A New Way
by David Smith-Ferri, t r u t h o u t | Perspective
Thursday 14 May 2009
http://www.truthout.org/051409A
Amman, Jordan - Recently, in an article by Kim Gamel, The Associated Press reported that the government of Iraq “has recorded 87,215 of its citizens killed since 2005 in violence ranging from catastrophic bombings to execution-style slayings …” Based on an “in-depth review of available evidence” from “hospital sources and media reports,” the AP concluded that more than 110,600 Iraqis have died as a result of violence since the U.S.-led invasion in 2003.
As intended, it is the numbers that jump out at us off the page, but here in Amman, Jordan, where I spend my days talking with Iraqi refugees who have fled their country, it isn’t numbers that stand out, but individual people, their stories, their histories, their hopes.
The numbers, in fact, can obscure more than they reveal. They fool us into thinking that the impact of six years of war and occupation can be held in the palm of a hand, characterized in a single sentence, grasped in an instant. They fool us into thinking the consequences can be “managed” and “controlled.” Let’s be clear: the losses for Iraqis are incalculable. We should face this and recognize that the losses from war are always too deep, too personal to measure, too large to manage or control. To think otherwise is to be open to the cost-benefit arguments in favor of the next war.
Numbers, too, are the subject of argument and controversy, which further distract us from what matters: the people. The Iraqis we are meeting in Amman are living with deep personal tragedy, which sometimes concerns the deaths of loved ones: the loss of a sister, brother, child, parent, someone who was close enough to be not only a part of their daily life but also a part of their identity.
Consider Abu Abbas, whose sister was killed in a car bombing. Consider Muna, whose parents, four brothers and her one-year-old child were killed in a US missile attack. Consider Najlaa, whose father died two years ago. For each of these people, the loss is fresh, the wound isn’t healed. “We were a big family, and our father was the world to us,” Najlaa says. “He taught me so many things. Every month when we were children, we’d go and buy a sheep and bring it home. I loved that sheep. I would jump on it and ride it,” Najlaa says, her eyes bright with joy. “Of course, we would butcher the sheep. That’s what it was for. And my father made us help. We would help catch the blood, help with the skinning and cutting and cleaning. And then we’d have a big meal. Everyone together. That sheep would give us meat for a whole month.”
Najlaa’s father was a talented man, an artist, a carpenter, a scholar, a political activist. “He taught me how to view the world and to care about it/every creature. He taught me that no problem is so big that I can’t look at it and think about what I can do and then do it.”
Najlaa’s father, a member of the Communist Party and a human rights advocate, was arrested and imprisoned during the Saddam Hussein regime. “They made the prisoners line up for torture. As he waited in line, my father could hear the screams of other prisoners ahead of him. And as the line progressed, as he moved toward the front of the line for his turn, he would be quietly talking to the other people in line, finding out what had been done to them, and then later he’d write it up. He was documenting the abuses.”
“And he was so much fun to be with. Telling stories and making jokes. Even during the hardest times, he kept our spirits up, and we felt strong being with him.”
Najlaa’s father is gone now, taken from her by a war she didn’t ask for, a war, need we be reminded, that began with a premeditated and unprovoked invasion of a sovereign country. Living in the US for the last seven years, listening first to arguments in favor of an invasion of Iraq and afterward to “news” from the battlefield, one could actually forget that Iraq is a sovereign country. A country with a history, a country whose present is dominated by that invasion and the events that flowed from it. A country whose people are concerned about its future.
We met recently in Amman with an Iraqi historian and human rights advocate who is back-and-forth to Baghdad. Noor (not her real name) began by saying, “Look, we all know the humanitarian crisis in Iraq is comprehensive.” Meaning, the human systems - education, health care, employment, social services, the arts - and the civilian infrastructure - water and sewage treatment, electricity - are degraded and broken. “The streets may be ‘calmer,’” she continued, “but when there is no electricity, no clean water, no employment, we know there is no security.”
What does the future hold, she asks, when there are hundreds of thousands of widows, and when so many children have lost one or both parents? What does the future hold when so many of the skilled professionals have fled or been killed? “If things improve, we might see some of the older professionals returning, but the younger ones, the ones with new families, the ones with energy and a spirit for building a future? I’m afraid they’ll never return.”
We meet these young professionals here in Amman. They come from all backgrounds: Sunni, Shia, Christian, Mandaean. They are smart, capable and good. They are proficient in 21st century technologies. They are exactly the people Iraq needs to reconstitute itself. These are the entrepreneurs, the scholars, the lawyers, the inventors, the artists. These are the country’s future leaders.
But the young professionals we are meeting have no plans to return to Iraq. They want to live in a country where they can build a future. Yasmin, a biologist and the mother of a six-month-old child, explains “When you are in Iraq, you accommodate to the violence and all the problems. But once you have left, you can’t go back.” It’s also true that Yasmin’s husband was kidnapped in Iraq. His business was taken over, and he faces a death threat in Iraq. All of which, of course, color the prospect of returning.
Noor’s concerns for Iraq and Iraqis go deep. She is concerned that the Iraq she loves is disappearing. “Iraqis aren’t passing on their arts and their history. These are people with a rich culture, and they are in danger of forgetting who they are.” Many of the master artists have fled or been killed. In Iraq, artists have little support for their work in a country shattered by violence and political upheaval, in a country whose middle and upper classes have fled, in an economy that is in tatters. Making a point we have heard from other Iraqis in Amman, she says “Iraqis are more and more concerned about making money, and how you make it doesn’t matter.”
In the face of all this, what can be done? Well, Iraqis give us more than a clue by the way they treat us, by the genuine hospitality and friendship they offer. There are families I’ve met for the first time here in Amman whose homes I will be welcome in for the rest of my life. These Iraqis have offered relationships based on trust, mutuality, respect. Armed with nothing but their decency, their goodwill and their wits, they have made common cause with us. Contrast this with the belligerent, threatening, violent behavior of the US government, which conflates foreign policy with military action.
What can the American government do? It can do more than adjust timetables for troop withdrawal. It can stop acting in ways that divide Iraqi society and commit itself to supporting an inclusive political process. On her recent visit to the region, Hillary Clinton told Iraqis, “We won’t abandon you.” But ordinary Iraqis, wary of US promises and intentions, already sense they’ve been forgotten, and given US actions in Iraq and in the region, actions that divide rather than unite, they have many reasons to be concerned. If Clinton’s words are going to have any power to move Iraqis, they will have to be followed by US actions that demonstrate both respect for Iraq’s sovereignty and a genuine, long-term commitment to support Iraqis in their efforts to achieve a future of peace.
It could take a lesson from Noor. She will start a center for artists in Amman. “There are very fine Iraqi artists here who are masters and who have agreed to teach and mentor young Iraqis. We will have ceramicists, metal workers, weavers. It can be done.” And she will initiate a program for orphans outside Baghdad. Following her lead, the US government could shift money away from military programs toward repair of Iraq’s rotting oil industry, the basis of its moribund economy. It could redirect money away from military programs toward support for social services, education, and health care delivery, recognizing that a strong and independent civil society is the bulwark of democracy. It could learn a new way.
© 2009 truthout