[Marxism] Everyday life in Baghdad: An Iraqi woman's account

["Fred Feldman" <ffeldman@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

TRANSLATION: Everyday life in Baghdad: An Iraqi woman's account (Le
Monde,
Feb. 4)

[On Friday, *Le Monde* (Paris) published this pseudonymous account of
everyday
life in Baghdad, written by a 49-year-old middle-class woman with a
family and
a job, describing her everyday life in Baghdad.  --  "Nadia Ahmed"
describes
an existence completely dominated by fear.  --  Not particularly
political
herself, she opposes the fundamentalists, but hates the war, despises
Americans and sympathizes with the resistance to the occupation.  --
She
decided not to participate in the Jan. 30 election.  --Mark {Jensen,
translator)]Every

[Translated from *Le Monde* (Paris)]

http://www.ufppc.org/content/view/2221/

Horizons

Narration

AN IRAQI WOMAN'S JOURNAL
By Nadia Ahmed

** In order to tell about a Baghdad sapped by violence, *Le Monde* asked
for a
written account from a 49-year-old French-speaking woman of middle-class

origins and no marked political commitments.  She describes her fear of
attacks, of fundamentalism, and of Americans. **

Le Monde (Paris)
February 4, 2005

http://www.lemonde.fr/web/article/0,1-0@2-3230,36-396901,0.html

Fear.  That's the word that came to mind when I sat down to write this
text.
What else could I have chosen, except perhaps "anguish," "trembling," or

"disgust"!  These words are my daily lot since the accursed night of
March 20,
2003, and the beginning of the Americans' war against my country.  As an
Iraqi
woman, the mother of two children, Samer, 16, and Ahmed, 10, I can say
that
today fear accompanies me everywhere, even in my bed, which has become a

collective one, shared with my sons, for fear of dying apart, in our own

rooms, if a rocket or missile should ever by mistake crash in upon us
during
the night.  Fear, again, of waking up in the morning to find them dead
and far
from me . . . Fear, too, of seeing Americans break in the door to search
our
house, as they do so often elsewhere.

I don't know why but the situation got markedly worse beginning in the
spring
of 2004, a few weeks after the Karbala attacks -- *a hundred dead*.
Before
that, the situation was certainly chaotic, but women could more or less
move
about.  For myself, I went about without too much fear, doing what I had
to do
for my work, in Baghdad and elsewhere.  In May, that changed.  Every
foreigner
became a potential target.  I saw a lot of them, I started to be afraid
for
them.  I decided to look for a job that would keep me in the capital.

That didn't end my fears, though.  Even at home.  The din of low-flying
aircraft rends the silence and violates our personal space.  Not to
mention
the constant muttering of the electric generators.  We have a
subscription to
a line that gives us about five hours a day.  The cuts punctuate our
lives.
On Friday, a day of rest, I get busy as soon as the current comes on,
and
sometimes I even get up at six in the morning to do the wash and vacuum
. . .
Sometimes, I've only accomplished half the cleaning when the current is
interrupted.  If I have the strength, I continue the wash by hand,
otherwise I
wait for the current to come back on, five hours later.  All that leaves

little room for intellectual activities.  Reading has become an
out-of-place
luxury!

Every morning, when I wake up, I think of the morning explosions.  They
often
occur between 7 and 9 o'clock.  So as I eat my breakfast, around 7:30,
I'm
listening.  That doesn't stop me from starting at each explosion, or
even
every time a door slams unexpectedly.  Selfishly, I say to myself:
"Thank
goodness we're not the victims and that the children haven't left yet
for
school."  But soon I feel ridiculous.  What about the others?  And who
are
they, these "others"?  How many orphans, widows, and widowers has this
explosion been able to make?  Kissing my boys and my husband later, I
feel my
heart constrict:  will I be with them again at the end of the day?

When elections got closer, schools designated as polling places were
threatened.  Ahmed's school was not spared.  That, of course, only
intensified
my fear.  Especially the day when I called home to make sure, as usual,
that
the boys had got home safely.  "Mom!" exclaimed Ahmed, "they sent us
home
because there was a bomb at school!"  Immediately I imagined him
terrified,
looking desperately for me.  I trembled, but I tried to control myself
so as
not to make him even more afraid.  Back home, I called his teacher.  She
told
me that 200 people were at a meeting of parents and students when the
National
Guard ordered the evacuation.  Several time bombs were discovered around
the
school later.

Two weeks later, around 11 p.m., an explosion shook the neighborhood and
made
our house shake.  It was right nearby, apparently.  To be safe we didn't
go
out.  The next day, at school, I first saw the stricken face of the
director
of the school, then the shards of glass on the ground, the orderlies
sweeping
them up, and the assistant director taking an inventory of the damage.
The
bomb had been placed in front of the gate.  Ahmed could have been killed
if it
had exploded during classes.

>From the first day of the conflict, in March 2003, Ahmed and his friends

started playing war, asking for little soldiers, machine guns, tanks,
and
planes.  Ahmed often imitates the Americans.  Weapon in hand, he kicks
open
the doors shouting "Go! Go! Go!"  He always chooses the GIs' side, their

technology fascinates him.  He's glad when Iraqis are killed.  His
cousins
talk the same way, and use the same logic:  that of whoever's stronger.
It
doesn't matter how much I explain to them that they're occupiers and
that it's
necessary to defend one's country against occupiers, or point out how
much
damage the war is doing, it doesn't matter, they're so traumatized that
it
seems impossible for me to cure them of it in such a short time.
Violence is
turning them into agitated, perturbed, anxious children, obsessed by the
fear
of being killed or kidnapped, which happens often enough to others.
Three
classmates of my older son were kidnapped before being freed for
$30,000.

Despite all these fears, which sometimes become obsessive, I still drive
my
car to work.  The number of women at the wheel is way down, though.  For
one
simple reason:  I'm the only one on the road that leads to my office!
Now and
then, I see one or two others.  They seem frozen, staring fixedly
straight
ahead.  When our looks cross, it's for support and encouragement,
knowing that
we're helpless against any aggressor who may appear at any moment.

I'm just as afraid of the American convoys.  Every morning, as I leave
the
house, my obsession is to avoid them so as not to end up like all the
people
who've been killed by their firing or their Humvees.  Woe to whoever
gets too
close to them!  It's marked on the back of the Humvees:  "Warning,
danger of
death:  keep 100 meters away or you risk being killed!"  A few weeks
ago,
their tanks crushed a family in their car.  Yet it was parked as it was
supposed to be, alongside the curb.

Every day, a convoy goes by as I leave work.  One afternoon, while I was

getting ready to cross the street, the shouts of an American soldier at
a
motorcyclist about fifteen years old terrorized me.  The soldier was
ready to
shoot this adolescent who was headed toward him.  I almost threw myself
on him
to protect him, but in the end I shouted and waved at him to stop.
Distracted, he was looking in another direction.  Seeing the Americans,
he
braked in time, but he could have died stupidly, a victim of his own
carelessness.  He no doubt has parents, dreams, a life of his own.  May
God
curse the Americans and those who support them!

Sure, other people are contributing to the present bloodbath.  Arabs
from
neighboring countries come to avenge themselves on the Americans.
Criminals
take advantage of the chaos to commit their crimes.  Former Baathists
are
trying to recover from their complete loss of status.  But there is also
the
true resistance.  Where is it coming from?  You can't forget that the
image of
America is linked, in the minds of many Iraqis and Arabs, to violence,
to
Vietnam, to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, to the embargo imposed on
our
country for thirteen years, to the tortures committed by the U.S.
soldiers, to
their "raids" on houses.  Given all that, how can it be surprising to
see
resistants spring up among the victims?  I'm not trying to justify the
violence -- every act committed against Iraqis and the infrastructures
is a
crime --, but as long as the Americans behave like occupiers and stay in
Iraq,
the violence will no doubt continue.

Today, I feel like a foreigner in my own country.  All the atrocities
that my
dear city has endured, the blood that it's seen spilled, the darkness in
which
it is plunged shed no glory upon this atrocious war.  Baghdad is sad,
Baghdad
is suffering.  Everywhere, there are high protective walls, that take up
half
the roadway, and cause exasperating traffic jams.  Everywhere, you have
to
wait, for hours sometimes, for gasoline, kerosene, or butane gas.  The
shortages are so great that at home we have to all stay in one room to
conserve kerosene.  If he wants some solitude to study, my oldest son
has to
endure the cold of the living room.

My neighbor, Ahlam, recently spent seven hours in line to get some
kerosene.
At the same time, her husband waited two days (sleeping in his car) for
seven
gallons of gasoline, which is the most they allow.  Their children, at
home,
were on their own.  Coming home, Ahlam surprised one of her sons with a
knife
in his hand, as if he wanted to cut his younger brother's throat.
Grabbing
the knife, my neighbor asked him why he was behaving like that.  "I'm
doing
like on TV!" he answered.  In the Iraq of 2005, children have only that:

television.  With the family, we've stopped going out to the restaurant
or for
walks.  We haven't been out since the war:  it's better to stay home and
avoid
the worst.

In addition to all the violence we've lived through, there's the
violence
staring out at us from the newspapers.  The most painful news is the
piece
three weeks ago announcing the assassination of a friend, Huda Thia
Hassan,
and her brother Ali.  An amateur painter, ceramicist, refined and
cultivated,
Huda was killed by criminals who wanted her car!  What a waste, my God,
what a
waste!  That night, I wept for Huda till dawn, and her image will never
leave
me.  Women are rarer and rare in the street.  Kidnappings, hostile men's

looks, and insecurity are the main reasons for this.  The most
courageous
women go out and shop as quickly as they can, hurrying home before it
gets
dark.  Gripped with fear, I sometimes go shopping with another neighbor,
May,
a 50-year-old woman.  Each of us is as tense as can be!  Once we get
back, we
can breathe again and praise God that we're safe and sound!  Women are
kidnapped in broad daylight, others have been killed because they were
wearing
tight jeans.

A month ago, a car full of masked men was stopped in front of the
institute
where my husband works.  The guards who were supposed to protect the
place ran
away.  One of the masked men got out of the car.  Addressing himself to
the
institute's receptionist, he made threats:  "Tell all your women
students and
workers to wear the veil!  Beginning tomorrow, if we se a single one
without a
veil, she'll be dragged by the hair in the mud in front of you!"

The news spread quickly.  Some girls decided to abandon their studies
and stay
home.  Others, already veiled, only showed indifference.  And those who
wanted
to continue studying decided to start wearing the veil against their
will.
The next day, only a few were still bare-headed.  As for me, I'm not
veiled
and I'm against the wearing of the veil, and this incident was
frightening,
and fed my fear.  What would I do if Iraqi women were forced to wear the
veil?
I couldn't stand such a requirement, such an annihilation!

The elections?  You've probably guessed:  I didn't participate.  For
security
reasons above all, and then, out of principle.  Many political
tendencies and
cities were, in my opinion, excluded; which makes this a lame election
whose
results were predetermined!

A friend who's a doctor, who lives near a polling place, told me she was
on in
her doorway, watching the voters, when she saw a young man hugging the
wall
across the street.  His behavior was strange.  My friend had hardly gone
back
inside, when she heard an explosion:  it was a suicide attack.  Heading
toward
the four policemen who wanted to search him, the young man with the
suspicious
behavior had blown up a belt packed with explosives.  His head landed on
the
terrace of a house next door, and an arm in my friend's room.  The
policemen
and five other people were killed.  My friend saw a neighbor come up
begging:
"Carry me, I can't walk."  A shard had pierced his back and was still in
him.
She screamed for a car to take him to the hospital.  But no vehicles
were
allowed on the road.  Twenty minutes later, he died of his wounds on her

doorstep.  One more victim of this war that has made so many orphans, so
many
widows and widowers, so many poor people, so many people with lost
limbs, so
many innocent prisoners, so many criminals at large, and so many women
cloistered in their homes, condemned to wonder what the future of their
country will be.

--(For obvious security reasons, the name "Nadia Ahmed" is a pseudonym.)

--
Translated by Mark K. Jensen
Associate Professor of French
Department of Languages and Literatures
Pacific Lutheran University
Tacoma, WA 98447-0003
Phone: 253-535-7219
Home page: http://www.plu.edu/~jensenmk/
E-mail: jensenmk@xxxxxxx






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