Eine irakische Familie spricht über den kommenden Krieg
h.habiger
For one Iraqi family, an uneasy wait for war
BAGHDAD, IRAQ - Definitions for the words "lack,"
"fear" and
"resignation" are abundant in the cramped household of Iraqi
Karima Selman Methboub, a widow with eight children.
Like the majority of Iraqis, this poor Baghdad family
leads a
tough life. They say it's made even more difficult by anxiety
about any new US war. In fact, statements about the future
often begin: "If I am still alive..."
Still, despite their hardship, they show personal
support for
Iraqi President Saddam Hussein.
A visitor is welcomed to sit upon a thick quilt that replaced
furniture Mrs. Methboub sold just two days earlier to
pay an
annual $20 school fee for a daughter who loves math.
"We believe the American people are like us, and want
peace -
they don't want to hurt anybody," says Methboub, a substantial
matriarch draped in a gold-embroidered black velvet robe.
During a visit without the presence of a government minder,
her family offers a rare glimpse into the lives of typical
Iraqis.
"But let every American family be in our place, and
feel what
we are feeling, and fear the American bombs," says Methboub,
to the assenting nods of several bright-eyed daughters. "If
they are like us, they will prevent war."
Determining the true thinking of Iraqis about the leadership
of Mr. Hussein, or their views on how Hussein has contributed
to Iraq's current predicament, is virtually impossible
in a
country where more than three decades of brutal authoritarian
rule have made Iraqis afraid of sharing such thoughts, even
among themselves.
But one thing is clear from official and unofficial
conversations: Iraqis are exhausted by the combined
effect of
the Iran-Iraq war of the 1980s, the 1991 American-led
Gulf War
that ousted Iraqi forces from Kuwait, and 12 years of United
Nations sanctions.
That means they are woefully unprepared for another war
- no
matter how swift or dramatic Americans promise it will be.
In Methboub's low-ceilinged living room, there is a framed
photograph of Hussein, smiling from beneath an Arab kafiyeh
headdress. There is also a framed "certificate of
honor" given
to daughter Zainab, who, two years ago, trained to
march, use
weapons, and learn first aid as a volunteer with
Hussein's "Al
Qods Army." The army declares its aim to "liberate Palestine,
and its crown Jerusalem, from Zionist occupiers."
Methboub's husband was killed in a car crash in 1996,
the same
year the UN launched its oil-for-food program. That
deal gave
the family sufficient food for the first time in the 1990s.
But it is still a daily struggle to make ends meet. And this
large family, like so many Iraqis, is resigned to what they
see as an inevitable war, and so place their hope in the
benevolence of a higher being.
"We were really concerned in the first Gulf War," Methboub
says. In 1991, the family used to climb onto the roof
of the
cinder-block garage they have called home for 30 years
- and
which is now held up by rusting beams - to watch American
bombers flying overhead.
"Now it is different, because these threats have built
up over
time, so we are used to it," Methboub says. "Of course it
concerns us when America talks with that high voice, in this
way. But it is in the hands of God. Whether our life
ends, in
a war or not, is up to God."
Relying on such divine providence can also cut the
other way,
points out daughter Amal, who at 13 is a member of her
school's Baath Party youth group. Her 25,000 dinars
school fee
- less than $10 - was paid out of her late father's tiny
quarterly pension of 20,000 dinars.
"If God wants America to be burned, it will be burned," says
Amal, who speaks confidently while sitting on the floor quilt
with a pillow on her knees.
"I'm not the only one," she adds. "When people hear America
threatening Iraq, they wish a disaster on America,
before they
start a war with Iraq."
Some Americans are welcome
That antipathy is not directed at all Americans.
Members of a
group of US antiwar protesters who regularly come to Baghdad
to highlight the adverse impact of sanctions have impressed
this family, and are not included in the negative sentiment.
But anti-US convictions will persist, Amal says, "as
long as
people live in fear of dying. [People] think their
lives are
in danger, especially those who protect children -
mothers and
fathers - because they have no place to hide from the bombing.
"Even pregnant women: They worry for the future if
there is a
war," Amal adds. "They worry, how will their baby take its
first breath?"
Such issues of war and peace can get lost in the mundane:
Methboub apologizes for the smell of burnt rice that wafts
across from the neighbors' home. She lights a stick of incense
to mask it. Her family home is officially considered a
"garage," as spelled out in the eviction notice delivered
early last month that came from the local branch of the
Ministry of Justice.
The thought of moving - and of raising the $800 security
deposit necessary for even the cheapest available place in
this middle-class neighborhood - brings tears to Methboub's
eyes.
During the 1998 US bombing campaign here, the entire family
slept on the floor under blankets.
A small china tea set sits on a shelf; glamorous magazine
advertisements selling a different life - a black Mercedes,
couples smoking cigarettes and happily courting - are
taped to
the refrigerator, which stands in the corner of the living
room and hums noisily, the two bare wires giving it
life poked
into a wall socket blackened with short circuits.
The oldest son is in the Army, based near the northern
city of
Mosul. The next oldest was released in mid-October from Abu
Ghraib prison - as part of a mass release analysts say Hussein
used to boost popular support - and will enter the Army in
five months when he turns 18.
The youngest boy, Mahmoud, who is 8, wears a skeleton T-shirt
and leans on a visitor's leg to draw, using that visitor's
red, green, and blue pens.
The oldest girl, Fatima, who is 16, left school two
years ago.
Fees were too high and her help was needed in raising the
younger children while her mother tries to scrape together
cash by baking bread.
Methboub insists - "if I am still alive" - that she will
correct that and send Fatima back to class as soon as
any new
war is over.
The war enters the classroom
Those already in school are hearing more and more about a
possible war, though, and the official view of it. Duha and
Hibba, both 11, are twin girls who bound into the
living room
after their classes, and settle right in to test their budding
English.
"All people are concerned about the war," says Duha, who
sports a long braid and a blue bangle necklace. "They are
afraid somehow."
"Teachers are not allowed to talk about the war," interrupts
Hibba, still wearing her school-length skirt.
"They tell us: 'Don't worry, we don't fear America or its
threats. We should be afraid of God, not war,' " Duha
continues. "We asked our civics teacher about the war,
and she
told us: 'Don't fear, we are under a great hero leader in
Saddam Hussein.'"
At the mention of that name, Hibba began to chant the refrain,
well-rehearsed in Iraqi schools and almost everywhere else:
"Yes, yes, Saddam Hussein."
As if on cue - and showing how deeply the regime permeates
every level of Iraqi life - little Mahmoud stopped his drawing
for a moment, to add his voice: "Down, down Zionists.'"
al roehrich
und es gibt immer noch keinen.....
[...Kammquoting & Kopiertes entsorgt....]
al roehrich
--
<the hazelnut is dark brown>