What Young Iraqis Don't Dare Say to Each Other

By Andrea W. Lorenz

Who are the young Iraqis in their 20s and 30s who will be the backbone of any new Iraq?

They are Majid, an army recruit who escaped from Iraq in 1987 clinging to the undercarriage of a truck on its way to Turkey. They are Ali, a recently conscripted doctor who escaped across Iraq's northern border on a mule and found his way to Germany, where he applied for political asylum. They are Alya, a Baghdad University medical student who was jailed for two months for openly criticizing the government. They are Fatima, who shunned her friend Alya after her release because she did not want the authorities to see them together. They are Hassan, Sajida and Aisha, who came to the US when the Iraqi government loosened its travel restrictions just before the Gulf war, who have heard from their families only sporadically, and whose letters are carried across Jordan's border by vegetable peddlers. They are young men and women who desperately want to return home—but not while Saddam Hussain is still in power.

Four Iraqi Exiles

In January and April, I interviewed four Iraqi exiles. All four were willing to tell me their religious affiliations but stressed that they are Iraqis first. Three of them—Hassan, Aisha and Fatima—are younger than 35. Hassan and Aisha arrived last April. They come from comfortable middle-class families and grew up in Baghdad. Hassan, who is 30, is a Shi'a, and Aisha, who is 28, is Sunni. Fatima is 33. She also grew up in Baghdad. She and her husband are Sunni, and they have been living here for the past three years while he completes his medical training.

The fourth—Kanan Makiya—is the author of Republic of Fear, a book extremely critical of Saddam Hussain. An architect with a degree from MIT, he is from a prominent Shi'i family and is in his early 40s. His father, Mohamed Makiya, one of Iraq's best known architects, designed the Kuwait State Mosque and Baghdad's Khulafa Mosque. Makiya, who only recently stopped using his pseudonym, Samir Al-Khalil, is the only one who allowed me to use his real name.

He said, "My generation was the '60s generation. We were more involved in politics, social reform. We had a more idealistic, utopian outlook. " In contrast, he feels younger Iraqis have focused their attention on their careers and have avoided the world of politics, which they view with deep cynicism. "They were brought up on lies. It is my sense that they have rejected all this."

The main difference between the two generations is that the younger one is bound together by its collective experience of eight years of war with Iran and the shock and humiliation of the recent Gulf debacle. It has known only the rule of the Ba'ath Party. All have been scarred by the death of a father, brother, husband, fiance, or dear friend. Makiya, who has lived in exile for 20 years, but has visited Iraq often, says he and his peers feel "cut off" from this generation. "They are strangers to us."

"Our fathers' generation was stronger. They were more politically and socially active."

Asked how she views Iraqis Makiya's age, Aisha responded bitterly, "They were allowed to struggle for what they believed in. They did not allow us to struggle; they did not give us the time. They took our turn."

Makiya's generation, which includes Hassan, Aisha and Fatima's parents, knew a time of greater intellectual freedom. They experienced the bright spontaneity of an artistic movement in the 1950s that spawned some of Iraq's most brilliant sculptors, architects and painters. Hassan said: "Our fathers' generation was stronger. They were more politically and socially active. At our age, they had more political and intellectual freedom. During the last 10 years, our parents chose to remain silent rather than risk endangering our lives."

Iraqis in their 20s and 30s are the products of a more widely literate society. To mold them into perfect Ba'athi men and women, Saddam Hussain and the Ba'ath Party faithful, who grew up living and breathing pan-Arabism, both suffocated and terrorized them. On university campuses, Big Brother and Sister were always watching. They bribed, bullied and coerced students into turning in their best friends to the authorities. Children were encouraged to tell on their parents. In a 1977 speech to Ministry of Education employees, Saddam Hussain said: "You must get at adults through their sons, in addition to other means. Teach the student to object to his parents if he hears them discussing state secrets."

"A nation of informers" is how a 1990 Middle East Watch report portrayed Iraq. Kanan Makiya described younger Iraqis as "a deeply compromised generation. " They have "paid an enormous price" for their acquiescence. Fatima is an example. Her friend, a fellow medical student, was jailed for her socialist views. "I was afraid to talk to her after she was released, " she said. Toward the latter part of the war with Iran, people changed, she continued. "They began to hurt each other. " If a person didn't toe the line, his co-workers found an easy way to teach him a lesson. "You were scared that the walls might be hearing you," she said.

Learning to Be an Iraqi

For the younger generation, the dominant theme was learning to be an Iraqi. As the Ba'ath Party's hold over the society became more pervasive, it dictated to a greater and greater degree the national consciousness. No longer would Iraqis identify themselves merely as pan-Arab nationalists. Now, they were Iraqis, citizens of an oil-rich, muscular young nation vying for leadership of the Arab world. Their confidence was boosted in 1972 by then-President Ahmad Hassan Al Bakr's nationalization of Iraq's oil industry. Said Hassan, who was 11 at the time, "This was an event of great importance to us all. Until then, Iraq had received only 50 percent of its oil revenues."

Learning to be an Iraqi also meant absorbing the nation's Mesopotamian heritage. Schoolchildren were taken on frequent field trips to sites such as Babylon, Samarra and Ur. Saddam was depicted in huge posters opposite Nebuchadnezzer and Hammurabi. A mural across one wall of a girls' school in Baghdad portrays Iraqi women through the ages, beginning with the goddess Ishtar.

To implement the Ba'ath goal of unity, elementary school children were urged to join the paramilitary organizations called the Tali'a (Vanguard). Teenagers were mobilized into student and sports groups, literary clubs, artistic societies, peasant cooperatives, scientific and professional organizations, even hobby and craft groups. By 1978, the party had established 81 youth centers, 78 sports clubs, and 11 youth hostels across the country, with 51 more planned, all run or sponsored by the party.

In spite of the party's ubiquitous and sometimes coercive presence, life was relatively comfortable for most Iraqis in the 1970s and early '80s. "Before the war, we had our hopes and dreams, " Fatima explained. The oil revenues had made life easier for many. The streets were clean, the roads and bridges were cared for, education was free and universal, and the Ba'ath's socialist principles meant a certain leveling of society had taken place and the old class distinctions were no longer the key to social mobility.

Painful New Realities

The war, however, brought painful new realities. Young men went off to the front and were taken prisoner by the thousands. Young women became single heads-of-households. For the men, the war meant putting career and family plans on hold.

Hassan was conscripted in 1983, when he was 22. He hoped to serve only two but the war dragged on and he ended up on the front for four and a half years. At 30, he is just now starting his career. When asked how he and his fellow soldiers felt about the situation, he said, "A lot of us felt we were wasting our time. Everybody knew there was no purpose to the war. They blamed Iran and said, 'If only Iran would stop it.' Many got fed up and simply walked across the borders to Iran or Turkey."

Speaking of Iraqis and Iranians, he explained, "We're very interrelated. There are many Iraqis with Iranian family ties. It would be like Switzerland fighting Germany. If there had been no war, I would have been settled by now. I feel I have to catch up with life."

For many Iraqi women, the livelihoods of their families depended on their learning skills that meant they must go out in public something rare for women from traditional Arab societies. For example, even older women learned to drive. The Women's Federation provided drivers' education not only to city women but also to rural women who never previously had taken off the veil. The war taught them to perform unfamiliar tasks. Aisha tells of her friend who supervised male construction workers in the building of her house while her husband was away.

The government urged the women to take over the jobs their husbands, brothers and fathers had left behind. They knew it was their duty, and government incentives including training, child care and attractive salaries made it easier. While many longed for the day they could stop working, others grew used to their independence and the satisfaction they derived from their work. When I asked members of the Women's Federation during a 1989 visit to Baghdad whether they thought they would have to give up their jobs when the men returned home, they answered emphatically, "No."

The pressures on women were immense. By the end of the war they were being told by Saddam that it was their national duty to produce five children. To make its point, the government banned the sale of birth control devices, and doctors who performed abortions were punished. According to Fatima, many women experienced severe depression. "There were not enough psychiatrists to take care of them."

The end of the Iran-Iraq war brought indescribable relief.

The end of the Iran-Iraq war brought indescribable relief. Hassan and Aisha recounted the day they learned of the cease fire. It was midnight on Aug. 8, 1988. "Immediately, we heard the shooting in the streets by people celebrating—the sky was red, " Hassan said. "As soon as we heard the news, Aisha and I prayed. At 4 am, we went out for a ride. Everyone was out. Women in their nightgowns were dancing."

"I can't recall a day I was happier, " said Aisha. The euphoria lasted a few weeks, but soon, said Hassan, "Everyone started asking, 'Why isn't he releasing the army? 'People kept wondering why the soldiers were being discharged so slowly. After I was accepted in a graduate program in the States, my father said, 'This is your chance, grab it!' Saddam was still talking tough. We knew he had something big on his mind. A friend of mine told us, 'He's either going to hit Kuwait or Israel.' Aisha's father also urged us to leave as soon as possible."

Today, according to Aisha, whose sister in-law has written to her recently, "There are security guards on every corner—more than ever. If more than two men are found together, they are stopped and questioned. In spite of this, you can still find people cursing him [Saddam]. "

A sack of rice (Iraqis' main staple), which used to go for 12 dinars, now sells for 750 dinars. A box of eggs, which used to be sold for 2 dinars, now goes for 14. People are using wood to cook.

Bonded Yet "Atomized"

Although younger Iraqis are bonded by a common experience, at the same time, said Makiya, they are "atomized" from one another. They mistrust each other so much that the different opposition groups in the US have so far avoided contacting each other.

When asked whether he thinks the Ba'ath system can work for Iraq's future, Hassan responded, "The problem with Ba'adii ideology is that it calls for sacrifice, and not enough people are willing to make the necessary sacrifices to make it work. Also, it's been too easy for some people to wear the Ba'athi label on their jackets and use it as an excuse to abuse people.

"As far as Iraq's future goes, any government would be better than the current one. I'm fed up with the military government. We need a civilian government. We have excellent civilian specialists. They should be given a chance to perform."

Although the near future looks grim, an intellectual crisis is currently simmering in the Arab world that may result in a more realistic approach by younger Iraqis. Said Makiya, "There is an important new mood. " He cites the re-emergence of previously discarded thinkers and writers, particularly several who were influential in the 1940s. Ten years ago, to be "politically correct" on Cairo, Damascus or Tunis university campuses meant being Nasserist, Ba'athist or Islamist—anything but pro-Western, even if one wore Western clothes and watched American videos. To many young Arabs, the devastation and humiliation of the Gulf war has shown these ideologies to be bankrupt. It is yet too early to tell where this trend will lead, but it is worth watching for the emergence of a new way of thinking.

Andrea W. Lorenz is publications manager at the National Council on US-Arab Relations. A graduate of Wellesley College, she received her master's degree in Arabic Studies in 1983 from the American University in Cairo. She visited Iraq in 1988 and in 1989.