20 years ago this week I was evacuated from southern Iraq. In memory of those tricky times, I am sharing the chapter “Escape From Disaster” from my book A Better Basra. Reading it back I reminded of my unlikely assignment – I was after all, just a hippy media girl stuck in a war zone.

“Foreign Secretary Margaret Beckett today admitted historians could judge Iraq as a foreign policy disaster for Britain“. Source: London Evening Standard, 23 October 2006
Last week, Prime Minister Tony Blair was asked whether the violence in Iraq had “so far been pretty much of a disaster”. He replied: “It has.” But Downing Street later said the prime minister’s words had been misinterpreted. Reported [nevertheless] by the BBC November 2006
The following day began with the luxury of a barefoot Tai Chi exercise next to the lake. Luckily the lake had recently been cleared of the floating corpses of fish caused by IDF hitting their waters. The cat that usually joined me as a charming distraction was missing, but some early morning joggers nodded their hellos in the pink early morning light as I gazed ahead of me and focussed on my ten-minute short martial form. Slipping into my sandals when I finished, I headed for the cook-house for my breakfast of a single boiled egg. The day was feeling pure and uncluttered already, and notably free of house-guests to look after. As with most “days off work”, after breakfast I checked into the office to respond to a flurry of emails from London (they wanted debriefing following the departure of John H & co.) It wasn’t until Jason called me later in the morning saying “Oi, Baroness, you are not supposed to be working”, did I drag myself away. We spent a fun couple of hours, swimming, sun bathing and playing a complicated pool game of “rockets of mortars” which we invented using old water bottles. We stacked them up next to the pool and bobbed about laughing in the water throwing either a “mortar” (filled water bottle which went high and came down on top of the stack) or a “rocket” (far more fun to throw, fast and hard, smashing the piled water bottles from the side). We even engaged the services of an advisor from the North Wales police, who was our official stacker upper.
Next we “borrowed” two of the much acclaimed golf carts and set off around the Palace. There was one incoming attack alarm, which caught us without body armour in the military cook-house off the FCO compound, but it was a false one – and unusually no explosions were forthcoming. Nevertheless we headed back to home territory – the batteries were running flat on the carts anyway and, try as we might, they failed to take air over bumps. We decided to go for a long walk around the largest of the lakes, and sat side by side throwing pebbles in the water and watching the colourful birds darting for their prey. If we did not feel like brother and sister by this stage (our parents, the Foreign Office) it might have been romantic. We spoke about how calm and quiet it was, how relieved we were that our guests had left and what work there was to do next. I remember saying that I felt everything was about to change, but I had no idea that we would be packing to leave that night.
Not more than an hour later, Jason was caught outside during our biggest attack yet. He survived intact, but I can only imagine what the sound of 22 rockets landing in close proximity was like. Miraculously no one was killed, but several people were badly injured, doors were blown off buildings on the army side, and vehicles written-off. Jason made his decision then and there. He was un-volunteering for this assignment. He called to tell me about it and I immediately convened a meeting in my pod (I had lots of chocolate). Jason was quite right. The situation WAS dangerous. We didn’t need No. 10 to decide that from two thousand six hundred miles away. It was just a matter of time, before one of us got unlucky. We had many close shaves. We had experienced the death of one civilian, poor Julio – and the continual news of military fatalities were felt keenly. Rockets were beginning to land more often and with more accuracy – tearing through accommodation blocks, offices and social facilities. In addition to this, we were unable to do our jobs properly. We lacked sleep. We lacked resources. We couldn’t get out into Basra City – EVERY application I had sent to our security managers had been denied – I was a target. It was a nonsense to have a media team who had no on-the-ground experience of Basra.
The Consul General, Rosalind Marsden, was contacted and she managed to slip over to my pod after the all clear had been given. She sat in my room with her armed guard perilously waiting for her outside as Jason and I told her that we were both un-volunteering. I was a mother of three, after all. I really didn’t want to leave my kids without a mother, and perhaps I would be doing more good being with them now, than I would be helping the people of Basra – something I didn’t seem to have been able to excel at. We spoke for a long time. We spoke frankly about our work and the restrictions upon us, most of which The Consul General was aware of anyway. When she left she told us not to speak to anyone for the moment, she had some calls to make. Our departure could potentially, be part of a wider evacuation of more staff, rather than an “un-volunteering”.
We booked ourselves onto the outgoing helicopter that night and I dashed to the office to close up shop with a lump in my throat. Spinning out a ton of explanatory emails that afternoon, the most difficult were to the many Iraqi journalists I had convinced of my own personal commitment to supporting them. I felt like a sham. Despite my carefully constructed press lines, I was cutting and running – shaping up and shipping out.
Emails done, before I headed for the pub for a stiff drink, I wrote some slightly sarcastic final words in my diary:
I sense something big is to come….death, life, love, enlightenment, who knows, but I am busy packing up my essential possessions (sketch pad and moisturiser) and tonight we will board a Merlin out of here. Whether I ever return remains to be seen, but I hope if/when we all pull out of Uday’s former Palace (an uncomfortable location if you ask me – too many ghosts) and the locals loot the place, I hope that someone nice gets my IKEA rugs, candles and colourful posters of Asian spice markets. May Peace Be Upon Them.
In the bar the crowds had gathered as much to find out what was happening as to wish Jason and I well. Military friends patted me on the shoulder in unusual shows of affection, and far too many people said that this was no place for a woman and that I should go back to my children. Jason appeared nervous and still shaken by his earlier experience (he was twitchy and on edge at every door slam). The sandwich thief looked like another candidate for un-volunteering as he had not only taken to wearing body armour and helmet indoors under hard cover – but he had also bought ballistic sunglasses and now never took them off. People wrote messages of support and email addresses in my sketch book and even the toughest among us admitted to being afraid of late. When the Consul General arrived to say goodbye and buy me a drink (of alcohol) she gave me the news that London had ordered the first stage of evacuation for the civilians at the Palace. I was not an un-volunteer, I was an evacuee.
On arrival in Kuwait I was to help support the management of the evacuation of up to 30 staff initially. The Telegraph journalist was looming unaccompanied on the compound, press statements needed to be prepared, and with a two day journey to Kuwait via Baghdad, I still had plenty of work ahead of me.
You can order your copy of A Better Basra from The Great British Bookshop.
Today Caroline continues to support those operating in difficult environments and people supporting others with resilience building programs. Subscribe to Caroline Jaine’s monthly Resilience Newsletter.


















