Barefoot in Baghdad (13 page)

Although all women were united against Resolution 137, the rhetoric of defending women’s rights became divisive. International women’s groups began to attack core Islamic values. The secular elite from within Iraq joined their voices, and the slogans in the protests could easily be turned into anti-Islamic sentiments. The conservative political parties, such as SCIRI, seized on the opportunity to denounce the protests against Resolution 137 as being orchestrated by Western feminists, therefore reducing the significance of the organic outrage among Iraqi women at this assault on their rights. At the same time, women in the conservative areas believed they were being pushed into a defensive position. They believed firmly in Islamic law, and they were confident that Islamic law was the best vehicle to protect their rights. They instantly jumped to the other side of the spectrum and called for all personal status laws to be rooted in Islamic law. The debate began the division between two extremes: secular versus Islamic law, pro-women versus pro-family.

Women’s rights, which had once been a unifying factor, became a source of conflict.

Both extremes were in the minority, and the majority of Iraqi women were torn. When political parties would present the debate as simply choosing Islam over secularism, the vast majority chose Islam. When secularists would outline the rights that would be lost to them, the women grew fearful. Iraqi women wanted to protect their rights, but they did not want to lose their Islamic identity. Most important, as the attacks linking women’s humiliation to Islam grew, even the most liberal women felt a powerful, prideful urge to debunk the anti-Islamic myths.

I joined the women in the middle. After all, this was a struggle I had faced my entire life. The balance between my Islamic beliefs and my identity with the Western concepts of democracy and freedom was a trapeze act. For Iraqi women these values were being presented as mutually exclusive. Women were being told they could only make one choice. In the true spirit of the American dream, I wanted it all. I wanted Iraqi women to be able to protect their rights through the rule of law based on the best global practices. I also saw the need for their rights to be defended by using Islamic interpretations to ensure traction on the community level. In other words, what good did it do to have a law that set the marriage age at sixteen when there was no way the government could enforce it? In addition to the law, there needed to be an awareness that demonstrated the need to protect girls from the dangers that early marriage could bring to them and their families.

The problem with Resolution 137 was not simply that Shari’a law was being introduced into personal status matters; the core problem was that there was no attempt to define Shari’a law. Whose interpretations were going to be used? Women would be left vulnerable to the educational limitation and understanding of the local religious clerics. A well-versed religious cleric in Najaf could make a liberal pro-women judgment on inheritance, while a cleric in Basra would deny any women any rights. Without an agreement on the system to be implemented, judgments on women’s affairs would be completely arbitrary.

The term Shari’a law was being used as if it had a predefined monolithic classification. There was a legitimate fear that this understanding could lead to serious violations of women’s rights, such as denial of education, forced early marriage, domestic violence, execution by stoning, and public flogging.

The division over Resolution 137 caused the Iraqi women’s rights movement to lose its comparative advantage of having a wide membership base. Whereas the first few months of the occupation had required only a distinction between Baathist and non-Baathist, finger wagging over sectarian and ethnic divides was now becoming finger wagging over religious and ethnic divides. She is a Shia. She is a Sunni. She is a Kurd. These phrases were becoming more and more frequent and often took on a derogatory tone.

In some instances, the divide centered on attire. Women would quickly label one another based on how much or how little the other wore. A woman who was covered from head to toe would be dismissed as a backward puppet of the Shia conservatives, whereas women who were uncovered were seen as pawns of the Western feminists.

Over time, one’s clothing began to play an even greater role. The magnificence of Iraqi civil society in the early months had been the coexistence of women from different backgrounds, each dressed in a unique way to symbolize her individual comfort level. Now the same women who, a few months earlier, had been sitting next to one another and debating everything from integrating women into the political system to revamping the curriculum in the primary schools were openly attacking one another. It only made it more and more difficult for women to identify their true allies.

One of the strongest Iraqi women to emerge in this charged political scene was Salama Al-Khafaji. She wore the traditional black abaya. With the trend of labeling based on physical appearance, her appointment to the IGC received a strong backlash and protests by leading Iraqi women’s groups. Over time, however, Salama proved to be an independent woman who was ready to make her own sacrifices for the new Iraq. This would later include the life of her seventeen-year-old son, who was killed during an assassination attempt on her life.

I felt that the debate over Islamic and secular values greatly minimized the larger danger of the resolution. The issue was being minimized as a women’s issue alone, but it struck at the very fabric of the newly emerging civil society in Iraq. I would often reiterate to U.S. officials that women should be used as a barometer of success inside Iraq. The status of women highlighted the progress, or lack thereof, of Iraqi society on several levels. Nothing better exemplified this than Resolution 137. In the early months on the ground, any talk of Iraq’s becoming another Islamic state, such as Saudi Arabia or Iran, had been dismissed by political analysts and local Iraqis alike. Iraq’s history boasted a strong secular legacy, with the understanding that religion belonged in the home, not in the public sphere, and particularly not in the political sphere.

Resolution 137 strongly challenged that assumption.

At the same time, the introduction of the resolution in December 2003 highlighted the beginnings of rising tensions between the ethnic and sectarian divides. The impact on the women’s movement was a microcosm of the larger impact on the country as a whole. The introduction of laws being interpreted by each sect foreshadowed the future divides between Iraqi nationals. The 1959 personal status laws had been rooted in secular law, but this whole situation foreshadowed an internal struggle for the entire country. It was the first introduction of formal sectarianism as the foundational base of social and political life in Iraq.

In the end, Resolution 137 was repealed. But over subsequent years it would reappear in new forms, making it clear that Iraqi women had won only a minor battle. The war was yet to begin.

I celebrated the new year in Baghdad by looking for a doghouse.

During one of my random altercations at a checkpoint outside the Green Zone, a U.S. soldier questioned me about my living arrangements. When he discovered that I lived in the “Red Zone” (which was pretty much all of Iraq except for the four square miles that made up the Green Zone), he immediately launched into a long speech about personal safety. I told him that no mortar rounds had fallen over my house in the last week. Could he say the same for the Green Zone?

He laughed and agreed that the Green Zone was not the safest place to stay either. There had already been two attacks on the Al Rasheed Hotel, and mortar attacks had become an evening ritual.

Still, his words had some truth. I was now one of the only U.S. civilians living without armed protection in an Iraqi neighborhood. A guard dog couldn’t hurt.

Attitudes in 2004 were shifting dramatically. For the first six months, the coalition force was convinced that the insurgency would end with the capture of Saddam Hussein. Saddam had been caught in December 2003, but the insurgency continued. Frustration that this prophecy went unfulfilled was reflected in the attitudes of the soldiers. In 2003, U.S. soldiers were thrilled to see the Iraqi civilians. They would joke with me about the fusion of my perfect English and my “local” dress code. They would ask me about Iraqi cuisine and beg me to bring them kebabs.

I found my attitude toward the soldiers melting. These were good guys. Over time I began to recognize most of them at the various checkpoints, and they always remembered me. They would offer me security tips, and each time I was struck by how young they were. More important, though, was how eager they were to learn and understand the country in which they were now living. As we all moved into 2004, this attitude shifted. The soldiers who had entered as an army of liberation rotated out, and a new wave of even younger soldiers, spotted with acne, rotated in.

The locals did not greet these soldiers with roses and tea. Instead, they bombarded them with questions about electricity, water, and employment. These soldiers were frightened and became infamous for being trigger-happy kids ready to raise their weapons at the slightest noise. They eyed me with suspicion every time I ventured into the Green Zone, and they looked at all Iraqis with disdain. This was a manifestation of the bigger picture: the transformation of the U.S. Army from liberators to occupiers in the eyes of the Iraqi people.

A friend who worked in the Green Zone was escorting me in and overheard my conversation with the soldier about getting a dog. The next day she arranged for a tour of the Iraqi zoo, which was still closed to the public.

Dogs are extremely unpopular in most of the Arab world. Iraqi children would abuse any stray dogs they found roaming the streets, so the soldiers would collect stray dogs and shelter them at the zoo.

Although this sounded promising to me, the zoo—home to Uday’s lioness and Dobermans—was poorly maintained. The rumor in the streets was that his pets were starving. Iraqis whispered that they had been fed only human meat from his latest victims, and the animals now rejected all food offered them by the U.S. military.

But the animals didn’t look like they were starving to me. In fact, they looked full of energy and menace. When I came near their area, they unleashed a stream of howls that made my skin crawl. I quickly moved toward the smaller animals.

The soldiers brought me to a line of cages filled with dogs of different shapes and sizes. There were several puppies, pure-bred German shepherds, and even a couple of Dobermans. As hard as I tried to picture it, though, I couldn’t imagine owning one of those as a pet.

Instead, a small dog in the back corner caught my eye. She was the only dog who was not barking and howling. She stood in the corner poised and silent. I instantly fell in love with her. She was cream-colored with brown spots, and she had the deepest brown eyes. I pointed at her and told the soldier that was the dog I wanted. He snorted and made some snide comment about my choosing the worse guard dog ever. I didn’t hear him, because the little puppy was already nestled in my arms.

I was lost to the world.

I named her Ishta, which means “clotted cream” in Arabic. I also liked the fact that the word is Egyptian slang for “awesome.”

With Ishta in hand, I set about looking for a doghouse. There was something incredibly relaxing in searching for something normal in the midst of chaos. I felt as if I was finally settling in.

***

Work was flourishing. We had managed to recruit more than five hundred participants in Baghdad, Hillah, and Karbala, and our job skills training program had launched effectively. In addition to offering training in the more conservative jobs of carpet weaving and hairdressing, we introduced an untraditional course on carpentry, which Saadiyah used so successfully. She was not the only one. Due to the large number of widows and divorcees who were not allowed to call a male carpenter into their homes, a niche existed for female carpenters.

Our office in Shawaka behind Haifa Street had opened in September 2003, and we had finally hired some female staff to work with Muna. The women who joined the team were powerful and enthusiastic. They were dedicated to maximizing every opportunity to make Iraq a better place for women. I recruited women from the areas in which we planned to work, and I made a conscious effort to not limit myself to only elite and professional women. In fact, over the next couple of years, the women who would rise to the challenge of helping the most vulnerable and marginalized Iraqi women came from the most disadvantaged areas of Baghdad. These women navigated the streets of Sadr City, Huriyah, and Shaalah with confidence because these were their own communities.

The female trainers were truly inspiration, and this was clearly reflected in the strength and solidarity of the women who participated in our programs. In addition to job skills training, women came together bimonthly for rights awareness training. After six months the results were awe-inspiring. Several women who had pulled their daughters out of school during the era of sanctions were now reenrolling them.

What’s more, the bond between the women in the group was moving. During a session, a new member complained that her family could not afford fruit. She lamented that she had not tasted watermelon in over a decade. One of the women from Shawaka who was among the first to join our program had used the funds she received from the program to start a roadside fruit kiosk. At the next meeting she brought a watermelon to share with the group.

I saw the greatest transformation occur in Muna. With the salary she was now earning, she was able to rent her own place. She also purchased a new wardrobe and was even wearing lipstick. No longer confined to her in-law’s house, Muna was now traveling across three governorates, setting up new programs, and scouting for potential participants in the program.

It was a relief to finally be surrounded by these women. Ironically, over the first six months I spent working on women’s issues in Iraq, I had been fully dependent on men. First, there was the male staff at Women for Women International. Yusuf, Fadi, and Mais had become my lifelines. I was dependent on them for everything from food and water to the ability to move around the country freely. Within months it became clear that any success I had in launching a program would be directly tied to them. Only years later did I fully grasp the extent of their loyalty; the risks they took were the sole reason I was able to leave Iraq alive. Mark had left the country months before, and my three amigos were by my side from sunrise to sunset and beyond.

Second, there were the male leaders in the communities. From Diyala to Karbala to Tikrit, the one thing that remained consistent across the communities I visited was the need to go through the male elders before ever meeting with a woman. During my trips around the country I would have to meet with a room full of men in order to describe in detail the organization’s background and history and to outline the programs we planned to set up for the women of their community. I would then field all kinds of questions from the men. The majority of their questions were almost always personal. Was I married? Why not? Where was my father? What was my background? I never had the option not to answer these personal questions. For the Iraqi tribes, the line between professional and personal was extremely fine. If I were to be granted access to the community, more specifically to the women, they wanted reassurances that I was a person of good moral character.

In almost all the cities I visited I had remarkably similar conversations. After I answered numerous personal questions, their focus would shift to the work of the program, using my background as the first step in addressing their greatest concerns.

“Sister, you are from a Muslim background. You understand what we mean when we say our women are not Western women,” was the polite version of the transition in our dialogue from my personal background to the details of the Women for Women program.

In some of the tribal areas, the questioning was more direct. Their primary concern was, “How do we know you are not a Western agent sent to brainwash our women?”

In both cases my answer was the same. All my views on women’s rights were deeply rooted in the Islamic tradition. I would explain how I strongly believed the message of Islam was one that preached social justice and change. I felt it was my duty as a Muslim to work with women in conflict to help in their personal struggle from victim to survivor to active citizen. I would casually remind them that the prophet Mohammed (peace be upon him) had been clear in his last sermon that women were important assets to the community. I referred to the many verses in the Koran that emphasize the equality between men and women. I would explain to them how I was proud of an Islamic tradition that had a strong history of powerful women. I would joke about boasting to my American colleagues that the message of Islam was to spread thanks to the influence and wealth of a woman—Sayyidatina Khadija—the Prophet’s (peace be upon him) wife.

In almost every instance the men demonstrated a visible reassurance at hearing that Islam was my reference point for working on women’s rights. In some of the more religiously conservative areas—such as the Sadrists or the western tribes—the men gave me more details about how women were exalted in Islam.

“Did you know a woman has the right to charge her husband for breast-feeding?” an elderly man from Huriyah explained to me. He told me how this was an example of Islam acknowledging the mother’s role in contributing to society’s growth. It was also one of the many ways Islam supported the economic independence of women. He further explained that any property a woman acquired by her own work or through an inheritance belonged to her independently of her husband.

A son of a tribal leader in Fallujah outlined for me the women in the historical narrative of Islam. Among the stories he shared was that of Umm ‘Umara, a woman who lived at the time of the Prophet (peace be upon him) and fought in many battles. He explained that she was famous for her effectiveness with weapons, and the Prophet (peace be upon him) stated she was better than most men.

I pointed out what I hoped was obvious: somewhere along the line we lost that remarkable tradition, and women had suffered the consequences.

In most cases the conversation was enough to grant me permission to meet with the women in the communities.

In a few cases, however, my Islamic argument was not enough. Their primary fear was that I, as a representative of a Western organization, would poison the women against the men and foment conflict in their communities. The men argued that as long as there were men in the extended families of women, they would be well cared for.

In such cases, I resorted to a wild-card strategy centered on one question: how many adult women live in your household? The majority of families in the impoverished areas had a number of widows, divorcees, and unmarried women under one roof. The Iran-Iraq War (1980–88) had been dubbed the Spinsters’ War because of the large number of unwed women left behind by the vast numbers of men sent to the front line. Worst of all, so many women were left in limbo, because their husbands had gone missing. In some cases they were assumed to be prisoners of war in Iran, but most had disappeared in the middle of the night during one of the many Baathist raids.

Whenever I posed the question to the men about the number of women under their roof, the average answer was usually three adult women and their children in addition to the man’s own family. It was not uncommon for the number of women to be twice that many. I would point out diplomatically that these women were an added burden to his household and that his limited resources were being stretched thin. An essential part of the Women for Women program was teaching job skills to women to allow them to generate their own income. I subtly insinuated that this additional income would not only empower the women in my program but significantly ease the burden on the male heads of household who were struggling to feed their own children.