A Report from Sadr City

This is from WashingtonBureau. This is a rare glimpse from inside an Iraqi hot spot Sadr City. Allam gives vivid descriptions of conditions within the beleaguered city.
What is surprising about this article is that the visit to Sadr City was arranged by Ahmad Chalabi the former favorite of the Pentagon. He is able to move within the city without fear. Chalabi is an amazing survivor whose political role in Iraq is probably far from over.



Middle East Diary is written by McClatchy Newspapers correspondent Hannah Allam. She's based in Cairo but travels widely through the region. Feel free to send a story suggestion. Read her stories at news.mcclatchy.com.



April 13, 2008
Sadr City
The sounds of sobbing drifted from the open door of a rundown home in Sadr City today. Inside, dozens of black-draped women sat cross-legged on the floor, weeping and beating their chests over the latest death to shake this besieged Baghdad slum with a population of about 3 million.

The focus of this somber gathering was a slight grandmotherly figure whose tears splashed onto her mourning cloak. Only her tiny face, dotted with the indigo tattoos of a tribeswoman, was visible. She sat under a portrait of the Imam Hussein, mouthing prayers and embracing each woman who came to share her grief as a martyr's mother.

It's not hard to imagine that many of the women in the room could empathize with the searing pain of losing a son; hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Iraqi men have perished here in bombings, crossfire, targeted killings, or while fighting against U.S. and Iraqi troops as part of the Mahdi Army.

But this time, the slain son was no ordinary militiaman. He was one of the closest aides and friends of the rebel cleric Muqtada al Sadr. Riyadh al Nouri, head of Sadr's office in Najaf, was gunned down by unknown assailants as he made his way home from midday prayers Friday. No group has claimed responsibility for the killing, a brazen strike at Sadr's inner circle, though leaders of the movement blame the U.S. military occupation for the violent landscape where bullets too often settle political disputes.

I ended up sitting on the floor with Nouri's mother and her friends because of Ahmad Chalabi, who had invited two Western reporters and an Iraqi television crew to accompany him as he paid his respects at the funeral in Sadr City. (Another funeral was going on down in Najaf, where Nouri was killed.) When Chalabi and the cameras disappeared into the men's tent, the rest of us -- a female American reporter for another U.S. newspaper, my Iraqi colleague Sahar and me -- decided to visit the women's area.

This was the first time in nearly two years that I've walked around in Sadr City, and the first time I've ever visited without our company's own drivers to watch our backs. A young plainclothes guard led us through garbage-strewn alleyways to the home where the women had gathered in solidarity with Nouri's mother.

During the pins-and-needles walk to the home, I scanned rooftops for snipers and saw none. My eyes locked with those of a menacing-looking young militiaman with a Sadr badge pinned to his shirt. He offered a half-smile and said, "Welcome" in Arabic. Naked, filthy children peeked out of their squalid homes. Little boys played soccer in the dirt. A father held his daughter's tiny hand as they crossed the street and stopped at an ice-cream stand. Life was going on as usual in Sadr City, a place that manages to be simultaneously dismal and vibrant.

But with all the U.S. air strikes and clashes here in the past couple of weeks, Sahar and I were keenly aware of the myriad dangers that still lurk in the warrens of Sadr City. Walking alone in this volatile territory left me feeling more exposed than perhaps at any time during my five years of covering Iraq. Sahar whispered for us not to say a word in English, but of course it was obvious we were outsiders. The baby-faced guard who led us to the home said that we need not worry, and it turned out that he was right.

Believe what you will about Chalabi being a has-been (or worse); precious few other Iraqi politicians can sail into Sadr City with foreigners in tow and receive ironclad guarantees of safety from the feared Mahdi Army. The militiamen greeted him with embraces, just a day after Sadr issued a statement that discouraged the targeting of Iraqis unless they have helped the occupation.

You might wonder, as I do, how Chalabi, the onetime Pentagon darling who fell out of American graces, the man who ushered U.S. forces into Iraq, the secular intellectual with dubious associates around the globe, is able to preserve such close ties to the Shiite Islamist, anti-American Sadr movement. We might never know the full story.

Critics will say that Chalabi's trip to Sadr City today amounted to grandstanding; supporters will counter that it's about time an Iraqi official, any Iraqi official, dropped in to see firsthand the suffering of Sadr City's embattled residents. Whatever the case, I was just grateful to tag along and finally be able to soak up the dizzying sights of Sadr's sprawling Baghdad stronghold without the usual wrangling with local militia commanders or U.S. military embed coordinators.

Cold, stunned stares greeted us as we arrived at the home where Nouri's mother sat crying among her relatives and supporters. Mourners packed two large rooms that had been emptied of furniture. I asked a female official from the Sadr office if I could take pictures. "No" was the answer. I asked again, offering to show her the photos on my digital camera. She agreed, but only after she returned with an extra layer of black cloth to cover even more of Nouri's mother's face, including her beautiful traditional tattoos. The mother is a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad, the woman warned, so no photograph should show her unveiled.

Feeling highly conspicuous, we only stayed for a few minutes -- just long enough to snap a few photos, mumble our condolences to the mother (who kissed us and thanked us for coming) and listen to the low-pitched mourning chants of some of the women. Arabic condolences can sound a bit unkind when translated into English, but they are based in the Islamic tradition of limiting mourning to a set time period and then moving on with life, knowing that the deceased is in a better place.

"He was taken! He was taken!" sobbed a woman sitting next to Nouri's mother.

"May God take him from your heart as he was taken from your eyes!" another woman cried.

As is customary, we'd taken off our shoes at the door and had to fish them from a jumble of women's sandals on our way out. As we exited, Sahar noticed an Iraqi man staring at our American colleague, who had some stray reddish-blond hair sticking out from under her headscarf. Sahar heard him sputter, "An American, one with blue eyes, has the nerve to show up here?" It was time to go.

We rejoined Chalabi's convoy without incident and thanked our sweet young guard for his protection. We made a quick stop at a food warehouse where Chalabi and the deputy trade minister inquired about rations shipments, electricity and other sorely lacking basic services. Sahar and I hung back to chat with a bystander, 21-year-old Ali Mohamed.

We asked Ali what Sadr City residents wanted from the Iraqi government.

"Water, electricity, rations," came the quick reply. "Where is the future? From Saddam's time to now, what future do we have?'

We asked Ali what the residents sought from Sadr himself.

"We want him to get rid of the occupation," Ali said. He added that he hasn't yet fought alongside the Mahdi Army, but wouldn't hesitate to take up arms if Sadr issued the call.

"Of course I would go," Ali said. "Who is defending Iraq except him?"

During the drive back to Chalabi's compound I busied myself with taking photos from the tinted windows of our armored SUV. At one point, Sahar nudged me.

"I don't want to frighten you," she said, "but I've counted seven IEDs on this road so far. Look, you can even see the wires coming out."

I put down my camera and gazed at the streets, which were marked with craters from previous roadside bombs. We passed piles of trash, animal carcasses and street vendors' stalls that would have been perfect hiding places for IEDs. But I still didn't see any of the ominous wires Sahar was talking about.

Then I glanced to my right and a brightly colored popcorn stand caught my eye. In front of the stand, very close to the road, was a pile of boxes with a telltale wire snaking out. I alerted Sahar.

"That's number eight," she said.



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