.A Quiet Filled With Wariness
BAGHDAD -- Ali Basheer no longer avoids the market, where Shiite militiamen once preyed on Sunnis like him. He no longer instructs his 12-year-old son to lie about his name -- Omar, so clearly Sunni that only a year ago it could have gotten him kidnapped, even killed. And the graffiti outside their house that glorified Shiite cleric Moqtada al-Sadr's Mahdi Army militia is scratched out.
But Basheer's fear has not entirely faded: On his wall, he still hangs a large poster of Imam Hussein, one of Shiite Islam's revered figures. He hopes it will win the protection of his Shiite neighbors.
"The situation can erupt at any moment," he explains.
Over the past three years, the lives of the residents of the Baghdad neighborhood of Tobji have closely tracked Iraq's own evolution -- from the throes of sectarian violence to a cautious reawakening ushered in by U.S. strategy, Iraqi political changes and intense security measures. The Mahdi Army has vanished from the streets, replaced by a wary calm, with last month's peaceful provincial elections the latest milestone in Tobji's transformation. Dozens of once-displaced Sunni families have returned to their homes.
But in this mixed enclave, viewed by many as a microcosm of Iraq's diversity, mistrust smolders beneath the surface, even as residents enjoy their new freedoms. The scars of sectarian strife are so deep that some residents say it will take years to return to the Iraq they remember, if ever. Iraq's political constellation is sharply realigning as a result of the elections, so residents are also bracing for new political and intra-sectarian conflicts as the U.S. withdraws.
"They are living together again, but the relationships between Sunnis and Shiites are not quite like before," said Haider al-Minshidawi, 40, a Shiite tribal leader in this neighborhood of cinder-block houses and mazes of narrow streets. "The tensions are still strong."
"The killings have ended in Tobji, but people still want revenge," said Khalid Jamal Hussein, 32, a Sunni pharmacist. "There's been too much bloodshed. Reconciliation will take a generation."
'Life Is Back to Normal'
At first glance, Tobji seems finally at peace.
Hashim Aziz can cut hair again without fear. When the Mahdi Army controlled the enclave, it banned Western-style haircuts, whipping disobedient young men and their barbers. Now, "everybody gets haircuts, any style they want," said Aziz, 53, flashing a smile, as the street outside pulsed with activity. "Life is back to normal."
Haircuts were only one of the ways the militia ruled Tobji, a working-class community of Shiites, Sunnis, Kurds and Christians that became a sectarian battlefield after the bombing of a Shiite shrine in the city of Samarra in February 2006. At first, the Mahdi Army was respected, viewed by most Shiites as their defense against Sunni insurgents. The militiamen controlled checkpoints and conducted night patrols.
But soon they demanded protection money and ran extortion rackets, while displacing Sunni families who had lived here for generations. Many fighters ran death squads, refusing to obey a cease-fire order Sadr imposed in August 2007 to improve his movement's image.
By last spring, the militiamen were on the run. Backed by U.S. troops, Iraqi forces were emboldened by government offensives against the militias in the southern city of Basra and in Baghdad's Sadr City district. American and Iraqi troops arrested many militia leaders; others fled Tobji.
One Tobji man, Salam al-Hamrani, a Shiite, was so enraged when militiamen killed his cousin that he formed his own tribal force to push the Mahdi Army out of the neighborhood, residents said.
Today, Tobji feels like a military base. Tan Iraqi armored vehicles are positioned at every entrance. A new police headquarters, circled by 15-foot blast walls, has been built on the edge of the neighborhood. American convoys still patrol virtually every day.
The measures give Azhar Assad enough confidence to stock his liquor cabinet, grow his hair and walk with his girlfriend on the street -- actions punishable as un-Islamic when the Mahdi Army ruled.
"A lot has changed," noted the 24-year-old teacher, who is a member of Iraq's minority Sabian religious community.
At the Jamahir secondary school, deputy principal Abdallah Muhammed no longer worries about Mahdi Army fighters scouring the student body for new recruits or targeting young Sunnis. Four students were killed in recent years. Muhammed, a Sunni, received two death threats; fighters riddled his house with bullets.
"It is impossible for them to come back to control again. The citizens now know who their real enemy is. And the law is strong now," said Muhammed, 49. "The killers are gone forever."
Militia Biding Its Time
Mahdi Army commanders haven't left Tobji. In an industrial section of the enclave, one met with a visitor inside a small mosque. Outside, graffiti on a wall near a railroad track read: "The Mahdi Army is taking a break. We'll be back soon."
Abu Sajjad, slim with a trim mustache, described himself as a "good" Mahdi Army leader who had saved several Sunnis from Shiite death squads. The "bad" ones, he said, came from outside Tobji, after American forces arrested many of the good leaders. About 30 percent of the militia remains in Tobji, he said, waiting for the appropriate time to reemerge.
"The 70 percent who fled are not real Mahdi Army," said Abu Sajjad, who used a nickname because he is still on a wanted list. "They did bad things using the name of the Mahdi Army."
But residents said Abu Sajjad had ordered killings, policed the ban on Western haircuts and forced women to wear head scarves.
Abu Sajjad now considers his biggest enemy to be the Islamic Supreme Council of Iraq, an influential Shiite political party, and its armed wing, the Badr Organization. "They want to divide Iraq," he said. "They are all with Iran."
Abu Sajjaf is also concerned about the Sunnis in Tobji. He and his men keep watch on returning families, as well as on the Sunni Egheidat section of the neighborhood, where fierce sectarian battles were fought in 2006. Abu Sajjaf still considers many of the residents to be insurgents affiliated with the Iraqi Islamic Party, the largest Sunni political bloc.
"There are Islamic Party sleeper cells, and there are Mahdi Army sleeper cells," said Abu Sajjaf, leaving the mosque. "We keep notes on who the Sunnis are. But we can't do anything. Moqtada Sadr gave us orders to keep down our weapons. We will rise up, if he gives us the orders."
He walked up the street and crossed the railroad tracks. He exchanged greetings with an Egheidat man, and said he had personally intervened to save the man's brother from a Shiite death squad.
After the man left, Abu Sajjad pointed at a concrete warehouse owned by a Sunni but now occupied by a Shiite family. "That's where the Sunnis were taken to get slaughtered," he said matter-of-factly.
"The bad Sunnis," he swiftly added.
A Disintegration of Trust
Eight months ago, Khalil Ibrahim al-Sammarai, 61, returned to Tobji. Ever since, the retired Sunni government official has waited for his son's killers. One, he said, is in Camp Bucca, the American-run prison in southern Iraq. Another is in the custody of the Iraqi security forces. A third, he believes, has been killed.
They were all his neighbors.
"I am going to drink their blood," Sammarai said. "As Arabs, we will not forget our revenge for 40 years."
Three months ago, his 24-year-old son Bakr also returned, after fleeing to Syria. Now, he often visits the Shiite areas of Tobji, not out of comfort, but hate. "Perhaps I will find one of the killers," Bakr said. "If I see one of them, I will kill him."
"Some of the Shiites are good. We can be friends," he continued. "But other Shiites? I avoid them. The picture in Tobji has changed. It's not like what it once was."
"The trust between us has been shaken," his father said.
Minshidawi, the Shiite tribal leader, said Sunni sheiks in the community used to visit his area often, coming over for cups of sweet tea or to give condolences at funerals. No longer. "They are only three streets away, but few people come here now," he said.
Centuries-old tribal customs to settle disputes are faltering. Both Sunni and Shiite leaders report that the payment of blood money is in decline. "The Sunni people don't feel fully secure. Some are afraid to go and press charges against the Shia," said Abu Abdallah al-Jaff, a Kurdish Sunni elder.
Two months ago, the father of one of the men Sammarai believes killed his son offered compensation. Sammarai demanded that the man's son confess to the killing and never return to the neighborhood. The father refused.
Abu Mahtez al-Jenabi, an unemployed Sunni auto mechanic, returned to Tobji three months ago, a broken man. His right arm, drilled with bullets during a drive-by shooting in May 2007, hangs limp. Last week, he saw the Shiite man who he believes ordered the attempted killing.
He avoided him.
"There is a lot of grief inside me, and it will be there for a long time," said Jenabi, a bald man with a silvery mustache.
Yet Jenabi represents the potential for reconciliation in Tobji. Once, he knew three-quarters of Tobji. Today, the only man he socializes with is his neighbor, Abu Haider, who was sitting next to him the day he was shot. Abu Haider is a Shiite.
Jenabi's other neighbors were too afraid of the Mahdi Army to help him. But Abu Haider got him to the hospital.
"Only Abu Haider cares about me," Jenabi said.
The Perils of Politics
Abu Muhammed al-Egheidi, a Sunni imam, should be happy. His congregation at the as-Sahail mosque now numbers 400 during Friday prayers; at the height of Tobji's sectarian war, he was lucky to get 50.
Many of his followers crossed sectarian lines to vote for a coalition backed by Shiite Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki in the provincial elections, citing his record of bringing security to the area. Tired of rule by religious parties, they also considered Maliki more secular.
But Egheidi wonders how long Tobji's calm will last. He worries that Maliki's political rivals, especially Shiite religious parties that fear his growing power, will try to undermine his efforts to separate politics from religion and bolster rule of law.
"People are afraid for the future," Egheidi said. Then he predicted: "It's a time bomb. It will explode in a few months."
"Now, it's about who is going to take power between the parties. And politics is a dangerous game."
Most Sunnis are concerned about the U.S. military drawdown, viewing U.S. soldiers as not only their protectors but the power behind Maliki. They also don't trust the Shiite-dominated Iraqi security forces and worry that Iran will fill the vacuum after U.S. troops leave.
"If the Americans leave here, blood will flow in the river," Egheidi said.
Shiites, too, are concerned. If the heavy American-backed security is lifted, "people will pick up weapons on their own to defend themselves," said Hassan Taher, the Shiite head of the local council. "Then we will be back to square one again."
Minshidawi, the Shiite tribal leader, lives in front of the railroad tracks and near the warehouse where Sunnis were once executed. When asked about the future of his community, he sighed and replied: "If the people get a better life, they might forget the past more easily."
WaPo
But Basheer's fear has not entirely faded: On his wall, he still hangs a large poster of Imam Hussein, one of Shiite Islam's revered figures. He hopes it will win the protection of his Shiite neighbors.
"The situation can erupt at any moment," he explains.
Over the past three years, the lives of the residents of the Baghdad neighborhood of Tobji have closely tracked Iraq's own evolution -- from the throes of sectarian violence to a cautious reawakening ushered in by U.S. strategy, Iraqi political changes and intense security measures. The Mahdi Army has vanished from the streets, replaced by a wary calm, with last month's peaceful provincial elections the latest milestone in Tobji's transformation. Dozens of once-displaced Sunni families have returned to their homes.
But in this mixed enclave, viewed by many as a microcosm of Iraq's diversity, mistrust smolders beneath the surface, even as residents enjoy their new freedoms. The scars of sectarian strife are so deep that some residents say it will take years to return to the Iraq they remember, if ever. Iraq's political constellation is sharply realigning as a result of the elections, so residents are also bracing for new political and intra-sectarian conflicts as the U.S. withdraws.
"They are living together again, but the relationships between Sunnis and Shiites are not quite like before," said Haider al-Minshidawi, 40, a Shiite tribal leader in this neighborhood of cinder-block houses and mazes of narrow streets. "The tensions are still strong."
"The killings have ended in Tobji, but people still want revenge," said Khalid Jamal Hussein, 32, a Sunni pharmacist. "There's been too much bloodshed. Reconciliation will take a generation."
'Life Is Back to Normal'
At first glance, Tobji seems finally at peace.
Hashim Aziz can cut hair again without fear. When the Mahdi Army controlled the enclave, it banned Western-style haircuts, whipping disobedient young men and their barbers. Now, "everybody gets haircuts, any style they want," said Aziz, 53, flashing a smile, as the street outside pulsed with activity. "Life is back to normal."
Haircuts were only one of the ways the militia ruled Tobji, a working-class community of Shiites, Sunnis, Kurds and Christians that became a sectarian battlefield after the bombing of a Shiite shrine in the city of Samarra in February 2006. At first, the Mahdi Army was respected, viewed by most Shiites as their defense against Sunni insurgents. The militiamen controlled checkpoints and conducted night patrols.
But soon they demanded protection money and ran extortion rackets, while displacing Sunni families who had lived here for generations. Many fighters ran death squads, refusing to obey a cease-fire order Sadr imposed in August 2007 to improve his movement's image.
By last spring, the militiamen were on the run. Backed by U.S. troops, Iraqi forces were emboldened by government offensives against the militias in the southern city of Basra and in Baghdad's Sadr City district. American and Iraqi troops arrested many militia leaders; others fled Tobji.
One Tobji man, Salam al-Hamrani, a Shiite, was so enraged when militiamen killed his cousin that he formed his own tribal force to push the Mahdi Army out of the neighborhood, residents said.
Today, Tobji feels like a military base. Tan Iraqi armored vehicles are positioned at every entrance. A new police headquarters, circled by 15-foot blast walls, has been built on the edge of the neighborhood. American convoys still patrol virtually every day.
The measures give Azhar Assad enough confidence to stock his liquor cabinet, grow his hair and walk with his girlfriend on the street -- actions punishable as un-Islamic when the Mahdi Army ruled.
"A lot has changed," noted the 24-year-old teacher, who is a member of Iraq's minority Sabian religious community.
At the Jamahir secondary school, deputy principal Abdallah Muhammed no longer worries about Mahdi Army fighters scouring the student body for new recruits or targeting young Sunnis. Four students were killed in recent years. Muhammed, a Sunni, received two death threats; fighters riddled his house with bullets.
"It is impossible for them to come back to control again. The citizens now know who their real enemy is. And the law is strong now," said Muhammed, 49. "The killers are gone forever."
Militia Biding Its Time
Mahdi Army commanders haven't left Tobji. In an industrial section of the enclave, one met with a visitor inside a small mosque. Outside, graffiti on a wall near a railroad track read: "The Mahdi Army is taking a break. We'll be back soon."
Abu Sajjad, slim with a trim mustache, described himself as a "good" Mahdi Army leader who had saved several Sunnis from Shiite death squads. The "bad" ones, he said, came from outside Tobji, after American forces arrested many of the good leaders. About 30 percent of the militia remains in Tobji, he said, waiting for the appropriate time to reemerge.
"The 70 percent who fled are not real Mahdi Army," said Abu Sajjad, who used a nickname because he is still on a wanted list. "They did bad things using the name of the Mahdi Army."
But residents said Abu Sajjad had ordered killings, policed the ban on Western haircuts and forced women to wear head scarves.
Abu Sajjad now considers his biggest enemy to be the Islamic Supreme Council of Iraq, an influential Shiite political party, and its armed wing, the Badr Organization. "They want to divide Iraq," he said. "They are all with Iran."
Abu Sajjaf is also concerned about the Sunnis in Tobji. He and his men keep watch on returning families, as well as on the Sunni Egheidat section of the neighborhood, where fierce sectarian battles were fought in 2006. Abu Sajjaf still considers many of the residents to be insurgents affiliated with the Iraqi Islamic Party, the largest Sunni political bloc.
"There are Islamic Party sleeper cells, and there are Mahdi Army sleeper cells," said Abu Sajjaf, leaving the mosque. "We keep notes on who the Sunnis are. But we can't do anything. Moqtada Sadr gave us orders to keep down our weapons. We will rise up, if he gives us the orders."
He walked up the street and crossed the railroad tracks. He exchanged greetings with an Egheidat man, and said he had personally intervened to save the man's brother from a Shiite death squad.
After the man left, Abu Sajjad pointed at a concrete warehouse owned by a Sunni but now occupied by a Shiite family. "That's where the Sunnis were taken to get slaughtered," he said matter-of-factly.
"The bad Sunnis," he swiftly added.
A Disintegration of Trust
Eight months ago, Khalil Ibrahim al-Sammarai, 61, returned to Tobji. Ever since, the retired Sunni government official has waited for his son's killers. One, he said, is in Camp Bucca, the American-run prison in southern Iraq. Another is in the custody of the Iraqi security forces. A third, he believes, has been killed.
They were all his neighbors.
"I am going to drink their blood," Sammarai said. "As Arabs, we will not forget our revenge for 40 years."
Three months ago, his 24-year-old son Bakr also returned, after fleeing to Syria. Now, he often visits the Shiite areas of Tobji, not out of comfort, but hate. "Perhaps I will find one of the killers," Bakr said. "If I see one of them, I will kill him."
"Some of the Shiites are good. We can be friends," he continued. "But other Shiites? I avoid them. The picture in Tobji has changed. It's not like what it once was."
"The trust between us has been shaken," his father said.
Minshidawi, the Shiite tribal leader, said Sunni sheiks in the community used to visit his area often, coming over for cups of sweet tea or to give condolences at funerals. No longer. "They are only three streets away, but few people come here now," he said.
Centuries-old tribal customs to settle disputes are faltering. Both Sunni and Shiite leaders report that the payment of blood money is in decline. "The Sunni people don't feel fully secure. Some are afraid to go and press charges against the Shia," said Abu Abdallah al-Jaff, a Kurdish Sunni elder.
Two months ago, the father of one of the men Sammarai believes killed his son offered compensation. Sammarai demanded that the man's son confess to the killing and never return to the neighborhood. The father refused.
Abu Mahtez al-Jenabi, an unemployed Sunni auto mechanic, returned to Tobji three months ago, a broken man. His right arm, drilled with bullets during a drive-by shooting in May 2007, hangs limp. Last week, he saw the Shiite man who he believes ordered the attempted killing.
He avoided him.
"There is a lot of grief inside me, and it will be there for a long time," said Jenabi, a bald man with a silvery mustache.
Yet Jenabi represents the potential for reconciliation in Tobji. Once, he knew three-quarters of Tobji. Today, the only man he socializes with is his neighbor, Abu Haider, who was sitting next to him the day he was shot. Abu Haider is a Shiite.
Jenabi's other neighbors were too afraid of the Mahdi Army to help him. But Abu Haider got him to the hospital.
"Only Abu Haider cares about me," Jenabi said.
The Perils of Politics
Abu Muhammed al-Egheidi, a Sunni imam, should be happy. His congregation at the as-Sahail mosque now numbers 400 during Friday prayers; at the height of Tobji's sectarian war, he was lucky to get 50.
Many of his followers crossed sectarian lines to vote for a coalition backed by Shiite Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki in the provincial elections, citing his record of bringing security to the area. Tired of rule by religious parties, they also considered Maliki more secular.
But Egheidi wonders how long Tobji's calm will last. He worries that Maliki's political rivals, especially Shiite religious parties that fear his growing power, will try to undermine his efforts to separate politics from religion and bolster rule of law.
"People are afraid for the future," Egheidi said. Then he predicted: "It's a time bomb. It will explode in a few months."
"Now, it's about who is going to take power between the parties. And politics is a dangerous game."
Most Sunnis are concerned about the U.S. military drawdown, viewing U.S. soldiers as not only their protectors but the power behind Maliki. They also don't trust the Shiite-dominated Iraqi security forces and worry that Iran will fill the vacuum after U.S. troops leave.
"If the Americans leave here, blood will flow in the river," Egheidi said.
Shiites, too, are concerned. If the heavy American-backed security is lifted, "people will pick up weapons on their own to defend themselves," said Hassan Taher, the Shiite head of the local council. "Then we will be back to square one again."
Minshidawi, the Shiite tribal leader, lives in front of the railroad tracks and near the warehouse where Sunnis were once executed. When asked about the future of his community, he sighed and replied: "If the people get a better life, they might forget the past more easily."
WaPo
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