| Prayers
for the Departed
Adeel Jafferi, Islamic Relief's Press
Officer, travelled to Iraq with a convoy of humanitarian
aid in May 2003. This is his first-hand account of
the grief, suffering and strength of the people of
this war-torn land.
Strangely enough, Baghdad appeared to have settled
back into normality within a fortnight after the conflict
had ended. We received the go-ahead to bring in Islamic
Relief’s aid convoy from Jordan, and our seventeen
trucks entered the city – to be greeted by busy
traffic and bustling markets. Scratch the surface
however, and the reality was very different.
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| The
little food available was usually rotten, and prohibitively
expensive. Petrol was in short supply – ironically
in a country with so much oil. Mile-long queues stretched
across the city as people waited for hours, sometimes
days, in 45 degree heat to fill up their cars.
Two weeks after the fighting had ended buildings and
vehicles still smouldered. Unexploded ordnance lay
strewn across residential areas – claiming more
lives – and the burnt out carcasses of tanks
littered the roadsides.
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Smouldering
Buildings |
"The
burnt out carcasses of tanks littered the roadsides" |
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The
River Tigris at dusk was breathtaking. However, on
one bank a building was in flames, while on the other
children were playing beside a burning car. On the
river itself people were fishing – not for relaxation,
but to survive. Tomorrow these anglers would erect
makeshift stalls and sell their catch. But people
are falling prey to water-borne diseases as sewage
from all the homes in Baghdad flows untreated into
the Tigris. |
The
relief supplies taken in by Islamic Relief will help
to ease some of the most chronic problems. Alongside
clothes, food and family hygiene packs the convoy
from Jordan also carried urgently needed medical equipment. |
River Tigris |
I
travelled to Karbala to help arrange one of
the food distributions. Here I visited the ancient
shrines to the Prophet Mohamed’s grandson
and family, which had been closed to the people
of Iraq for over 30 years. |
"Sewage
from all the homes in Baghdad flows untreated
into the Tigris" |
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Those who had been bold enough
to brave the ever-present secret police had
paid the ultimate price. I was soon to discover
the gruesome evidence of this.
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"Gradually
a keening wail began as men and women
began to identify from clothes and wallets
the loved ones who had disappeared" |
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Leaving
the shrines I came across a group of people
huddled together, digging up a car park. I wandered
over with Jalal, my translator, and watched
crowds of people jostling for position close
to the rapidly broadening crater. I asked Jalal
what was happening, but he seemed dumbstruck.
He managed to stammer that there was a mass
grave here and families had come to see if they
could find their loved ones and reclaim their
bodies. Just yesterday Jalal had buried his
sister’s husband who had been found in
a similar grave. |
| "It’s
hard to say how many were killed but I
saw hundreds of small coffins…and
I witnessed hundreds of funeral prayers" |
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| Gradually
a keening wail began as men and women began to identify
from clothes and wallets the loved ones who had disappeared
so long ago. Many had hoped that their fathers, sons,
daughters, and friends would be found alive. That
hope was dying there before me, and the real grief
was about to begin.
On the walls of the mosques and around the shrines,
people were posting pictures of their loved ones in
the hope that someone would recognise them and provide
some news. It was a desperate hope as new graves were
being excavated every day. It’s hard to say
how many were killed, but I saw hundreds of small
coffins
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Rubbished
Streets
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"Silent
tears coursed down her face as she stared into
the grave remembering the person she had loved" |
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–
just big enough to contain bones – and I witnessed
hundreds of funeral prayers. “Why aren’t
you telling the world about this?” one of the
mourners screamed at me. “We’ve been dying
for years and only now you decide to come and save
us. Tell the world about this. Don’t let them
forget what has happened here.”
Jalal took me to meet his family, including his brother
who had been imprisoned in the infamous Abu Ghraib
prison for refusing to join the Ba’ath party.
His mother had continued to buy his favourite food,
convinced each day that she
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would
find him safe at home, back from his ordeal. When
he did eventually return, it was not the day of rejoicing
the family had imagined. His body bore the physical
scars of torture and two years after his release he
is still haunted by his memories. |
Orphans
with IR Staff
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A
school in the centre of Karbala had been chosen
for the distribution. It had been deserted a
day before as parents were still too afraid
to send their children to school. But now hundreds
of people were waiting with ration cards for
the food we had brought. They were mostly children,
and as I walked forward they surrounded me,
shouting “hello mister”, smiling
and trying to shake my hand. |
"Two
years after his release he is still haunted
by his memories." |
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| I was overcome
with emotion. We had brought a few boxes of
food. Nothing, I felt, that warranted such overwhelming
gratitude.
Hidden behind their smiles
I could sense their pain. Dozens of orphans
stood in that schoolyard – children who
would never |
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| "A
boy brought out a football and I found
myself in a 50-a-side game" |
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know
their parents. Yet for those brief moments they
were just ordinary kids again.
A boy brought out a football and I found myself
in a 50-a-side game where half the children
were passing the ball to me while the other
half were trying to take it away. There’s
something a little daunting about scores of
children charging at you with only one thought
in their mind – get the idiot with the
ball! For the first time since starting work
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| "These
kids would remember, and they would know
that the rest of the world had not forgotten
them" |
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| for Islamic Relief
I felt I was making a difference.These kids would
remember, and they would know that the rest of the
world had not forgotten them. I was determined to
make sure of that.
As I left Karbala I saw the most
poignant scene of my visit. A woman in a black shawl
stood alone beside one of the open graves. Silent
tears coursed down her face as she stared into the
grave remembering the person she had loved –
the person she had lost – wondering if this
was his final resting place. I left her to her grief
but it’s hard to forget that look of anguish.
For her, like millions of others, the suffering will
never end. |
Orphans
in Karbala
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| “We
will survive this but it’s only with your
support that we will be able to live again.” |
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What
I discovered on this visit was the real Iraq. An Iraq
which is not about Saddam or occupation, or even weapons
of mass destruction, but the one that is experienced
by its people – people who have seen real suffering
and survived. The Iraqis have lived through hell,
and yet they have remained philosophical.
As I left Jalal’s
mother’s home she caught hold of my sleeve and
asked me to convey her message. “We’re
grateful for all you are doing for us, but more than
food, water or medicine, we need your understanding
and goodwill. We need you to remember that we are
people like you, with the same fears for our security
and the same hopes for our children. When you hold
your children, pray for us who have lost ours. We
will survive this, but it’s only with your support
that we will be able to live again.” |
