# 002 - The Road to Fallujah: A Journey Through Iraq in 1983

Fallujah—before it became infamous, before American forces, before Al-Qaeda. Back then, it was just another city along the Euphrates River. And yes, I was there.

My project, under the innocent-sounding title of a “steel plant,” was anything but ordinary. It all started back at the Iraqi embassy in Bonn, where two gentlemen conducted a personal interview for over an hour before my visa application could move forward. A little strange? Perhaps. A little concerning? Not at that moment, but in hindsight, maybe I should have been a tad more suspicious. So off I went: Cologne – Vienna – Baghdad.

A First Taste of Iraq

Landing in Baghdad in 1983 felt like stepping into an alternate reality. Everywhere you looked, there were massive posters of President Saddam Hussein—his omnipresent gaze seemed to follow me wherever I went. To make things more... interesting, Iraq was in its third year of war with Iran. Military checkpoints were as common as street vendors, but the mood in the country was surprisingly not as tense as you'd expect.

I had no idea that my journey was about to become much more complicated.

Finding Fallujah

The drive from Baghdad to Fallujah was a memorable one. As we approached the outskirts of town, we were instructed to look for a particular gas station. That’s where we’d be picked up. When the military vehicle arrived, I realized this was no ordinary work trip.

We drove deep into the desert, and suddenly, a massive construction camp appeared. It wasn’t just any camp either—this one had two rings of air defense stations around it. Welcome to the project site.

Our container accommodation wasn’t bad, considering the circumstances. But when we gathered for the project meeting the next morning, I was in for another surprise—the project manager wasn’t some civilian engineer. He was a Colonel. From that moment on, it was clear that this wasn’t just another construction job.

The “Steel Plant” That Wasn’t

It didn’t take long to realize that our so-called “steel plant” was actually producing non-ferrous shell casings. A small but significant shift from the steel industry. We were all asked to sign a declaration stating that no documents could leave the site without permission.

I noticed they had ordered far more materials than necessary. I brought it up to the Colonel, who simply smiled and said, “In time, everything will be revealed.” And oh, did it ever.

As we soon discovered, 60% of the project was underground. The real name of the operation? Sa’ad 21. And just 5 kilometers away, a separate plant—Sa’ad 23—was being built by a South Korean contractor to produce the ammunition for our casings.

Desert Border Explorations

One unexpected challenge was the visa situation. Officially, we were in Iraq as private contractors, which meant we could stay only 30 days before needing an extension. But getting that extension was... complicated.

We had two options:

1. A long trip to Syria.
2. A much longer trip to Jordan.

Since Syria was dealing with its own civil conflict (some things never change), Jordan was our only real option. That meant a grueling, 500-kilometer journey to the border town of Trebil—every month, which would wipe out three days from your calendar.

The Bus, the Bread, and My First Iraqi Word

Now, these trips weren’t exactly tourist-class travel. Picture a packed, dust-covered bus, bouncing over pothole-ridden roads in the middle of the desert. I was usually the only European onboard, which made me something of a curiosity.

The first time I made the journey, an old man selling bread and water at a stop looked at me, smiled, and said, “Sadiq.” I had no idea what it meant, but every trip after that, he called me the same thing. Eventually, I asked someone what it meant. Turns out sadiq means “the truthful one.”

Why he gave me that nickname, I’ll never know. Maybe I just looked too honest to be a spy. Maybe it was the way I clumsily handed him the exact change every time. Whatever the reason, it stuck, and to the regulars on that bus, I became Sadiq, the German guy who always showed up at the border.

Passport Problems and Military Solutions

After months of these visa runs, my passport was rapidly filling up, with stamps for both Iraq and Jordan (four pages, every trip). At one point, I tried to convince the Jordanian officer to place the stamps under the Iraqi ones, but no dice. Apparently, Jordan’s monarchy deserved its own space in my passport. At this rate, I’d have to leave Iraq just to get a new one. I told the Colonel about the problem, expecting him to say, “Well, you’ll have to go back to Germany.” Instead, he just said, “Not possible.”

Apparently, my departure wasn’t an option. The next day, I found myself in the Colonel’s car, speeding toward Baghdad. First stop: immigration.

The immigration officer took one look at my passport and shook his head. The Colonel, however, wasn’t interested in negotiations. After a few minutes of shouting (and what I can only assume were aggressive threats in Arabic), we left and drove straight to the Ministry of Defense.

As we walked down a hallway, I spotted two other Westerners—both East Germans. They greeted me with ‘Guten Tag’, giving me a knowing look. Apparently, they were working on something with the Iraqis, but that was none of my business.

Finally, the Colonel came back with a letter in hand. Back to immigration we went.

The immigration officer, upon reading the letter, suddenly became the most pleasant bureaucrat I’d ever encountered. He took my passport, opened the cover, and started writing a series of numbers on the page—Arabic numbers, topped with a seal.

I protested. “This isn’t a place for any notes!”

Too late. Damage done. He smiled and said, “Number must be visible, this very good page.”

At this point, I knew arguing was pointless. The job was done. My passport now had an official project number written on its cover decorated with the appropriate stamps and seal of course. No more trips to Jordan. No more visa runs. I was staying.

The Iraqi?"?iyāfa" (?????) hospitality

?It’s almost impossible to imagine now, but there was a time when a young Western guy could travel freely through Iraq without complications. No cultural or religious restrictions, no suspicious glares and life-threatening situations—just the open road, the desert stretching for miles, and the warmth of people who welcomed me like an old friend.

I sometimes wonder if the bus drivers or the old bread-seller, the one who called me Sadiq—"the truthful one"—ever noticed I stopped showing up. Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. But I’ll always remember their kindness, the casual chats over tea, and the way Iraq, even in the middle of a war, never felt unwelcoming.

?I stayed on-site until my work was done but returned a few times after. That little handwritten Arabic number in my passport? It turned out to be a golden key in Iraq, opening doors and smoothing over bureaucratic hurdles in ways I hadn’t expected. But outside of Iraq, it was a different story. Because if you’re 21 years old with a travel-worn passport covered in Arabic stamps—and a mysterious number scribbled inside—every border crossing becomes an adventure, and sometimes, a very long conversation.