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Politics : Foreign Affairs Discussion Group -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?


To: D. Long who wrote (42286)9/6/2002 2:59:47 AM
From: Nadine Carroll  Read Replies (3) | Respond to of 281500
 
Very long, detailed, and fascinating article in The New Yorker on the Kurds, Halabja, Al Qaeda, Ansar al Islam, Iraqi Intelligence and Saddam Hussein. A must read.

Short excerpt on the connection between Al Qaeda, Ansar al Islam and Iraqi Intelligence:

Kurdish officials said that, according to their intelligence, several men associated with Al Qaeda have been smuggled over the Iranian border into an Ansar al-Islam stronghold near Halabja. The Kurds believe that two of them, who go by the names Abu Yasir and Abu Muzaham, are high-ranking Al Qaeda members. "We don't have any information about them," one official told me. "We know that they don't want anybody to see them. They are sleeping in the same room as Mala Krekar and Abdullah al-Shafi"—the nominal leaders of Ansar al-Islam.

The real leader, these officials say, is an Iraqi who goes by the name Abu Wa'el, and who, like the others, spent a great deal of time in bin Laden's training camps. But he is also, they say, a high-ranking officer of the Mukhabarat. One senior official added, "A man named Abu Agab is in charge of the northern bureau of the Mukhabarat. And he is Abu Wa'el's control officer."

Abu Agab, the official said, is based in the city of Kirkuk, which is predominantly Kurdish but is under the control of Baghdad. According to intelligence officials, Abu Agab and Abu Wa'el met last July 7th, in Germany. From there, they say, Abu Wa'el travelled to Afghanistan and then, in August, to Kurdistan, sneaking across the Iranian border.

The Kurdish officials told me that they learned a lot about Abu Wa'el's movements from one of their prisoners, an Iraqi intelligence officer named Qassem Hussein Muhammad, and they invited me to speak with him. Qassem, the Kurds said, is a Shiite from Basra, in southern Iraq, and a twenty-year veteran of Iraqi intelligence.

Qassem, shambling and bearded, was brought into the room, and he genially agreed to be interviewed. One guard stayed in the room, along with my translator. Qassem lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair. I started by asking him if he had been tortured by his captors. His eyes widened. "By God, no," he said. "There is nothing like torture here." Then he told me that his involvement in Islamic radicalism began in 1992 in Baghdad, when he met Ayman al-Zawahiri.

Qassem said that he was one of seventeen bodyguards assigned to protect Zawahiri, who stayed at Baghdad's Al Rashid Hotel, but who, he said, moved around surreptitiously. The guards had no idea why Zawahiri was in Baghdad, but one day Qassem escorted him to one of Saddam's palaces for what he later learned was a meeting with Saddam himself.

Qassem's capture by the Kurds grew out of his last assignment from the Mukhabarat. The Iraqi intelligence service received word that Abu Wa'el had been captured by American agents. "I was sent by the Mukhabarat to Kurdistan to find Abu Wa'el or, at least, information about him," Qassem told me. "That's when I was captured, before I reached Biyara."

I asked him if he was sure that Abu Wa'el was on Saddam's side. "He's an employee of the Mukhabarat," Qassem said. "He's the actual decision-maker in the group"—Ansar al-Islam—"but he's an employee of the Mukhabarat." According to the Kurdish intelligence officials, Abu Wa'el is not in American hands; rather, he is still with Ansar al-Islam. American officials declined to comment.


And on Saddam's motives:

Iraqi dissidents agree that Iraq's programs to build weapons of mass destruction are focussed on Israel. "Israel is the whole game," Ahmad Chalabi, the leader of the Iraqi National Congress, told me. "Saddam is always saying publicly, 'Who is going to fire the fortieth missile?' "—a reference to the thirty-nine Scud missiles he fired at Israel during the Gulf War. "He thinks he can kill one hundred thousand Israelis in a day with biological weapons." Chalabi added, "This is the only way he can be Saladin"—the Muslim hero who defeated the Crusaders. Students of Iraq and its government generally agree that Saddam would like to project himself as a leader of all the Arabs, and that the one sure way to do that is by confronting Israel.

In the Gulf War, when Saddam attacked Israel, he was hoping to provoke an Israeli response, which would drive America's Arab friends out of the allied coalition. Today, the experts say, Saddam's desire is to expel the Jews from history. In October of 2000, at an Arab summit in Cairo, I heard the vice-chairman of Iraq's Revolutionary Command Council, a man named Izzat Ibrahim al-Douri, deliver a speech on Saddam's behalf, saying, "Jihad alone is capable of liberating Palestine and the rest of the Arab territories occupied by dirty Jews in their distorted Zionist entity."

Amatzia Baram said, "Saddam can absolve himself of all sins in the eyes of the Arab and Muslim worlds by bringing Israel to its knees. He not only wants to be a hero in his own press, which already recognizes him as a Saladin, but wants to make sure that a thousand years from now children in the fourth grade will know that he is the one who destroyed Israel."


newyorker.com



To: D. Long who wrote (42286)9/6/2002 3:48:46 AM
From: LindyBill  Respond to of 281500
 
I tell people here that I will only go back to the mainland for "Wakes and Weddings." After reading this horror story about a recent trip to LAX. I don't think I will go back at all. From "Reason"

September 5, 2002

Airport Horror Show
By Sara Rimensnyder

The Washington Post today reminds us that American airports are hell. Granted, anyone who's set foot in a terminal since last fall already knows that these days, clicking your heels and chanting is the more realistic way to travel.

Nevertheless, the Post article is a winner. Its point is to commiserate?a worthy public service. For today's frequent fliers, trading war stories is one of few comforts.

So here's mine.

Three weeks ago I was taking a Friday flight from Los Angeles to Austin, Texas. Just shy of two hours before my expected noon departure, my co-worker Brian Doherty's battered white hatchback shuddered to a near halt within sight of the airport. We hadn't broken down; we had just hit gridlock.

After covering the last tenth of a mile in fifteen minutes, we finally pulled up to the Southwest building. My jaw nearly dislocated as it dropped. The outdoor bag check line snaked the full length of the terminal and then wrapped around once.

But that hour-long line was a relaxed, full-service spa compared to the security wait. The line for security started at the foot of the stairs leading to the X-ray machines. I followed it, my expression going from amused, to disheartened, to flabbergasted as I tramped out the door, from Terminal One to Terminal Two. At that point, I peered down the line toward Terminal Three... Where did it end?

I now had 45 minutes until my noon flight. I did a quick interview of some of the folks in line; the earliest flight among them was 1 p.m. Not the line for me, I thought, and scampered off to find an airport employee.

"Be gone, mongoloid," telegraphed the eyes of the Southwest employee I approached. Undaunted, I explained my situation. He sent me inside, where apparently, there was a special indoor security line for people whose flights were at 12 or earlier. Go figure.

It was now 11:33. I was sweating and my spine was semi-permanently curved from my 30-pound carry-on.

Inside, the security "line" was more like an angry mob. The only airport chaos I've ever seen that comes close was in the customs line in Kiev, Ukraine, during the summer of 1994. There, a teeming polyglot crowd struggled to fill out customs forms in Spanish (the only language other than Ukrainian available) while jackhammers ripped up the linoleum nearby and threadbare cats wandered about apathetically.

At the Southwest terminal in Los Angeles, summer of 2002, we could have used a few cats. Instead, there were just a lot of anxious people pressed into a blob that jiggled and moaned but never, ever moved an inch. Occasionally someone up front with a megaphone tried to communicate with the crowd, but those of us in the back of the line?i.e., in another time zone?only heard muffled groans.

At 11:45, I decided to storm the front, along with a uniformed army colonel and a Midwestern ingénue. We arrived to find...more chaos. But suddenly, a miracle happened. A 6'2" blonde man spoke firmly and calmly into a megaphone, and something in his tone or his elocution actually made people listen.

"Alright people, quiet down and we'll all get through this. Everyone just needs to listen up," he commanded.

The crowd cheered, thrilled that someone had taken charge.

"If your flight is at or before 11:45, come to the front of the line," came his next booming instruction.

Shockingly, people obeyed. They straggled forward, pushing their way through the blob, their faces bright from the oxygen rush as they moved into fresh air. When nobody else approached, he moved on to the next 5-minute interval.

Meanwhile, I wanted to get a closer look at this Southwest drill sergeant. I sidled up next to him, and looked down for his nameplate. He wasn't wearing one?in fact, he wasn't even wearing a uniform.

"I don't work here," he told me. "I'm a marketing exec from Austin."

He then moved on to the 11:55ers.

"Someone needed to take charge," offered his female companion, "so he did."

At precisely 12:03, he called my group?which turned out to be his as well. We all raced for the X-ray machines and metal detectors. Inevitably, there was another line, but this one was quick. Naturally, I was flagged for a wand-job and a grope. My gate was at the very end of the terminal.

I arrived wheezing, and the employee there became the first person of the day to check my ID. I boarded a one-third-empty jet: Everyone else was still in security. As I fell into my seat, shaking with adrenaline, a flight attendant announced that we'd be waiting for other passengers to arrive from security for just a few minutes.

Forty-five minutes later, we took off.