Mishka Moral Monologues

I lived most of my life under Saddam’s regime. Living under his regime made me feel like I was carrying a heavy weight on my shoulders. However, that weight would increase each year as I grow older.

I cannot recall that I enjoyed my childhood or youth. I always remember myself as an adult who the regime could have held responsible for her actions at any time.  Please read my post Three Things to Survive Dictatorships. 

When I was six years old, I listened to the horrible stories of people who were brutally tortured, because they laughed at jokes, slightly criticized the regime, or even did not say anything. At first, I used to overhear my family talking, (political discussions taking place at my aunt’s house) then I attended these sessions.

At the end of each session, I could not help imagine the painful death that these victims had to go through for nothing. 

I also remember watching a video that was aired on the Iraqi television. The video featured Saddam at the stage of the national theater, while, his “comrades”  were seated at the place of the audience. Saddam was reading names from a paper. Anyone who would hear his name would be escorted outside the theater and brutally executed.  Rumors and stories about the torture of these people were circulated all over Iraq.

I don’t recall that I behaved as a child, who would do or say silly things, or who would laugh at funny moments. Every single move had to be calculated.
Saddam’s regime had developed a brutal tactic, which involved asking the children about their parent’s behavior towards the regime. For example, would their parents keep watching the TV when Saddam is on the TV or they would turn it off? Many families were wiped out because one of their children said that they actually turned off the TV or lowered the volume.
It was the duty of the people to demonstrate loyalty to the regime, otherwise, they will be perceived as the enemy of the regime. Enemies were not tolerated. So, cartoons, songs, textbooks, notebooks, color books, even homework assignments were all dedicated to Saddam.

I tried to create my own world, where I would listen to classical music. My mother had all types of the best classical music.
I would read about classic painting, like Da Vinci. Sometimes, I would play a bit of piano. My parents bought one. I would also read classic literature. My family had a taste for art.  My mother painted. My father wrote poetry, only for my mother. My younger sister played the piano. 

However, my world was fragile. The regime was always there to shake my imaginary world.

For example, the regime would “ask” children to participate in supporting activities, including singing songs, demonstrating in the streets, or painting a picture. The process was anything but enjoyable. In fact, it was painful. I tried my best to avoid it.

I would apply every trick in the book not to participate. Sometimes, I succeeded, other times, I didn't.

For example, in 1985,  my best friend and I, 11 years old girls stayed in the streets until 8 p.m, because we were forced by our school to participate in demonstrations “celebrating” Saddam’s birthday.

The streets were chaotic. Thousands of people were forced to attend in one street, where all exits and entrances were blocked.

There was no organization; all teachers disappeared suddenly, and there were no buses to bring us back as promised by the school.

We kept running from one street to another until we got to the clinic of my friend’s father. It is an understatement to say that we were afraid. It was dark and we didn't know the streets all that well. Luckily, my friend recalled the road to her dad’s clinic.

We got there around 9 p.m., and it was open. I called my family to find my mother crying and my dad worried like crazy.He went to the school several times to join other parents who were worried too. He even tried to go to where the demonstration was taking place, but he couldn't.  All the roads were blocked.
My friend’s father drove us back home at the end of the celebration at nearly midnight. My mother hugged and continued to cry.

I graduated from high-school, and I joined the Law School at Baghdad University[1].  My first day at school, I had to sign a statement saying that I will be executed if I would say or do anything to oppose the regime. It was the “welcoming statement” for the new students.  

In the school, I noticed that the Dean oppressed both employees and faculty members, especially women. Many times, I saw his secretary crying, because he yelled at her, or offended her by commenting on her looks in front of others.  I saw a student jumping over the school fence to avoid being humiliated by the Dean. 
Then, most professors would oppress the students or yell at them. I also felt that the students oppressed their families. It was an environment of oppression where only "the strong" would survive. 

I could not help noticing that the regime carefully protected itself utilizing the law. Laws were drafted to stay meaningless. For example, the Iraqi constitution of 1970 dedicated the third chapter to protect “the rights of the individuals.”[2] Article 20 prohibited torture or any inhuman treatment. However, the article didn't state the legal consequences of torturing someone. It simply stated that it wasn't allowed, but if it happened there would be no punishment.  Thus, torture was part of the daily life. People were tortured for anything and everything. 

A practice of disrespecting the law was developed because only the weak and vulnerable respected the law. All others who could “proudly” break it, they would. For example, driving through the streets of Baghdad, you would see a brand new car driving 100 miles per hour and going through the red light. The police officer wouldn’t dare to issue a traffic ticket because only the powerful elements of the regime could do that, and no one would dare to do anything about it.