Robert Fisk: "Who's in Room 106?"

Robert Fisk reporting from Iraq: "Who's in Room 106?" Winning hearts and minds. . .

24 March 2004 "The Independent" -- I was standing on my balcony in the darkness, puffing on a fine Havana - I had just filed my day's report to The Independent's foreign desk - when I saw the soldiers of the 1st Armoured Division padding down the road outside.

The guys at the rear were walking backwards, two officers in the centre, all moving purposefully towards the hotel entrance. By the time I got downstairs, Mohamed, the receptionist, was incurring the wrath of Iraq's occupying army.

"Show me the hotel register, please, Sir," the officer was saying. "It's in the other building," Mohamed replied innocently. "Don't play games with me, Sir," snapped the soldier. "I want the hotel register."

I've often wondered why American soldiers do this sort of thing - insult a guy and then add "Sir" so they can claim they have been polite. "Mohamed is not playing games," I said. The register is always kept in the other part of the hotel.

The officer - his name was Scheetz - turned back to Mohamed. "Who's in Room 106?" Mohamed looked at me. I looked at Scheetz. Room 106 is the hotel suite occupied by The Independent . I gave Mr Scheetz my card. What on earth did he want, I asked?

Another soldier turned to me. "I guess we don't want any more hotels blowing up," he said. Of course. And so say all of us. But what has Room 106 got to do with it? "Security," another American said. Which, of course, is the excuse for any raid, any military operation, any body search, any decision taken by anyone - even President Bush - if they don't choose to explain their behaviour.

Note Mr. Fisk's wise policy:

And that should have been that. Scheetz went off to search Room 106 in the hotel's second building - it is an empty office - and I started chatting to the hotel staff. In front of these Iraqis, Sunnis, Shias and Christians, I have a firm policy. Don't appear - ever - to be fraternising with the occupying power. It's more than my life is worth. That's when the waiter arrived with a tray covered in a white cloth and - standing upon it - a can of Amstel beer. "It's compliments of Mr Sheetz," he said.

O Lordy, Lordy. The Iraqis looked on in silence. The waiter looked at me sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. What was this for, the Iraqis were asking themselves? So was I. Mohamed, the receptionist who had been told not to "play games", was watching me like the proverbial hawk. I told the waiter to take the beer back and he did.

So I was left with a couple of questions. What nincompoop sent these young Americans onto the dangerous streets of night-time Baghdad to examine a hotel register which could be looked at quietly by any discreet visitor during the day, and to demand the identity of a guest who's been staying here on and off for the past year? Secondly - and much more seriously - if I could be angry when Mohamed was insulted by the American, what were the Iraqis thinking? Another minuscule thread, I suppose, in the tapestry called the War on Terror.

Accepting a beer from the troops would not be a wise move either.

Father, let me dedicate All this year to you
In whatever earthly state You will have me be
Not from sorrow, pain, or care Freedom dare I claim;
This alone shall be my prayer: Glorify Your name.
--from New Year's Hymn by Lawrence Tuttiett, 1864 (alt.)