcontracted to carry out the work. The headmaster was asked to sign a declaration that the work had been completed, which he refused to do until the work had actually been done. Twenty days later, the walls were painted, the rusty doors painted over, new electric cables laid, and some of the sanitary facilities replaced. However, the real problem with the toilets -- namely the sewage pipes -- were left untouched. Most of the cheap plastic cisterns are already broken. The work on the school, according to Abdel-Razzaq, was completed without a single person from the Bechtel corporation appraising the work. "Why do we need Bechtel -- they have done absolutely nothing," he said. Dr Nabil Chudair Abbas, from the planning centre at the Ministry for Education, which is responsible for a quarter of Baghdad's schools, confirmed Abdel-Razzaq's sentiments. He meets with representatives of the Bechtel Corporation on a weekly basis, and presents his complaints with regard to its school reconstruction programme. The programme is anything but transparent, he tells them, and none of the work is checked. Nobody in the ministry of education knows exactly how much the US has given Bechtel to implement the programme, nor the details of the work to be carried out in individual schools. "The impression we often get at the meetings is that Bechtel is more powerful than the army," he said. Bechtel representatives, however, want no more complaints from Dr Abbas. The programme is a gift from the US taxpayers, and has been approved by Congress, they say. "No matter what we do, the Iraqis will never be on the losing end," a Bechtel representative told him. His grievances -- the fact that of the 750 schools which are included in his mandate, 20 were destroyed during the war and 170 were looted because the occupation forces failed to provide adequate security -- do not in the least interest Bechtel. For Abdel-Razzaq, the old school bell symbolises all that is wrong with the Bechtel programme. The big, old, fully functioning bell was removed and replaced by a small, highly polished silver version. "Do you want to hear it," asks Abdel-Razzaq, and presses the button. The clapper hits the bell, which croaks in response. This is a new bell for a new Iraq, says the headmaster. "Do you really think I can summon 1,500 students to class with this bell?"
