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A Soundtrack for Iraq's Reconstruction
A Clash of Cultures, and the Scramble for Jobs After Saddam
This dispatch was filed for npr.org by NPR's Guy Raz, who is currently reporting from Baghdad.
May 13, 2003 -- I learned my lesson well in Afghanistan.
In Afghanistan, the average road trip lasted a good 15 hours. And the only Western tape I could find in the street market was (ugh!) Fleetwood Mac's Rumors. Now, not to disparage Fleetwood Mac (I think Tusk is a superb album), but how many times can one hear "Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow?" (I always think of that stupid scene during the 1992 Democratic Convention when Al, Tipper, Bill and Hilary all danced together to this classic Boomer tune.) I can tell you all the words to "Landslide" because I heard this album 40 times over the course of five weeks. In fact, I learned to do a damn good Stevie Nicks impression.
This time around, I decided that if the United States was going to attempt to impose democracy, then I would attempt to impose my authoritarian rule on the listening habits of my local guides.
I brought CDs and a small boom box to Iraq. I knew there'd be driving involved, and the trip from Mosul to Baghdad provided me my first opportunity to listen to music in the car. What I discovered is that my driver, Abu Ali, hates the White Stripes. I tried my best, but he simply wasn't into it. But when I played music from the French electronic outfit Daft Punk, his eyes lit up. Abu Ali doesn't speak much English -- but he did say "good, very good, very very good."
But soon enough, it was prayer time... and so we pulled alongside the road in the middle of the desert so Abu Ali could pull out his rug and pray. He's Shiite, so he prays three times a day, rather than the five that Sunni Muslims pray.
My translator, Varham, is an accommodating man and assured me he'd heard something similar to the Pixies compilation I had. I didn't believe him because I don't think the Pixies made the top 40 in Iraq. So, in my own "shock and awe" campaign, I decided to spin David Bowie's Heroes -- that masterful work that always reminds me of Berlin.
Varham insisted he liked it. But he likes everything, and I can't say I've met a better man in my life (perhaps with the exception of Abu Ali, my driver). Varham is a member of the tiny Armenian Christian community in Iraq. Like many Iraqi-Armenians, he has family in Glendale, Calif. And like many Iraqis, he's got a sister who works at the Northridge Mall in Northridge, Calif.
A few days after Varham and I started working together, we went out to interview Baghdad cops who were voluntarily patrolling parts of the city. Most of them didn't want to talk. But one officer ran up to us, flailing his arms wildly, shouting, "Mr. Epikian!, Mr. Epikian!" Varham had no idea who the man was. "I was your student," the officer said, "don't you remember me?" It was then I learned that Varham was a high school physics teacher for more than a decade.
It turns out physics kept him out of prison as well.
Iraq had a conscript army -- every man had to serve. Varham had a desk job. One day, while walking around the military compound, he forgot to wear his helmet. The commanding general caught a glimpse, and summoned Varham to his office.
"You will receive a three-month jail sentence for your failure to follow the rules," the general bellowed behind his wooden desk. Varham stood quietly, his head bowed in shame. "Why aren't you volunteers more disciplined?" shouted the general. "Well sir," replied Varham, "I'm an educated man, not a volunteer. I'm just serving my compulsory two years."
"Oh," the general replied. "And what did you study?" "Physics," Varham answered. "Physics?" the general asked. "What is physics?"
"You are sitting in your chair, right?" asked Varham. "Yes," the general answered. "That's physics," said Varham.
He got away with ten days no pay and his jail sentence was commuted.
After he told me that story, I remembered how much I hated physics -- how we tormented our high school physics teacher. I wondered if Varham ever went through the same thing.
He's now 50 and feels lucky to have a job at all. Most Iraqis are out of work because more than two-thirds of the population worked for the government, whether they were teachers or doctors or translators. Right now, there's no functioning civil service, and no one to pay out salaries.
It's probably why Youssef, the tea man in our hotel, is making tea.
He's a tiny man-child man with grey hair and a grey mustache, probably around 50 years old. I can tell you he makes a damn good cup of strong Arabic coffee.
Two days ago, Varham and I went to the foreign ministry to watch employees arrive to receive an emergency payment of 20 U.S. dollars. It's a stop-gap measure that the U.S.-led civilian administration here organized, just to get some pocket-money distributed.
Behind the grabbing hands clamoring for a crisp 20-dollar bill was Youssef. He smiled at me. "What are you doing here, Youssef?" I asked.
"I'm coming to collect my money," he said. "Did you work here?" I asked, somewhat surprised.
"Yes," he said. "I was a desk clerk here at the ministry."
I was heartbroken.
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