In Sunni Triangle, Loss of Privilege Breeds Bitterness
Veterans of Security Apparatus Are Now Pariahs
By Daniel Williams
Washington Post Foreign Service
Tuesday, January 13, 2004; Page A01
THULUIYA, Iraq -- Less than a year ago, Ismael Mohammed Juwara lived high in the food chain of President Saddam Hussein's Iraq. He was a secret policeman feared and respected among his comrades and in his hometown, enjoying a cornucopia of privileges from the government.
Now, as he scrapes out a living by selling diesel fuel illegally, he is a pariah in the new Iraq. "We were on top of the system. We had dreams," said Juwara, a former member of the Mukhabarat, the intelligence service that reported directly to the now-deposed president. "Now we are the losers. We lost our positions, our status, the security of our families, stability. Curse the Americans. Curse them."
His is the kind of angry lament that can be heard all over central Iraq, the region most devoted to Hussein. It is the area of tribes and clans that were closest to him and that could expect power and privileges from his government. As Arabs following the Sunni strain of Islam, the people here enjoyed an added advantage, because Hussein had extended their long dominance here, although they represent only about 20 percent of the population.
Hundreds of thousands of men from this area, now known as the Sunni Triangle, joined Hussein's extensive security apparatus, including the army and multiple police and intelligence agencies. As such, they are mostly outcasts from the new governing system under construction by U.S.-led occupation authorities and their selected Iraqi political allies.
Juwara has two strikes against him: He was part of a feared repressive agency and a high-ranking Baath Party member. Such Baathists are prohibited from government posts, as well as new security organizations now being formed.
Juwara, 46, was sitting in the police station in this town along the Tigris River one recent morning as new officers sat idle. Relations between the police and U.S. occupation forces are strained. U.S. officials stopped using them for guard duty because they were considered unreliable, and soldiers no longer patrol with them. "They think we should know everything that goes on here, but we don't," said Hafath Salah Hussein, the liaison officer with the Americans.
In clannish Thuluiya, working for the Baath Party government was often a family affair. Hafath Hussein is a cousin of Juwara. With them was Hussein Saleh Hussein, Hafath's brother, who said he once belonged to the Interior Ministry's general security section, another secret police branch.
Hafath Hussein and Juwara escorted a reporter to an improvised diesel fuel station in a muddy field nearby. The men earn what they can by purchasing fuel and reselling it to truckers and farmers who don't want to wait in long lines at gas station.
Along the way, Juwara talked about his life. He said he joined the Baath Party in high school, enlisted in the army and then the secret police. His job was to watch over army personnel and opponents of the government in such conflicted locales as Basra, the large, predominantly Shiite Muslim city in the south, and Sulaymaniyah in the Kurdish north.
When he married, the government supplied him and his wife with a bedroom set. Soon after, he received a free plot of land and a home-construction loan, which was converted into a grant when the second of his nine children was born. He bought cement at cost from a government warehouse.
Health care, Juwara said, was supplied through Rashid military hospital, a special facility in Baghdad reserved for security and military officers. Last winter, on the eve of the U.S.-led invasion, Juwara said, he received permission to travel abroad to get treatment for his son, 13, who suffers from a nerve condition that slurs his speech.
When Juwara bought a refrigerator, he went to a market set aside for secret police families and got it at a discount. He drove a Peugeot supplied by his unit. During the past decade of economic sanctions, he received extra rations. Now, he said, "we cook beans left over from before the war."
He said that before the war, he sold his house to finance construction of a larger one, then moved into a small rental home. After the war, he used up the construction money to support his wife and children. His new house is only half built. He is barely making ends meet, he said, explaining, "There are no jobs, certainly not with the Americans."
People such as Juwara form the core of resistance to the occupation and the developing order, according to U.S. and Iraqi officials. Frequently referred to as Baathist remnants or dead-enders, they are resentful and unwilling to accept their lot quietly. For that, they make no apologies.
"Was being a Baathist some sort of disease?" Juwara said, raising his voice suddenly. "Was serving the country some sort of crime?" In effect, Sunnis such as Juwara are experiencing the changes since the U.S. invasion as a revolution in which the long-suppressed Shiite majority is taking charge.
"These people with turbans are going to run the country. What do they know? Iraq needs people like us," Juwara bellowed. People had been crowding around to buy diesel fuel, but sales momentarily halted.
Sunnis who served the deposed government often demonstrate their frustrations. In the Shiite south, they have rioted for jobs. In the Sunni center, they have rioted for pay. Conversations with Juwara and some of his colleagues from the secret police indicate that they are not loyal so much to Hussein as to a subsidized, predictable way of life.
Many people in Thuluiya, with a population of 150,000, benefited from life during the Hussein government. Big villas line the river and the land where houses sit was supplied free by the government.
"Just about every family had someone working in security or the army or some government job," said Maj. Hussein Mahdi Obeidy, a member of the U.S.-appointed police force. "It was normal to join the Baath Party. It was like a rule." Although Obeidy is a former Baathist, he was sufficiently low-ranking to qualify for the new force.
Thuluiya escaped the war; U.S. troops rushed by to other destinations. They returned in June, having discovered that guerrillas had been hiding in the area. In the months since, U.S. forces have detained hundreds of suspects in and around Thuluiya. Yet townspeople say that rebels come and go freely, hiding in homes or among lush date groves.
Besides his economic woes, Juwara expressed deep feelings of humiliation. He told of a trip to the Central Bank in Baghdad on a quest for records of his account in Thuluiya. He said the bank records were looted after the war.
"You know what they told me? 'You are from Thuluiya. You are a dog. Go and ask Saddam for the money,' " he recalled. "A few months ago, they would never have treated me like that. They wouldn't dare."
He pointed out the house of a former colleague. It was empty. "Abu Falah has disappeared. The Americans are after him," Juwara said. "They think he is with the resistance. Maybe. He needs the money."
At the field of diesel barrels, Juwara helped Hussein Saleh Hussein as customers complained that the price was too high. Hussein has his own troubles. He also sold his house. He was living with his brother, but the atmosphere grew tense because Hussein could not pay rent, so he moved to a cheap place. He sold the Mitsubishi that the Interior Ministry had supplied him. He has two wives and 10 children. "People say that the resistance pays to kill Americans. Pretty soon, that will seem like a good idea," he said.
It is illegal to resell fuel in Iraq, a fact Hafath Hussein suddenly remembered. As a policeman, he is supposed to stop it. "I tell them not to do it.
"But," he said as he pulled the reporter to one side, "we all know each other here. We will have to live together when the Americans leave. What can I do?"
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