Baghdad 'like being in prison'
Thursday, August 23, 2007
SULEIMANIYA, Iraq - Instead of flowers, mountains and animals, or something funny, her Grade 1 students paint pictures of decapitated bodies, circling helicopters dropping bombs, American soldiers with semi-automatic weapons and cars exploding in the streets.
"They paint life as they see it, and I can't seem to get them to see anything else," Istbrq Assu told me sadly in an interview in Suleimaniya on Tuesday.
The 40-year-old Baghdad primary school teacher was here to visit with a friend and have a holiday before school begins in September. She treasures this time, because she'll soon be back in the thick of things.
"It's difficult being a teacher now," she said, pointing out that life in wartorn Baghdad has become so oppressive.
"It's like being in a prison for all of us."
People wake up, go to work, return home and lock their doors.
"By 6 p.m., you are don't dare go anywhere."
Her seven-year-old students are outside only for their journey to school in the morning. They aren't allowed outdoor recesses. When they go home, they're told to stay inside the house.
"They can't play outside anywhere. At school, they remain inside the classroom, and as a result have all this pent-up energy and can't keep still, and so it's difficult for them and for the teachers. Kids need to play, but we can't allow them outside. It's too dangerous," she said.
Assu has been teaching for 13 years, and while she sees "no future" or immediate relief from the terror that grips Baghdad, she remains positive with the children.
"I must. I have to give them some hope. But they know better. It's hard for them when all around them they see a parent or a brother die.... They see car bombings. They see death at every turn.
Assu went on to say how much she loves the children. "Many other teachers don't, or at least I don't think they want to think about it. They come to work, do their job and leave. It seems so futile to them, and to me, too, and it makes me sad. But I have to play a different role and be upbeat."
BROTHER KILLED BY SOLDIERS
The horror of Baghdad has touched her own family.
The windows of her home have bullet holes in them, and when she hears shootings, her family retreats to a safe room and huddle "in fear."
Assu said, "There are times when I am so afraid, but what can you do about fear? It's real -- we could die!"
It happened to her brother, whom she lost to the ravages of war. In 2004, U.S. soldiers killed Ali Abdul Aziz, a cameraman from al-Arabiya television, when a car ran a checkpoint and soldiers opened fire.
Aziz, who had asked if he could film the site of an earlier rocket attack near the Buj al-Hayat Hotel, had raced to his car to get out of the way but an American armoured vehicle opened fire on him. A reporter with him was also killed.
Assu doesn't blame the Americans. She knows it was a mistake, but she still mourns his death and wonders if there will ever be "a way out of this."
Her greatest sadness is for the children: "They know nothing else but war and that's no way for a child to grow up."
Assu said, "They come to school sometimes and tell me they met an American soldier and that man gave them chocolate.
"I've taught them how to say 'Thank you,' and in turn they are teaching the soldiers how to say that in Arabic. And if there is a smile in their life, it's when one of these Americans is nice to them. And they'll come and tell me."
But, points out Assu, some children cultivate a hatred for the U.S: "They'll say, 'I hate them. They killed my brother! They bombed my home!' "
In a way, this unmarried schoolteacher can't blame them for their response.
"They don't understand war. They don't understand why things are so bad. All they know is their brother is dead and he can't play with them anymore."
As Assu speaks, she wipes away tears.
I ask why she doesn't get a job teaching in Suleimaniya where life has returned to normalcy, and where the city is bursting with optimism.
"I am an Arab and they're Kurds," she said, and then explained that while there is no official policy against hiring Arabs, "They make things difficult for us and we can never get jobs."
For Assu, life in Baghdad is worse than prison. "At least in prison, you can move around and don't have to fear for your life. Here, we go into our houses and wonder if we'll wake in the morning, that a bomb might fall on us."
She said when Saddam ruled, it certainly wasn't the best, but "at least we could go out at night to see our friends, at least we could live without the fear we're feeling now."
Assu used to swim two or three times a week, but the pool is closed. She used to stay out with her friends at night, but that was years ago.
She finds it difficult dating, because in meeting someone new she is never sure if it might be someone who could do harm to her family.
"You can't trust anyone," she said.
But here in Suleimaniya, she went shopping for the first time in months. She bought herself a ring. She went out for tea. She had the waiters take a photograph of her. She went dancing with a friend.
"I can smile here, and it feels good."
More Iraq Articles from Marty Gervais:
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