BAGHDAD, Iraq, 27 May 2003 — A chemistry professor is shot to death by the gates of his university. A well-known singer of songs praising Saddam Hussein is gunned down outside his home. The mother of a young woman involved in a bitter divorce is killed in her own driveway.
Killers are roaming the streets of this city and there is no one pursing them, in what has become open season for settling old scores. For anyone bitter at his treatment by a former government official, a boss, even a family member — this has become the best of all times for carrying out dreams of revenge.
Hospital officials report that at least 50 Baath Party members have been killed in the capital this month along with scores of other people who were victims of domestic disputes or rivalries between clans.
The numbers are impossible to verify because there are no police reports, no investigations and no official statistics. Word of violence spreads from house to house, neighborhood to neighborhood, fueled by rumor and suspicion.
The shootings, whatever their numbers or reasons, have left a trail of despair and frightened families from the worn, dingy slums of Saddam City to the gated villas in upscale Zeitoon, and they only add to the growing anger that American troops are doing little to keep people safe.
This is the first time in decades that people can exercise power as individuals, that they can safely act independent of the previously all-powerful Baath — and that power is being expressed in violence.
“I can’t understand why anyone would want to kill my daughter,’’ said Evelyn Elias, the 73-year-old mother of Elham Salem, who was shot a month ago in a divorce dispute that touched three generations of her family. “She was a good person and she was innocent.’’
However difficult it is for police in American cities to investigate homicides, much less prevent them, it is vastly harder for American soldiers trained to fight wars to do so, while occupying a city that lacks any local government and is saturated with weapons.
Salem was 50 and the mother of four children. A small, framed portrait shows her in a red flowered dress, her long black hair pinned up and a broad, confident smile stretched across her face.
She was part of a prosperous Christian family that owns several grocery stores and lives in a two-story white stucco home with an enclosed courtyard with shrubbery and a colorful flower garden.
The trouble for them began five years ago when Salem’s daughter, Enas, now 24, fell in love with a Muslim man. She converted to Islam, married and had a son, Izan.
Sitting on patio furniture in the front yard of her parent’s house, Enas described in a soft, steady voice a tangled, fractious relationship with her husband that began days after the wedding when she discovered he had once been married to a distant cousin of Saddam.
The couple divorced after three years, but complaints and counter-complaints to local authorities continued over alimony payments and custody of their son. The local courts ruled in her favor; to avoid sanctions, her husband moved to Jordan.
Saddam’s fall opened the way for him to return. Enas said she is sure her former husband, whom she was too scared to name, was behind the attack at her house. On April 23, she said, two men armed with automatic rifles burst through the front door at about 8:30 a.m.
Her father and brothers raced down the stairs with their own guns, and the men fled, opening fire as they ran across the paved-stone driveway. Elham Salem was hit in the head by one of the dozens of bullets.
“I’m sure they came to kill me and take my child,’’ said Enas, who stopped her English studies at Baghdad University and now stays inside the house out of fear of another attack. “I am afraid of him, and there is nothing anyone can do for me.’’
There is also nothing anyone can do for Daoud Qais.
Recently, a white Nissan pickup truck stopped in front of his house near a busy traffic circle. Five men got out and started shooting. Qais, curious about the commotion, opened his front door. One of the gunmen walked up to him, talked to him briefly and then shot the 55-year-old once in the head with a .38 caliber revolver. His 27-year-old son, Salwan, watched his father slump to the ground and die.
“Of course it was revenge,’’ the younger Qais said. “A lot of people wanted my father dead.’’
The elder Qais was not only a long-time Baath Party member, he was a star on radio and television, appearing daily singing songs extolling Saddam’s leadership. He gained prominence with songs rallying troops during the Iran-Iraq War in the 1980s.
People throughout Iraq memorized his lyrics and swarmed him when he took public strolls. His grocer refused to take his money. Saddam Hussein called him his personal poet. He was a public symbol of a regime and its use of culture and the arts as a tool to indoctrinate society.
The murders have also reached Mustansiriya University. On May 10, two days before it reopened for its 30,000 students, a man got out of a car, walked up to chemistry Professor Falah Dulaimi and shot him five times.
Students on the campus scattered hearing the gunshots, and faculty members threw Dulaimi into a car and drove to a hospital. He died along the way.
“Why did they kill him?’’ cried Ramsi Ziealini, a colleague and friend who was about 50 feet from Dulaimi when he was shot. “He was just a teacher. He died for nothing.’’
Dulaimi, who had a wife and two sons, ages 4 and 5, was the vice chairman of the university’s science department. As required of anyone in such a position, he was a member of the Baath Party. Ziealini said his colleague wasn’t shy about using party clout to curry favor and make some extra money.
