The Attack on the United Nations in Baghdad

(19 August 2003)

By Robert Bruce Adolph
Former UN Chief of Security for Iraq (2003-04)
Lieutenant Colonel, Special Forces (ret.)

“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe, if I cannot satisfy one, I will indulge the other.” —Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

Extracted, shortened, and revised from the book Surviving the United Nations: The Unexpected Challenge, published by New Academia of Washington DC. This narrative was peer-reviewed for accuracy.

The sound was an indescribably low-pitched yet outrageously loud multi-tiered rumbling. I have never or since heard anything quite like it. I could not tell initially what it was, only that it seemed to last for several seconds. I felt the air move inside my lungs and then all around me. For the briefest of moments, there was no air to breathe. My next conscious sensations were both visual and physical. I saw and felt the building shake violently. Simultaneously, the chair vibrated hard beneath me. Then the windows of my office seemed to explode inwards. I did not clearly see—but it could only have been—flying glass and bits of mortar from around the windowsill blowing by me at speeds so great I could only just make out what it was, or perhaps more correctly, what it had to be.

The transparent glass divider between my inner and outer offices disappeared in an instant. I glanced to my right. The door to my office was no longer where it belonged. It was now partially knocked off its hinges and laid half-out and half-in the outer office, where my administrative and security assistants normally worked. It was perhaps at this moment that I realized what had happened. My initial confusion stemmed from the fact that there was no sharp report, which was common in a single-explosive detonation. It was a bomb—a very big bomb—and we were the intended target. There was nothing in the immediate vicinity capable of creating a blast so large unless it was intentional. We had been hit.

These few thoughts went through my mind in virtual nanoseconds. I had one very immediate concern. Naima, my fiancé, was in the outer office, only a few yards away. She had been using a spare computer terminal to accomplish preparatory work for a consultancy in support of the UN’s World Food Program in Irbil. The work schedule called for her to depart for the northern Iraqi city the following day. I yelled out to her as I got to my feet, unconsciously grabbing my handheld radio from the desktop charger out of long habit and placing it on my belt while in motion. There was no response to my call. My heart sank. I remember conducting a cursory visual self-examination as I stood. It appeared that I was unharmed. I observed no blood leakage. I was aware that some wounds, even when serious, are not initially felt. As chance would have it, there was a wooden cabinet between me and the window that blocked the shards of flying glass.

There was debris everywhere on the floor. Dozens of ceiling tiles had been blown off their mountings and were now littering my office floor. I walked quickly toward the door. I stumbled through and found her near the far wall lying on the ground face upward and bleeding profusely from a nasty gash over her right eye. She looked terrible. Her condition frightened me. My stomach immediately tied itself into a knot. Not surprisingly, she appeared dazed. The large glass divider between the outer office and mine had produced added shattered glass that covered the floor and desktops. I leaned over, grabbed Naima by her arms, and pulled her gently erect, while asking if she was all right in a no doubt unsteady voice. The concern must have been all too evident in my tone.

I conducted a quick survey of her condition, while lightly brushing her long dark hair behind her head and away from the wound above her eye, so that I could get a better look. Her outward appearance, and the blood flow, made it look bad. Surprisingly, she managed a weak smile and assured me that she was okay. My stomach unknotted a bit. But that feeling of relief was not long-lived. I observed with rising alarm that a glass shard had pierced her left eye. The shard’s jagged edge could be seen easily. Thankfully, she seemed totally unaware of it. And I was not going to tell her. If she thought she was OK, I knew it was best medical policy to reinforce that opinion. The gash over her right eye bled, but I knew that head wounds often do so without being life-threatening. She was clearly conscious, and with my assistance, I meant to get her the hell out of there.

It was very tough going. The ground was covered everywhere with debris in the hall and on the stairs, which often tripped us up. The mere fifty yards that we had to traverse felt much greater. We both fell more than once. Naima hung on to me like a bull terrier. The fingernails of her right hand dug unknowingly into my flesh. At that moment, all we had was one another. We were hanging on as much for emotional support as practicality. I placed my right hand on the wall and followed it toward what I hoped would be safety. The rising dust that was created by the explosion was that thick. I was by no means sure that there would be only one bomb but did not share that thought with her. She had enough to worry about already.

We could hear others around us beginning to move—the disembodied moans, sobbing, and occasional muted screams of people in our vicinity, but we could not see anyone. The bright afternoon light from outside barely penetrated the gloom. Naima leaned heavily into me, trusting that I could find my way out. Once we were beyond the recreation area and through the no-longer-existing glass doors that marked the entrance to that area, I managed to barely discern some diffused sunlight in the direction of what must have been the front entrance. My vision was further worsened by the fact that my eyeglasses were no doubt covered in that thick dust. I sensed more than I knew that we were almost there.

The late afternoon heat had not yet begun to wane. It was over one hundred-ten degrees Fahrenheit. Still, the air was cleaner as we stepped outside and into bright sunlight—it tasted good. We were apparently two of the first to make it out of the main entrance. Only a very few people were immediately in evidence outside. They looked dazed and unbelieving and were uniformly covered with the thick gray-white dust that was still settling everywhere. Many were bleeding, although I could not see it clearly. The dust covered everything… even the crimson of blood. I locked eyes with some of the people outside. I knew them. Their eyes reflected no recognition in return – shock. We were moving better now. There was less debris outside. I brought us to a halt and took another look at Naima in daylight. The glass shard clearly pierced her left eye to some depth impossible to discern. Still, she remained blissfully unaware of the damage. The gash over her right eye had bled copiously. I was concerned, but less so than before. In the full light, the wound did not appear as bad. Her blood had spread over the left sleeve of my shirt, but it was slowing. The thick dust in the building might have served to staunch the flow. I was heartened by the fact that there was no apparent arterial bleeding. I had checked for this when I first picked her up off the floor of my outer office. Had a shard of glass severed a major artery… we were lucky. Somehow both my Iraqi security and administrative assistants, Mazzin and Fatin, found us.

I was immediately grateful that both were unharmed, and by my side. Fatin noticed the glass shard protruding from Naima’s eye. Unfortunately, lacking medical training, she pointed this fact out to her. Naima’s face contorted, and she promptly collapsed in my arms. Together, the three of us moved her to the nearby grassy area adjacent to the Security Information and Operations Building at the front gate, and laid her down, while elevating her feet. She recovered consciousness quickly, but now was very concerned about the possibility of losing her eye, and understandably so.

But I had another pressing problem that nagged at me. I was about to do something that I desperately did not wish to do, and yet felt the necessity. I remember telling Naima that I had to leave her now, and in the care of my two assistants. The words had a bitter taste. I was torn. I did not want to abandon her, but there was no choice. Critical duties beckoned that would not wait. At that moment, I hated myself. I stood, turned, and left, going immediately to task. I did not turn back for a look. I could not. I might have lost my already tenuous resolve. Leaving Naima at that moment was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

My first chore was to determine the condition of our communications. I walked quickly to the Security Information and Operations Center in the small elliptically shaped building at the front gate of our compound. Every pane of glass was shattered. What about the condition of those inside? This was the only building within the compound that was my direct responsibility. The structure also served as a guard shed and security offices for some of my staff. 

I entered the side door, and despite the debris, took the stairs two at a time to the second floor, where we had placed the radio room. I opened the door to find that the radio operators were alive and unharmed, and their radios were still functional. The reason for this fortunate circumstance was immediately clear. The large steel-plate blast shields that I had approved some weeks earlier and had been paid for from the out-of-pocket donations of the Security Cell, had been installed over the interior windowsills. Although these shields had been knocked off their wall mountings, they had blocked the worst of the concussion wave, flying glass and shrapnel. A representative of the World Food Program gave us money to sandbag the ground floor offices too. These two precautions, the steel-plate blast shields and sandbags saved the lives of many in the UN security community that day.

I instructed the radio operators to direct all security personnel to immediately report to me near the grassy area where I had just left Naima. I also instructed them to contact all UN agencies in Baghdad, and to direct them not to come to the headquarters. I knew that bombs could be used as lures: that extremists could set off a bomb, wait for help to arrive, and then set off a second bomb—killing even more. I hoped to avoid that scenario, if it was indeed the tactic of choice. Finally, I directed the radio operators to inform all staff that the grassy area, where I had just left Naima, was designated as the triage point, where all wounded were to be brought.

I then made the call to UN Headquarters in New York using the cell phone on my right hip. I punched the speed dial. Moments later, the desk officer responsible for monitoring Iraq answered. I informed him that we had been attacked with a large bomb. I tried, and no doubt failed, to keep my voice calm and even. I informed him that we likely had many dead and wounded, but it would take time to determine who and how many. He was clearly taking notes as I spoke. He would report to his boss who would then report to the UN Secretary General. I excused myself from that call, telling him that I would be back in touch when we discovered more concerning our circumstances. I hit the red button and replaced the phone on my belt. Perhaps ten minutes had elapsed since the blast. It is difficult to quantify accurately. Time possesses an elastic quality at times like these.

Back outside, I noticed that security personnel were congregating. A couple of these had sustained what appeared to be minor wounds, but in that moment, all seemed anxious for a job to do. I gathered them together and created three search teams, assigning one team per floor. I told them to check every room thoroughly. We could not afford to miss anyone. Essentially, I told the officers that I wanted a very careful search for the wounded. “The dead,” I said, “can wait.”  It was about this time that I saw the first US Army ambulances arriving through the front gate. I knew that they would be coming. I did not know how they arrived so quickly. The medics took charge of the triage point upon their arrival. I knew that our injured staff were in good hands. Naima would be well cared for.

I took a moment to think another matter through. I knew that families would soon be deluging UN Headquarters in New York with desperate queries concerning the status of their loved ones in Baghdad. I also knew that the task of providing an accurate tally of the dead and wounded would fall to the UN’s head of security in Iraq, me. I considered taking an officer from a search team to start the tracking process of the wounded that would soon be medically evacuated. I did not think long, dispensing with the idea. At that moment, I was surveying the triage point. Blood and exposed flesh were everywhere evident. If I had assigned an officer to track the wounded, the medical personnel would probably respect my authority and slow the process to accommodate the requirement. But I could permit nothing to impede their evacuation. Too many lives were at risk. Seconds mattered. Families at home would have to wait for word. Better they wait than the alternative. My decision would be questioned by many senior UN officials in the months that followed. I never doubted the call, then or now.

I later saw someone being carried out of the front building entrance on a stretcher. Incredibly, a portion of aluminum windowsill almost two feet long was protruding from the side of his face. I took a second look to ensure I was seeing correctly. Apparently, that portion of sill had been blown off its mountings with sufficient force that it had been turned into a kind of javelin. That unlikely spear had lodged itself in his jaw. The loose end was being held gently by one of the officers. I also remember seeing the organization’s operations officer. His shirt and trousers were covered nearly completely with fresh blood that was clearly not his own, almost like he had bathed in it. From a distance, I observed someone else that I thought I knew. I went to him. His head was dripping blood at multiple points. Nearly half of his face was exposed flesh. Much surface area had been carved away by what I assumed to be flying glass. A flap of skin held a portion of his nose dangling almost to his upper lip. He gazed straight ahead even as I grasped his arm gently. His eyes were fixed on some faraway point. I speculated that moving his neck might have been painful. “How are you doing?” I asked stupidly. His response would have been funny at any other time. “Bob,” he said slowly and deliberately in his upper-crust British accent, “I have had better days.”

A short while later, my local security assistant, Mazzin, reported to me that Naima was one of the first of the wounded to be evacuated. I tried not to think of her, or I would not be able to function. Still, it was two days before I saw her again. She had been ultimately transferred to Saddam Hussein’s family medical clinic, now occupied by a US Army surgical unit located in what later became known as the Green Zone.

I re-entered the building. The thick fog of dust had begun to clear. From the entrance, I could see through to daylight on the opposite side of the building, perhaps forty yards away. This meant that the bomb had detonated on that side of the building, but I did not yet know the extent of the damage. I moved straight ahead toward daylight. Off to my left, I noticed a body. I angled in that direction. He was face-up and spread-eagle over a pile of shattered concrete. I leaned forward at the waist and checked for a pulse at his neck with the extended index and middle fingers of my right hand while peeling an eyelid back with my left. His body was still warm… not surprising in this heat. There was no pulse and no pupil response. His right arm was severed below the shoulder. Flies were already circling with the intention of laying their eggs that would lead to the inevitable maggots. My stomach somersaulted, and my heart raced. This easily could have been Naima. The arm had been torn from his body, leaving an extraordinarily jagged wound. The severed limb was nowhere in evidence. Apparently, he had bled out before any assistance could get to him. To this day, I do not know who the man was. Because of the gray-white dust now covering everyone and everything, everybody looked much the same.

I heard the first of many US Army CASEVAC helicopters in-bound. By the sound, the Black Hawk helicopter landed on the Canal Road, usually a very busy thoroughfare. Coalition Forces must have shut down public access, I speculated. By now I was outside again, where the explosion had taken place. I turned toward what was left of that corner of the Canal Hotel and surveyed the whole nightmarish panorama. The still-incomplete perimeter wall that was being constructed on my recommendation had been all but vaporized by the explosion for approximately twenty-five yards in both directions from the point of detonation. Later FBI estimates suggested that as much as 2,000 pounds of explosive material had been used in the attack. As a potential matter of historical significance, it is my belief that this was the first suicide bombing of the war in Iraq—directed not against armed and ready US Armed Forces, but against unarmed noncombatant staff members of the UN. It was also apparent that the bomb was initiated on the side road leading behind the UN compound. This was the roadway that I had twice recommended be closed on security grounds. In other words, this was an entirely preventable horror show.

On my way back to the triage point, I was met by a US Marine colonel. He was, he told me, then serving in the Office of the Coalition Provisional Authority and working for Ambassador Paul Bremer. We had never met. He introduced himself, although I have regrettably forgotten his name. He informed me that he was under orders to assist me by any means at his disposal. I was not surprised to see him. I knew that my fellow Americans would focus their considerable assets on assisting the UN. His eyes were alert and caring. From my perspective, his arrival was more than timely. I thought rapidly, what did we need? The colonel was awaiting an answer. I began, “We need engineer support ASAP. We have people trapped under the rubble. We also need standard life support. We need food and water for the survivors. Halal Meals Ready to Eat (MREs) should do. Your people are already doing an excellent job with our wounded. We need cell phones with international access for the survivors. We also require immediate communications connectivity between my office and the Coalition.” The colonel was taking notes on a small notepad he had taken from his uniform pocket. He finished and then looked up. “Anything else,” he said with concern in his voice. “Yes,” I replied, “three things. If you approve, we can place one of your communications vans inside of our perimeter to enhance our ability to communicate with you and track the wounded. We also need additional armed security on our perimeter. Finally, we require help with the handling of the dead. We have no mortuary services unit.” The Marine officer was as good as his word. All my requests were fulfilled within hours.

I drove the search teams hard, sending them back into the hotel’s interior time and again. We had no idea how many people were in the building at the time of the attack. My single greatest fear was that we might miss someone in the debris that might just be still clinging to life. To their credit, nobody complained. All returned to the grisly work with resolute dedication. The alternate operations center that I had earlier directed to be established was shaping up in Tent City (over-flow UN sleeping accommodations). I held a quick meeting with all security personnel, assigning various tasks. Few of which I can now remember.

The remainder of my day and night is a jumble of disjointed memories. Someone came to me for a decision, on average, every few minutes. My cell phone rang often, demanding attention. Calls came in from various UN headquarters in New York, Rome, Vienna, and Geneva. Many of these calls were personal in nature. Most wanted to know whether loved ones, friends, or colleagues were still alive. Luckily, I was in the habit of carrying an extra cell phone battery in my pocket. In one rare free moment, I called my dad’s number in Melbourne, Florida. Nobody was home. I left the message on his answering machine, hoping that he would find out that I was alive and unharmed before seeing the news. He was old and frail. He did not need anything else to worry about. Much later I discovered that my brother Mark, in Houston, called multiple UN phone numbers until he finally reached my offices in New York. They informed him that I was unharmed. Mark, in turn, notified the rest of our family that I had survived.

A captain from the 82nd Airborne Division reported to me shortly after dark. He was the commander of a reinforced parachute rifle company and informed me that he had been tasked to secure our perimeter. I was grateful. I knew the 82nd from my many years at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, now re-named Fort Liberty. We were in good hands. Although I was nowhere in the captain’s chain of command, he appeared willing to take some guidance from me. I made my suggestions, and the captain went to work to establish his perimeter. I also introduced him to the security officer I had assigned responsibility for the inner perimeter. The two of them had instructions to see me later that evening with a status report.

The final tally was twenty-two dead and over one-hundred and fifty wounded, some of whom I knew. The morning after the attack, I recommended that the UN evacuate Iraq. At that time, we simply had no way to protect ourselves from vehicular suicide bombers. Like so many of my previous recommendations, it was not accepted for implementation. It took a second bombing – killing two more – roughly a month later, to finally convince senior UN management in New York to take our threat assessment to heart. Thankfully, all my security staff survived the attack. The secretary general later fired me on the front page of the New York Times. It seems that I had been selected as one of the designated scapegoats for his negligence. Following a subsequent exhausting seven-month legal battle, I was exonerated and reinstated to my former rank. Literally, there was a mountain of hard evidence proving my innocence. The secretary general classified the formal UN internal report of the bombing, where much of that hard evidence existed.

Sadly, several months following the bombing, my security assistant Mazzin was murdered in Mafia fashion by what came to be known as former regime elements. By this time, he was working for American forces. It was for this crime that he was killed. My fiancé, now my wife, made a complete recovery, clearly choosing to forgive me for deserting her at the triage point. For that, I will always be grateful. I served another decade in international service, retiring in 2014 in Jakarta, Indonesia. But not a day goes by when I do not think of that sad and terrible day in August. The report that might shed some light on why so many died has not seen the light of day for over two decades. One could reasonably ask why? 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robert Bruce Adolph is a retired US Army Special Forces Lieutenant Colonel and UN Chief Security Advisor. Today, he is a successful international speaker, author, and commentator. His many written works have appeared in multiple civil and military publications. Most recently, Adolph has been a frequent guest columnist for Florida’s Tampa Bay Times, Holland’s Atlantic Perspectives Magazine, and the US Military Times. He has been interviewed by BBC news and radio, UN Today Magazine, Italian National Public Radio, World Affairs Conference, and the Netherlands Atlantic Council. In 2022, he served as mission leader for a multi-national team in support of the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe in war-torn Ukraine. More recently, he completed service as a consultant UN security advisor regarding the Nagorno-Karabakh War in Azerbaijan. His new book due out early next year focuses on the themes of leadership, war, politics, and society.” Learn more at robertbruceadolph.com.