View from the top: Sky with Ray Odierno (right) on a walkabout in al-Khalis, eastern Iraq, 2009. Photo: US Army/www.army.mil
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Emma Sky: the woman who tamed the generals in Iraq

The Unravelling isn’t really the story of the US occupation of Iraq; it is about how one intelligent woman realised what was going on, and yet slipped into a Stockholm syndrome relationship with the people she worked with.

The Unravelling: High Hopes and Missed Opportunities in Iraq
Emma Sky
Atlantic Books, 400pp, £18.99

Of all the events I have reported on, the invasion, occupation and abandonment of Iraq has been the most savage. By comparison, horrors such as the Tiananmen massacre, or even the siege of Sarajevo, dreadful though they were, seem limited and temporary. The Iraqi adventure, 12 years on, is still killing people by the thousands. It was conceived in ignorance and prejudice, and carried out in stupidity and cruelty. Since the invasion I have spent almost three years of my life in Iraq, parcelled out in two- or three-week chunks. I still go back again and again, reporting on the after-effects. And to this day I am filled, every single time, with a sense of rage against the process that brought Iraq down.

I have seen people burned to death in front of my eyes. I have seen the bodies of people tortured to death with electric drills piled up in front on me. I have seen a carload of elderly, terrified Iraqis fired on by a US soldier simply because they couldn’t speak English. So when I am faced with a book that is subtitled High Hopes and Missed Opportunities in Iraq, it inclines me to wonder whether the killing of hundreds of thousands of innocent people, or the growth of Isis, or the destruction of archaeological sites such as Nimrud, or the grotesque birth ­deformities I saw in Fallujah after the US campaigns there, have not turned out to be a tad worse than merely missed opportunities.

Don’t get me wrong. Emma Sky is a wonderful woman with an extraordinary story to tell. A young, liberal-minded British civil servant, she disapproved of the war and volunteered to go to Iraq on behalf of the British government in order to apologise for it to the people there. But somehow she ended up working as a senior adviser to the US military. I used to see her at the occult news conferences the US army gave, a slight, attractive figure in her late thirties, sitting beside Ray Odierno, an enormous, bull-like general with a hairless head, and whispering from time to time into his ear. His ear was about the size of my hand. I noticed even at the time that he always paid ­attention to what she said.

To me, I confess, Odierno seemed to embody all the brutishness of the US presence. I was clearly wrong. You have to read Emma Sky to appreciate the intelligence and, yes, sensitivity he brought to his job – which was to extract America from the disgusting mess it had created in Iraq. I didn’t get to know Odierno, but I did know and admire his boss, General David Petraeus. He understood what had to be done, and did it.

Still, Petraeus and Odierno commanded a force, most of whose men still believed, years after the events, that Iraq had been behind the 9/11 attacks, and many of whom were minded to get revenge. They knew they could usually get away with just about anything if they claimed afterwards that they had thought their lives were in danger. Sky sardonically notes something that used to infuriate me – the sign that US military vehicles displayed, reading: “Stay 50 metres back or you will be shot”, a threat that was carried out daily. You could only read the sign from 20 metres away.

Often, the day-to-day occupation of Iraq seemed irremediably absurd. Here is an example of something that happened in, I think, 2005: on the outskirts of Baghdad an Iraqi civilian ambushed and killed an American soldier and was then shot dead himself. In an effort to win hearts and minds, a senior US officer sent his men round with toys for the dead insurgent’s children and money for his widow. Hearts were certainly warmed, if not won. Then, as the soldiers were leaving, a group of local kids started throwing stones at them; and the soldiers panicked and started shooting. You couldn’t make it up.

The Unravelling isn’t really the story of how the US occupation of Iraq went wrong; it is about how one intelligent, gutsy woman realised perfectly well what was going on, and yet slipped into a weird, Stockholm syndrome relationship with the people she worked with. Sky was feisty enough; she once told Odierno to his face: “We still don’t know who killed more Iraqis, sir, you or Saddam.” After watching a video of a missile wiping out an insurgent target she told a roomful of cheering soldiers: “I feel I am in an American jihadi camp, ­surrounded by violent extremists.”

Yet it is abundantly clear that the big beasts of the US military loved having Sky around: she was clever, good-looking and a definite oddity – a pacifist woman in an unventilated atmosphere of uniformed testosterone. She became their mascot. I’m sure she played an important part in keeping the top Iraqi politicians in play, and for that we owe her a great debt of gratitude; because, in spite of her gloom at the end of the book, Iraq isn’t doing all that badly now that the malign Nouri al-Maliki is no longer prime minister. No thanks to George W Bush, who oversaw the political and administrative destruction of the country, or the ludicrous, irreflective Paul Bremer, who disbanded the Ba’ath Party and the Iraqi officer structure; or Barack Obama, who cared only about getting out of Iraq, regardless of the consequences.

Sky (and how I wish now that I’d gone up to her and made friends after one of those unenlightening press conferences!) had a wholly different experience of Iraq from mine. Hers was a fascinating world of senior military and diplomatic figures, many of them of the highest quality, from Petraeus to Ryan Crocker, the US ambassador in Baghdad, and the superb Dominic Asquith, his British counterpart. She knew all the leading Iraqi politicians, many of whom regarded her as a personal friend. She saw much of Iraq and had some hair-raising experiences. And she always kept her sense of opposition to what was being done to the country. Many people likened her to Gertrude Bell, the British political adviser who helped to create Iraq, and in some ways they were right.

Still, she became as much a prisoner of the Americans as anyone in an orange jumpsuit at Abu Ghraib. And because she is fair-minded she gives the benefit of the doubt to the clever, often charming people she worked with. But she saw things from the top down; journalists like me saw them from the bottom up. Most of the Americans I met were the ones who gave the occupation its true character: the grunts from states such as West Virginia who loathed Iraq and the Iraqis, the “defence contractors”, with their little beards and shaven heads, who were there to make money and if possible do some killing. “Got me 2 gooks in Nam,” read the graffito – boastful? confessional? – that I encountered in one of those sweltering, stinking portable lavatories at a US base; “got me 3 in Iraq”.

Nowadays the Stockholm syndrome holds Sky fast: she lives and teaches in the United States. But, in my view, the Gertrude Bell de nos jours is needed more than ever back in Iraq.

John Simpson is the world affairs editor of BBC News

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 01 July 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Crisis Europe

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The end of solitude: in a hyperconnected world, are we losing the art of being alone?

In the end, Solitude feels a bit like an amiable cop-out. 

Michael Harris is a Canadian writer who lives in a big city and whose life is defined and circumscribed, as so many Western lives are now, by digital technologies. He finds it hard to leave his phone at home in case he misses anything. He worries about his social media reputation. He uses apps and plays games, and relies on the internet hive mind to tell him which films to watch or where to eat. Here is what happens when he goes on holiday to Paris:

Disembarking from the train from London, I invited a friendly app to guide me to a hotel near the Pompidou . . . The next morning, Yelp guided me towards a charming café in the Marais. There, wizard-like, I held my phone over the menu and waited for Google Translate to melt the words into English. When the waiter arrived, I spoke into my phone and had it repeat my words to the grinning garçon in a soft, robotic French. Later, at the Louvre, I allowed a Nintendo-sponsored guidance system to track my steps up the centuries-old Daru staircase as I squinted confusedly at its glowing blue you-are-here dot . . .

Terrifying, isn’t it? Well, I thought so as I read it, and Harris thought so afterwards. It was situations like this, during which he realised that his life was controlled, confined and monitored by distancing technologies, that led him to wonder whether solitude – the act and the art of being alone – was in danger of disappearing.

Harris has an intuition that being alone with ourselves, paying attention to inner silence and being able to experience outer silence, is an essential part of being human. He can remember how it felt to do this, before the internet brought its social anxiety and addiction into his life. “I began to remember,” he writes, “a calm separateness, a sureness I once could live inside for an easy hour at a time.”

What happens when that calm separateness is destroyed by the internet of everything, by big-city living, by the relentless compulsion to be with others, in touch, all the time? Plenty of people know the answer already, or would do if they were paying attention to the question. Nearly half of all Americans, Harris tells us, now sleep with their smartphones on their bedside table, and 80 per cent are on their phone within 15 minutes of waking up. Three-quarters of adults use social networking sites regularly. But this is peanuts compared to the galloping development of the so-called Internet of Things. Within the next few years, anything from 30 to 50 billion objects, from cars to shirts to bottles of shampoo, will be connected to the net. The internet will be all around you, whether you want it or not, and you will be caught in its mesh like a fly. It’s not called the web for nothing.

I may not be the ideal reader for this book. By page 20, after a few more facts of this sort, I had already found myself scrawling “Kill everyone!” in the margins. This is not really the author’s fault. I often start behaving like this whenever I’m forced to read a list of ways in which digital technology is wrecking human existence. There are lots of lists like this around at the moment, because the galloping, thoughtless, ongoing rush to connect everything to the web has overcome our society like a disease. Did you know that cows are now connected to the internet? On page 20, Harris tells us that some Swiss dairy cows, sim cards implanted in their necks, send text messages to their farmers when they are on heat and ready to be inseminated. If this doesn’t bring out your inner Unabomber, you’re probably beyond help. Or maybe I am.

What is the problem here? Why does this bother me, and why does it bother Harris? The answer is that all of these things intrude upon, and threaten to destroy, something ancient and hard to define, which is also the source of much of our creativity and the essence of our humanity. “Solitude,” Harris writes, “is a resource.” He likens it to an ecological niche, within which grow new ideas, an understanding of the self and therefore an understanding of others.

The book is full of examples of the genius that springs from silent and solitary moments. Beethoven, Dostoevsky, Kafka, Einstein, Newton – all developed their ideas and approach by withdrawing from the crowd. Peter Higgs, the Nobel ­Prizewinner who discovered the Higgs boson particle, did his best work in peace and solitude in the 1960s. He suggests that what he did then would be impossible today, because it is now virtually impossible to find such solitude in the field of science.

Collaboration, not individuality, is fetishised today, in business as in science and the arts, but Harris warns that collaboration often results in conformism. In the company of others, most of us succumb to pressure to go with the crowd. Alone, we have more chance to be thoughtful, to see differently, to enter a place where we feel free from the mob to moderate our unique experience of the world. Without solitude, he writes, genius – which ultimately springs from different ways of thinking and seeing – becomes impossible. If Thoreau’s cabin in the woods had had wifi, we would never have got Walden.

Yet it is not only geniuses who have a problem: ordinary minds like yours and mine are threatened by the hypersocial nature of always-on urbanity. A ­civilisation can be judged by the quality of its daydreams, Harris suggests. Who daydreams now? Instead of staring out of the window on a train, heads are buried in smartphones, or wired to the audio of a streaming film. Instead of idling at the bus stop, people are loading up entertainment: mobile games from King, the maker of Candy Crush, were played by 1.6 billion times every day in the first quarter of 2015 alone.

If you’ve ever wondered at the behaviour of those lines of people at the train station or in the street or in the café, heads buried in their phones like zombies, unable or unwilling to look up, Harris confirms your worst fears. The developers of apps and games and social media sites are dedicated to trapping us in what are called ludic loops. These are short cycles of repeated actions which feed our brain’s desire for reward. Every point you score, every candy you crush, every retweet you get gives your brain a dopamine hit that keeps you coming back for more. You’re not having a bit of harmless fun: you are an addict. A tech corporation has taken your solitude and monetised it. It’s not the game that is being played – it’s you.

So, what is to be done about all this? That’s the multibillion-dollar question, but it is one the book cannot answer. Harris spends many pages putting together a case for the importance of solitude and examining the forces that splinter it today. Yet he also seems torn in determining how much of it he wants and can cope with. He can see the damage being done by the always-on world but he lives in the heart of it, all his friends are part of it, and he doesn’t want to stray too far away. He understands the value of being alone but doesn’t like it much, or want to experience it too often. He’ll stop checking his Twitter analytics but he won’t close down his account.

At the end of the book, Harris retreats, Thoreau-like, to a cabin in the woods for a week. As I read this brief last chapter, I found myself wishing it was the first, that he had spent more time in the cabin, that he had been starker and more exploratory, that he had gone further. Who will write a Walden for the Internet Age? This book is thick with fact and argument and some fine writing, but there is a depth that the author seems afraid to plumb. Perhaps he is afraid of what he might find down there.

In the end, Solitude feels a bit like an amiable cop-out. After 200 pages of increasingly disturbing facts about the impact of technology and crowded city living on everything from our reading habits to our ability to form friendships, and after warning us on the very last page that we risk making “an Easter Island of the mind”, the author goes back home to Vancouver, tells his boyfriend that he missed him, and then . . . well, then what? We don’t know. The book just ends. We are left with the impression that the pile-up of evidence leads to a conclusion too vast for the author, and perhaps his readers, to take in, because to do that would be to challenge everything.

In this, Solitude mirrors the structure of many other books of its type: the Non-Fiction Warning Book (NFWB), we might call it. It takes a subject – disappearing childhood; disappearing solitude; disappearing wilderness; disappearing anything, there’s so much to choose from – trots us through several hundred pages of anecdotes, science,
interviews and stories, all of which build up to the inescapable conclusion that everything is screwed . . . and then pulls back. It’s like being teased by an expert hustler. Yes, technology is undermining our sense of self and creating havoc for our relationships with others, but the solution is not to stop using it, just to moderate it. Yes, overcrowded cities are destroying our minds and Planet Earth, but the solution is not to get out of the cities: it’s to moderate them in some way, somehow.

Moderation is always the demand of the NFWB, aimed as it is at mainstream readers who would like things to get better but who don’t really want to change much – or don’t know how to. This is not to condemn Harris, or his argument: most of us don’t want to change much or know how to. What books of this kind are dealing with is the problem of modernity, which is intractable and not open to moderation. Have a week away from your screen if you like, but the theft of human freedom by the machine will continue without you. The poet Robinson Jeffers once wrote about sitting on a mountain and looking down on the lights of a city, and being put in mind of a purse seine net, in which sardines swim unwittingly into a giant bag, which is then drawn tightly around them. “I thought, We have geared the machines and locked all together into interdependence; we have built the great cities; now/There is no escape,” he wrote. “The circle is closed, and the net/Is being hauled in.”

Under the circumstances – and these are our circumstances – the only honest conclusion to draw is that the problem, which is caused primarily by the technological direction of our society, is going to get worse. There is no credible scenario in which we can continue in the same direction and not see the problem of solitude, or lack of it, continue to deepen.

Knowing this, how can Harris just go home after a week away, drop off his bag and settle back into his hyperconnected city life? Does he not have a duty to rebel, and to tell us to rebel? Perhaps. The problem for this author is our shared problem, however, at a time in history when the dystopian predictions of Brave New World are already looking antiquated. Even if Harris wanted to rebel, he wouldn’t know how, because none of us would. Short of a collapse so severe that the electricity goes off permanently, there is no escape from what the tech corporations and their tame hive mind have planned for us. The circle is closed, and the net is being hauled in. May as well play another round of Candy Crush while we wait to be dragged up on to the deck. 

Paul Kingsnorth's latest book, “Confessions of a Recovering Environmentalist” (Faber & Faber)

This article first appeared in the 20 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, May's gamble

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