The rot gnawing away at Baghdad's innards
Yahoo News/AFP
by Bryan Pearson
May 4, 2008

BAGHDAD (AFP) - Its traditional wooden-balconied Shanasheel houses in ruins, other buildings crumbling and muddied streets reeking of rubbish, Al-Batawin neighbourhood in the centre of Baghdad is an abject picture of just how far the rot has set in to the once-proud Iraqi capital.

Before the US-led invasion of Iraq in 2003, Al-Batawin's main thoroughfare Al-Sadun Street bustled with restaurants, hotels, upmarket stores and -- most famously -- medical centres.

Today just a scattering of businesses still bother to open their doors, residential blocks stand empty, and those buildings that are occupied have few tenants willing to risk living above the first floor.

Electricity is supplied only sporadically and water in a trickle, and there are no other services to speak of, so it makes no sense to live too far from the ground in what is now a rapidly eroding urban wasteland.

Most Iraqis know Al-Sadun Street for its medical centres and pharmacies. Many travelled from afar and waited in long queues to see a doctor. And after the consultation there were some 200 pharmacies within a few blocks ready to fill the prescriptions.

Not any more. The 2003 invasion and the sectarian violence it subsequently spawned changed all that. Today most of the doctors have left and just 20 pharmacies remain.

"Before 2003 you could hardly move here, there were so many people coming to see the doctors," said 65-year-old Hussein Abdel Hussein, a wizened bony man with bulging eyes and calloused hands who is caretaker in Al-Janabi Building, once the most famous medical centre but now the most derelict.

"Patients came from all over Iraq. There were so many people we often had to warn people to look after their property because there were thieves about," said Hussein, his voice heavy with nostalgia and too many cigarettes.

Today the thieves no longer bother, and Hussein saves his wheezing breath.

"There are now only seven doctors left and each of them sees only two or three patients a day," said the caretaker who lives in the building with his son -- Al-Janabi's only full-time tenants.

Doctors these days open their doors for only a few hours in the afternoon. With no electricity and few patients, there is little point in hanging about after dark.

If the ground floor of the building reflects the jangled disintegration of Baghdad society, the third floor epitomises the city's decay.

Electrical cables hang from jagged openings, walls are crumbling, the signs outside consulting rooms are mangled or missing, the doors of the lift -- long stopped working -- are hanging, and thick dust coats the floors and walls.

Hundreds of long-discarded cigarette butts are piled up in one corner, near an upturned plastic chair with one missing leg.

The fourth floor is in better shape thanks to Dr Marwan Bahjat, who opens his dental surgery for two hours a day to treat two patients daily on average.

Unlike other doctors who have left the building -- either to take their families overseas or to set up practices closer to their homes -- Bahjat believes the situation will improve.

"Things are better now than they were two years ago. I can't leave, this is my country," said the 47-year-old, who has had his dental practice in the Al-Janabi centre for the past 22 years.

"It will get better -- I plan to stay right where I am in this surgery."

Plastic surgeon Zaid al-Safar, 53, who once served in Saddam Hussein's army patching up soldiers disfigured in the eight-year war with Iran in the 1980s, is adamant. He, too, will stay put.

"Where will I go? If I were younger I could start again, but at my age it would be difficult," said the surgeon in his neat second-floor practice where the walls are adorned with charcoal sketches of flowers.

Safar has already had to start again from zero -- he was arrested by Saddam's police when he decided he'd had enough of the army and wanted to leave the country in 2001.

"I was sentenced to six years in prison and all my property -- including my surgery -- was confiscated," said the cheery quick-to-smile doctor as he toyed with prayer beads.

He was released under an amnesty after serving 21 months of his sentence. Soon afterwards Saddam was toppled and Safar could practise medicine freely again.

Now he spends his time doing nose jobs and tummy tucks, mainly for women but also for some well-off men.

"Every era has its negatives and its positives. Under Saddam we had security but we weren't free. Now we have no security and still we are not free. But things will get better. We're taking the very first steps of what will be a long process."

But the decay of Baghdad did not begin with the invasion five years ago.

The decline actually started at the end of the heady 1970s, when Iraq went to war with Iran at the end of a decade when oil money had been flowing and Baghdad had become a centre of trade, culture and learning.

By the middle of 1985 the war with Iran was taking its toll as more money and resources were ploughed into the military effort. Investment dried up, the mood soured and the good times no longer rolled as often or as sweetly.

The gnawing away of the city's innards picked up pace when the United Nations imposed sanctions in 1990 after Iraq invaded Kuwait.

The 2003 invasion and Saddam's toppling brought a brief period of recovery before sectarian violence exploded in full fury and Baghdad became prey to shootings, rocket and mortar fire, car bombs and suicide attacks.

The gaggle of rumpled men playing dominoes in front of a crumbling chai (tea) house three blocks from the Al-Janabi centre sat for good reason with their backs to the sidestreet behind them.

After all, why be reminded of the piles of rubbish, the shell of a building probably blasted by a bomb, and the wreckage of rows of wooden Shanasheel houses that must once have given the street a certain grace?

To say nothing of remaining residents picking their way through thick, stinking mud churned up in the roadway by American military patrols. BAGHDAD (AFP) - Its traditional wooden-balconied Shanasheel houses in ruins, other buildings crumbling and muddied streets reeking of rubbish, Al-Batawin neighbourhood in the centre of Baghdad is an abject picture of just how far the rot has set in to the once-proud Iraqi capital.

Before the US-led invasion of Iraq in 2003, Al-Batawin's main thoroughfare Al-Sadun Street bustled with restaurants, hotels, upmarket stores and -- most famously -- medical centres.

Today just a scattering of businesses still bother to open their doors, residential blocks stand empty, and those buildings that are occupied have few tenants willing to risk living above the first floor.

Electricity is supplied only sporadically and water in a trickle, and there are no other services to speak of, so it makes no sense to live too far from the ground in what is now a rapidly eroding urban wasteland.

Most Iraqis know Al-Sadun Street for its medical centres and pharmacies. Many travelled from afar and waited in long queues to see a doctor. And after the consultation there were some 200 pharmacies within a few blocks ready to fill the prescriptions.

Not any more. The 2003 invasion and the sectarian violence it subsequently spawned changed all that. Today most of the doctors have left and just 20 pharmacies remain.

"Before 2003 you could hardly move here, there were so many people coming to see the doctors," said 65-year-old Hussein Abdel Hussein, a wizened bony man with bulging eyes and calloused hands who is caretaker in Al-Janabi Building, once the most famous medical centre but now the most derelict.

"Patients came from all over Iraq. There were so many people we often had to warn people to look after their property because there were thieves about," said Hussein, his voice heavy with nostalgia and too many cigarettes.

Today the thieves no longer bother, and Hussein saves his wheezing breath.

"There are now only seven doctors left and each of them sees only two or three patients a day," said the caretaker who lives in the building with his son -- Al-Janabi's only full-time tenants.

Doctors these days open their doors for only a few hours in the afternoon. With no electricity and few patients, there is little point in hanging about after dark.

If the ground floor of the building reflects the jangled disintegration of Baghdad society, the third floor epitomises the city's decay.

Electrical cables hang from jagged openings, walls are crumbling, the signs outside consulting rooms are mangled or missing, the doors of the lift -- long stopped working -- are hanging, and thick dust coats the floors and walls.

Hundreds of long-discarded cigarette butts are piled up in one corner, near an upturned plastic chair with one missing leg.

The fourth floor is in better shape thanks to Dr Marwan Bahjat, who opens his dental surgery for two hours a day to treat two patients daily on average.

Unlike other doctors who have left the building -- either to take their families overseas or to set up practices closer to their homes -- Bahjat believes the situation will improve.

"Things are better now than they were two years ago. I can't leave, this is my country," said the 47-year-old, who has had his dental practice in the Al-Janabi centre for the past 22 years.

"It will get better -- I plan to stay right where I am in this surgery."

Plastic surgeon Zaid al-Safar, 53, who once served in Saddam Hussein's army patching up soldiers disfigured in the eight-year war with Iran in the 1980s, is adamant. He, too, will stay put.

"Where will I go? If I were younger I could start again, but at my age it would be difficult," said the surgeon in his neat second-floor practice where the walls are adorned with charcoal sketches of flowers.

Safar has already had to start again from zero -- he was arrested by Saddam's police when he decided he'd had enough of the army and wanted to leave the country in 2001.

"I was sentenced to six years in prison and all my property -- including my surgery -- was confiscated," said the cheery quick-to-smile doctor as he toyed with prayer beads.

He was released under an amnesty after serving 21 months of his sentence. Soon afterwards Saddam was toppled and Safar could practise medicine freely again.

Now he spends his time doing nose jobs and tummy tucks, mainly for women but also for some well-off men.

"Every era has its negatives and its positives. Under Saddam we had security but we weren't free. Now we have no security and still we are not free. But things will get better. We're taking the very first steps of what will be a long process."

But the decay of Baghdad did not begin with the invasion five years ago.

The decline actually started at the end of the heady 1970s, when Iraq went to war with Iran at the end of a decade when oil money had been flowing and Baghdad had become a centre of trade, culture and learning.

By the middle of 1985 the war with Iran was taking its toll as more money and resources were ploughed into the military effort. Investment dried up, the mood soured and the good times no longer rolled as often or as sweetly.

The gnawing away of the city's innards picked up pace when the United Nations imposed sanctions in 1990 after Iraq invaded Kuwait.

The 2003 invasion and Saddam's toppling brought a brief period of recovery before sectarian violence exploded in full fury and Baghdad became prey to shootings, rocket and mortar fire, car bombs and suicide attacks.

The gaggle of rumpled men playing dominoes in front of a crumbling chai (tea) house three blocks from the Al-Janabi centre sat for good reason with their backs to the sidestreet behind them.

After all, why be reminded of the piles of rubbish, the shell of a building probably blasted by a bomb, and the wreckage of rows of wooden Shanasheel houses that must once have given the street a certain grace?

To say nothing of remaining residents picking their way through thick, stinking mud churned up in the roadway by American military patrols.

Original Text