This extract is from one of seven books shortlisted for the 2005 Ulysses Award for the Art of Reportage. The winner will be announced on 15 October, and over the coming weeks openDemocracy will present extracts from each of the finalists:

Edited extract from Baghdad Burning: Girl Blog from Iraq (Marion Boyars, 2005)

Friday 19 September, 2003

Terrorists

The weather has “broken” these last few days. It’s still intolerably hot, but there’s a wind. It’s a heavy, dusty wind more reminiscent of a gust from a hair-dryer than an actual breeze. But it is nonetheless a wind, and we are properly grateful.

The electrical situation is bizarre. For every 6 hours of electricity, 3 hours of darkness. I wish they would give us electricity all night and cut it off during the day. During the day it’s hotter, but at least you can keep busy with something like housework or a book. At night the darkness brings along all the fears, the doubts, and ... the mosquitoes. All the sounds are amplified. It’s strange how when you can see, you can’t hear so many things … or maybe you just stop listening.

Everyone is worried about raids lately. We hear about them from friends and relatives, we watch them on TV, outraged, and try to guess where the next set of raids are going to occur.

Anything can happen. Some raids are no more than seemingly standard weapons checks. Three or four troops knock on the door and march in. One of them keeps an eye on the “family” while the rest take a look around the house. They check bedrooms, kitchens, bathrooms and gardens. They look under beds, behind curtains, inside closets and cupboards. All you have to do is stifle your feelings of humiliation, anger, and resentment at having foreign troops from an occupying army search your home.

Some raids are, quite simply, raids. The door is broken down in the middle of the night, troops swarm in by the dozens. Families are marched outside, hands behind their backs and bags upon their heads. Fathers and sons are pushed down on to the ground, a booted foot on their head or back.

Other raids go horribly wrong. We constantly hear about families who are raided in the small hours of the morning. The father, or son, picks up a weapon — thinking they are being attacked by looters — and all hell breaks loose. Family members are shot, others are detained, and often women and children are left behind wailing.

I first witnessed a raid back in May. The heat was just starting to become unbearable and we were spending the whole night without electricity. I remember lying in my bed, falling in and out of a light sleep. We still weren’t sleeping on the roof because the whole night you could hear gunshots and machine-gun fire not very far away — the looters still hadn’t organized themselves into gangs and mafias.

At around 3am, I distinctly heard the sound of helicopters hovering not far above the area. I ran out of the room and into the kitchen and found E. pressing his face to the kitchen window, trying to get a glimpse of the black sky.

“What’s going on?!” I asked, running to stand next to him.

“I don’t know ... a raid? But it’s not an ordinary raid ... there are helicopters and cars, I think...”

I stopped focusing on the helicopters long enough to listen to the cars. No, not cars – big, heavy vehicles that made a humming, whining sound. E. and I looked at one another, speechless – tanks?! E. turned on his heel and ran upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. I followed him clumsily, feeling for the banister all the way up, my mind a jumble of thoughts and conjectures.

Out on the roof, the sky was black streaked with light. Helicopters were hovering above, circling the area. E. was leaning over the railing, trying to see into the street below. I approached tentatively and he turned back to me, “It’s a raid ... on Abu A.’s house!” He pointed three houses down the road.

Abu A. was an old, respected army general who had retired in the mid ‘80s. He lived a quiet life in his two-storey house on our street. All I knew about him was that he had four kids—two daughters and two sons. The daughters were both married. One of them was living in London with her husband and the other one was somewhere in Baghdad. The one in Baghdad had a 3 year-old son we’ll call L. I know this because, without fail, ever since L. was six months old, Abu A. would proudly parade him up and down our street in a blue and white striped stroller.

It was a scene I came to expect every Friday evening: the tall, worn, old man pushing the small blue stroller holding the round, pink, drooling L.

I had never talked to Abu A. until last year. I was watering the little patch of grass in front of the wall around our garden and trying not to stare at the tall old man walking alongside the tottering toddler. Everything my mother had taught me about how impolite it was to ogle people ran around in my brain. I turned my back to the twosome as they came down the street and casually drowned the flowers growing on the edge of the plot of grass.

Suddenly, a voice asked, “Can we wash ourselves?” I turned around, stupefied. Abu A. and L. stood there, smeared with enough chocolate to qualify for a detergent commercial. I handed over the hose, almost drenching them in the process, and watched as the old man washed L.’s sticky, little fingers and wiped clean the pursed lips while saying, “His mother can’t see him like this!”

And after handing back the hose, they were off on their way, once again ... I watched them go down the remainder of the street to Abu A.’s home — stopping every few steps so L. could look down at some insect that had caught his attention.

That was last year ... or maybe 9 months ago ... or maybe 100 years ago. Tonight, the armoured cars were pulling up to Abu A.’s house, the helicopters were circling above, and the whole area was suddenly a mess of noise and lights.

E. and I went back downstairs. My mother stood anxiously by the open kitchen door, looking out at my father who was standing at the gate. E. and I ran outside to join him and watch the scene unfolding only 3 houses away. There was shouting and screaming — the deep, angry tones of the troops mixed with the shriller voices of the family and neighbours — the whole symphony boding of calamity and fear.

“What are they doing? Who are they taking?!” I asked no one in particular, gripping the warm, iron gate and searching the street for some clue. The area was awash with the glaring white of headlights and spotlights and dozens of troops stood in front of the house, weapons pointed — tense and ready. It wasn’t long before they started coming out: first it was his son, the 20 year-old translation student. His hands were behind his back and he was gripped by two troops, one on either side. His head kept twisting back anxiously as they marched him out of the house, barefoot. Next, Umm A., Abu A.’s wife, was brought out, sobbing, begging them not to hurt anyone, pleading for an answer ... I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I saw her looking left and right in confusion and I said the words instead of her, “What’s going on? Why are they doing this?! Who are they here for?”

Abu A. was out next. He stood tall and erect, looking around him in anger. His voice resonated in the street, above all the other sounds. He was barking out questions — demanding answers from the troops, and the bystanders. His oldest son A. followed behind with some more escorts. The last family member out of the house was Reem, A.’s wife of only 4 months. She was being led firmly out into the street by two troops, one gripping each thin arm.

I’ll never forget that scene. She stood, 22 years old, shivering in the warm, black night. The sleeveless nightgown that hung just below her knees exposed trembling limbs — you got the sense that the troops were holding her by the arms because if they let go for just a moment, she would fall senseless to the ground. I couldn’t see her face because her head was bent and her hair fell down around it. It was the first time I had seen her hair … under normal circumstances, she wore a hijab.

That moment I wanted to cry ... to scream ... to throw something at the chaos down the street. I could feel Reem’s humiliation as she stood there, head hanging with shame – exposed to the world, in the middle of the night.

One of the neighbours, closer to the scene, moved forward timidly and tried to communicate with one of the soldiers. The soldier immediately pointed his gun at the man and yelled at him to keep back. The man held up an abaya, a black cloak-like garment some females choose to wear, and pointed at the shivering girl. The soldier nodded curtly and told him to, “Move back!.” “Please,” came the tentative reply, “Cover her...” He gently put the abaya on the ground and went back to stand at his gate. The soldier, looking unsure, walked over, picked it up, and awkwardly put it on the girl’s shoulders.

I gripped at the gate as my knees weakened, crying ... trying to make sense of the mess. I could see many of the neighbours, standing around, looking on in dismay. Abu A.’s neighbour, Abu Ali, was trying to communicate with one of the troops. He was waving his arm at Umm A. and Reem, and pointing to his own house, obviously trying to allow them to take the women inside his home. The troop waved over another soldier who, apparently, was a translator. During raids, a translator hovers in the background inconspicuously—they don’t bring him forward right away to communicate with terrified people because they are hoping someone will accidentally say something vital, in Arabic, thinking the troops won’t understand, like, “Honey, did you bury the nuclear bomb in the garden like I told you?!” Finally, Umm A. and Reem were allowed inside of Abu Ali’s house, escorted by troops. Reem walked automatically, as if dazed, while Umm A. was hectic. She stood her ground, begging to know what was going to happen ... wondering where they were taking her husband and boys ... Abu Ali urged her inside.

The house was ransacked ... searched thoroughly for no one knows what — vases were broken, tables overturned, clothes emptied from closets...

By 6am the last cars had pulled out. The area was once more calm and quiet. I didn’t sleep that night, that day, or the night after. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Abu A. and his grandson L. and Reem ... I saw Umm A., crying with terror, begging for an explanation.

Abu A. hasn’t come back yet. The Red Cross facilitates communication between him and his family. L. no longer walks down our street on Fridays, covered in chocolate, and I’m wondering how old he will be before he ever sees his grandfather again...

Sunday 09 November, 2003

Galub Memdeshen

These last few days have been a bit tiring — a few visitors (relatives) and a couple of friends who we haven’t seen since July. It’s ridiculous — we live in the same city but it feels like we’re all worlds apart. Everyone is so consumed with their own set of trials and tribulations these days – the son that lost a job, the daughter that lost a husband ... the problems feel endless and everyone has their own story to tell. As my mother constantly says: Kul wahid yihtajleh galub memdeshen, or “every person [you listen to] requires a brand new heart.” This is usually said when anticipating a sad, frustrating story. Every story begins with a deep sigh and ends with an Allah kareem.

Our latest visitor has left us more than perturbed. A friend of E. passed by, a junior in the electrical engineering department at Baghdad University. He sat, for an hour, describing an incident that occurred last week at the university which we had heard about, but didn’t know the details. It has been the biggest problem yet in Baghdad University.

Just some information on Baghdad University: Baghdad University was established in the 1930s, I think. It is Iraq’s oldest contemporary university and its most famous. It started out small and kept on expanding until it became one of the largest universities in the region. There are 6 different campuses spread all over Baghdad and I’m not sure just how many colleges there are. The main campus is the one located in the leafy, elegant area of Jadriya, in the centre of Baghdad. The colleges of engineering, science, political science, physical education, and women’s education are all located on the Jadriya campus, as is the university president’s office.

The Jadriya campus was designed in 1961 by Walter Adolph Gropius, a German who emigrated to America in 1937. The campus is huge, and beautiful. The buildings are sprawling and punctuated with little gardens planted with palms and other trees and grass. There are also several dormitories that provide living quarters for out-of-town students, and in the physical education college, there are football fields, basketball courts and a pool.

My favourite feature on the Jadriya campus is the arc framing the entrance. The arcs, which look like a pale, elongated rainbow that doesn’t quite meet in the middle, symbolize Arabic architecture. The opening in the middle of the arcs symbolizes open minds, allowing for the entrance of knowledge. Or that’s what they say it symbolizes. The whole campus is a wonderful contrast of green trees, and beige buildings swarming with busy students. Even during difficult times, it was an oasis.

Up until the early 1990s, the majority of the teaching staff had gotten their post-graduate degrees from abroad. The College of Medicine leaned towards an English curriculum because most of the doctors were graduates of British medical schools, the College of Engineering leaned towards an American curriculum because the majority of the professors and teachers were graduates of American colleges. The College of Science was a combination of American/British-taught teachers and professors, and most of the syllabuses were in English.

After 1991, the university began deteriorating, like all other universities. Chemicals weren’t purchased for the science labs because many of the basic experimental materials were “banned” according to the sanctions resolution. The physics labs suffered the same fate. Engineering departments complained of a lack of equipment and books. Because curriculums were American or British, the books also originated from these countries. Major publishing houses refused to sell books to Iraqi universities because their governments considered it illegal (apparently, you can make WMD using a calculus book). We had to wait until someone brought a copy of the necessary book in, by chance, and make dozens of photocopies of it, which would be sold in little makatib or bookshops all over Baghdad.

Many of the professors started emigrating after 1991 because the economic situation was so bad, they could barely afford to support themselves, let alone their families. They started leaving to places like Jordan, Yemen, Libya, Syria and the Emirates, hoping to find a decent position in a university or research centre. The ones who remained were highly appreciated ... we still talk of the mathematician from MIT, or the programmer from Berkeley.

In spite of all this, Baghdad University remained one of the best universities in the region. It was well-known throughout the Arab world and its graduates were welcome almost anywhere. Its reputation, more or less, remained intact. About 90% of the college applicants always put Baghdad University at the top of their application form. It accepts the highest grades because, as a total, it accepts only around 10,000 students a year and every year, 75,000 students graduate from Iraqi high schools and apply for college. So, in addition to some of the best teachers in Iraq, they also get the smartest students.

The University was looted heavily during the days immediately after 9 April. Some campuses were worse off than others. The Jadriya campus was looted the first few days, but because American troops were posted nearby, the looting was lighter than in other places. Many professors quit working after the occupation, while others were fired. The ones remaining in the university got together and had a “democratic” vote, choosing specific staff to head the departments, colleges and they even chose a university president.

The problem was that many of the professors were former Ba’athists ... some of the best teachers were Ba’athists (we had over 6 million). Sami Mudhafar, who was chosen as university president, was respected, competent and ... anti-Ba’athist. A few weeks into the occupation, Ahmed Chalabi started insisting on the implementation of his “de-Ba’athification” plan. The first place it began in was the universities. Any Ba’athists with administrative positions were asked to step down and hand over the reins. The next step the CPA insisted upon was that any Ba’athists professors should be made to quit. That was too much. Sami Mudhafar realized that making all the ex-Ba’athist teachers and employees quit would mean that he’d have too big a shortage of academicians to continue classes. Things were already tough before the war, this would make things impossible. So, he refused. He told the representative for the Ministry of Higher Education that it was a mistake and he couldn’t be responsible for the result of an action like that...

Sami Mudhafar was promptly changed. He was asked to resign his post and the Minister of Higher Education, appointed by the Governing Council, chose someone else to fill his post. The Jadriya campus was in an uproar. Students and teachers protested, holding signs that said things like, “The Minister of Higher Education was appointed — Sami was elected.” And it was a good point: one of the first buds of democracy was promptly squelched by a minister appointed by the CPA and the Puppet Council.

The problems started after that. It seemed like every day brought a new story of some minor dissent or some major disagreement between the staff, the students and the new administration — and sometimes, even the American troops at the university got involved.

Before the troops pulled out of the Jadriya campus, they assigned “campus security,” which some say were trained by the soldiers. The campus security are a bunch of men between the ages of 20 and 40 (the majority, they say, are in their twenties). Students have been annoyed because the campus security seem to be there not so much to ensure safety, but to watch the students. Almost every day, there has been a new skirmish with the campus security, and any time someone tried to take the matter to higher authorities, they had to go through even more security to make an official complaint.

A few days ago, one of the students got into an argument with one of the security members over a parking space. The student apparently pulled in to a “reserved” parking spot and was rushing off to class when one of the security members asked him to remove his car. The computer engineering student argued, the campus security guy yelled, angry words were spoken, another security guard joined in — and suddenly the three were fighting. Friends of the student joined in the scuffle, and the security people suddenly pulled out knives ... more students joined in — everyone was enraged — and the security people asked for back up. The back up came in the form of several security guys in two pick-up trucks. They pulled up to the road leading to the department of computer and electrical engineering, pulled out their Klashnikovs and opened fire on the department building!

Students began dropping to the ground, windows were broken, chunks of beige plaster were dropping from the balconies and teachers rushed to herd students out of classes and into the corridors (to avoid windows). One of the students got into his car and went to get the dean of the college and some Iraqi Police. A few minutes later, the police pulled up and yelled at the security people to stop shooting. The security people then turned and began shooting in the direction of the police. The police pulled out their guns and began firing threatening shots to get the campus security to stop. The dean came along — a small, earnest man, pale and bewildered, wondering what the problem was and was instantly greeted by terrified students, angry security guards and the IP.

The students went home that day, enraged and disoriented, unable to continue classes. Luckily, injuries were minor. A few scrapes from the knives, a few bruises, and some mental scars, probably, but nothing else. Since that day, they have been on a strike — demanding an official apology from the campus security and a limit to their power, i.e. they shouldn’t get to fire at a bunch of students over a parking space...

Today (well, yesterday, technically it’s almost dawn here) there were some more explosions in the city centre ... not sure where it’s coming from but someone said it was near the Green Zone again. Nothing on the internet about it.

But, other than irate security guards, explosions in the capital, bombing in Tikrit, strikes in Nassriya over the security situation, a few assassinations, some abductions, car bombs, frightened humanitarian organizations, and exhausted people — everything is just rosy ... sigh ... Allah Kareem.

Sunday 15 February, 2004

Dedicated to the memory of L.A.S.

So Happy Valentine’s Day ... although it’s the 15th. It still feels like the 14th here because I’m not asleep ... it’s the extension of yesterday.

Do you know what yesterday marked? It marked the 13th anniversary of the Amiriyah Shelter massacre — February 13, 1991. Can you really call it an “anniversary?” Anniversary brings to mind such happy things and yet is there any other word? Please send it along if you know it.

February 12, 1991, marked one of the days of the small Eid, Eid ul-Fitr. Of course it also marked one of the heaviest days of bombing during the Gulf War. No one was in the mood for celebration. Most families remained at home because there wasn’t even gasoline to travel from one area to the next. The more fortunate areas had bomb shelters and people from all over the neighbourhood would get together inside of the shelter during the bombing. That year, they also got together inside of the shelters to celebrate Eid Al-Fitr with their neighbours and friends.

Iraqis don’t go to shelters for safety reasons so much as for social reasons. It’s a great place to be during a bombing. There’s water, electricity and a feeling of serenity and safety that is provided as much by the solid structure as by the congregation of smiling friends and family. Being with a large group of people helps make things easier during war – it’s like courage and stamina travel from one person to the next and increase exponentially with the number of people collected.

So the families in the Amiriyah area decided they’d join up in the shelter to have a nice Eid dinner and then the men and boys over the age of 15 would leave to give the women and children some privacy. Little did they know, leaving them behind, that it would be the last time they would see the wife/daughter/son/fiancé/sister/infant...

I can imagine the scene after the men left at around midnight — women sat around, pouring out steaming istikans of tea, passing out Eid kilaycha and chocolate. Kids would run around the shelter shrieking and laughing like they owned the huge playground under the earth. Teenage girls would sit around gossiping about guys or clothes or music or the latest rumour about Sara or Lina or Fatima. The smells would mingle — tea, baked goods, rice ... comfortable smells that made one imagine, for a few seconds, that they were actually at home.

The sirens would begin shrieking – the women and children would pause in the midst of eating or scolding, say a brief prayer in their heart and worry about their loved ones above the ground — the men who refused to remain inside of the shelter in order to make room for their wives and kids.

The bombs fell hard and fast at around 4 a.m. The first smart bomb went through the ventilation, through the first floor of the shelter — leaving a gaping hole — and to the bottom “basement” of the shelter where there were water tanks and propane tanks for heating water and food. The second missile came immediately after and finished off what the first missile missed. The doors of the advanced shelter immediately shut automatically — locking over 400 women and children inside.

It turned from a shelter into an inferno; explosions and fire rose from the lower level up to the level that held the women and children and the water rose with it, boiling and simmering. Those who did not burn to death immediately or die of the impact of the explosions, boiled to death or were steamed in the 900+ º F heat.

We woke in the morning to see the horrors on the news. We watched as the Iraqi rescue workers walked inside of the shelter and came out crying and screaming — dragging out bodies so charred, they didn’t look human. We saw the people in the area — men, women and children — clinging to the fence surrounding the shelter and screaming with terror; calling out name after name ... searching for a familiar face in the middle of the horror.

The bodies were laid out one beside the other — all the same size — shrunk with heat and charred beyond recognition. Some were in the fetal position, curled up, as if trying to escape within themselves. Others were stretched out and rigid, like the victims were trying to reach out a hand to save a loved one or reach for safety. Most remained unrecognizable to their families — only the size and fragments of clothing or jewellery indicating the gender and the general age.

Amiriyah itself is an area full of school teachers, college professors, doctors and ordinary employees—a middle-class neighbourhood with low houses, friendly people and a growing mercantile population. It was a mélange of Sunnis and Shi’a and Christians — all living together peacefully and happily. After the 13th of February, it became the area everyone avoided. For weeks and weeks the whole area stank of charred flesh and the air was thick and grey with ash. The beige stucco houses were suddenly all covered with black pieces of cloth scrolled with the names of dead loved ones. “Ali Jabbar mourns the loss of his wife, daughter, and two sons...”; “Muna Rahim mourns the loss of her mother, sisters, brothers and son...”

Within days, the streets were shut with black cloth tents set up by the grief-stricken families to receive mourners from all over Iraq who came to weep and ease some of the shock and horror. And it was horrible. Everyone lost someone — or knew someone who lost several people.

My first visit to the shelter came several years after it was bombed. We were in the neighbourhood visiting a friend of my mother. She was a retired schoolteacher who quit after the Amiriyah bombing. She had no thoughts of quitting but after schools resumed in April of 1991, she went on the first day to greet her class of 2nd graders. She walked into the classroom and found only 11 of her 23 students. “I thought they had decided not to come,” I remember her saying to my mother in hushed tones, later that year, “but when I took attendance, they told me the rest of the children had died in the shelter.” She quit soon after that because she claimed her heart had broken that day and she couldn’t look at the children anymore without remembering the tragedy.

I decided to pay my respects to the shelter and the victims. It was October and I asked the retired teacher if the shelter was open (hoping in my heart of hearts she’d say “no”). She nodded her head and said that it was indeed open — it was always open. I walked the two short blocks to the shelter and found it in the midst of houses — the only separation being a wide street. There were children playing in the street and we stopped one of them who was kicking around a ball. Is there anyone in the shelter? He nodded his head solemnly — yes the shelter was maskoon.

Now the word maskoon can mean two different things in Arabic. It can mean “lived in” and it can also mean “haunted.” My imagination immediately carried me away — could the child mean haunted? I’m not one who believes in ghosts and monsters — the worst monsters are people and if you survive war and bombs, ghosts are a piece of cake ... yet something inside of me knew that a place where 400 people had lost their lives so terribly — almost simultaneously — had to be “haunted” somehow by their souls.

We walked inside and the place was dark and cold, even for the warm October weather. The only light filtering in came from the gaping hole in the roof of the shelter where the American missiles had fallen. I wanted to hold my breath — expecting to smell something I didn’t want to ... but you can only do that for so long. The air didn’t smell stale at all; it simply smelled sad — like the winds that passed through this place were sorrowful winds. The far corners of the shelter were so dark it was almost easy to imagine real people crouching in them.

The walls were covered with pictures. Hundreds of pictures of smiling women and children — toothy grins, large, gazelle eyes and the gummy smiles of babies. Face after face after face stared back at us from the dull grey walls and it felt endless and hopeless. I wondered what had happened to their families, or rather their remaining families after the catastrophe. We knew one man who had lost his mind after losing his wife and children inside of the shelter. I wondered how many others had met the same fate ... and I wondered how much life was worth after you lost the people most precious to you.

At the far end of the shelter we heard voices. I strained my ears to listen and we searched them out — there were 4 or 5 Japanese tourists and a small, slight woman who was speaking haltingly in English. She was trying to explain how the bomb had fallen and how the people had died. She used elaborate hand gestures and the Japanese tourists nodded their heads, clicked away with their cameras and clucked sympathetically.

“Who is she?” I whispered to my mother’s friend.

“She takes care of the place...” she replied in a low voice.

“Why don’t they bring in someone who can speak fluently — this is frustrating to see…” I whispered back, watching the Japanese men shake hands with the woman before turning to go.

My mother’s friend shook her head sadly, “They tried, but she just refuses to leave. She has been taking care of the place since the rescue teams finished cleaning it out ... She lost 8 of her children here.” I was horrified with that fact as the woman approached us. Her face was stern, yet gentle — like that of a school principal or … like that of a mother of 8 children. She shook hands with us and took us around to see the shelter. This is where we were. This is where the missiles came in ... this is where the water rose up to ... this is where the people stuck to the walls.

Her voice was strong and solid in Arabic. We didn’t know what to answer. She continued to tell us how she had been in the shelter with 8 of her 9 children and how she had left minutes before the missiles hit to get some food and a change of clothes for one of the toddlers. She was in the house when the missiles struck and her first thoughts were, “Thank God the kids are in the shelter.” When she ran back to the shelter from her house across the street, she found it had been struck and the horror had begun. She had watched the corpses dragged out for days and days and refused to believe they were all gone for months after. She hadn’t left the shelter since — it had become her home.

She pointed to the vague ghosts of bodies stuck to the concrete on the walls and ground and the worst one to look at was that of a mother, holding a child to her breast, like she was trying to protect it or save it. “That should have been me,” she said, and we didn’t know what to answer.

It was then that I knew that the place was indeed maskoon or haunted ... since 13 February, 1991 it has been haunted by the living who were cursed with their own survival.

Important Side Note: for those of you with the audacity to write to me claiming it was a legitimate target because “American officials assumed it was for military purposes” just remember Protocol 1 of the 1977 Geneva Conventions, Part IV, Section 1, Chapter III, Article 52: 3. In case of doubt whether an object which is normally dedicated to civilian purposes, such as a place of worship, a house or other dwelling or a school, is being used to make an effective contribution to military action, it shall be presumed not to be so used. (Like that would matter to you anyway.)

Monday 26 April, 2004

Of Chalabi, flags and anthems

There are two different kinds of strain. There’s the physical strain of carrying 40 pails of water up and down the stairs to fill the empty water tank on the roof — after the 4th or 5th pail of water, you can literally see your muscles quivering under your skin and without the bucket of water, your arms somehow feel weightless, almost nonexistent. Then there’s mental strain ... that is when those forty buckets of water are being emptied in your head and there’s a huge flow of thoughts and emotions that threaten to overwhelm you.

I think everyone I know is suffering from that mental strain. You can see it in the eyes and hear it in the taut voices that threaten to break with the burden of emotion. We’re all watching things carefully and trying to focus on leading semi-normal lives all at once. The situation in the south seems to be deteriorating and we hear of fresh new deaths every day. Fighting has broken out in Fallujah again and I’m not quite sure what has happened to the ceasefire. It’s hard to know just what is going on. There’s a sense of collective exhaustion in the air.

I’ve been reading articles about Ahmed Chalabi being (very hopefully) on his way out. I can’t believe it took this long for Washington to come to the conclusion that he is completely useless. Did anyone there actually believe he was going to be greeted as the leader of a new era? We were watching him carefully during the last few weeks, trying to see what he would do or say during the attacks on Fallujah and all the fighting in the south. That was a crucial time ... we were waiting for some reaction from the Puppets — any reaction. Some condemning words, some solidarity with the Iraqis being killed and left homeless but there was a strange sort of silence. One of them threatened to step down, but that was only after outraged Iraqis showed an inclination to eat them alive if something wasn’t done about the situation.

Chalabi has only lately ventured out from under his rock (in the usual flashy tie) to cry out that Lakhdar Brahimi, the special UN representative sent by Kofi Annan to check out the possibility of elections, is completely and totally biased against Shi’a. So now Chalabi seems to consider himself a champion of Shi’a everywhere in Iraq. The amusing thing about this is the fact that, apparently, no one has told Chalabi that he has become the joke of the Shi’a community. We (Sunnis and Shi’a) tease each other with things like, “So, the Shi’a man of the moment is Chalabi, ah?!” and the phrase is usually received with an indignant outcry and a comparison of the man of the moment to ... Britney Spears, for example.

I stare at him when he gives his speeches on television and cringe with the thought that someone out there could actually have thought he was representative of any faction of Iraqi society. I can hardly believe that he was supposed to be the one to target the Iraqi intellectuals and secularists. He’s the tasteless joke Bush and Co. sent along with the soldiers and tanks to promote democracy — rather like one of those plastic blow-up dolls teenage boys practice dancing with before the prom.

I also heard today that the Puppets are changing the flag. It looks nothing like the old one and at first I was angry and upset, but then I realized that it wouldn’t make a difference. The Puppets are illegitimate, hence their constitution is null and void and their flag is theirs alone. It is as representative of Iraq as they are — it might as well have “Made in America” stitched along the inside seam. It can be their flag and every time we see it, we’ll see Chalabi et al. against its pale white background.

My email buddy and fellow Iraqi S.A. in America said it best in her email, “I am sure we are all terribly excited about the extreme significance of the adoption by the completely illegitimate Iraq Puppet Council of a new national piece of garishly coloured cloth. Of course the design of the new national rag was approved by the always tastefully dressed self-declared counter terrorism expert viceroy of Iraq, Paul Bremer, who is well known for wearing expensive hand-stitched combat boots with thousand dollar custom tailored suits and silk designer ties. The next big piece of news will be the new pledge of allegiance to said national rag, and the empire for which it stands. The American author of said pledge has yet to be announced.”

For the coming national anthem, may I suggest Chalabi, Allawi, Hakeem and Talabani in a gaudy, Iraqi version of “Lady Marmalade?”