[lit-ideas] Democracy is on the March!
- From: "Andreas Ramos" <andreas@xxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: "Lit-Ideas" <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Thu, 28 Oct 2004 10:02:10 -0700
Mean streets
By Kim Sengupta
27 October 2004
The Independant (UK)
Like many middle-class Iraqis, the al-Hayali family looked forward to the day
that Saddam
would be gone. But one form of tyranny has been replaced by another. Bombs,
kidnappings and
shortages have turned their lives upside down
Black Watch head out for central Iraq deployment
Negligent US forces to blame for massacre of recruits, says Allawi
Another uncertain day in Baghdad
There is a ritual to every morning for Nadia and Mohammed al-Hayali. They
monitor the news
on television and radio; they phone family and friends to make sure they're all
right; and
they survey the street from their windows, looking for anything suspicious.
Only then do
they venture out the door with their children, to negotiate another uncertain
day in
Baghdad.
Like so many people here, the al-Hayalis have all but forgotten what normal
life is like.
One factor permeates every moment - the lack of security, and the very real
fear of
kidnappings, suicide bombings and gunfights. Much of Iraq is now in effect a
killing ground,
and Baghdad is one of its most violent parts.
While the American military bomb Fallujah and Ramadi, the insurgents have
brought the war to
the capital. The Americans, the British, their client Iraqi government and
other foreigners
mostly stay inside the barricaded Green Zone on the banks of the Tigris, the
most heavily
protected area in the country. Even that is no guarantee of safety, as two
recent suicide
bombings inside the zone show.
But ordinary Iraqis - people like the al-Hayalis - have no such protection. As
well as being
caught up in an increasingly savage war, they have to cope with a society
disintegrating
around them. There has been a surge in robberies, rapes, carjackings and
abductions;
unemployment is rising steeply as companies and international institutions flee
the
violence; and the cost of living continues to rocket. There are daily power
cuts and petrol
queues lasting for hours, in a land which has one of the biggest oil reserves
in the world.
Nadia, 39, and Mohammed, 40, and their children Abdullah, seven, and Dahlia,
five, are the
type of middle-class, educated family who should be the driving force in what
the war,
according to George Bush and Tony Blair, was supposed to create in Iraq - a
vibrant civic
society in a stable, secular democracy.
Both are fluent in English, and Nadia speaks French. Both have lived abroad,
Mohammed in the
US and Nadia, who was born in Montpellier, in France and, briefly, in London.
The couple
earn about $500 (£270) a month each, he as an official with the aid
organisation Merlin, she
as a teacher. These are good salaries for Iraq. Nadia is a talented artist,
specialising in
painting on silk. In a different time, her work could be exhibited.
The family lives in a four-bedroom house in al-Jamiyah, a prosperous
neighbourhood. It's
worth more than $250,000 in the current property-price boom. Mohammed had the
home built on
a plot of land given him by his parents. The house has most of the amenities
seen in
middle-class British homes: it is well equipped, the children play games on a
computer, and
there's a four-wheel-drive family car. But the al-Hayalis say it is almost
impossible to
save money. Prices have risen steeply since the war, including food. Lamb,
which used to be
the equivalent of $1 a kilogram, is now almost $4. The prices of many
vegetables have
doubled.
The couple were at first divided about the war. Nadia, whose uncle, Isham
Ashawi, was the
Iraqi ambassador to Britain before going into exile because of his opposition
to Saddam
Hussein, thought it was worth the pain to create a new, free Iraq. "It was a
real
opportunity to break out of the life under the regime - the lack of freedom and
creativity -
even if the reasons given, like the weapons of mass destruction, were bogus,"
Nadia says.
"But it started to go so wrong so early. When I saw the looting after Baghdad
fell, and
American soldiers standing by and watching, I realised what we might be letting
ourselves in
for. Since then, they have mishandled almost everything. And the main thing for
us is that
they have totally failed to provide any sort of security."
Mohammed always had little doubt that it would end this way. "Wars are a
terribly dangerous
way to try to change a society. Apart from the human cost, when you introduce
violence in
that scale it is very difficult to stop that continuing. OK, under the regime
the middle
classes and the intelligentsia felt restricted. But where is the freedom now?
We can't even
travel in the streets without the fear of being attacked or kidnapped. A few
people have
done very well out of the occupation, but for the vast majority, it is now much
worse."
The biggest fear is of kidnapping. The snatching of foreigners, such as Ken
Bigley and
Margaret Hassan, makes the headlines, but most victims are ordinary Iraqis. And
they do not
have to be particularly wealthy. "I know a man whose daughter was kidnapped.
The gang asked
for $10,000. The father said he could not get it; all he had was $1,500, and he
would just
have to spend that on his little girl's funeral. The gang decided to settle for
the $1,500,"
Mohammed says.
"We don't have a four-wheel-drive out of vanity. There is a practical reason;
one can get
out of dangerous situations by barging past cars trying to ambush you, or
driving over
pavements. There was a gun attack on a police post right in front as I was
driving, and we
got out by doing a U-turn and driving over the kerb."
The lawlessness is all around. A neighbour's home was ransacked by armed men
who stormed it
at night. Another was carjacked in his drive by two teenagers carrying
Kalashnikovs. "And
this is in our own road," Nadia says. "There are parts of the city that we
simply don't go
to now. You have attacks in daylight on American patrols and police cars. You
don't know if
the car next to you has explosives in it. There are friends and family we
haven't seen for
months."
Even everyday activities such as shopping have to be planned with safety in
mind. The family
only goes to supermarkets in certain adjoining areas. Nadia doesn't go to the
bank on her
own, as so many people have been robbed after drawing money.
The city's parks and open spaces have no children playing in them. The
al-Hayalis have a
small yard at the house, but Abdullah and Dahlia are not allowed out even
there. "I want to
make sure there always people with them," Nadia says. "At school, they have
teachers. But
when I am busy around the house I cannot afford to have them out of sight
outside. I know
this is not the way we grew up, not the way children grow up in other
countries, but what
can we do?"
After dropping the children at school, the al-Hayalis go to their separate ways
to work.
Working for an international NGO (non-governmental organisation), Mohammed gets
a daily
security report. He calls Nadia with the details. She passes them on to other
staff where
she works, at the Baghdad International School.
The school, founded in 1984, once had 850 pupils; children of foreign diplomats
and
businessmen as well as Iraqis, many on scholarship schemes from poorer areas.
It is
affiliated to a number of international educational bodies and prepares pupils
for foreign
examinations, including GCSEs. After the war, it was looted and burnt. The
director, Nisreen
Awqati, saw what was happening and asked some US troops for help. One replied:
"I am sorry,
ma'am, but we have no orders to get involved."
The school is in borrowed premises while it searches for funds for a new
building, new
equipment and staff. One would have thought that this institution - secular,
co-educational,
a route to further education abroad - would get support from outside agencies.
But appeals
to the Americans, and to the British Embassy and the British Council, have
brought sympathy
but little else.
The temporary location cannot be publicised; that would bring unwelcome
attention. The few
pupils still being taught there (including the children of Iraqis who have
returned since
the war) are mainly from well-to-do families, and would be targets for
abduction. Another
concern is that a mixed school such as this may draw the wrath of Muslim
fundamentalists.
Baghdad University was threatened last week with bomb attacks unless it started
segregating
men and women.
Among the Japanese vases, Rajasthani prints and Nadia's paintings that adorn
the family
living-room is a holstered pistol on top of a cupboard. "It is the kind of
thing one has in
one's house nowadays, I am afraid," Mohammed says. "But, frankly, I don't even
know if it
works. I am not particularly in favour of guns."
There are also photographs of the couple's wedding. It took place, with 500
guests, at the
Iraqi Hunting Club, a select private members' club founded by Saddam and his
Ba'ath Party
colleagues, where the rich and powerful used to go. The new rich and powerful
under the new
order have begun to gather there again.
Nadia and Mohammed's parents were academics who studied abroad and gave their
children a
liberal upbringing. Unlike most people in this society, even among the middle
classes,
theirs is not an arranged marriage. The couple have known each other since high
school. "Our
parents were Hunting Club members because the club reserved some places for
academics, not
because they were rich or had any kind of political influence," Mohammed says.
"We are
members as well, although the club has changed. They have expanded the
membership; you have
a lot of people who have made money since the war, especially through
contracts, and they
like showing off. It is the new Iraq."
The club is one of the few places in which the al-Hayalis and their friends can
socialise in
safety, using the restaurants, bar, tennis courts and swimming pool while the
children run
around on the lawn. It is surrounded by high walls, with armed guards at the
gate.
But danger is never far away. A few weeks ago, seven members of the catering
staff, who were
Christians, were followed as they left in a minibus, ambushed and murdered.
"They had worked
at the club for years without any trouble," Nadia says. "They were really,
really nice
people. They were killed just because they were Christians. It is so terrible.
And this is
not unusual. Christians have been getting attacked and killed."
Maksood Al-Sanjary, the club secretary, says: "It was a great shock, but we
can't protect
people outside the club. I'm not safe myself, and neither is my family. There
are the bombs,
of course, but also I'm a merchant, and people may think I have money, and my
children may
get kidnapped. It's something we have to live with."
Once, the al-Hayalis went out often. They reel off the restaurants they visited
- the Arif,
the White Palace, the ones beside the Tigris specialising in mazgouf, an Iraqi
fish dish.
Now, they don't go out in the evening. A rare exception was a performance by
the Iraqi
Philharmonic Orchestra at the National Convention Centre, where they sat
protected by
sandbags and machine guns. But even trips to the Hunting Club are usually in
the afternoons
on Fridays, the Muslim holiday.
At his home in the Mansour district, another member of the club, a young
businessman, sips
from a tumbler of Scotch and tells his story. Hakim (he only wants to give his
first name)
has had enough; he is moving with his family to Amman, Jordan. "We had an
electronics shop,
and that got looted. We started building up our business again. It was very
hard work. Two
months ago my brother, Abu-Bakr, was taken by a gang. He was badly treated. I
do not want to
go into details. We have paid a lot of money for him. You think what happened
to us is
unusual? It is not. This happens all the time. The business cannot continue. We
must go."
The al-Hayalis often think of leaving. The fragility of their lives has been
accentuated by
visits abroad; Mohammed has been to Jordan and Syria on business, and Nadia
went to an
education conference in Japan.
"This is our country, and we would like to stay," Mohammed says. "We have to
believe that
things will get better, and I think they will. But, in the meantime, we are
living in fear.
We really are. I did not know what that phrase meant before, but I do now."
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