Suffering and Strength:
Women of Iraq
by Sheila Provencher

Before she goes outside, Maysoon swathes herself in an abaya, a black garment that covers her from head to toe. Black stockings are also a must, even in the 130-degree summer heat. She pins a head scarf beneath her chin and walks out into the sun. Later that night, she regales me with “abaya stories”—the time she tripped on the long hem in front of her in-laws, the time the wind blew it open in the marketplace, and, best of all, the time she “accidentally” set fire to her abaya shortly after her marriage. Maysoon, a 36-year-old Iraqi mother of four, really does not care for this garment, and only wears it because her husband wants her to.

“Women used to wear miniskirts,” says Um Yusef, my Iraqi landlady. “We used to go to the cinema, to nightclubs. We used to be able to live.” An Iraqi Christian who has lived in Baghdad her entire life, Um Yusef yearns for a time when simple pleasures were available and fear was not part of one’s daily reality.

But the past 25 years of unrelenting war have irrevocably shaped that reality. The Iran-Iraq war, the first Gulf War, years of economic sanctions, the 2003 invasion and occupation and the present post-occupation quagmire have created a generation of women and men who remember little but struggle and fear. “Society became unbalanced because of all the wars,” says Hana Ibrahim, a 45-year-old Iraqi scholar and activist. “Many people turned to God, because they needed God more.” Throughout the past two decades, Iraqis increasingly chose a more rigorous interpretation of certain elements of Islam. The most obvious example of this changing consciousness is the return of both abaya and head scarves for women who venture beyond their homes.

But more conservative clothing is not the only change for Iraq’s women. “In the 1970’s, 90% of Iraqi women could read,” says Hana Ibrahim. “Women were [and are] physicians, lawyers, and professors. The first woman lawyer in the Arab world was Iraqi. The first woman judge in the Arab world was Iraqi. But in the 1990’s, only 40% of women could read. Many girls, especially in the villages, stopped going to school. They would stay home and help with the farmwork instead. In the cities, some worked as servants. This was new in Iraq. We never had such a thing before.”

Hana sits in the simple office of Women’s Will, a grassroots organization she founded to support women’s voices in Iraq. Her organization has vast work ahead. While the entire population suffers the effects of a quarter-century of war, women face particular challenges, due both to the trauma of war and to the conditions in post-occupation Iraq. Hana sums it up: “We are still living inside the culture of war, the culture of death.”

Where is My Husband?

Lara Hussein came to the Human Rights Organization in Iraq more than one month after her husband was seized by U.S. troops in December 2003. Three months pregnant, she had searched for him at military bases, at the Iraqi Assistance Center run by the then-Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA), and at Abu Ghraib prison. No one had any record of his arrest. She finally found his name on a list of detainees, but he was in Bucca prison camp, eight hours to the south and too far for her to travel alone. Lara is isolated from her family because she, a Christian, married a Muslim. Her husband is her only source of support, and now he is gone, held as a “security detainee” with no charges and no prospect of trial. “Who will help me,” she asks, “when I have my baby?”

Many women like Lara have lost husbands, fathers, and brothers to the vast detention system begun by the U.S. occupation in Iraq. In a culture in which the man is the primary breadwinner, countless women lost their homes, property, and livelihood when their husbands were arrested. Some even lost their lives in the violent house raids that often precede a detention. And although some of their detained loved ones were guilty, many were innocent. One U.S. official interviewed in Baghdad last March said, “there are thousands of Iraqis in prison right now who should be home with their families.” Ever since the abuse scandal at Abu Ghraib prison, authorities have been eager to publish reports of released prisoners and improved conditions. But for many women and children, the damage is already done. The prisoner abuse received worldwide attention. But the suffering of many prisoners’ families — also a form of abuse — has yet to be fully acknowledged.

Silent Foundations

A society scarred by war has ghosts. The demons of Iran-Iraq, the Gulf War, the sanctions, and the latest war show their faces in the marketplace, in the countless men limping without full limbs, in children begging, in missing legs and hands and eyes. But the inner wounds show themselves in secret alcoholism, domestic violence, and psychological illness. Externally, the man is the head of the family, the provider, the one in charge. But more often than not, the strength of the woman holds the household together, and it is she who suffers the full effects of inner wounds and tries to heal them if she can.

Although numerous women have professional roles in Iraqi society, a large percentage work solely in the home, raising children and running the household. Work falls along gender lines, with the woman doing all the cooking, serving, and cleaning. When guests come, the men sit together while the woman of the house bears the burden of the work. When children are sick, she holds them. When the husband suffers from alcoholism, it falls to her to deal with it. Because alcohol is forbidden in Islam, alcohol addiction is usually a hidden problem that all too often spirals into domestic violence. A woman might be able to flee to her parents’ home, but usually has no source of income or support. Safe houses or homeless shelters barely exist.

Two weeks ago, Maysoon took her four children and left. Her husband had started hitting her. She went to her mother’s house and lives there in one room with her children. They weep when they try to talk about their father.

Work and a Future

The job landscape in Iraq is bleak. During the occupation, unemployment soared to 70%, putting stress on innumerable men who cannot provide for their families. But women have had difficulty finding work for more than a decade. More than one million men died or became disabled during years of war, leaving wives or sisters who need to earn a living. Women make ends meet by sewing, cooking, working in shops, or worst, by begging on the streets. “Don’t give her any money,” said my translator one day, ignoring the baby-toting woman who walked the streets with hand held out. “Begging is just a job for them.”

Hind is an exception to the norm. A 26-year-old single Muslim woman, she owns her own copy shop, speaks fluent English, and hopes to go back to school for a Master’s degree. Her business supports both her and her mother, who is often ill and relies on the income. “I put my mind to it, I work very hard, and this is what I have accomplished,” says Hind with justifiable pride.

But Hind—representing Iraq’s best and brightest young people—sees no future for herself in her home country. “For me, I think I have no future in Iraq. I have to leave. First, there was the occupation. And this is something unbearable. And now, everything is getting worse. In the past, I walked about freely. Now I need someone to be with me at all times, for security. I am afraid to go out alone. I think the only way is to leave.”

“Liberation”

Where is the voice of optimism? What about the liberation supposedly wrought by the war? Both Hana Ibrahim and Hind mince no words when they clarify the meaning of “liberation” at the hands of an outside power. Hana says, “Bush and Rumsfeld claim that they came to Iraq to make women free, to create democracy. But democracy is not for us, it’s for the companies. Not for the poor. People will stay poor and in the background. Bush and Rumsfeld mean freedom for them and their partners. But no freedom for us. When there is war, the people always lose.”

Hind concurs. “I don’t think the invasion made an improvement. They came to take, they did not come to give. And now people are attacking each other, and there is a struggle inside. It’s getting worse because you can’t repair what is broken inside. If this is my society, then I reject this society.”

Hind, Hana, Um Yusef, Lara, and Maysoon know from their experiences that liberation is not a gift handed to them by a foreign power. But they and countless other women are digging deep within and finding resilience, strength, and true courage to continue the struggle.