Refugees of a short-lived dream

I was recently invited to the 39th PEN - Writers for Peace Conference in Slovenia. The literary gathering was held in the resort town of Bled, in a beautiful hotel overlooking a picturesque lake surrounded by snow-topped mountains. Two interesting themes were discussed at the conference: "Languages under Threat - Dying Cultures" and "Post-Totalitarian Resistance." During the four days of the convention, I felt a twinge of envy; not only because of the material abundance with which the participants were showered, or the tolerant cultural atmosphere. There was talk of conflict areas, of predicaments, of fears and disappointments, but most of the speakers were from active, well-established, self-sufficient organizations of authors and poets.

In Israel a few such organizations exist on paper, but in the absence of genuine funding they are permeated by an air of futility. There are also some literary journals, most of which reflect the ideologies of insulated cliques more than they do literature and culture. In no other country in the free world do literature and its organizations serve the dominant regime more faithfully than in Israel. Within the Israeli literary community, and especially among those of its members who jump from one international convention to another, an odd compliment can be heard: "He is a distinguished representative of Israel." Within this "representative" atmosphere, independent organizations that pursue the author's well-being and spiritual desires might become an obstacle to the mechanism of agenda-driven cultural activity.

The poets and authors who gathered in Slovenia are not dutiful emissaries, but rather artists who represent themselves, thinkers concerned with existential and social issues. That is why the absence of those well-known representatives, whether of Israel or of Palestine, was so conspicuous.

Chill of strangeness

I ended up there almost by chance, on the recommendation of the Norwegian author Eugene Schoulgin. Within this multitude I felt lonely, a stranger, and I even missed those familiar colleagues who represent the good Israel and burning Palestine in such a "distinguished" way. The loneliness felt heaviest during the relaxed moments of drinking coffee and dining. Usually in such moments I choose a window and look outside, and so I was drawn out to the magnificent Slovenian scenery, to the blue waters of the lake.

Suddenly, I thought I heard a lively conversation conducted in familiar accents at a nearby table. Palestinians, I said to myself with relief, in keeping with the Arab proverb: The stranger's stranger is one's kin. After a brief inquiry, I discovered that the three were not Palestinians, but rather the representatives of groups currently caught in a bloody struggle: a polished gentleman of Kurdish-Turkish descent; an Arab from Mosul, a city now torn between Shi'ites and Sunnis; and a blue-eyed woman from Iraqi Kurdistan. Immediately we found ourselves sitting at the same table. The three spoke English to each other, because the Kurdish Turk could not understand the Iraqi Arabic spoken by the other two. Soon the chill of strangeness evaporated and we were drawn to each other, the two Iraqis and I, and in the process found that we had lost the Kurdish-Turkish gentleman.

In fact, we were all refugees from a different era, from a hope that has since been dispelled, from a sweet, short-lived dream. We and our ancestors - Shi'ites, Sunnis, Jews, Yazidis, Kurds and Christians - had all hoped for a liberal Iraq. Hangmans' nooses and desert prisons smothered that dream.

The Kurdish woman, Berivan Dosky, spoke fearlessly even after a lifetime spent dashing along the impossible axis of Baghdad-Kurdistan-London-Tehran. She spent years with the Kurdish guerrillas in the mountains, even when she had a baby in her arms. During one gas attack, she refused to use a mask because there were none for infants and she was horrified by the idea of the baby dying in her arms. Preferring to die with him, she ran up the mountain carrying her son. Both were badly injured by gas inhalation, and their lives were saved by medical treatment they received in Iran. Dosky returned to the guerrillas, and later found refuge in England.

The writer from Mosul was more reticent and cautious than Dosky. He and his wife fled to Europe with the help of International PEN, but his relatives still live in Iraq and he fears for them. He spoke very candidly, but asked me not to reveal his name. Because his father was Sunni and his mother Shi'ite, the Sunnis in Mosul suspected him of being a Shi'ite spy from the south while the Shi'ites were convinced that he worked for the Sunnis. That is not what caused him to flee his country, however. His main crime was being a writer and journalist in a post-totalitarian age, that is, after the "liberation" of Iraq by the United States. He published what he described as an "incautious" article about the tragedies that have plagued his hometown. An article whose words are not chosen with sufficient care can cost you your life in "liberated" Iraq.

Unbridled violence

At the conference, the Iraqi author described the dramatic escalation of unbridled violence in Iraq since the American invasion in 2003. Civilians have been subjected to countless attacks by new terrorist organizations wishing to inflict as many casualties as possible. The terrorists deliberately target crowded are as such as markets, religious gatherings, wedding parties, mosques and churches. By attacking innocent civilians, they seek to sow chaos and separatism.

Murders, he says, occur in every town and village in the country. Politicians, human-rights activists, journalists and authors are preferred targets. In Mosul, the editor of the newspaper Bila Ittijah, Ahmed Shawkat, was killed for criticizing the spread of radical Muslim influences among the Sunnis. Some believe that the local police was involved in his murder. Two weeks after his death, his son received a letter warning that unless the entire family left the country they would be murdered one by one. Incidentally, the main suspect in the murder was released after being held for one week and delivered the next threat in person.

In such an atmosphere, not only terrorist organizations find it easy to operate. Independent killers have also concluded that they can do as they wish with impunity. Anyone with access to a computer can print out a list of targets and hang it on the wall of the local mosque. Vindictive students fearlessly send threatening letters to their professors, accusing them of betraying their religion and homeland. These threats rose to a horrifying new level with the assassination of prof. Iman al-Munim Younis, head of the translation department at Mosul University.

According to the exiled Iraqi author, an appearance on Mosul's local television channel is enough to make you an assassination target. Most of the interpreters employed by the state have received threatening letters. A number of these interpreters have been killed by decapitation. Their murders were videotaped, and the tapes were distributed throughout the city under the nose of the local police.

Raida al-Wazan, a news anchor on the local television channel, was kidnapped with her 10-year-old son in February 2006, one day after urging viewers to support the new government. Her body was discovered a few days later; her son was found wandering in a graveyard, in a state of shock.

Stark contrast

I turned my eyes to the window. What a stark contrast between the tranquility and grace of the lake, where regal white swans glided across the water, and the horrors of the post-totalitarian world. The Iraqi refugee I spoke with is so different from the tough, bloodthirsty figures shown for years in our media. He is a small, slender man with a thoughtful, sad gaze. His graying hair is stylishly cut and glistens with gel. He could easily have blended into a crowd of young Israelis spending a quiet hour at a cafe. The only indication of his tense state were the cigarettes he smoked. I asked if he missed his home in Iraq. "No," he answered immediately. "I miss my new home, here in Europe. My wife, who fled Mosul with me, is waiting for me there."

He marveled at the miracle of his own escape. He knows that International PEN saved him from the jaws of death in Iraq, but he does not know to whom, specifically, he owes his life. At a dinner with the organization's board of directors he asked for the name of his savior and wrote it down on a the back of a cigarette pack.

The writer continued to describe the hell that rages in Iraq nowadays. In September 2005 Hind Ismail, a reporter in Mosul for the Al-Safir daily, was abducted. Her body was found the next day. The police report hinted at torture and gang rape. Firas Al-Maadhidi, the Mosul bureau chief for the paper, was murdered within days of Ismail's death. Maadhidi was editor of another paper and was active in an organization advocating free and open dialogue. Another activist in the organization, Mekdad Ahmed, was killed about two months later.

Journalists and human-rights activists are not the only targets, the Iraqi writer related. Entertainers have also become victims. Thousands of writers, academics and artists have been forced to flee from Iraq to neighboring countries such as Syria and Jordan.

Most of the newspapers and magazines founded after the fall of Saddam Hussein's regime have closed out of fear and a shortage of employees willing to risk working for them. According to figures collected by Arab human rights organizations, 47 journalists were killed and another 31 were injured in 2006. Eighty percent of Iraqi journalists have stopped practicing their profession after receiving death threats. Some were forced to leave their homes. Some bribed authorities in order to obtain new identities.

"In Iraq today many writers are afraid of being identified, so they write under pseudonyms," The young writer concluded sadly. "Some use several names, none of them their real one."

"Would you agree to be published in Israel?" I asked him. "Yes, certainly, but not under my real name," he said, and later added with a bitter smile: "Funny, in Iraq I can't publish anything under my real name, not even under a pseudonym. But in Israel I can."

This Shi'ite-Sunni Iraqi writer bonded at the conference with the Kurdish freedom fighter, Berivan Dosky. She was more optimistic than he, radiating self-confidence and a powerful sense of hope. After all, Iraqi Kurdistan has won autonomy and relative quiet. Berivan has plenty of scars, but the future looks bright to her. When the time came to part, she took a silver ring from her finger and placed it on the finger of my wife, Rachel. "Next spring," she said, "we are having a literary convention in Irbil, Kurdistan. You are both invited as representatives from Israel."

Noting the astonishment on my face, and being herself a veteran of many uprisings, a woman who has crossed borders under fire, she was quick to dispel my fears. "Go to Amman, take a plane to Irbil and you are there."

When you ignore the horrifying reality, it sounds so simple and easy. The temptation is still hovering above me, and despite the difficulties I find myself wondering, with vague hope: Who knows? Perhaps.