Barefoot in Baghdad (11 page)

Kalthoum was only sixteen. That was the lone thought that went through my mind as she pleaded with me to help her get back to her family. What life was this girl talking about? What choices? Was she really given a choice when she was married off? Or tricked into prostitution? Was her family really given a choice, fighting to survive war after war and a decade of international sanctions?

I shook my head. I knew that the final decision would rest in my hands. For God’s sake, how was I supposed to make such a judgment call? Whatever I would decide would mean life or death for Kalthoum and a string of unpredictable consequences for her sisters. Only in a war zone would a twenty-eight-year-old have so much power.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to make this choice myself. I had met a strong Kurdish woman in a conference I had helped plan with Women Waging Peace, an organization formed by former U. S. Ambassador Swanee Hunt. She had established one of the first Iraqi women’s shelters to house women from across the country. There were several women’s shelters in the northern Kurdish region, but the Asuda organization was the first to accept Arab women. It was also one of the only shelters I knew that would take “untouchable” cases. Untouchable cases were almost always cases dealing with family honor. Asuda would openly help young teenage girls who had been caught having premarital sex, rape victims, and women accused of adultery. Not only did Asuda offer protection to these women, but it also had an entire department dedicated to research and documentation.

Beyond the Asuda organization, I was captivated by Khanim Latif, the woman who led it. I loved her from the first moment I met her. Her fiery eggplant-colored hair with burgundy highlights made her stand out in a crowd. Khanim was a woman ahead of her time. She believed firmly in women’s rights and fought passionately for the advancement and protection of women. When I met with her, she was ready to challenge the country’s religious and cultural stereotypes. Her warm personality and strong convictions made her a strategic advocate. She had built alliances with key figures in the Kurdish regional government, the
peshmarga
(Kurdish police), and the hospitals. These allies not only helped solve cases but also were instrumental in the documentation process.

Khanim’s office was stacked with photo albums of abused women. Her contacts would often tip her off when they received such cases. Khanim would rush over with her camera to take photos, being careful to do so in a way that would protect the women’s identity. Entire albums were dedicated to corpses of women. When high-level government officials denied the practice of honor crimes, she would pull out numerous photos of women burned alive or with gun shot wounds and silence her opposition immediately.

After she had turned down suitor after suitor, Khanim decided to never marry in order to dedicate her life to her work. Our friendship was instantaneous, and I developed a dependency on her for thoughtful advice and consultations. I knew she would not shy away from Kalthoum’s case like the other Iraqi women did. I knew she would not give me ambiguous advice or simply lay out the consequences. This was a woman who took control. And I prayed to God she would jump in and take control of this scenario.

Indeed she did. The moment she heard Kalthoum’s full story, she explained to me that the decision was neither hers nor mine. The decision rested solely with Kalthoum. As long as I was outlining various solutions, it was for Kalthoum to make the final decision. Khanim explained that Asuda believed that the best solution, where possible, was always reconciliation with the parents. There was always a great risk, but she assured me that in many cases it was successful.

“Honor killings happen,” Khanim said. “And they happen more than we would like to admit. However, they often happen because our communities have not learned to mediate around such a sensitive topic. No father wants to kill his daughter. Give him an excuse to maintain his honor in front of his tribe, and he will grab on to it. But our community refuses to facilitate such discussions. At Asuda we do. We use religious and tribal leaders to encourage the parents to find solutions other than slaying their daughters. It does not always work, and the proof is in the residents of my shelter. But shelters and relocation are always the second, least preferable option. We are far away from a time when our community will not need those options, but it does not mean we do not keep trying reconciliation.”

Khanim advised me to think of someone who could facilitate the discussion with her father. I could not think of anyone until Yusuf reminded me of Munther.

***

Munther was pleased to hear from us and to see that we were seeking reconciliation with Kalthoum’s tribe rather than what he referred to as kidnapping. He jumped at the opportunity to help. Kalthoum’s only stipulation was that her father help facilitate her divorce from her husband. She was willing to live in her father’s home, but she could not bear the idea of going back to her husband. Munther managed to negotiate the terms of her return, successfully arranged her divorce, and had the father sign a statement that Kalthoum would not be harmed if she were to return. Munther also negotiated an agreement with the tribe that he would be able to visit every three months to confirm that Kalthoum was in good health (or to be more blunt, alive).

During the week that Munther spent negotiating with Kalthoum’s tribe, Kalthoum waited in the Green Zone. Now that we had sorted out the details for the reconciliation with her parents, all I needed was a sign-off from a U.S. female colonel who had taken a great risk in helping Kalthoum. She, however, was not happy with the arrangement. She had envisioned something completely different, something along the lines of a
Not Without My Daughter
–style of smuggling the teenager across the border. In her mind she saw one of two things: either I was exaggerating the danger to Kalthoum or Kalthoum was insane for wanting to return to her family. Either way, she wanted to get to the bottom of it before she would agree to release Kalthoum.

Kalthoum and I sat in a lobby adjacent to the civil military offices as we waited for a car to take us to meet with the colonel. She leaned over and asked me when she would be able to go back to her family. I assured her it would be within the next forty-eight hours.

“
Alhamdullah
(thank God),” she said. “I am disgusted to be around such filthy women. I cannot wait to get home.”

I turned to look in the direction where Kalthoum was glaring. I had half expected to see U.S. soldiers but instead saw a group of young Iraqi women walking across the lobby. I looked back at Kalthoum and could see that she was sincerely disgusted.

“Look at the way they dress,” she said. “It is as if someone spray-painted their pants on. You can see every detail of their body.” She shook her head as if she were trying to get rid of the disgusting image.

I was speechless. Was it possible that Kalthoum had forgotten the circumstances that led to her being here? I carefully reminded her that her husband and father were demanding her head for her prostituting herself and for carrying one of her client’s bastard children. Maybe she wasn’t in the best position to be so judgmental.

“Oh, no. I have made atonement,” she responded. “I was tricked. I am no longer one of those women.” She pointed toward a group of female Iraqi translators sitting in a corner. “Those women bring shame to all Iraqi women.”

Like I said, the Green Zone was a place of fantasies.

The Iraqi families who surrounded me were an anchor for my sanity. I needed one. Not only was I facing an emotional assault from my work, but my physical problems were creeping up again. This time my back trouble was severe enough to require surgery, and I had started to spend most of my time working from my home in Hay Al Jammah, the university district, a respectable neighborhood that was well known for its resident professors and other faculty members.

I had my own private space in the form of an attachment to the main house, sort of a small townhouse with a separate entrance, kitchen, living room, and bedroom. As I mentioned previously, the Kurdish family who lived in the main house was part of the extended family of one of my dearest friends from high school. I felt safe knowing that the family was so close by, and thus, technically, I was not a Western woman living alone in the middle of Baghdad.

I had no shortage of company. The family made it well known to the neighborhood that I was a longtime friend of their extended family and not some random Arab American who was renting the space. As a result, I was embraced by the neighbors and often invited to tea and to meals.

The family had two daughters, Hawzan and Avienne. They embodied the Iraqi stereotype of Kurdish beauty. Tall and slender, the girls also had a creamy porcelain complexion and wide almond-shaped eyes. They sported highlights by Carol, a well-known hairdresser of the elite. Hawzan had fiery burgundy-colored highlights in stark contrast to her skin tone. Avienne had a mixture of blond and honey-colored highlights that blended with her fair skin. Hawzan was married and lived a few streets from her family. Avienne was nineteen and attended college; she shared the latest university gossip with me over cooking lessons.

My main connection to normalcy when I traveled was finding a way to cook. Avienne was brilliant in the kitchen, and she schooled me in many traditional Iraqi dishes. Every time I make chicken biryani (a rice-based dish layered with chicken, raisins, potatoes, and green peas), I think of Avienne. She taught me the secret of the combination of spices and how to cook the chicken and rice separately. Every night, she stopped by to check in on me.

At the same time, Yusuf’s and Fadi’s families had adopted me as a long-lost cousin.

Yusuf’s mother sent pots of food for me, and his sister, Maysoon, would send her housekeeper twice a week to clean my home and do my laundry. Between them and Avienne, I lived like a princess.

During this time, Hussein and Maysoon would often visit. Maysoon was a social butterfly, and she was eager to introduce me to her network of Iraqi housewives. At the same time, she was eager to trade in her past ten years as a housewife for a career. We often spent late nights talking on the phone about ways that she could look for work with one of the international organizations.

“I want to be a real human being,” Maysoon said. “I want to do something to help my people.”

But like most Iraqi women, Maysoon was concerned about working for a local Iraqi company. In most cases, only secretarial positions were available. Women working in these jobs often were exposed daily to sexual harassment.

“I want to be helpful,” Maysoon would add as she poured tea. It wasn’t always easy to concentrate on her words, because her sense of style dazzled me. Maysoon was well known for dressing impeccably, and she often carefully matched her scarf with her outfit. This one was a flamboyant flowing orange, which coordinated perfectly with her purse and shoes. I focused on the way she draped the scarf around her head. It was clear that she had several pins to keep the scarf in place, yet she managed to make it look effortless.

During these visits, I also came to know Hussein. A true representative of the modern Iraqi man, Hussein amazed me with how supportive he was of Maysoon. He loved the idea of her finding work outside their home. He would often tell me stories of the first time they met. They were college sweethearts, and he had admired her vibrancy and confidence during their freshman year. I could easily see it; those qualities still radiated from her. Like Yusuf, she had a determined aura, and I knew that, with a little support, she would accomplish a lot.

When the director of the Austrian-based organization Women Without Borders asked for assistance to identify a local Iraqi volunteer to conduct a survey on women and youth, I instantly recommended Maysoon.

***

The family atmosphere in Baghdad made my travels across the country more bearable. I was resisting my body’s efforts to slow me down. Despite the fact that I was still recovering from back surgery, I quickly returned to the work of field visits. I alternated one week in the field and one week working from home to recuperate. Every other week I traveled to nearby governorates in Fadi’s Peugeot.

During my trips to the south-central governorates it became clear that I had to meet the woman who was quickly becoming a legend in the world of women’s issues in Iraq: Fern Holland. All of the women I interviewed, even in the most remote areas of Hillah, Karbala, and Al-Kut, mentioned Fern and her love for Iraq and especially the women of Iraq. Women who met her explained how they were touched by her compassion and determination. They said that they found comfort in the fact that someone working with the United States was looking out for them. Even those women who complained about Fern would compliment her endlessly, only warning that her approach was too fast for the rural areas.

Later, many people tried to paint Fern, a lawyer by training, as a naive feminist idealist with little cultural sensitivity. That description could not be further from the truth. Many times when I went to meet her in Hillah and Karbala, I would find her sitting on the curb and chatting with the guards. The Iraqis were touched by her humble nature and in awe of her fiery passion.

The first time I met Fern was inside the CPA compound in Hillah. As the petite blonde waltzed up to me, I could not help but think of the Iraqis’ nickname for her: Barbie. Indeed, she looked like a small toy whipped up by Mattel. Yet the moment she spoke, all images of Barbie evaporated. Fern spoke with authority and confidence, and she immediately demonstrated that she was a woman who liked to be in control.

She plopped down at the table where I was sitting and asked, “I need someone to cut through all the bullshit. Are you that person?”

She did not wait for an answer but instead launched into a tirade of how the window of opportunities to create a new Iraq was rapidly closing. She argued passionately that the people to pay the price were going to be the women of Iraq.

“Manal, I have met women engineers, lawyers, doctors—absolutely amazing Iraqi women who would put most American women to shame. These women are unbelievably strong. And I am afraid we are setting them up for failure. We are giving them nothing but bricks and fancy equipment.”

She spoke rapidly and quickly looked me over. “But you know that better than I,” she added under her breath as she continued to outline all the obvious mistakes the CPA, the U.S. Army, and the international organizations were making in their approach in Iraq.

Fern was well aware of the risks she was taking by speaking unequivocally about Iraqi women’s rights, but she was desperate to make a difference during her time in Iraq. She believed the legacy the United States could leave behind was through Iraqi women. She was committed to establishing women’s centers in the areas in which she worked. Fern explained that she had heard about my initiatives and wanted to team up. She had the funds and she could get access to buildings and equipment for women’s centers, but she needed someone to help with the softer side of the projects. She needed someone to create programs that would focus on providing women with the training and skills to manage the centers well.

Other Americans and Iraqis had labeled me a cynic and criticized my analysis of the American intervention in Iraq as harsh. Listening to Fern, I was overwhelmed with a sense of validation as I tried to keep up with her. Everything she said spoke directly to me. Most important, Fern refused to stop after she had listed what was going wrong. She insisted on outlining the next steps and some possible solutions to help bring some programs back on track on Iraq.

I was ecstatic. This was the first American working in Iraq who shared my attitude. She refused to side with those who supported the U.S. invasion or with those who wanted the United States out of Iraq. That is, Fern was openly critical but dedicated to delivering that criticism in a constructive manner. We shared the same spirit of creating a long-term vision for the new Iraq, especially for women.

As passionate as I was, my determination paled in comparison to that of Fern. Initially she had been stationed in Baghdad, but she insisted on being sent to the rural areas of Hillah, Karbala, and Al Diwaniyah. Fern argued that a large percentage of the women in Baghdad were educated and among the elite; the women in the rural areas needed international support. At the same time, she was willing to wage battles with everyone from the local Iraqi imam to the highest levels of the CPA leadership.

***

During one trip to Hillah, I spent a day with Fern traveling across the city center, looking for an ideal site for the women’s center she hoped to establish. She had narrowed our choices down to four buildings. The first three were in remote areas and, without public transportation, women would have difficulty reaching them. The last one was ideal. The structure was large, and it was situated in the middle of the city. The building was in desperate need of reconstruction, but with the funds available through the CPA, that was the last of Fern’s concerns.

I remember standing in the midst of the abandoned building. It was perfect. Too perfect. The cynic in me was screaming that there had to be a catch. Why would such a large building in the city center not already have been claimed by one of the Iraqi government councils? We were in the middle of a mass land grab of public property and buildings, and everyone was applying to the CPA for a piece of the pie. I turned to Yusuf and asked him to ask the guards about the building.

Yusuf came back with a grave expression.

“The building belongs to Muqtada al-Sadr,” he said.

The doomsday tone in Yusuf’s voice was not what alarmed me. Muqtada al-Sadr’s name said it all.

At the time, Muqtada al-Sadr was not well known globally. However, among local Iraqi civil society he was gaining popularity by piggybacking on his father’s reputation. His father was the Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Sadeq al-Sadr, who was well respected and revered among the Shia community and who achieved martyrdom status in 1999 when he was killed by Saddam. Many Shia leaders would argue that Grand Ayatollah Muhammad Sadeq al-Sadr had become the face of Shia resistance to the Saddam regime. Thus Muqtada al-Sadr was well positioned among the young Iraqi population who were looking for local leadership, and he was among the very few to speak out openly against the U.S. presence.

When the CPA announced the members of the Interim Governing Council (IGC), Muqtada al-Sadr referred to them as U.S. puppets in his Friday sermon that week, gaining him regional popularity for not being intimidated by the Americans. The month before, he had announced plans for creating his own militia and forming a shadow government. Initially dismissed as a young radical by both the American and Iraqi leadership, he claimed a place on the international stage as the leader of the main opposition to U.S. forces throughout 2004.

After Yusuf’s news, I looked over at Fern, who stood at the corner of the main foyer and looked across the building. She was smiling. It had been a long time since I had seen her smile, and I knew she had made her decision. I hated to be the one to break it to her that it was the wrong one.

I walked over and explained to her that the building was not an option because it was already claimed by al-Sadr.

“I know,” she said. “I am the one who put in the order for the military to throw his cronies out.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “What?” was all I managed to say.

“The U.S. administration has promised centers for women. If I don’t push forward with full force, it is not going to happen. The political will is here. It’s up to me to do the implementation. If they don’t give me what I need, I am prepared to take the issue to the international media and embarrass them,” she explained.

“I understand,” I said. “But it doesn’t mean you have to take this building. If such a powerful local group’s eye is on the building, you don’t want them as an enemy.”

“They were squatting here illegally. I had his guys kicked out. They tried to make a stink, but obviously our military guys are much stronger than they are. That’s all people understand here—force.”

She paused for a second as she glanced around with approval. “They are more than welcome to make a competing application to request the building, but something tells me we will still get it,” she added with a smile.

I shook my head. True, the CPA was calling the shots for now. But for how long? She succeeded in having al-Sadr’s men thrown out, but they could just as easily come back. Once the building was renovated, the option would be even more attractive. And the U.S. military wouldn’t be around. The only people in the building would be women. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who would win the argument about force between women and al-Sadr’s militia.