Enduring gunbattles, kidnappings and car bombs -- = now common=20 dangers -- have taken their toll on residents

Sunday, October 10, 2004

BY BORZOU DARAGAHI

For the Star-Ledger

BAGHDAD -- A blue and white Mercedes bus riddled with bullet = holes sits=20 along a pockmarked road in Sadr City, the dilapidated neighborhood = in=20 Iraq's capital that has been overrun by raw sewage and scarred by = nightly=20 gunbattles.

Not far from the bus, a smiling Mahdi Army fighter is giving = orders. He=20 gives his name as Ali "Abu Hossein" and says he is 24.

=20

He has perfect teeth and an infectious laugh.

He will lead a group of animated young men on an evening of = what passes=20 for fun here -- resetting remote-control bombs that failed to = detonate=20 during the previous night's battles with American soldiers.

"Inshallah," or God willing, he says, "there will be more = fighting=20 tonight."

His group, the ragged followers of rebel Shi'a cleric Muqtada = al-Sadr,=20 has fought with and killed troops from the United States, = including=20 battles in Najaf in August and all around the country's south in = April.=20 Some of his soldiers are little more than 12 years old. Had the = boys grown=20 up in the United States, they would be learning about the Civil = War in=20 school and confronting the vagaries of how things as different as = video=20 games and girls really work.

As they plant their bombs into streets, a group of Iraqi police = stands=20 not 20 feet away.

"The police are with us," Ali says.

"Or, they are afraid," adds another young man.

Fear is ravaging Baghdad. Its partners are the hatred, crime = and=20 violence that intrude into daily life. Eighteen months after the = fall of=20 Baghdad, this city of 5 million has become more unpredictable and = violent.=20

A simple trip to the supermarket turns disastrous when a = gunfight=20 erupts. A well-to-do doctor drives a jalopy while his two Mercedes = are=20 kept on cinder blocks, fearful he'll be carjacked. Rockets tear = into=20 hotels in the heart of the city's most secure areas.

And the car bombs, which happen daily now, are so common that = some=20 people don't even halt sentences for the explosions, much as a New = Yorker=20 might ignore a car alarm.

This is the emerging picture of life in the streets of Baghdad, = where=20 citizens, U.S. government personnel and other foreigners live with = the=20 constant fear for their personal safety and new questions about = the=20 country's future abound.

"I would prefer that the new leader will be Saddam Hussein = because I=20 would rather vote for Saddam Hussein than any else," said Wafa = Hamid, a=20 41-year-old engineer at the Ministry of Trade and a mother of two. = "He was=20 one of the most hated people in the history of Iraq. And I was = against him=20 more than anyone else. But if he runs for election, I'm going to = vote for=20 him."

A REPORTER'S TALE

This is my eighth trip to Iraq in = two=20 years. Born in Iran, I spent almost my entire life in New York and = Chicago. The events of Sept. 11, 2001, drew me to the Middle East = and=20 Iraq. I have built my life around the story, moving to Tehran and = recently=20 marrying another Middle East correspondent. She and I have yet to=20 honeymoon.=20

Instead, we came to Baghdad.

I have seen many intense, seemingly contradictory images here = -- from=20 freshly printed newspapers heralding the beginning of a free = press, to=20 bodies decapitated by car bombs that punctuate the rage of those = opposed=20 to the U.S.-led occupation.

Still, the fear and trauma Iraqis live with surprise me during = a hasty=20 visit earlier this month to the Bab al Sharji "thieves market," a=20 sprawling bazaar in the old section of town. The market is not far = from=20 the statue of Saddam that U.S. Marines toppled on April 9, 2003, = marking=20 the symbolic end of his reign.

I find myself among pickpockets, car thieves and prostitutes as = I=20 gravitate to a 13-year-old boy named Allawi Ali Haydar.

Allawi, wearing a gray sports jersey, is selling videos of = local=20 guerrillas fighting American forces and the Iraqi National Guard. = A screen=20 mounted in his booth titillates shoppers with bloody images and = clips of=20 the Mahdi Army militiamen opening fire from alleyways.

The videos, which cost less than a dollar, sell briskly.

"I don't feel good when I see them," says the boy, something = like=20 sadness flickering in his brown eyes. "Because I live in Sadr City = and=20 most of the events shown are in Sadr City, and I don't want such = things to=20 happen in my part of town."

The market is part of a busy commercial district.

Tribal men in flowing dishdashas examine stereos. Baghdad = sophisticates=20 in suits walk toward government offices. Professional women eye = clothing=20 shops. Lithe, dark-skinned Iraqis from the south sell fruit while=20 traditional women wrapped in all-covering black abayas beg for = money.

The shops and stalls are filled with consumer goods denied = citizens=20 under Saddam: shoes from Turkey, digital cameras from Japan, air=20 conditioning units from Iran, shampoos from Syria.

Salaries of government employees have multiplied dramatically = and a new=20 class of citizens are financially better off.

Still, up to 60 percent of Iraqis are officially unemployed, = arguably=20 one of the reconstruction effort's most striking failures. All = around the=20 bazaar are restless, unemployed young men and teenagers milling = about,=20 hunting for work as porters or cleaners.

The headlines on Radio Sawa, the popular U.S.-backed station, = offer=20 them little in the way of hope:

"Sunni clerics abducted and murdered in Sadr City ..."

"Three Kurdish peshmerga beheaded ..."

"Intense fighting on Haifa Street ..."

"New Abu Musab al-Zarqawi communiqu=E9 promising more violence = against=20 collaborators ..."

Then, the news ends and a Nelly Furtado song starts playing. =

"I'm like a bird, I'll only fly away ..."

"I don't know where my soul is. I don't know where my home is." =

THE PARANOIA

There is a protocol to everything = journalists,=20 contractors and other Westerners do here.=20

We wear local clothes, like drab plaid button-down shirts, and = drive=20 low-key vehicles, like secondhand Korean-made Daewoo sedans. If = you're=20 male, you grow facial hair. If you're female, you wear a head = scarf over=20 every strand of hair on your head.

Trips outside the capital on Iraq's treacherous highways = require=20 careful planning. And for most of us, paranoia is a constant = companion and=20 a sense of fear spreads across our bodies like a cool draft = without=20 warning.

It is still hard not to think of Georges Malbrunot and = Christian=20 Chesnot, the French reporters kidnapped on the road to Najaf. I = last saw=20 Chesnot in Paris. He was pondering coming back to Iraq. Malbrunot = was at=20 my wedding in July, and he had been talking about settling down = back home=20 with his new girlfriend.

They now have been missing for 40 days, among the growing = number of=20 foreigners and Iraqis kidnapped for ransom or political goals. = Most of=20 those kidnapping victims actually are Iraqis, snatched for ransom = by=20 criminal gangs.

Mayada Farho was one of the lucky ones to escape the kidnappers = with=20 her life.

Farho was abducted recently from the sidewalk in front of her = home by=20 gun-toting men. In a desperate quest, her uncle Behnam Farho, a=20 44-year-old goldsmith, went on a weeklong odyssey into Baghdad's = new=20 criminal underworld.

At one point, he sat in an outdoor teahouse in Sadr City and = had an=20 awkward chat with a whiskey-guzzling crime kingpin who he hoped = held a=20 clue to Mayada's fate.

Behnam paused and asked the man if it was safe to be seen with = him --=20 "What if the police come now?"

The mobster laughed.

"Before the police even left the station," he told Behnam, "I = would get=20 a call on my cell phone."

A few weeks later, the Farhos paid the kidnappers a $10,000 = ransom, all=20 Behnam and family members from as far away as Chicago could cobble = together.

Mayada, 23, eventually was sent home in a taxi and Behnam = started=20 selling his family's property.

He was headed to Syria.

"There's no place for us in Iraq," Behnam says during an = interview in=20 his niece's modest Baghdad home this month. "Even if I wound up in = a poor=20 country in Africa, I'd be happy, as long as I could sleep at night = without=20 fear."

FORTITUDE AMID FEAR

Hanna Abdul Hakim, a high school = teacher, walks hand in hand with her two children, ages 6 and 8, = down a=20 city street the other day, less than a week after a string of = bombs killed=20 at least 35 children in the western part of the city.=20

She explains how one of the bombs exploded on the highway a few = hundred=20 yards from her house and the children have been terrified since, = refusing=20 to stay in the house unless she is with them.

So Hakim's employer allows her to leave work every day at noon, = pick up=20 her kids from grammar school and bring them to work with her while = she=20 finishes afternoon classes.

"We're scared for our kids mostly," she says. "But we cannot = keep our=20 children locked up. They have so much energy. We can no longer = take them=20 to the park or public places because of the explosions. They're = afraid of=20 the explosions."

School started in early October, a few weeks later than usual = because=20 of security concerns. Many parents, Hakim says, have considered = pulling=20 their children out of school altogether until life in the city = achieves=20 some level of normalcy.

Several Baghdad schools are much better equipped than they were = under=20 Saddam, and several were renovated and refurbished as goodwill = gestures by=20 the Americans.

Officials at the new Education Ministry are working hard to = revamp the=20 curriculum and purge it of the pro-Saddam rhetoric and slogans. = Salaries=20 for teachers also have been bolstered, from a few dollars a month = to as=20 much as $150.

Challenges in and around the schools remain.

Most of Iraq gets no more than 12 hours a day of electricity, = so the=20 fans and air conditioners in schools, which were donated by = coalition=20 forces, can be useless at times.

And posters of fundamentalist religious leaders, including = Muqtada=20 al-Sadr, adorn the walls of many schools, placed there by bands of = religious enforcers.

Other posters of Shi'a clerics adorn the entrance to Education = Ministry=20 buildings, and a wall near one school is covered with graffiti = that reads:=20 "Long live the resistance. Long live the holy warriors. The = occupier will=20 leave, by God. Traitors and spies beware."

FROM LIBERATION TO INSURGENCY

The first time I = visited Iraq,=20 in the fall of 2002, it was in the country's Kurdish north, which = actively=20 supported the war. The Kurds' view of the war as a liberation of = Iraq was=20 infectious, and when the northern front fell, I followed Kurdish=20 militiamen into cities where locals embraced them with flowers, = hugs and=20 sweets.=20

That was before the prisoner abuse scandals, beheadings, = kidnappings,=20 car bombings and airstrikes of the past year. That was also before = more=20 than 1,000 U.S. troops died here.

Today, American soldiers have a difficult time understanding = the=20 complexities confronting them.

"I like the Iraqi people," Pfc. Isaac Staley, 30, of = Springfield, Ore.,=20 says as he works a joint U.S. Army-Iraqi police checkpoint. "But = there's=20 so much separating them from us, from our Western civilization, = that it's=20 hard to get past. There's prejudice ... prejudice on our side, and = there's=20 prejudice on their side."

The Iraqi police radio crackles out an all-points bulletin. "A = guy with=20 a beard named Mohammad," says the dispatcher, a description that = could fit=20 hundreds of thousands of Iraqis. "If you see him, detain him." =

A Black Hawk helicopter roars by overhead. Then another.

It is not hard to find U.S. soldiers in Baghdad who are stunned = by what=20 they consider the ignorance, ingratitude and hostility of Iraqis. =

In moments of candor, beyond the watch of their commanders, = many=20 question their mission. They are under frequent fire. They have = seriously=20 curtailed patrols and rarely venture off their base in unarmored = vehicles.=20 They suspect the same people who smile at them during the day are = the ones=20 firing rocket-propelled grenades at them by night.

They trust no one, fear everyone.

"It's more of an insurgency than a war," says U.S. Army Capt. = Jeff=20 Mersiowsky, of Tucson, Ariz. "Don't trust anyone, not even the = 10-year-old=20 kid on the street. You're not nervous when you're out there on the = street.=20 You're nervous when you're at the base thinking about being out = there."=20

In reality, U.S. troops are confronting a fraction of Iraqis = who are=20 fighting the Americans. A larger group of Iraqis is actively = trying to=20 find a way out of the country, while the majority of the citizens = remain=20 mired in postwar Iraqi life.

People struggle to find gasoline because pipelines and other = facilities=20 have been sabotaged.

They hunt for cooking gas along roads that are choked by = monstrous=20 traffic congestion, frequent roadblocks and checkpoints.

They also suffer a crisis of identity and values. Many longtime = secular=20 Iraqis have suddenly stopped drinking alcohol and have taken up = praying=20 five times a day.

"America has attacked Islam, and I feel compelled to defend = it," said=20 one such Iraqi, Falah Esmail al-Dulaimi, 31, an antiques shop = owner.

They tangle with the country's re-emerging bureaucracy, which = despite=20 much of the bad news in Iraq, has slowly begun to assert itself. = People=20 are paying taxes, civil service employees are working again, the = country's=20 hospitals and schools are up and running, and the water and = sanitation=20 levels are up to prewar levels.

Most importantly, that bureaucracy also is rebuilding Iraq's = army and=20 civil security forces. With the help of the United States, it is = training=20 thousands of new police officers and soldiers.

Normalcy, say the new Iraq's few boosters, is just around the = corner.=20

"We believe this is natural, a result of the collapse of the = regime,"=20 says Hamid al-Bayati, the deputy foreign minister. "This has = happened=20 everywhere: the French Revolution, the Russian Revolution, Iranian = Revolution. When a dictatorial regime with 13 security = organizations, with=20 a huge army of a half-million or more collapses and the arms go = into the=20 hands of gangs, criminals and thieves, this is the obvious = result."

GLITCH COULD MEAN DEATH

A calamity has struck.=20

My laptop has died.

I call around desperately. And while it is not difficult to buy = another=20 one, I need to recover the data and interviews on my ailing drive. = Someone=20 recommends a computer shop near my hotel. The owner -- speaking = perfect=20 English -- tells me my hard drive is dead. He says he can't fix my = computer, that I need to go to Sana'a Street, Baghdad's Silicon = Alley.=20

I dress local in a cruddy button-down shirt I bought for $2 at = the=20 bazaar last trip, gray slacks, dirty shoes, Baghdadi frown.

I go with my translator, Shamil, an Iraqi Christian and former = civil=20 engineer with whom I have worked for nearly a year and a half. =

"Don't speak too loud in English," I tell him.

"It's hard to remember," he says.

"Just picture me on al Jazeera with a knife to my neck," I say. =

"Don't worry," Shamil says. "They'll kill me before they kill = you."=20

On Sana'a Street, the slinky melodies of Arab pop tunes that = have been=20 downloaded to cell phones ring aloud.

The computer shop is something out of the movie "Blade Runner," = with=20 radio tubes, microchips, screwdrivers and hammers mixed together = on=20 shelves. The technician says he can repair my computer, but it = will take a=20 few hours. He says he can probably extract the data, too, but that = I=20 should stick around to make sure nothing is lost.

I have been told to never stay anywhere for longer than a few = minutes,=20 an hour tops, so I am now stuck between safeguarding my person and = my=20 data. I decide to play the odds and go with my data. I sit around = for a=20 couple hours before getting bored and heading to the streets, = where I get=20 lost in the window displays of colorful gadgets.

Sana'a Street, which sits across from Baghdad's University of=20 Technology, is one of my favorite places in the city. The computer = and=20 software engineering students from across the street populate = stores and=20 sidewalks, many speaking English. You can buy all manner of = high-tech=20 gear, flashcards, digital cameras and laptops. Pirated software is = everywhere.

Want to upgrade to Windows XP?

It'll cost you $3.

Eventually, I remember where I am and the fear creeps up on me = again. I=20 return to the computer shop and reclaim my laptop.

'WATCH YOUR BACK'

The passport offices are among the = most=20 popular places, and it is here you will find droves of young and = talented=20 Iraqis making arrangements to leave the country.=20

Ahmad Ibrahim, 21, worked as a translator for the U.S. Army, = one of the=20 most dangerous occupations in all of Iraq. He has lost three = fellow=20 translators, all good friends. People on the street tell him he is = a=20 traitor who deserves to be killed for working with Americans.

But it took a particularly gruesome day with his unit = patrolling Sadr=20 City to finally drive him to the passport office. Ibrahim = remembers the=20 intense gunfire of Sadr City and the battalion commander handing = him a=20 pistol with three words of wisdom: "Watch your back."

"I didn't sign up for this," Ibrahim says away from prying eyes = and=20 ears during a recent interview in my hotel room. "I just wanted to = be an=20 interpreter. I've been just like an American soldier. I've been = jumping=20 over fences, doing hard raids. I've been taking fire on patrol." =

The $800 a month can mask his mental anguish and cover the = movements in=20 his double life for only so many months.

"I want to leave, but it's still my country," he says. "I feel = so bad=20 about it. Everything is starting to get worse and worse."

Amid the darkness and confusion in stories of Iraqis like = Ibrahim,=20 there are flickers of hope.

Once isolated from its neighbors, Iraq is now integrated, = subject to=20 all the troubles, joys and dilemmas of the contemporary world. = Iraqis can=20 speak their minds, and many of them recognize this as a hard-won = freedom.=20

According to a September survey by the Baghdad-based Iraq = Center for=20 Research and Strategic Studies, 67 percent of Iraqis intend to = vote in=20 January elections, down from 88 percent in June but still a = sizable=20 majority.

And reconstruction continues.

Iraqi Airways, badly damaged during the war, has resumed = flights,=20 albeit with a single airplane.

"Things will be better, but we need time," says Moayed Qassem = al=20 Badrani, a 26-year-old grocery store clerk and high school = graduate=20 wearing a T-shirt and slippers. "The government is doing what it = can, but=20 terrorism slowing down is everything."

Despite budget cuts, certain government operations already are=20 functioning as well or better than before the war. At one point = the=20 Ministry of Water Resources employed 150,000 Iraqis to dredge the=20 country's vital irrigation canal system, which had been neglected = under=20 Saddam. Its headquarters in Baghdad is a gleaming, glass-and-steel = testament to the employees' dedication.

"You can do a lot of things quickly and efficiently if you have = a good=20 plan and you employ a lot of people," said Abdul Latif Jamal = Rashid, the=20 minister of water resources. "It was a collective effort by my = office and=20 my staff and engineers."

INSIDE SADR CITY

Across Baghdad, a giant poster of = junior=20 cleric Muqtada al-Sadr hovers above the bright smiles of two = laughing=20 young women shining out from their black abayas.=20

Sadr City is best known as the vast slum of 2.5 million Iraqi = Shi'as=20 who suffered immensely under Saddam. I have always thought of it = as the=20 pulsating, high-energy domain of young Iraqis.

Today, the kids still dominate the sewage-infested streets. = They still=20 scrawl graffiti on its walls. Only now, with feckless disregard = for their=20 own lives, some pick up rocket-propelled grenades and engage in = running=20 battles with American soldiers and Iraqi National Guard.

"Iraq is for sale," says one piece of graffiti. "Please see = Iyad=20 Allawi," Iraq's interim prime minister.

Nearby on Dakhel Street in Sector 55, seven funeral tents have = been=20 raised for seven "martyrs" of the Mahdi Army. All died three = nights=20 earlier in battles with the United States, the locals say. The = relatives=20 of the deceased sit on plastic chairs and greet each other = mournfully,=20 sipping sweet, dark-brewed tea and wiping tears.

Suddenly, a truckload of young men pulls into the square. They = wear=20 black shirts, wave black-and-green flags and sing religious songs. = They=20 dance in circles, jump up and down and hold portraits of Sadr. = More pickup=20 trucks of joyous young men pour in.

"God is great! Oh, Ali," they sing.

Some of the older mourners turn away.

"It's a goodbye party," says a young man who identifies himself = only by=20 a nickname, Abu Mahdi. "We are seeing our friend off as he goes to = heaven."

His friend was Ali Nasser Hadid Mussawi, 28.

A few hours before he died, his best friend was killed by = Americans=20 during a gunbattle. Others urged him not to go out and fight that = night.=20

"I told him, 'Your friend just died,'" Abu Mahdi said. "'Now is = not the=20 proper time.' But he said, 'Indeed, now is the proper time.'"

He was killed Sept. 30, one of some 10,000 or more Iraqis who = died=20 violent deaths since the war began.

Hamid Feras, a 30-year-old civil service worker, offers a speck = of hope=20 and moderation among the opinions of the younger rebels.

"In my opinion," Feras says, "now is not the time for = resistance. Up to=20 this point, we should be grateful to the Americans because they = got rid of=20 a nightmare we'd never thought we'd get rid of. We should give = them two,=20 three, four years to rebuild the country."

His voice is drowned out by a passing convoy of U.S. tanks and = Bradley=20 Fighting Vehicles, beginning to take up their positions for the = nightly=20 battle. A pair of Kiowa helicopters fly overhead. Dusk is bleeding = into=20 darkness, and gunfire erupts in the distance.

Lebanese pop singer Wael Kfouri is on Sawa Radio.

"Birds cry, flowers bloom, the sun sets and it is dark," he = sings.=20 "Talking was leading nowhere. He was able to forget, and his eyes = could=20 sleep."

Borzou Daragahi is a special correspondent of The = Star-Ledger in=20 Iraq.


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