Phil Klay - Redeployment

“That pipeline is still in construction,” Zima told me while shoving an overly large stack of paper into an overly small filing cabinet. He explained that before either of us had even gotten to Iraq, a provincial council had convinced the previous brigade’s Civil Affairs Company to build the pipeline. He’d inherited the project and thought it should continue.

“Most local water’s a mix of E. coli, heavy metals, and sulfuric acid,” Zima said. “I wouldn’t want to brush my teeth with that.”

I explained to him the Sunni-Shi’a difficulties. Then I tried to tell him about how the pipes were for the wrong water pressure. “Even if you finish it and the plant gets on line and the ministry somehow allows it to start operating,” I said, “the pipeline will pump water at such high pressure that all the toilets and sinks and spigots west of Route Dover will simultaneously explode.”

“Really?” he said, looking up from the problematic filing cabinet.

“That’s what you’re building,” I said. “Or, what the Iraqi firm you’re hiring is.”

“They’re Jordanians,” he said. “There’s only one Iraqi.” He leaned back, lifted a leg, and kicked at the filing cabinet’s drawer. The thing closed, but with bits of paper sticking out the sides. Satisfied, he looked up and said, “I’ll handle it.” When I pressed him for his solution, though, he only smiled and told me to wait.

Having the uniformsin the office meant I had to look at them all the time. It’s no surprise I snapped.

“Do you really want me to start a goddamn baseball team in Iraq?” I practically screamed into the phone. Chris Roper was not the sort of man you screamed at. With him, it tended to be the other way around. For a career diplomat, he was surprisingly undiplomatic. Too much time spent around the Army, probably.

“The fuck are you talking about?” he said. He had the slightest hint of a Brooklyn accent.

I told him what Major Zima had told me about the uniforms.

“Oh,” said Roper, “that. That doesn’t matter. I want to talk about the women’s business association.”

“The women’s business association is a scam,” I said. “Starting an Iraqi baseball league, though, is a joke.”

“Isn’t the Civil Affairs Company handling that?” Roper said. “I didn’t pony up for responsibility, that’s for sure.”

“You didn’t tell them about how ‘sports diplomacy’ was all the rage at the embassy?”

There was a long pause.

“Well,” he said, drawing the word out, “it kind of is.”

“Jesus, Chris.”

“And you can’t cut the women’s business association.”

“Why not? It’s been going a year already and has yet to start a business. The last meeting, we rented a ‘conference and presentation room’ for fifteen thousand dollars which turned out to be an unused room in an abandoned school we built back in 2005.” I paused and took a breath. “Actually, ‘abandoned’ is the wrong word. No one ever used it.”

“Women’s empowerment is a huge mission goal for the embassy.”

“That’s why the women’s health clinic—”

“Women’s empowerment,” he said, “means jobs. Trust me when I tell you that was a key takeaway of the past ten meetings I’ve been to. The health clinic is not providing jobs.”

“It’s providing local women what they actually want and—”

“We’re sinking, what, sixty thousand into it?” he said.

“They’re not going to start—”

“There is a direct link,” Roper intoned, “between the oppression of women and extremism.”

There was brief silence.

“And it’s not like I don’t think it’s hard,” he continued. “All of this is hard. Doing anything in Iraq is hard.”

“The clinic—”

“Is not jobs,” he said. “Give me Rosie the Riveter. Not Suzie the Yeast Infected.”

“Suzie the Cured of Yeast Infection,” I said.

“Right now the business association is the only thing your ePRT has going for women’s empowerment,” he said. “That’s not good. Not good at all. And you want to shut that down? No. Fucking no. Keep it going. Use it better. Start some fucking jobs. Do you have anything, anything at all, even in planning, for women?”

I could hear him breathing heavy over the phone.

“Sure…,” I said, racking my brains, “we’ve got things.”

“Like?”

There was an awkward silence. I looked around the office, as if I might find an answer hanging on the wall somewhere. And then my eyes settled on Bob’s desk.

“How much do you know about beekeeping?” I said.

“You’re going to have women beekeepers?” he said.

“Not just women,” I said. “Widows.”

There was another pause. He sighed.

“Yeah,” he said. His voice sounded resigned. “A lot of ePRTs are doing that one.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Do you… do you know this is bullshit?”

The e-mail popped upas soon as I got off the phone. The subject was: IRAQ’S SOON TO BE NATIONAL PASTIME. The sender was: GOODWIN, GENE GABRIEL. I thought, Who gave this asshole my e-mail address? That was answered almost immediately.

Dear Nathan (I hope I can call you Nathan? Major Zima told me you were a very approachable guy),

I’m glad to get a hold of someone who’s finally willing to give this a shot. You won’t believe the amount of BS you’ve got to go through to get anything done with the US Army.

Here’s the idea: The Iraqi people want democracy, but it’s not taking. Why? They don’t have the INSTITUTIONS to support it. You can’t build anything with a rotten foundation, and Iraqi culture is, I’m sure, as rotten as it gets.

I know this sounds crazy, but there are few better institutions than the institution of BASEBALL. Look at the Japanese. They went from Emperor-loving fascists to baseball-playing democracy freaks faster than you can say, Sayonara, Hirohito!

What I’m saying is, you’ve got to change the CULTURE first. And what’s more AMERICAN than baseball, where one man takes a stand against the world, bat in hand, ready to make history, every moment a one-on-one competition. Batter versus pitcher. Runner versus first baseman. Runner versus second baseman. Third baseman. If he’s lucky, against the catcher himself. And yet! And YET!!! It’s a team sport! You’re nothing without the team!!!!

I guess they play soccer over there now. Figures. There’s a sport that teaches kids all the wrong lessons. “Pretend you’re hurt and the ref might help you out!” “You’ll never make it on your own, kick the ball to your friend!” And worst of all, nobody ever scores. It’s like, “Go ahead, kids, but don’t expect much! Even if you’re near the goal, you’re probably not gonna make it!” And they can’t use their hands. What the heck is that all about?

I know this probably sounds silly to you, but remember: Great ideas always sound silly. People told me my Grand Slam Discounts were silly too, but I went and did it and nobody calls me silly anymore. It’s like we say in the mattress business: SUCCESS = DRIVE + DETERMINATION + MATTRESSES. And here I’m supplying the materials. All I’m asking from you is a little effort to give these Iraqi kids a chance for the future.

Reading the e-mail was like getting an ice pick to the brain. I stared blankly at my computer, all higher mental functions short-circuited, and resisted the urge to punch the screen. This, I thought, was bullshit. I composed a terse note explaining that while we appreciated his generosity, baseball wasn’t likely to catch on, and while the kids would certainly make use of the uniforms, I couldn’t promise him they’d be playing baseball in them. Then I clicked “send.”