Smoke billows from the town Makhmur, about 280 kilometres (175 miles) north of the capital Baghdad, during clashes with Islamic State (IS) militants. Photo: SAFIN HAMED/AFP/Getty Images
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Don’t believe the hype: the Iraqi army can win

Is the Iraqi army irremediably useless? Will it cause the government in Baghdad to lose the war? It's not as bad as it seems.

Is Islamic State (IS) really “poised” to descend on Baghdad? That’s what the news headlines would have you believe. But when I arrived in the Iraqi capital, soon after the fall of Ramadi on 17 May, and began to speak to diplomats, politicians and military observers, I realised that even the Iraqi army’s catastrophic mistake in Ramadi didn’t mean that IS, also known as Isis, was winning the war.

From the Iraqi government’s point of view, the worst aspect of the capture of Ramadi was the humiliation. At least 1,500 soldiers were chased out of the city by about 150 Isis fighters. This is what caused the US secretary of defence, Ashton Carter, to go on American television and accuse the Iraqi army of not having the will to fight. (Vice-President Joe Biden later had to ring the Iraqi prime minister and explain that Carter had actually intended to congratulate the Iraqi army on its splendid fighting.)

You can be sure that the main priority of those 150 Isis militants, after settling in and getting down to the business of murdering the people they didn’t like in Ramadi, was not to head down the road to Baghdad. They weren’t “poised” at all. They knew that they had a lot of defending ahead of them right where they were. Even after reinforcements arrived, their overriding instructions will have been to cling on to their positions at all costs.

Regardless, there is no question that the Iraqi army’s behaviour in Ramadi was pathetic. One senior British army officer based in Baghdad believes that it might have been because the Iraqi soldiers had been stuck in the town for months, under siege from Isis. If they had been rotated, as the British rotated their men through the front-line trenches every fortnight or so during the First World War, the brigadier in command of Ramadi might not have been so battle-weary and inclined to fall for an enemy ruse. He seems to have believed that Isis had some kind of super-weapon in the centre of town that would blow up all of his soldiers. He gave orders that everyone should run for it as best they could.

Is the Iraqi army irremediably useless? Will it cause the government in Baghdad to lose the war? In reality, it is no worse than, say, the Syrian army. The problem is one of motivation: it is fighting against an enemy whose levels of motivation and determination are chillingly high. Left to its own devices, without support from within Iraqi society (and without the help of western air power), the Iraqi army would probably collapse quite soon. Much like the brigadier in Ramadi, it would surrender or flee. Isis, then, would indeed be “poised” to attack Baghdad. The streets and the River Tigris would run with blood – just as they did when the Mongols attacked in 1258, after a siege that lasted only 13 days.

Fortunately, the government and the people of Iraq are not alone. The British and the Americans may have been pretty feeble over the past year in their commitment to Iraq but they have not abandoned it. You might think the US and the UK, having broken Iraq comprehensively in 2003, would feel that they had a long-term debt of honour to the country and would ensure its stability. Not so. Barack Obama couldn’t get his troops out quick enough. The same goes for the British.

Besides, the visible presence of foreign troops would do the Iraqi government little good. What is needed is something that was missing in Ramadi: a resilient US, British or Australian lieutenant colonel standing at the Iraqi brigadier’s elbow, pointing out that the Isis ambush of Iraqi special forces was probably just a feint and the rumours of super-explosives were liable to be false. The lieutenant colonel would presumably have a lieutenant and a small squad of soldiers with him to encourage the rest of the Iraqi soldiers to stand firm. Yet the brigadier was on his own and his nerve cracked.

If this sounds irredeemably colonialist, keep in mind that it was the suggestion of a former Iraqi general who is now a distinguished military commentator in Baghdad. He believes that a discreet stiffening of morale by a few selected western soldiers and continuing air strikes are all that’s needed. In politics, at least, a little is usually more successful than a lot. It is a lesson that the Americans seem to ignore, in spite of Vietnam and other little wars around the globe. But the alternative to “too much” should not be “none at all” – something that President Obama does not seem to have learned while in office.

Iraq’s prime minister, Haider al-Abadi, does have two other important weapons to use in the fight against IS: the volunteers of the Popular Mobilisation Forces, most of whom are Shia Muslims, and the Kurdish peshmerga in the north. Both have a degree of motivation to match that of the Isis fighters and both have shown their worth in Iraq. British journalists consider the Popular Mobilisation Forces to be militias but to Iraqi ears the word carries connotations of ill-discipline and extremism. It makes officials here upset.

So let me state for the record that my new friend Sheikh Ali Dehish does not command a militia. He leads a unit called the Ali Dehish Group, taking part in the drive against Isis to the west of Baghdad. I travelled with him to Garma, near Fallujah and Ramadi. All three places are occupied by Isis, with Garma being the closest to Baghdad. Sheikh Dehish is a charming extrovert, a show-off who wears a (presumably self-designed) uniform that makes him look a bit like Darth Vader – with a black infantryman’s helmet, dark glasses, a black tunic and a camouflage flak jacket. He had an “I heart Iraq” scarf, which he kissed several times while our camera was rolling.

Don’t think for a second that I’m knocking him. Showy characters are what television news requires, even at the battle front. With two teenage sons on either side of him, the sheikh fully understood the part he needed to play. As his men danced behind him, firing their weapons into the air, he gazed proudly through his designer shades as though they, too, were his children.

And Sheikh Dehish is more than a showman. He has a shrewd political sense. Standing on the front line, with the last remaining Isis positions somewhere in the khaki landscape, he stressed that he and his men were there as Iraqis, rather than as Shia or Sunni Muslims. The scarf, naff though it may be, is a way of demonstrating his adherence to the government’s policy of avoiding sectarian friction.

Anbar Province, which lay all around us, is a desert whose few inhabitants are almost all Sunni Muslim. The fear has been that by throwing in ancillary troops (largely Shia militias) to help the army, the government could unintentionally cause a new Sunni-Shia conflict to break out. All that can be done to prevent this is being done. The other day, thousands more refugees poured out of Ramadi, crowding across a single bridge over the Euphrates River in the hope of being allowed into Baghdad. The great majority of them were Sunnis. A group of politicians in dark suits, white shirts and ties suddenly appeared. They were Shia MPs who had brought food and cold drinks for the refugees.

None of the people who had a bottle of water thrust into their hands after three days in the Anbar desert under the broiling sun is likely to forget who gave it to them.

Will the Iraqi government recapture Ramadi within days, as Prime Minister al-Abadi told me it would on 24 May? It depends on how long is meant by “days”, I suppose. The people I trust in Baghdad all agree, however, that Ramadi will soon be taken back. The strategically significant oil town of Baiji, meanwhile, has recently been recaptured. I suspect the government will leave the hostile Sunni town of Fallujah for now, contenting itself with cutting off possible Isis reinforcements. The rest of Anbar Province will take months to clear. Later, perhaps in the autumn, after the summer’s heat has died away, the government will turn its attention to Iraq’s second-largest city, Mosul, which was captured by Isis in June last year.

It won’t throw troops such as those under Sheikh Dehish, or the Kurdish peshmerga, into the final battle in any case. The government will try to ensure that predominantly Sunni units liberate Sunni towns. My guess is that by the time Iraq has a grip on all of these places, its inhabitants will be so glad to be rid of Isis and its bloody ways that the soldiers will be greeted as true liberators. I can just about imagine Sheikh Dehish riding through the streets, smiling, waving at the grateful citizenry. Maybe he will have designed himself a laurel wreath.

John Simpson is World Affairs Editor of BBC News, having worked for the corporation since the beginning of his career in 1970. He has reported from more than 120 countries, including 30 war zones, and interviewed many world leaders.

This article first appeared in the 27 May 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Saying the Unsayable

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France is changing: an army stalks the streets and Boris Johnson wanders the Tuileries

Will Self on the militarisation of France, and Boris Johnson at the Foreign Office.

At the corner of the rue D’Hauteville and the rue de Paradis in the tenth arrondissement of Paris is a retro-video-games-themed bar, Le Fantôme, which is frequented by some not-so-jeunes gens – the kind of thirtysomethings nostalgic for an era when you had to go to an actual place if you wanted to enter virtual space. They sit placidly behind the plate-glass windows zapping Pac-Men and Space Invaders, while outside another – and rather more lethal – sort of phantom stalks the sunlit streets.

I often go to Paris for work, and so have been able to register the incremental militarisation of its streets since President Hollande first declared a state of emergency after last November’s terrorist attacks. In general the French seem more comfortable about this prêt-à-porter khaki than we’d probably be; the army-nation concept is, after all, encrypted deep in their collective psyche. The army was constituted as a revolutionary instrument. France was the first modern nation to introduce universal male conscription – and it continued in one form or another right up until the mid-1990s.

Even so, it was surprising to witness the sang-froid with which Parisians regarded the camouflaged phantoms wandering among them: a patrol numbering eight ­infantrymen and women moved up the roadway, scoping out doorways, nosing into passages – but when one peered into Le Fantôme, his assault rifle levelled, none of the boozing gamers paid the least attention. I witnessed this scene the Saturday after Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel ran amok on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice – it was a little preview of the new state of emergency.

On Monday 18 July the French premier, Manuel Valls, was booed at a memorial service for the victims of the Nice attacks – while Marine Le Pen has been making all the populist running, whipping up anxieties about the enemy within. For many French, the events of the past week – including the failed Turkish coup – are steps along the way limned by Michel Houellebecq in his bestselling novel Submission; a via dolorosa that ends with La Marianne wearing the hijab and France itself annexed by a new caliphate.

Into this febrile drama comes a new player: Boris Johnson, the British Foreign Secretary. What can we expect from this freshly minted statesman when it comes to our relations with our closest neighbour? There is no doubt that Johnson is a Francophile – I’ve run into him and his family at the Tuileries, and he made much of his own francophone status during the referendum campaign. In Paris last winter to launch the French edition of his Churchill biography, Johnson wowed a publication dinner by speaking French for the entire evening. He was sufficiently fluent to bumble, waffle and generally avoid saying anything serious at all.

Last Sunday I attended the Lambeth Country Show, an oxymoronic event for which the diverse inhabitants of my home borough gather in Brockwell Park, south London, for jerked and halal chicken, funfair rides, Quidditch-watching, and “country-style” activities, such as looking at farm animals and buying their products. Wandering among ancient Rastafarians with huge shocks of dreadlocks, British Muslims wearing immaculate white kurtas blazoned with “ASK ME ABOUT ISLAM” and crusty old Brixton punks, I found it quite impossible to rid my mind of the Nice carnage – or stop wondering how they would react if armed soldiers were patrolling, instead of tit-helmeted, emphatically unarmed police.

I stepped into the Royal Horticultural Society marquee, and there they were: the entire cast of our end-of-the-pier-show politics, in vegetable-sculpture form and arrayed for judging. There was Jeremy Corbyn (or “Cornbin”) made out of corncobs – and Boris Johnson in the form of a beetroot, being stabbed in the back by a beetroot Michael Gove. And over there was Johnson again, this time rendered in cabbage. The veggie politicians were the big draw, Brixtonians standing six-deep around them, iPhones aloft.

The animal (as opposed to the vegetable) Johnson has begun his diplomatic rounds this week, his first démarches as tasteless and anodyne as cucumber. No British abandonment of friends after Brexit . . . Coordinated response to terror threat . . . Call for Erdogan to be restrained in response to failed coup . . . Blah-blah, whiff-whaff-waffle . . . Even someone as gaffe-prone as he can manage these simple lines, but I very much doubt he will be able to produce rhetorical flourishes as powerful as his hero’s. In The Churchill Factor: How One Man Made History, Johnson writes of Winnie overcoming “his stammer and his depression and his ­appalling father to become the greatest living Englishman”. Well, I’ve no idea if Bojo suffers from depression now but he soon will if he cleaves to this role model. His Churchill-worship (like so many others’) hinges on his belief that, without Churchill as war leader, Britain would have been ground beneath the Nazi jackboot. It may well be that, with his contribution to the Brexit campaign, Johnson now feels he, too, has wrested our national destiny from the slavering jaws of contingency.

Of course the differences between the two politicians are far more significant: Johnson’s genius – such as it is – lies in his intuitive understanding that politics, in our intensely mediatised and entirely commoditised era, is best conceived of as a series of spectacles or stunts: nowadays you can fool most of the people, most of the time. This is not a view you can imagine associating with Churchill, who, when his Gallipoli stratagem went disastrously wrong, exiled himself, rifle in hand, to the trenches. No, the French people Johnson both resembles and has an affinity for are the ones caught up in the virtual reality of Le Fantôme – rather than those patrolling the real and increasingly mean streets without. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt