Decision Points

rise of a democracy in the heart of the Middle East.

    The pessimism of September 2006 came in contrast to the hope so many felt after the liberation of Iraq. In the year after our troops entered the country, we toppled Saddam’s regime, captured the dictator, rebuilt schools and health clinics, and formed a Governing Council representing all major ethnic and sectarian groups. While the lawlessness and violence exceeded our expectations, most Iraqis seemed determined to build a free society. On March 8, 2004, the Governing Council reached agreement on the Transitional Administrative Law. This landmark document called for a return of sovereignty in June, followed by elections for a national assembly, the drafting of a constitution, and another round of elections to choose a democratic government.
    For almost three years, this road map guided our strategy. We believed that helping the Iraqis meet those milestones was the best way to show Shia, Sunnis, and Kurds they had a stake in a free and peaceful country. Once Iraqis were invested in the democratic process, we hoped they would resolve disputes at the ballot box, thereby marginalizing the enemies of a free Iraq. In short, we believed political progress was the path to security—and, ultimately, the path home.
    Our military strategy focused on pursuing the extremists while training the Iraqi security forces. Over time, we would move toward a smaller military footprint, countering the perception that we were occupiers and boosting the legitimacy of Iraq’s leaders. I summed up the strategy: “As the Iraqis stand up, we will stand down.” Don Rumsfeld had a more memorable analogy: “We have to take our hand off the bicycle seat.”
    I had studied the histories of postwar Germany, Japan, and South Korea. Each had required many years—and a U.S. troop presence—to complete the transition from the devastation of war to stable democracies. But once they did, their transformative impact proved worth the costs. West Germany emerged as the engine of European prosperity and a vital beacon of freedom during the Cold War. Japan grew into the world’s second-largest economy and the lynchpin of security in the Pacific. South Korea became one of our largest trading partners and a strategic bulwark against its neighbor to the north.
    All three countries benefited from relatively homogenous populations and peaceful postwar environments. In Iraq, the journey would be more difficult. Iraq had been plagued by ethnic and sectarian tensions ever since the British created the country from the vestiges of the Ottoman Empire. The fear and distrust bred by Saddam Hussein made it hard for Iraqis to reconcile. So did the brutal attacks carried out by extremists.
    Despite the violence, there was hope. Iraq had a young, educated population, a vibrant culture, and functioning government institutions. It had strong economic potential thanks in part to its natural resources. And its citizens were making sacrifices to overcome the insurgents and live in freedom. With time and steadfast American support, I had confidence that democracy in Iraq would succeed.

    That confidence was tested daily. Every morning, I received an overnight summary from the Situation Room printed on a blue sheet of paper. One section of the report listed the number, place, and cause of American casualties in Afghanistan and Iraq.
    The toll mounted over time. America lost 52 troops in Iraq in March 2004. We lost 135 in April, 80 in May, 42 in June, 54 in July, 66 in August, 80 in September, 64 in October, and 137 in November, when our troops launched a major assault on insurgents in Fallujah.
    The growing number of deaths filled me with anguish. When I received a blue sheet, I would circle the casualty figure with my pen, pause, and reflect on each individual loss. I comforted family members of thefallen as often as I could. In August 2005, I flew to Idaho for an event honoring the contributions of the National Guard and Reserves. Afterward, I met with Dawn Rowe, who had lost her husband, Alan, in September 2004. Dawn introduced me to her children, six-year-old Blake and four-year-old Caitlin. Even though it had been almost a year since Alan’s death, their grief was overwhelming. “My husband loved being a Marine,” Dawn told me. “If he had to do it all again, knowing he would die, he would.” I made her a promise: Alan’s sacrifice would not be in vain.
    Over the course of my presidency I met roughly 550