Reading Graffiti in Iraq

by Nick Holt

Reading graffiti in Iraq is like embarking on an archeological expedition. It is the words themselves, instead of carbon dating or rock strata, that can be used to measure time. So "God bless the leader Saddam Hussein!" can be found next to "Shut up America!" which is under the more optimistic "Yes to science and freedom!" The more recent graffiti often expresses frustration with the slow pace of reconstruction efforts. Much of it is in English, presumably so the message will not be lost on whatever foreigners happen to come across from it. "What about our basic requirements, food, water and electricity?" demands a bus stop on the main street in Al Amarah.

The question of who should be responsible for answering these needs is a difficult one. Answering it is the goal of coordination meetings held between NGOs, the British military, and the UN held every week at the British headquarters. The British have inherited the old governor's mansion in Al Amarah. It sits on a peninsula where the Tigris river splits into two channels and from the terrace you can watch the children laugh and play along the banks and the long, low boats of the fisherman cut through the river.

When I entered the compound the guard on duty was engaged in a cultural dialogue with a pack of Iraqi children.

"Imshee, imshee!" Go away! Go away! The guard screamed.

"Fuck you! Fuck you!" the children cried joyfully in return.

The meeting was, as usual, a dreadful affair. Halfway through it one of the Salvation Army's representatives raised his hand to speak. "One thing we have coming up is a football program," he began. "We are trying to organize something for football through the schools. We have about donated 100 soccer balls we are going to distribute for this."

The CPA representative, normally silent and reproachful, suddenly perked up. The CPA stands for Central Provisional Authority. It is the latest in a series of acronyms used to describe the coalition-supervised interim government. "So are you talking about just handing out balls to kids," he asked, "or are you going to make leagues?"

"Oh, leagues, we're definitely trying to make leagues in the schools."

"Well, that's something I think the CPA would be very interested in supporting. I have a lot of contacts with the British soccer leagues, so if you want to take my information after this meeting, I'll be able to help you out."

The Salvation Army man sat back and smiled, basking in the glow of CPA approval. "That's great, that's really great, thanks a lot." The CPA representative smiled indulgently.

During this exchange I sat back and stared out the bay windows. The dresses of women in southern Iraq have a life cycle all their own. They bloom in childhood with spectacular colors and patterns, fade in adolescence to drab grays and greens, then finally end in the black abayas all grown women wear. I watched through the window then as two young girls - two splashes of color against the sand and dirt - walked down to the river with plastic jugs balanced on their heads.

As I watched them fill up their buckets I thought of the reports we had recently obtained from the water office. One of the most reliable ways of measuring water pollution is through the amount of fecal coliforms per milliliter. Water can safely be consumed untreated if the count is less than 10/ml. Above 100/ml the water is considered heavily polluted and unsuitable for consumption. According to the water office the amount is currently 2,400/ml. In other words, the children were filling up their buckets with diluted sewage.

Most of the health problems in the governorate can be traced to this water. The pediatric ward of the local hospital is filled with patients suffering from water-related diseases: diarrhea, typhoid, cholera. The nurse on duty introduced each child as a 'good' boy or girl, saying, for example, "This very good girl was admitted with chronic diarrhea."

The final woman we met, like all the others in the ward, sat with a 'good girl' cradled on her lap. The woman couldn't have been older than myself, but ah, what a different set of years we have had. The baby on her lap was her sixth child. The head nurse asked if the family boiled their water. The mother started to laugh. There is no wood, no oil, no gas. What fuel could they use to boil the water? The nurse asked then if they ever bought bottled water. This time the father laughed along with his wife. What a question! Ya habeebtee, to buy bottled water for so large a family would cost $90 a month - an impossible sum.