Baghdad nightmares

Salam Talib had to flee Iraq after an attempt on his life. But, he says, he was determined not to give up on his fellow disabled Iraqis

For 30 years, I never felt blessed to have a disability in Iraq, but life can change in a moment.

“Step out of the car, motherfucker!”

My car had been stopped at a US military checkpoint in Baghdad, in December, 2003. Although my English was good enough by then, I did not feel like speaking English. It is hard to feel that in order to survive in your own country you have to speak in a foreign language.

So I did not respond. And I did not move, because I was afraid that if I bent forward for my crutches, the soldiers would think I was reaching for a weapon.

Their translator rushed over when he heard the soldiers repeating their orders, louder and louder. “He is injured in his leg,” he said.

The soldier opened the car door and threw me to the ground, stepping on my head and shouting: “Where did you get injured? You were fighting us!”

The other soldiers gathered around, pointing their guns at me, while I tried to tell them I had polio when I was one.

Eventually, they let me go. My disability had saved me a long trip through the “US military justice system”.

The journey begins with detention in a one metre box in Camp Victory at Baghdad Airport. From there, the path splits – either to Abu Ghraib Prison down the road, or to Buka, the southern jail in Basra. Detainees have no access to a lawyer and no trial – it might take several years before they realise you are innocent.

This is the story of more than 30,000 people being held in American prisons in Iraq.

To be honest, there were certain privileges if you were disabled under the Saddam regime. Disability was not considered desirable by the Iraqi military recruiters or the ruling Baath Party. This caused many Iraqis to shoot themselves so they could avoid service during the Iraq-Iran war. These “draft dodgers” were choosing to live as disabled people rather than be sent to the front lines of a battle that would likely lead to their deaths.

But there were also many challenges for disabled people.

The concept of “wheelchair accessible” construction was non-existent. The Baghdad University campus was a “pedestrian zone”, but the parking lot was a mile from the nearest classrooms, most of which were on the third or fourth floor of buildings without elevators.

As the only disabled student out of 10,000, I took all this as a challenge.

I was drawn to engineering. Engineers, after all, can adapt the environment to open incredible possibilities for disabled people. I pursued degrees in computer science and engineering, always with the idea of practical applications.

The obstacles facing disabled people were compounded in 1991 when, led by the US, the international community imposed sanctions on Iraq. In some ways this was an equaliser because now everyone was made to live under impossible conditions.

For the next 13 years, Iraq was not allowed to import food and medical supplies. Inflation rose so high that it became difficult for people to balance the rising cost of living with dwindling incomes.

Many disabled people had to sell cigarettes on Baghdad’s streets to supplement their families’ meagre incomes.

The fall of the Saddam regime in 2003 did not improve living conditions for disabled people. Selling cigarettes on the street suddenly became dangerous. The threats of being robbed, laughed at, or ignored, were replaced with the risks of getting caught in the crossfire of a street fight, sitting next to a car that might explode, or being a victim of militia attacks against the US military.

For every Iraqi who has been killed, probably at least ten have been injured. Most of these survivors now have permanent disabilities. At the Al-Yarmuk Teaching Hospital in Baghdad, after a car bomb had gone off, one doctor told me he had amputated five patients' legs; these surgeries would not have been necessary if the hospital had proper medical equipment, basic sanitation in operating rooms, sufficient staffing, and effective medicines.

As for me, I began working for non-profit organisations, became a journalist and continued working as a computer engineer. But the situation became increasingly dangerous. Americans became the chief targets for assassinations, kidnappings and random violence. Iraqis working with foreigners, even those working for humanitarian non-governmental organisations, like myself, put themselves at higher risk.

After an attempt on my life, I was forced to leave. But I had nowhere to go. I just fled. After many months waiting in Jordan, I received a US visa. I finally secured asylum this year.

Now outside, looking in, I watch as five years of being occupied by a foreign military, constant violence, unemployment, and an impoverished civil society are leading the country down a road of grief and despair.

It was difficult to sit back and watch without trying to do something to help the country I love.

I remembered when I received my first wheelchair, generously sent to me from Germany. It played a great role in shaping the person I am today. So I decided to try to establish a wheelchair factory in Iraq, run by disabled Iraqis.

More groups became involved, including the Whirlwind Wheelchair Institute and the Joint Iraqi Development and Unity Foundation.

We have now sent a shipment of Whirlwind wheelchairs to Iraq, hoping to learn more about the situation there. We hope the project will expand as more people are trained in wheelchair design.

Iraq’s disabled people have the capacity to rebuild their lives. Years of shattered hopes and destroyed dreams will not vanish overnight. But a simple message of recognition and decency in the place where humanity began is worth a spin.