Like many other Iraqis, I had no idea who 'Jawad' al-Maliki was when it became obvious he was about to be made Prime Minister. He was chosen as a compromise because many thought he was weak and could easily be managed but little did they know he was about to become a strong leader with a mind of his own. I began to admire and respect Maliki after he proved himself to the Iraqi people to be a non-sectarian non-nonsense Prime Minister who would not hesitate to put his foot down and fight both Sunni and Shia militants. Any Prime Minister who feels confident in sending his army to both Sunni strongholds and Shia strongholds will always win the respect of the people.
Iyad Allawi, when he was Prime Minister, sent the army to Fallujah to deal with the Sunni terrorists and he also sent his army to Najaf, to deal with the Shia terrorists. This is one of the reasons why I voted for Allawi in the 2005 elections. Falluja burned on his watch and yet the majority of the inhabitants voted for him in these elections. In Najaf the turn of events were not as bloody as Falluja but Najaf is more sacred to the Shia than Falluja is to the Sunnis and so the sensitive nature of the attack raised a few eyebrows everywhere. Allawi would have succeeded in routing and humiliating the Mehdi Army in Najaf if it hadn’t been for a certain clique who pressured Allawi to stop fighting at a crucial point when it was clear he had won. That is a story in itself I guess.
Maliki’s onslaught against the Shia militias was much more dramatic and as a direct consequence earned him much more respect. When Maliki took the fight to the south in Basra against the Mehdi Army and other Iranian-backed militias rumours soon began to spread like wildfire of Hollywood-esque shoot-outs between the Iraqi Army and Mehdi Army. Rumours also began to circulate that Maliki was so close to being killed he was confined to specific rooms in one of Saddam’s Presidential Palaces because mortar fire got too close for comfort. Iraqi soldiers deserted and dropped their guns in the middle of the streets and some of them even turned their guns on Maliki and joined the rebels. It was absolute chaos and everyone was baffled.
Maliki was bold and the commander of the British forces was enjoying himself on a skiing holiday and never saw it coming. It was almost a week before the British military took part in the fight and it soon became apparent it was because the British struck a secret deal with the terrorists. British forces guaranteed for themselves no loss of life in exchange for a lawless Basra run by the militias. Once the fighting began the Americans immediately began to provide support to the Iraqi Army but the British had to honour their truce with the Mehdi Army and stayed well clear of any action. Throughout history, the British are not exactly famous for keeping promises but in this case they couldn't have found a more inappropriate time to actually honour a deal even if they tried.
In the end Maliki was successful, the Iranians lost the battle, and the Prime Minister’s name soon became synonymous with ‘security’ and ‘law’. Now it seems, to spite Allawi, Maliki has sent his men to Iran to try and broker a deal with the Sadrists, who have trumped their traditional rivals the Supreme Council, and it seems Moqtada is going to play a semi-key role in forming the new government. The Sadrists clearly won hundreds of thousands of votes and they have a democratic mandate to play this role but it is imperative they are not given any security posts. The Sadrist armed wing has already terrorised the population enough with their ministries, Islamic Sharia Courts, extra judicial executions and moral police and it would be both a crime and catastrophe to see these criminals legitimised and re-styled as police officers and soldiers.
It would be so easy, theoretically at least, for Maliki and Allawi to form a government but clearly neither is willing to swallow his pride and become the subordinate of the other so they will have to look far and wide for enough seats to be able to form a comfortable majority in parliament. To be honest I do not mind a government formed by either of the two - as long as the principles of justice and integrity are not sold, at any price, for seats and power.
News
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Najaf, Our True Origin
‘Najaf, our true origin’ is the title of one of the opening chapters of Mustafa Jamal al-Din’s poetry book - ‘al-Diwan’ - that I will hopefully translate and publish here. I just recently discovered the book in my fathers study; the great scholar and poet gave it to him as a gift in 1995.
There is something about the way I feel about Najaf that I can’t explain. I was smuggled out of the city, and country, almost four years-old, with the rest of my family as the 1991 rebellion was brutally suppressed but somehow I became attached to the city even growing up in north-west London.
My great-grandfather first moved to the city 100 years ago, followed by my grandfather who went on to study and teach for 80 years at the religious seminary. Both my parents were born in Najaf and I have vague memories of my early childhood there, of the city's twisting alleyways and the home I spent the first four years of my life in. My father throughout his life as an exile in London wished only that he could see the end of Saddam's reign and return to Najaf, his birthplace and hometown, to one day be buried next to his father in the shrine of Imam Ali. The honour of being buried in such a sacred place is bestowed only to a few. No one imagined it would be so soon but God answered his prayers and granted both his wishes and yet I am convinced it is none of these things that makes me feel the way I do about Najaf. It is something else. It is something mysterious, beautiful and magical.
Every time I see Najaf, every time I touch the earth and every time I smell it – taking deep breathes to get as much air as I can into my lungs and with it the desert sand perfumed by the sweet scented palm trees dancing with the breeze flowing over the Euphrates – I feel suddenly intoxicated. Nothing though, no matter how sweet or beautiful, compares with the first glance one gets of the golden dome that lights up not just the old historic city but also the hearts of the millions of people who come there to celebrate, to mourn, to lament, to sing, to laugh, to cry or to simply bask in the entrancing and enchanting ambience of the shrine and its surroundings.
Sometimes I just sit in the shrine for hours watching people praying and crying, asking God, through Imam Ali as an intermediary, to answer their calls and to tend to their needs. Old men stand before the tomb, in their full Arab tribal clothes, and address the Imam as if he is the final arbiter standing before them and listening patiently to every word they say before making his decision.
The men wave their hands, point their fingers and raise their voices, as defence lawyers would in front of a judge, and they plead for the Imams help in resolving that family dispute which ended in bloodshed, in the business transaction gone wrong or the theft which has left them hopeless and desperate. Unaware and indifferent to the scene they are making it is almost as if they do not notice the hundreds of other pilgrims milling about the place making similar demands.
There is something about the way I feel about Najaf that I can’t explain. I was smuggled out of the city, and country, almost four years-old, with the rest of my family as the 1991 rebellion was brutally suppressed but somehow I became attached to the city even growing up in north-west London.
My great-grandfather first moved to the city 100 years ago, followed by my grandfather who went on to study and teach for 80 years at the religious seminary. Both my parents were born in Najaf and I have vague memories of my early childhood there, of the city's twisting alleyways and the home I spent the first four years of my life in. My father throughout his life as an exile in London wished only that he could see the end of Saddam's reign and return to Najaf, his birthplace and hometown, to one day be buried next to his father in the shrine of Imam Ali. The honour of being buried in such a sacred place is bestowed only to a few. No one imagined it would be so soon but God answered his prayers and granted both his wishes and yet I am convinced it is none of these things that makes me feel the way I do about Najaf. It is something else. It is something mysterious, beautiful and magical.
Every time I see Najaf, every time I touch the earth and every time I smell it – taking deep breathes to get as much air as I can into my lungs and with it the desert sand perfumed by the sweet scented palm trees dancing with the breeze flowing over the Euphrates – I feel suddenly intoxicated. Nothing though, no matter how sweet or beautiful, compares with the first glance one gets of the golden dome that lights up not just the old historic city but also the hearts of the millions of people who come there to celebrate, to mourn, to lament, to sing, to laugh, to cry or to simply bask in the entrancing and enchanting ambience of the shrine and its surroundings.
Sometimes I just sit in the shrine for hours watching people praying and crying, asking God, through Imam Ali as an intermediary, to answer their calls and to tend to their needs. Old men stand before the tomb, in their full Arab tribal clothes, and address the Imam as if he is the final arbiter standing before them and listening patiently to every word they say before making his decision.
The men wave their hands, point their fingers and raise their voices, as defence lawyers would in front of a judge, and they plead for the Imams help in resolving that family dispute which ended in bloodshed, in the business transaction gone wrong or the theft which has left them hopeless and desperate. Unaware and indifferent to the scene they are making it is almost as if they do not notice the hundreds of other pilgrims milling about the place making similar demands.
Some are more self-conscious however and simply lean their heads against the decorated silver pillars of the tomb. They cry silently and talk to their Imam in whispers. While others stand in front of the tomb in absolute silence for a few minutes before leaving, making their pleas deep within their own hearts so no one else can hear them. They all asked the angels for permission to enter before stepping in the sacred mosque and hardly anyone turns their back on the Imam, walking backwards to show the utmost respect to the man, even 1,350 years after his death.
At the time of his burial, the location was a secret guarded only by a few. No golden dome mosque existed and no minarets rose high above a city for all to see. Even 100 years after the death of Imam Ali, Najaf still did not exist. Oppressed when he was alive and oppressed even after his death. The city was founded after Harun al-Rashid's hunting dogs refused to chase a gazelle seeking sanctuary on the holy grounds. The Abbasid Caliph realised there was something special here and, when told who was lying beneath the earth, ordered for a shrine to be built. A pity then that many people forget that once upon a time even dogs could not harm a creature of God on this precious land.
Now clerics and young students sit huddled together listening to scholars giving lessons on a particular verse of the Quran, saying of the Prophet or theological laws of ‘purity’ and ‘impurity’. When random laymen sit by them and listen in, even though they are not students, it is never frowned upon. Poor men in worn out and ragged clothes stand side-by-side men in suits sporting expensive watches and no one pays the slightest attention to the state of the other. They walk together and pray together like brothers who all want the same thing.
I feel instantly depressed every time I leave the city, the emotions kick-in when I get the last glances looking down from the airplane window or looking back at the horizon from the side-view mirror of a car as it heads further and further away from the city I have come to admire and love. In fact, it depresses me just thinking about the place if I am not there and even more so when friends call me and tell me they just came out of the shrine and remembered me, or are just on their way to relax by the Euphrates in Kufa or just had barbequed lamb kebab on the pavement in the middle of the busy zaynul abideen road packed with pilgrims who come from far and wide and residents simply going about their daily business.
At the time of his burial, the location was a secret guarded only by a few. No golden dome mosque existed and no minarets rose high above a city for all to see. Even 100 years after the death of Imam Ali, Najaf still did not exist. Oppressed when he was alive and oppressed even after his death. The city was founded after Harun al-Rashid's hunting dogs refused to chase a gazelle seeking sanctuary on the holy grounds. The Abbasid Caliph realised there was something special here and, when told who was lying beneath the earth, ordered for a shrine to be built. A pity then that many people forget that once upon a time even dogs could not harm a creature of God on this precious land.
Now clerics and young students sit huddled together listening to scholars giving lessons on a particular verse of the Quran, saying of the Prophet or theological laws of ‘purity’ and ‘impurity’. When random laymen sit by them and listen in, even though they are not students, it is never frowned upon. Poor men in worn out and ragged clothes stand side-by-side men in suits sporting expensive watches and no one pays the slightest attention to the state of the other. They walk together and pray together like brothers who all want the same thing.
I feel instantly depressed every time I leave the city, the emotions kick-in when I get the last glances looking down from the airplane window or looking back at the horizon from the side-view mirror of a car as it heads further and further away from the city I have come to admire and love. In fact, it depresses me just thinking about the place if I am not there and even more so when friends call me and tell me they just came out of the shrine and remembered me, or are just on their way to relax by the Euphrates in Kufa or just had barbequed lamb kebab on the pavement in the middle of the busy zaynul abideen road packed with pilgrims who come from far and wide and residents simply going about their daily business.
Even as I remember some of the crazy things we used to get up to the smiles and laughter quickly subsides and a feeling of longing and yearning sets in for the rest of the day. Like a child who is lost but old enough to understand he would be embarrassing himself if he decided to make a scene and cry so he just wonders about waiting to be found again.
One day I went with a friend to see how the new Iraqi Army was being trained in Najaf and as I stood there and played with the sand with my feet while watching the Americans instruct the Iraqis, a US soldier walked up to me and asked me in a friendly tone what business I had in Najaf. I decided to tease him by saying, truthfully, "I came because I love the smell of this place". I expected him to inquire or to laugh, to mock me or even be insulted but he didn't show any emotion; surprise or intrigue. He looked straight back at me and said "You know, I have been all over Iraq and you are right... Najaf is not the same, it's special here". My heart was doing backflips and summersaults when I learnt that it wasn't just me. I am not going crazy. Even this soldier, far away from his family, friends and home, in the middle of an occupation, wearing full military gear in the heat of the afternoon sun, realises Najaf is special.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
The Saga Continues
First Chalabi makes an appearance on al-Baghdadiya and talks nonsense. I publish a blog entry here and also send him a private e-mail asking him in God’s name how he could deny something that he believed in another realm, apparently. This angers him and members of his staff call members in my family to pass on the message that Chalabi is upset with me and thinks I have 'misunderstood' him.
Then come the rumours that Moqtada is planning to return to Iraq imminently. Then bombshell news from al-Arabiya that Maliki has given orders to the Ministry of Interior to arrest Moqtada on the charge, still standing, of murder for his involvement in my fathers assassination.
Later a journalist of al-Sharq al-Awsat calls me and asks me question after question after question regarding this case. I say, regardless of authenticity of the news, it is, and always was, just another election game for them.
Then comes news from Maliki's office that Maliki’s orders were no orders and it was all just made up rumours. Ali al-Dabbagh insists Moqtada is a key player in Iraqi politics and news that they want to arrest him is nonsense.
Then the Sadrists announce that the initial rumours were actually started by Maliki’s office in the first place just to cause trouble before the elections. Esma al-Mousawi admits Sadrists were involved in the slaying of my father, but only just two Sadrists, and Moqtada was never involved. I was surprised because aside from the typical lies, it is the first time ever I have heard them actually admit my fathers blood is on their hands.
Amid all this confusion it turns out that Iraq's highest judiciary has issued new arrest warrants for 14 people, including Moqtada. Oh, and the real news is Jalal al-Din al-Sagheer announced he has apparently had a roundtable discussion on this matter with members of the INA and they collectively decided that justice is not really that important. It was not important when Ja'fari was in power, it is not important now, and it will never be important.
It's all happening so fast, but when one takes the time to take it all in only one thing becomes clear. The Sadrists will forever be stained with my fathers blood. Nothing, and no one, can wash it away.
Then come the rumours that Moqtada is planning to return to Iraq imminently. Then bombshell news from al-Arabiya that Maliki has given orders to the Ministry of Interior to arrest Moqtada on the charge, still standing, of murder for his involvement in my fathers assassination.
Later a journalist of al-Sharq al-Awsat calls me and asks me question after question after question regarding this case. I say, regardless of authenticity of the news, it is, and always was, just another election game for them.
Then comes news from Maliki's office that Maliki’s orders were no orders and it was all just made up rumours. Ali al-Dabbagh insists Moqtada is a key player in Iraqi politics and news that they want to arrest him is nonsense.
Then the Sadrists announce that the initial rumours were actually started by Maliki’s office in the first place just to cause trouble before the elections. Esma al-Mousawi admits Sadrists were involved in the slaying of my father, but only just two Sadrists, and Moqtada was never involved. I was surprised because aside from the typical lies, it is the first time ever I have heard them actually admit my fathers blood is on their hands.
Amid all this confusion it turns out that Iraq's highest judiciary has issued new arrest warrants for 14 people, including Moqtada. Oh, and the real news is Jalal al-Din al-Sagheer announced he has apparently had a roundtable discussion on this matter with members of the INA and they collectively decided that justice is not really that important. It was not important when Ja'fari was in power, it is not important now, and it will never be important.
It's all happening so fast, but when one takes the time to take it all in only one thing becomes clear. The Sadrists will forever be stained with my fathers blood. Nothing, and no one, can wash it away.
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