Freedom's fresh port of call

Mohammad Zaki's black hair glistened with gel, his muscular body bulged through his T-shirt and he sported a wisp of goatee on his chin.

He held the hand of his girlfriend, Sabreen Jawad, whose cascade of hair was unfettered by headscarf. The sounds of violins and saxophones flowed through the corridor, notes of musical freedom.

This was anything but an ordinary day inside Basra University's College of Fine Arts. Under the harsh constraints imposed by radical Shiite clerics and militia that until recently controlled this city, men with Western hairstyles were threatened and beaten.

Women without headscarves were sometimes raped and killed. Love was a secret ritual.

“I wouldn't even be able to stand next to her,'' Zaki, 26, said.
Two months after the Iraqi government ordered its fledgling military to root out the militia here, Basra, Iraq's third-largest city, is beginning to awaken from a four-year dormancy.

Many of the city's nearly 3 million residents are resuming lives that had been interrupted by an austere interpretation of Islam.

But their new freedom in this historically cosmopolitan city near the head of the Arabian Gulf comes with boundaries drawn by fear of the future.

The causes of their previous grievances — an array of well-armed militia, the political dominance of conservative Shiite parties and a poor economy — continue to greatly influence daily life.

Shiite factions still control government ministries. Security is brittle, ushered in by a temporary deployment of 30,000 Iraqi soldiers and expedient political ceasefire agreements.

Corruption and a lack of basic public services, jobs and investment are deepening frustrations.

And in today's Iraq, even moderate Shiite clergy view themselves as protectors of the nation's Islamic identity, ensuring that Basra might never fully regain its freewheeling, secular past.

For now, though, a collective sense of relief is washing through Basra.

On this day, Zaki embraced the forbidden. He walked to a piano and played Listen to Your Heart by the 1980s Swedish pop band Roxette.

He then swung into a medley of Western and Arab tunes, as Jawad, 23, watched adoringly. Another student joined him, strumming the oud, a traditional pear-shaped instrument outlawed here because its music was branded secular.

When the pair finished, their classmates applauded loudly, itself an act of courage. Even enjoying music was banned in recent years. Zaki smiled.

A tattoo in Chinese on his right arm, which he once hid because body art was deemed un-Islamic, read: “I love life.''

Once Iraq's most vibrant city, Basra attracted traders and seamen from across the Arab world, Asia and Africa. It was dubbed the Venice of the Middle East because of its network of canals.

Now most of those carry sewage.
The city was shelled repeatedly during the Iran-Iraq war in the 1980s. The following decade, president Saddam Hussain brutally crushed two Shiite rebellions there.

His government then purposely neglected the city, allowing it to collapse into a state of desert decay.

In 2003, some of the heaviest fighting of the US-led invasion unfolded on the city's outskirts. The British soldiers who then took control were greeted by thousands of Basrans, many of them with flowers.

But religious hardliners flourished despite the British administration, infiltrating every nook of society, including mosques and universities.

Shiite militia with such names as “Vengeance of God'' and “Soldiers of Heaven'' mingled with the larger and better-known Mahdi army of Shiite cleric Moqtada Al Sadr. Killing and kidnappings gripped the city.

“People called them the Taliban,'' said Abdul Sattar Thabid Al Beythani, dean of the College of Fine Arts, referring to Afghanistan's puritanical former rulers.

Three months after the British handed over control of Basra in December, Iraqi forces, backed by US and British airpower, launched their crackdown.

It was intended to return Basra, the chokepoint of Iraq's oil, to the central government's control. After three weeks of fierce battles, and a cease-fire agreement signed with Al Sadr, Iraqi forces fanned out across the city.

Today, an Iraqi army battalion occupies the Sadrist headquarters at the Ministry of Youth and Sports, pocked with bullet holes like a giant slab of Swiss cheese.

The office and mosque of the Iranian-backed “Vengeance of God'' militia has been reduced to rubble.

Where Mahdi Army fighters once manned checkpoints across the city, Iraqi soldiers and policemen check vehicles behind blast walls on virtually every stretch of road. Iraqi army Humvees patrol militia strongholds.

In a traffic circle, Al Sadr's face has been scratched out on a billboard, the same treatment given to Saddam murals in the weeks after the invasion.

Fresh graffiti in many neighbourhoods praise Nouri Al Maliki, Iraq's Shiite Prime Minister who sent in the troops despite US warnings that they were ill-prepared.

“It shows the government is tough,'' said Ayad Al Kanaan, 43, a tribal leader and local council member. “Now there is more confidence in Al Maliki's government and in Iraq's army.''

Along Basra's corniche, a road running along the Shatt Al Arab waterway that empties into the Arabian Gulf, a rebirth is under way.

Restaurants stay open late, no longer forced by insecurity to shut early. Men smoke water pipes in outdoor cafés, unconcerned about kidnappers.

On a recent night, Salam Hassan, 20, sold Arabic pop music CDs and mobile phone ring tones on the sidewalk.

A few months ago, Sadrists beat him up and fired a bullet that grazed his knee. His crime: selling non-Islamic religious songs and ringtones.

After the offensive, he reopened. Now he sells 20 CDs a day, a sign that his customers also are bolder.

Weddings in Basra had become silent affairs. Kidnappers often targeted them, and gunmen sometimes tossed grenades into the wedding processions of rivals.

The sounds of drums and dancing fill the streets on Thursdays, when most weddings take place. Cars and buses are decked in flowers and play loud music as revellers head to local hotels for ceremonies.

“It's like a gift from God,'' exclaimed Abdul Emir Majid, 52, whose nephew was getting married on a recent day.

In the weeks after the crackdown, local vendors sold alcohol, a capital crime in the eyes of the Islamist militias. Now the concerns are different.

The new police chief recently ordered the vendors to stop alcohol sales. His reason: Once the ban was lifted, too many men were getting drunk in public.

“The first thing I did was drink whiskey on the corniche,'' said Ali Jasem, 20, another CD vendor, wiry and dressed in a tight orange shirt.

He then grew out his hair, now shiny and slicked back with gel. The militants used to grab young men with long hair and lop it off in public.

On a warm evening recently, Abdul Karim Ali, 49, took his wife, Fatima, and 6-year-old daughter, Shehab, on a boat ride on the Shatt Al Arab. It was their first in five years.

The religious purists frowned upon women socialising in public. Kidnappers also targeted families and children.

“Earlier, we were restricted. We felt we were being monitored,'' Ali said. “You can relish your freedom now.''

“It is for her sake we went out,'' his wife, who wore a gold-coloured headscarf, said as she looked at their daughter, who laughed and squealed throughout the ride.

In Al Andalus Park, seven families held picnics on a recent evening.

Children played on colourful slides and swings. Vendors sold ice-cream and toys. It was a remarkable scene, given that this park was the reason picnics were banned in Basra.

In March 2005, Mahdi Army fighters barged into a picnic held in the park by engineering students, killed a Christian woman and her fiancé, and injured 15 people.

They confiscated mobile phones and destroyed tape players and cassettes.

“They beat up everybody who was walking with a girl,'' recalled Salih Foaud, 22, as he stood near his stall of Spider-Man dolls and toy saucer sets.

“For those girls not wearing a headscarf, they punched their faces. They broke one woman's jaw.''

On this evening, Zainalabedeen Sabah, 20, and his fiancée, Iman Emad, 17, sat at a table in one corner.

The park, they thought, was now one of the few public places in Basra where they could enjoy each other's company. As a precaution, they arrived separately.

“We can't walk everywhere together,'' said Sabah, slim, with long Elvis Presley sideburns. “Sometimes, in some places, I can't even hold her hand.''

As Foaud watched the families enjoy the new security, his eyes drifted towards two young men floating around the park, listening intently to conversations. “The Mahdi Army is still here,'' Foaud said. “They didn't totally finish them.''

Militants send Al Kanaan, the tribal leader, death threats nearly every day. He heads the largest tribe in Tannouma, a neighbourhood where the Mahdi Army ruled.

“The Mahdi Army will be back. And you will be under their feet,'' read one recent text message he received on his mobile phone. “Maliki cannot help you.''

Two weeks ago, Al Kanaan's men found bombs planted along a route he drives frequently. He keeps a well-oiled AK-47 behind the couch in his living room.

“But they are waiting to rise again, their wings are broken,'' said Al Kanaan, a polite man with a white goatee who prefers a shirt and slacks to tribal robes.

The Iraqi army has pulled out of his area to focus on other parts of Basra. So Al Kanaan has launched his own government-sanctioned paramilitary force, drawn mostly from his tribesmen.

His 760 men patrol an area along the border with Iran. But the Iraqi government has yet to pay his men their $260 monthly salaries.

They have only ten vehicles. Most of his men purchased their own weapons and uniforms.

“We are afraid that if they are not paid, the militias will lure them away,'' he said.

For the violinists of the Fine Arts College, the new freedoms are a mixed blessing. The death threats have stopped. They no longer have to hide their instruments in bags when they leave the university.

But they have few places to play. Iraq's security is still too fragile for concerts to be held in most public areas. “We don't have a lot of musical events or festivals,'' said Qais Oda, 35, the school's violin teacher.

Nearby, the graduating class of the Translation Department held a party, with singing and dancing.

But their joy was bittersweet: Jobs for graduates are scarce. Zaki and Jawad know their limits, too.

Jawad carries an Islamic headscarf in her purse — just in case. Outside the college, she wears less make-up to avoid attracting the attention of extremists.

Although she writes poetry, she is afraid to attend literary gatherings because women are not allowed to recite their work.

“If the Iraqi army leaves, perhaps we will be targeted more than before,'' Zaki said. “They might take revenge on us because we are so free.''

The dangers remain on campus as well. That morning, a Mahdi Army member stopped them in the hallway for walking too close together.

He demanded to see Zaki's identification card and was never confronted by the school's administration.

“They are afraid he will regain power,'' said Zaki, the brand name “American Classics'' emblazoned across his T-shirt. He paused. “I know this is temporary,'' he said. “I want to enjoy this time.''

Fear remains real for many

It is still extremely rare to see women, even Christians, on the streets without a headscarf. Many women wear the black, head-to-toe abaya, either out of conservatism or fear.

On Al Jazaar Street, the city's most popular commercial district, Dhiya Jasem cranked up 3,000-watt speakers in his DVD store, blasting a song by Egyptian pop star Amr Diab.

The walls were covered with Western DVDs, many with scenes that would have drawn the ire of the extremists.
His dream is to open an arcade shop with sophisticated computer games, once forbidden.

“I am nervous that the black days could return,'' he said. “We're still afraid to start any big projects.''

Samer Riad, 23, an artist, is still reluctant to paint portraits of women, another practice outlawed by the fundamentalists.

“I have cancelled this idea from my mind,'' he said. He continues to draw portraits of shanasheels, the wooden grills that cover many balconies here, from which women can look without being seen by the world outside.

“I will not be restricted by anything, if this lasts,'' said Riad, referring to the security improvements.

In 2005, extremists ordered Mohammad, a plastic surgeon, to shut down his practice. “You are changing what God had created,'' he recalled them telling him. He refused — at first.

Four times, he said, militiamen linked to a religious faction in the Basra government tried to kill him. They also destroyed $80,000 worth of surgical equipment during a rampage through his office. He fled to Syria, returning last year.

But he has no plan to reopen his practice.
“The government is still the same,'' said Mohammad, who asked that his full name not be used because he feared for his life.