This is the extraordinary blog of ‘Riverbend’, a young Iraqi woman who lays bare her life in occupied Iraq. It has been long-listed for the Samuel Johnson literary prize.
By Riverbend
Excerpted in The Sunday Times, UK, 02 April 2006
I’m going to set the record straight, once and for all. I don’t hate Americans, contrary to what many people seem to believe. Not because I love Americans, but simply because I don’t hate Americans, like I don’t hate the French, Canadians, Brits, Saudis, etc.
It’s that simple. I was brought up, like millions of Iraqis, to have pride in my own culture and nationality. I was also brought up to respect other cultures, nations and religions. Iraqi people are inquisitive, by nature, and accepting of different values — as long as you do not try to impose those values and beliefs upon them.
Although I hate the American military presence in Iraq, I don’t even hate the American troops . . . or wait, sometimes I do:
# I hated them all through the bombing. Every single day and night we had to sit in terror of the next bomb, the next plane, the next explosion. I hated them when I saw the expression of terror, and remembrance, on the faces of my family and friends, as we sat in the dark, praying for our lives.
# I hated them on April 11 — a cool, grey day: the day a family friend lost her husband, her son and toddler daughter when a tank hit the family car as they were trying to evacuate the house in Al- Adhamiya district, an area that saw heavy fighting.
# I hated them on June 3 when our car was pulled over for some strange reason in the middle of Baghdad and we (three women, a man and a child) were made to get out and stand in a row, while our handbags were rummaged and the car was thoroughly checked by angry, brisk soldiers. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to put into words the humiliation of being searched.
On the other hand:
# I feel terrible seeing the troops standing in this merciless sun wearing heavy clothes, looking longingly into the air-conditioned interiors of our cars. After all, in the end this is Baghdad, we’re Iraqi — we’ve seen this heat before.
# I feel bad seeing them stand around, drinking what can only be lukewarm water after hours in the sun — too afraid to accept any proffered ice water from “strange Iraqis”.
# I feel pity watching their confused, frightened expressions as some outraged, jobless father of five shouts at them in a language they can’t even begin to understand. oI get hopeless, seeing them pointing their guns and tanks at everyone because, in their eyes, anyone could be a “terrorist” and almost everyone is an angry, frustrated Iraqi. oI feel sympathy seeing them sitting bored and listless on top of their tanks and in their cars, wishing they were somewhere else.
So now you know. Mixed feelings in a messed-up world.
Someone wrote that I was naive and probably spoilt, etc, and that “not one single American soldier deserves to die for you”. I completely agree. No one deserves to die for me or for anyone else.
This war started out a war on weapons of mass destruction. When those were not found, and proof was flimsy at best, it turned suddenly into a “war against terrorism”. When links couldn’t be made to Al-Qaeda or Osama Bin Laden, it turned into a “liberation”. Call it whatever you want — to me it’s an occupation.
FEMALES can no longer leave their homes alone. Each time I go out, E (my brother) and either a father, uncle, or cousin has to accompany me. It feels like we’ve gone back 50 years since the beginning of the occupation. A woman, or girl, out alone risks anything from insults to abduction. An outing has to be arranged at least an hour beforehand.
I state that I need to buy something or have to visit someone. Two males have to be procured (preferably large) and “safety arrangements” must be made in this total state of lawlessness. And always the question: “But do you have to go out and buy it? Can’t I get it for you?” No you can’t, because the kilo of eggplant I absolutely have to select with my own hands is just an excuse to see the light of day and walk down a street. The situation is incredibly frustrating to females who work or go to college.
Before the war, about 50% of the college students were females, and more than half the workforce was composed of women. Not any more. We are seeing an increase of fundamentalism in Iraq, which is terrifying. Before the war, I would estimate that 55% of females in Baghdad wore a hijab, or headscarf. Although I don’t wear one, I have family and friends who do. The point is that, before, it didn’t really matter. It was “my” business whether I wore one or not — not the business of some fundamentalist on the street.
For those who don’t know, a hijab only covers the hair and neck. The whole face shows and some women even wear it Grace Kelly-style, with a few locks of hair coming out of the front. A burqa on the other hand, like the ones worn in Afghanistan, covers the whole head — hair, face, and all.
I am female and Muslim. Before the occupation I more or less dressed the way I wanted to. I lived in jeans and cotton trousers and comfortable shirts. Now I don’t dare leave the house in trousers. A long skirt and loose shirt (preferably with long sleeves) has become necessary. A girl wearing jeans risks being attacked, abducted, or insulted by fundamentalists who have been . . . liberated!
Fathers and mothers are keeping their daughters stashed safe at home. That’s why you see so few females in the streets (especially after 4pm). Others are making their daughters, wives, and sisters wear a hijab. Not to oppress them, but to protect them. Girls are being made to quit college and school.
My 14-year-old cousin (a straight-A student) is going to have to repeat the year because her parents decided to keep her home ever since the occupation. Why? Because the Supreme Council for the Islamic Revolution in Iraq (Sciri) took over an office next to her school and opened up a special “bureau”.
Men in black turbans (MiBTs as opposed to MiB) and dubious, shady figures dressed in black, head to foot, scan the girls and teachers entering the secondary school. The dark, frowning figures stand ogling, leering and sometimes jeering at the ones not wearing a hijab or whose skirts aren’t long enough. In some areas girls risk being attacked with acid if their clothes aren’t “proper”.
The Sciri (but I prefer “scarey”) was established in 1982 in Tehran. Its main goal is to import the concept of the “Islamic revolution” from Iran to Iraq. In other words, it believes that Iraq should be a theocracy led by Shi’ite mullahs.
The Sciri would like to give the impression that they have the full support of all Shi’ite Muslims in Iraq. The truth is that many Shi’ite Muslims are terrified of them and of the consequences of having them as a ruling power. The whole situation is alarming beyond any description I can give. Christians have also become the victims of extremism, also. Some of them are being threatened, others are being attacked. A few wannabe mullahs came out with a fatwa, or decree, in June that declared all females should wear the hijab and if they didn’t they could be subject to “punishment”.
Another group decreed that not a single girl over the age of 14 could remain unmarried. This order included females of other religions. In the south, female United Nations and Red Cross aides received death threats if they didn’t wear the hijab. This isn’t done in the name of God — it’s done in the name of power.
Liquor stores are being attacked. The owner usually gets a “threat” in the form of a fatwa claiming that if they don’t shut down permanently, there will be consequences. The consequences are usually either a fire or a bomb. Similar threats have been made to hairdressers in some areas in Baghdad.
Don’t blame it on Islam. Every religion has its extremists. In times of chaos and disorder, those extremists flourish. Iraq is full of moderate Muslims who simply believe in “live and let live”. We get along with each other — Sunnis and Shi’ites, Muslims and Christians, and Jews and Sabi’a. We intermarry, we mix and mingle, we live.
Now people are turning to religion for several reasons. The first is fear: fear of war, fear of death.
If I didn’t have something to believe in during this past war, I know I would have lost my mind. If there hadn’t been a God to pray to, to make promises to, to bargain with, to thank — I wouldn’t have made it through.
Encroaching western values and beliefs have also played a role. In Muslims and Arabs, westerners see suicide bombers, terrorists, ignorance and camels. In Americans, Brits and others, some Iraqis see depravity, prostitution, ignorance, domination, junkies and ruthlessness. The best way people can find to protect themselves and their loved ones against this assumed threat is religion.
Finally, 65% of all Iraqis are currently unemployed. There are people who have families to feed. When I say “families” I don’t mean a wife and two kids . . . I mean about 16 or 17 people.
A LOT of you have been asking why my English is good. I am Iraqi, born in Iraq to Iraqi parents, but was raised abroad for several years. I came back in my early teens and continued studying in English in Baghdad reading any book I could get my hands on. Most of my friends are of different ethnicities, religions and nationalities. I am bilingual. There are thousands of others in Iraq like me — kids of diplomats, students, expatriates and others.
As to my connection with western culture . . . you wouldn’t believe how much many young Iraqi people know about American/British/French pop culture. They know all about Arnold Schwarzenegger, Brad Pitt, Whitney Houston and McDonald’s. Iraqi TV stations were constantly showing bad copies of the latest Hollywood movies. (If it’s any consolation, the marines lived up to the Rambo/ Terminator reputation which preceded them.)
THE story of how I lost my job isn’t unique. It has actually become depressingly, unbearably common. It goes like this:
I’m a computer science graduate. Before the war, I was working in an Iraqi data company as a programmer/network administrator (yes, yes . . . a geek). Every day I would climb three flights of stairs, enter the little office I shared with one female colleague and two males, start up my PC and spend hours staring at little numbers and letters rolling across the screen. It was tedious, it was backbreaking, it was geeky and it was . . . wonderful.
When I needed a break I’d go and visit my favourite sites on the internet, bother my colleagues, or rant about “impossible bosses” and “improbable deadlines”. I loved my job — I was “good” at it. I came and went to work on my own. At 8am I’d walk in lugging a backpack filled with enough CDs, floppies, notebooks, chewed-on pens, paperclips and screwdrivers to make Bill Gates proud. I made as much money as my two male colleagues and got an equal amount of respect from the manager.
What I’m trying to say is that females in Iraq were a lot better off than females in other parts of the Arab world (and some parts of the western world — we had equal salaries!). We were doctors, lawyers, nurses, teachers, professors, deans, architects, programmers and more. We came and went as we pleased. We wore what we wanted (within the social restrictions of a conservative society).
During the first week of June I heard my company was back in business. I finally convinced my family that it was necessary for my sanity to go back to work. They agreed that I would visit the company (with two male bodyguards) and ask them if they had any work I could possibly take home and submit later on, or through the internet.
I packed my big bag of geeky wonders, put on my long skirt and shirt, tied back my hair and left the house with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.
We had to park the car about 100m away because the road in front of the company was cracked and broken with the weight of American tanks. I half-ran, half-plodded up to the door, my heart throbbing in anticipation of seeing friends, colleagues, secretaries . . . just generally something familiar again in the strange new nightmare we were living.
Everything looked shabbier somehow, sadder. The maroon carpet lining the hallways was dingy and scuffed. The windows we had so diligently taped prior to the war were cracked in some places and broken in others.
I stood a moment, hesitantly, in the door. There were strange new faces — fewer of the old ones. The faces were sad and lethargic and exhausted.
I continued upstairs, chilled to the bone in spite of the muggy heat. My little room wasn’t much better off than the rest of the building. The desks were gone, papers all over the place . . . but A was there! I couldn’t believe it — a familiar, welcoming face. He looked at me for a moment, without really seeing me, then his eyes opened wide.He congratulated me on being alive, asked about my family and told me that he wasn’t coming back after today, things had changed. I should go home and stay safe. He was quitting, going to find work abroad. Nothing to do here any more. I told him about my plan to work at home and submit projects. He shook his head sadly.
I stood staring at the mess for a few moments longer, trying to sort out the mess in my head, my heart being torn to pieces. My cousin and E were downstairs, waiting for me. There was nothing more to do.
A and I left the room and started making our way downstairs. We paused on the second floor and stopped to talk to one of the former directors. His eyes stayed glued to A’s face as he told him that females weren’t welcome right now. He finally turned to me and told me, in so many words, to go home because “they” refused to be responsible for what might happen to me. There was a hostility I couldn’t believe.
Okay. Fine. Your loss. I turned my back, walked down the stairs. E and the cousin were looking grim.
I must have been looking broken, because they rushed me out of the first place I had ever worked. I cried bitterly all the way home; cried for my job, cried for my future and cried for the torn streets, damaged buildings and crumbling people.
I’m one of the lucky ones . . . I’m not important. I’m not vital. Over a month ago, a prominent electrical engineer (one of the smartest females in the country) named Henna Aziz was assassinated in front of her family — two daughters and her husband.
She was threatened by some fundamentalists from (the Iraqi extremist) Badir’s Army and told to stay at home because she was a woman, she shouldn’t be in charge. She refused — the country needed her expertise — she was brilliant. She would not and could not stay at home. They came to her house one evening: men with machineguns broke in and opened fire. She lost her life. She wasn’t the first, she won’t be the last.
This is an extract from Baghdad Burning by Riverbend, which was included on the long list for the Samuel Johnson Prize last week. These blogs were posted during 2003. The book is published by Marion Boyars Publishers at £7.99. Copies can be ordered for £7.59 including postage from The Sunday Times BooksFirst on 0870 165 8585
--------------------------
Citation: Riverbend. "Love and hate in Baghdad," Excerpts in The Sunday Times, UK, 02 April 2006.
Original URL: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2092-2114217,00.html
--------------------------