Sisters in War

by Christina Asquith

  No one found this funny.

  “I’m joking,” she said. “It’s just that I’ll always be in war zones, and it’ll be too dangerous to have a child,” she said.

  That was a more satisfying answer, but there was one more outstanding concern.

  “But, Ms. Coyne, if you don’t get married, you don’t get all the stuff that comes with marriage …” the male staffer trailed off, obviously referring to sex.

  Heather laughed. “Well, you can get all those things without getting married!”

  She hoped that would end the conversation, and—maybe—even plant the seed in his mind that women could have the same kind of sexual freedom as men. But a horrified look crossed his face instead, and he turned beet red. No, she didn’t think he’d gotten the message.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ZIA GRABBED ON to the dashboard as Keith cut through traffic, laid on the horn, and gestured wildly out the car window with his hand.

  “I’m driving Iraqi style,” he joked.

  She laughed. After several more weeks of Keith’s relentless lobbying, Zia had agreed to have lunch with him in a restaurant downtown. Lately, she had noticed many Iraqi women sharing pizzas in the Green Zone café with contractors, or strolling down the wide, tree-shaded boulevards, shoulder to shoulder with soldiers. But such images of Iraqi women “dating” American men, however normalized inside the Green Zone, were still shocking to Iraqis. That Zia was willing to risk being seen in public with Keith was a measure of her optimism that the Americans would push Iraqi society to modernize. Zia had heard about the assassination of Aquila al-Hashimi—everyone had—but no one knew for certain that she was targeted because she was an unveiled woman. Zia was more apt to believe the rumors that Sunnis still loyal to Saddam Hussein had killed her because she was working for the Americans. Even the devastating UN bombing, which she believed was orchestrated by foreign fighters, had only fortified her resolve that the Americans needed Iraqi support more than ever. Many other Iraqis felt the same. Plus, she liked the modern idea of going out on an American-style “date.” It was just lunch, but it felt like she was breaking barriers for all Iraqi women. Although, of course, she hadn’t dared to tell Baba.

  Scattered attacks against Americans had been occurring across the city, so to play it safe Zia suggested Keith disguise his nationality. It had taken some preparation: he ditched his SUV and borrowed a rusty pickup truck from an Iraqi coworker; he wrapped a red-and-white checkered scarf around his neck. The hope was that, from a distance, other diners might assume they were an Iraqi husband and wife, or perhaps that he was a Western journalist and she was his translator. Hundreds of foreigners were now living in hotels and rented houses in Baghdad, including journalists, aid workers, businessmen, and even the odd tourist—they wandered around souks with cameras, picking out vegetables at the markets or dining at the few restaurants that had begun serving alcohol to attract a Western clientele. Some women tried to blend in by wearing a headscarf, but they usually pulled it back to reveal their bangs, which was more the style in Iran than Iraq. And they matched their veil with khaki army-style pants and sneakers—which Iraqi women would never wear in public. Since few spoke Arabic, they almost always had an Iraqi driver or translator standing attentively alongside them.

  Westerners seemed to feel that Baghdad was still safe enough to move around in freely, but Zia felt it better to avoid attracting attention. She preferred that no one recognize her and ask questions. Even in a city of six million, Baghdad could feel as small as a village, and Zia was always running into someone who recognized her, or who knew her father or sister. Yet, for as much as she knew she had to keep her outing a secret, she felt very cool. Here she was, on her first American “date,” coming from the palace, where she worked with people from the White House. She felt special, and the risk only fueled the excitement.

  At the restaurant, Zia ordered in Arabic for them both. Within minutes, colorful plates of meze covered the table: eggplant and tahini; hummus, parsley, and tomatoes; and a basket of pita bread. Sun poured through the lace curtains, and Zia could see the busy street outside, and several other tables of Iraqis nearby. They spoke in hushed tones, but no one bothered Keith and Zia.

  Keith told her more about himself. His father had served in the navy during Vietnam, and Keith grew up in the Philippines, attending a Christian school, before the family moved to California. In the late 1960s, while his brother and friends headed to Berkeley to be hippies, Keith returned to the Philippines as a student missionary. He was an idealist, but he’d also gotten, at a young age, a cold, hard glimpse of what U.S. aid looked like on the ground: the prostitutes, the alcohol-fueled parties, the corruption—all masked by bullshit flag-waving patriotic rhetoric. That was the USA to Keith: some good, honest deeds, and a lot of PR. Nonetheless, Keith’s father had raised his son to love his country, and he did. He carried that belief in the American way of life into Baghdad, but that alone wasn’t enough. “Let’s just say the corporate pay made the risk ‘manageable,’ ” he said, laughing.

  Zia loved his openness. To Zia, Keith was the complete opposite of emotionally distant, taciturn men like Baba. He spoke warmly of his emotions, shared his thoughts and feelings, and seemed genuinely interested in hers. He also did little things that she had never seen Arab men do, like open doors for her, carry her bag, and buy her sodas. They treat us like princesses, Zia thought.

  Over lunch Zia learned that Keith had another, more somber side too. Underneath his joking manner, he was often depressed. Like many of the other contractors, he was escaping problems back home. He was twice divorced, and had a fourteen-year-old daughter, who lived with one of his ex-wives, to whom he paid hefty child support. He’d never graduated from college and had hopscotched around in his career. By contrast, his life in Baghdad offered freedom, money straight into his U.S. bank account, and a circle of guys to drink and joke around with—but even as he described it so enthusiastically, Zia could tell he felt it was a little depressing.

  She had sad stories too; the pressures of poverty, the fear of the Ba’ath Party, and the time the Mukhabarat forced her to spy on the Egyptian embassy, where she worked, tapping the family’s phone lines. She would have been terrified to speak so openly during Saddam’s time, and doing so now felt cathartic. Keith listened with interest and understanding.

  Soon, Keith and Zia’s conversation morphed into sexier topics. Zia had been dying to ask about the female contractors at IMN. She was burning with curiosity about male-female relationships in America, but she danced around subjects taboo to talk about with a man, like sex. Keith, however, dived right in, in his usual frank style.

  “Zia, I grew up in the sixties and seventies in California. Sex was no big deal. You meet a woman, you find each other interesting and attractive, you take her home, and you F each other’s lights out. That’s the final piece of the puzzle and you know if you’re compatible.”

  Zia smiled in surprise, even though she’d suspected as much from television.

  “But isn’t that bad for the woman?”

  “No.” Keith laughed. “Women want it that way too. That’s feminism. If she doesn’t enjoy it, maybe she won’t take your call the next day.”

  Keith presented casual sex as a mark of women’s liberation. He wasn’t about to let her take the high road, either. “You know what the problem is in the Muslim world?” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Sexual frustration.”

  Zia thought this was hysterical.

  “Here, I see this tremendous amount of sexual frustration between men and women, and quite frankly, I find it offensive,” Keith said. How come men can go out and do anyone they want, but you become an outcast in the family and subject even to being killed if you go and sleep with someone?”

  It was true, Zia knew.

  “If you ask me, there’re a lot of sexual time bombs floating around this country,” he continued. “It’s gotta be frustrating. I’m not a woman, but we all have those feelings, a
nd the women have to repress them and the men get to go out and release them with prostitutes.”

  There was a long silence.

  “It’s got to make for one hell of an interesting wedding night,” Keith said.

  They both laughed.

  “No kidding!” Zia said.

  Zia told him about the wedding night of the aunt of one of Nunu’s friends. The girl’s family arranged her marriage to a man she didn’t know. A few days before the ceremony, her mother explained what would happen, physically, on her wedding night, and the poor girl was terrified. She had never been alone with a man, and the thought of this stranger touching her made her tremble. So when they arrived at their hotel room, she locked the groom out on the balcony!

  “No way,” Keith interjected, wide-eyed.

  The groom banged on the glass door, but the bride wouldn’t let him in for hours. Finally, he promised not to touch her. But as soon as she opened the door, he beat her and forced himself on her. When her mother, aunts, and sisters gathered the following morning, as was traditional, to see the bloody sheet and hear the story of the wedding night, her bruises said it all. She told the women what had happened, and finished with a long sigh.

  The grandmother frowned. “You’re so stupid. You shouldn’t have done it. Now you’ve been beaten by your husband and you’ll always remember that as your first time.” All the other women agreed that she had been foolish.

  Keith thought that was harsh, but Zia was laughing. “I told Nunu, ‘Hey, her mistake for letting him in. She should have left him on the balcony all night.’ ”

  “But didn’t she want to divorce him after that?” Keith asked.

  “No way! No one would marry her again.”

  The check arrived, and they got ready to leave. “On my wedding night,” Zia added thoughtfully, “my mom said she’ll be in the room next door. That way, if something goes wrong, I’ll have a place to run.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SOON AFTER MANAL and Heather had agreed to collaborate on the women’s centers, they settled into what they hoped would be a productive division of labor. While Heather worked the political angle with officials inside the Green Zone, pushing through the paperwork and locating possible buildings, Manal hit the streets, hiring Iraqi staff, corralling women to sit on a board of directors, and determining what types of programs and events the women needed in the centers. The aid worker and the soldier made for an unusual pair, but neither could accomplish their aim without the other. The unlikely friendship that developed surprised them both. People stared when they had meetings over dinner, Manal in her headscarf and Heather in her fatigues, but they had too much work to care.

  Manal saw her role as helping Iraqi women organize into groups, and then training them to be effective organizations. She had created weekly meetings with the nascent Iraqi women’s groups. The first was called “Women in Government,” in which she brought together women to network and to discuss strategies to get them into government, including campaigning, politicking, lobbying, and legislation. The second was called the “NGO Coordinating Committee,” which was to train the women on basic strategies. On their own initiative, many had already formed groups such as the National Council of Women or the Muslim Women’s Association or the Women’s Alliance for a Democratic Iraq, but they had little experience in organizing. Manal taught “Robert’s Rules of Order,” the widely used procedures for organizing group discussions in the West; the creation of steering committees; fund-raising strategies; government lobbying; how to write mission statements; and even how to design brochures. Many of the women she dealt with were lawyers, professors, and engineers, but since the formation of a women’s group had been forbidden under Saddam, these well-educated women were hungry to learn how to develop and fund their organization. Manal worked closely with Hanaa Adwar, a petite Christian lawyer in her late fifties who was from the southern city of Basra.

  Getting support for Heather’s women’s centers from these Iraqi women (“buy in,” in Manal’s aid-world parlance) was key. From the beginning, they had to feel they had a stake in the process. If she and Heather did all the work, and then tried to hand over the center on opening day, Manal knew no one would take ownership and it would fall apart. The women needed to feel a sense of investment—that this was their center, not the Americans’.

  So, sitting around a conference table covered with Pepsis, ashtrays, and fans, Manal had announced the project to a dozen or so leaders of local groups. They were ecstatic. The figure of $1.4 million put stars in their eyes—it was an astronomical sum of money in Iraq—and ideas flew: one center would have a pool, another a computer room, another a health clinic. One woman suggested opening small shops inside the centers where used items could be donated and resold at low prices. These shops could serve as business models for women, as well as provide needed items to poor people. The possibilities were endless—the women were excited, committed, and hopeful. Manal shared their enthusiasm with Heather during their daily phone conversations, and they were both thrilled.

  But then came the more tricky task of actual governance. Manal wanted the women to choose for themselves a board of directors. But who would be on it? After months of unity over the summer, the local women had begun to splinter into groups based on Sunni, Shia, and Kurdish identity, as well as those who veiled and those who didn’t, those who had benefited under Saddam’s regime and those who hadn’t. It was a dismaying trend that Manal did her best to overcome.

  THE FIRST SIGN of division came during a meeting Manal held in a restaurant around August. Manal had asked the women to suggest important issues to address.

  “Ending the U.S. occupation,” one woman said bitterly. A murmur spread across the room.

  “No, the Americans are here to help us,” another woman replied. Several women nodded their heads in agreement. Yet Manal had seen support for the soldiers wane recently as stories spread of nighttime raids on homes, innocent husbands and sons detained, and rumors that Iraqis were being tortured in Abu Ghraib prison.

  Manal tried to avoid taking a position, and eventually attempted to move the conversation forward, but other divisions arose. At some point a woman raised her hand and stood up to speak, when suddenly another woman across the room rose and pointed her finger. “She’s a Ba’athist!” she shouted. “She worked for Saddam!”

  “No, I didn’t!” the woman replied.

  They began to argue. Another woman suggested that any former Ba’athists should be forbidden from attending the weekly meetings, and to this many Shia women cheered, while the Sunni women sat stone-faced. Sensing an opportunity to talk through a painful subject, Manal decided to try to address the situation by allowing the women to take turns expressing their opinions. Unbelievable stories poured forth of suffering and loss, of disappeared husbands, mass graves, starving children, and widows. Women cried openly and spat angrily. Many of them wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept reconciliation with those who had worked under Saddam. They even shouted at the expat Iraqi women who had left in the 1980s, accusing them of abandoning Iraq during its most difficult time.

  Their emotion was so raw, and its expression so new, that Manal realized a civilized discussion was impossible. And yet she could hardly exclude all women connected to the Ba’ath Party, or from Sunni families. The meeting became nasty, and order broke down. Manal, who was Sunni, lobbied to keep everyone working together and she grew close to many women. But over time she noticed fewer and fewer Sunni women attending the meetings.

  The division deepened into the fall, particularly after the assassination of Aqila al-Hashimi, who had been replaced in the government by a deeply conservative Shia woman named Salama al-Khafaji from Najaf. She wore black robes from head to toe, as well as socks and gloves, and she refused to shake hands with men. Al-Khafaji had been selected by the remaining members of the Governing Council, which was majority Shia. The Americans—who had picked the government to begin with—had chosen not to intervene, despite widespread op
position from most Iraqi women’s groups to the selection of such an obvious Islamic fundamentalist. Many well-educated women vied for the position, including Rend al-Rahim, a Shia who did not veil. After she was rejected, she said that the decision was dominated by the deeply conservative, pro-Iranian heads of the Islamic parties in the Governing Council, including the Shia religious leader Abdul Aziz al-Hakim, the head of SCIRI, a pro-Iranian, deeply conservative Islamic group; and Ibrahim al-Jaafari, spokesman for the Islamic Dawa Party, another Iranian-funded Shia group.

  The presence of al-Khafaji, a dentist by training, seemed only to be making things worse for those who were trying to help women. She went on television and, from beneath her veil, denounced all American and British “activists” in women’s rights, as well as the female Iraqi exiles who had returned to the country. “Western-minded women who came with the occupation, carrying weird ideas and wanting to teach young Iraqis that it’s their right to have premarital sex—Iraqis with all their tribal traditions won’t accept these women,” al-Khafaji told the press.

  Manal didn’t know a single activist who encouraged premarital sex. No one was talking about abortion, birth control, or whether Muslim women should wear the veil, or any such controversial issues. Up until then, women of all classes and religious affiliations had been united by the same issues: their desire to strengthen inheritance, divorce, and child custody laws in favor of women; to end honor killings; and to push for a quota of women in government. They wanted better education for girls, more women trained in business skills, and better health care. Manal had very carefully focused her efforts on training the women in the process of being a group—on fund-raising, organizing, and structuring their groups—not on their political message.

  But politicians such as Salama al-Khafaji honed in on differences and stereotypes, skirting the issues that united women, focusing on divisions, and accusing Westerners in the Green Zone of lurid behavior that undermined Muslim values. Many conservative women openly disapproved of the legions of young Iraqi women working inside the Green Zone for the CPA. They remarked disparagingly about their tight jeans and excessive makeup, their unsupervised contact with men, and the rebellious ways they disobeyed their family in the name of “democracy.” Some older women felt such behavior heralded a liberation and a return to the freedoms Iraqi women enjoyed in the 1960s and ’70s, while al-Khafaji and others condemned it as un-Islamic and threatening to longstanding cultural traditions such as arranged marriage. Manal became convinced that al-Khafaji was a puppet for the Shia men on the Governing Council. They knew she would represent an extremist position for women, and yet should anyone complain, they could say, “You wanted a woman. Here she is.” The strategy divided and silenced women.