Washington Post In Cafe Debate, a Victory for Elections At Intersection of Old and New Iraq, the Vote Itself Is What Counts By Anthony Shadid January 14, 2005
BAGHDAD, Jan. 13 -- In Shahbandar, a storied Baghdad cafe whose name evokes a time (the past) and a milieu (the highbrow), three men sat over cigarettes and hourglass cups of sweet tea Thursday and debated what the coming elections meant for a country scarred by three decades of tyranny, war and bitter disillusionment. "Going to the polling stations is a victory for the Iraqi people," said Ali Danif, a 45-year-old writer. "The elections are more important than the candidates," insisted Jamal Karim, his garrulous friend. Not to be outdone, a smiling Suheil Yassin jumped in. "It's one of my wishes to die at the gate of the polling station," he said, a gesture that was self-consciously dramatic. "I want to be a martyr for the ballot box." Iraq's first competitive elections in decades are an oddly subdued affair. Violence lurks menacingly over the process, which will end with the selection of a new parliament on Jan. 30. Candidates' names are not published, for fear of assassination. Rallies are few, posters are often torn down, and hardly anyone can describe a party's platform, much less its nominees. But in Shahbandar, a century-old cafe long the intellectual heart of this weary city, where men in frayed suit jackets and sweater vests cluster in small circles to debate, there is a pronounced optimism about what the elections signify among people who have grasped for a turning point during nearly two years of occupation. For many of the men gathered here, sitting under portraits of Baghdad's history, the elections are more important than the candidates. "Without elections, there will be tyranny," said Kadhim Hassan, a 37-year-old writer. A late-morning light bathed the crowded cafe in a soft glow as Hassan sat on a narrow wooden bench. He called the vote a "historic moment," then his face turned hard. "War and disasters," he said, shaking his head -- that's what Iraqis have been born into. "Now most people feel they are living in darkness," Hassan said. "It's time for us to come into the light." Shahbandar, with its vaulted ceilings and brick walls, is an artifact of what some might call a more civilized time in Baghdad, before conversations revolved around the kidnappings that have become epidemic, before the frustrations with electricity that has yet to improve, before the complaints over gas lines that can stretch miles and have for more than a month. Antique water pipes are stacked in rows three deep, along with samovars and brass decanters collecting dust. Outside is the warren of bookstores along Mutanabi Street, named for a 10th-century sage, whose words can still be quoted from memory by nearly all Arabs. Around the corner is the Qushla, the seat in Baghdad of the Ottoman government, which fell in World War I. It was about that time that the cafe was renovated and officially named for its former owners, who began attracting the city's men of letters. Shahbandar doesn't have backgammon tables, cards or dominoes, the accoutrements of most Arab cafes. In their place is talk -- a lot of it -- especially around noon, when space on the couches is limited and cigarette butts pile up on the floor. "I'm not persuaded by the elections," declared Abdel-Rahman Abbas, 60, a former municipal worker with a well-groomed mustache and blue sports jacket. "The Americans can do what they want, and they've already made up their mind." Abbas was worried. He shared the cynicism voiced by many about Iraq's preeminent political parties, most of which operated in exile during Saddam Hussein's era. He said he figured the elections would only inflame sectarian divisions that, despite provocation after provocation, have yet to explode. And he gave voice to the nostalgia evoked so often here: In his mind, the monarchy that fell in 1958 would be as good as any government. "It's all a game," he said. But Abbas was a lone voice. Not that others thought the elections would be conducted peacefully; few didn't predict violence. But many of the writers, critics and intellectuals seemed to suggest that the price was worth paying. For the most enthusiastic at Shahbandar, the mood recalled so many other watershed moments in Baghdad since the U.S. invasion in March 2003: Optimism greeted each turning point, heralded as a new beginning, even if it turned out to be short-lived. "If they had done elections in the first place, it would have stopped the situation from being the way it is," said Heidar Mohammed, a 37-year-old bookseller. "If there were elections, the people would have accepted the government from the beginning." A bearded man with a bulging knapsack handed out leaflets to cafe-goers. One read: "Toward an Iraq that is democratic, united and just." Behind him was a newspaper vendor hawking his wares: "Read the newspaper! 150 dinars!" One of its headlines announced the destruction inflicted Wednesday by three car bombs in Mosul, the country's third-largest city. "A country will not find progress without making sacrifices," Mohammed said. He pointed to the Iran-Iraq war and the battle in 1988 to retake the Faw peninsula on the Persian Gulf. Thousands were lost, he said, "for Saddam's moment of madness. If we lose 100 or 200 people as martyrs in the election, the sacrifice is worth it." "This is the tax that we have to pay," added Mohammed Thamer, a poet. "We have no other option, no other solution." Around the entrance of the cafe, Iraq's past and future collide. On the walls inside are pictures of Iraq's history: the bare-chested 1936 wrestling team, King Faisal's court after World War I, the funeral of King Ghazi in 1939. Outside the door are election posters bearing promises: "Elections equal security and stability," says one. "Iraq First," says another. Danif, Karim and Yassin, friends who gather every Thursday at the cafe, smiled as they talked about the vote. Like others, they knew little about the candidates, the parties or their platforms. But they celebrated what the elections represent. "I don't trust anyone in politics," said Karim, 48. "I only trust the Iraqi people." Yassin sipped his tea, then spoke up. "With the election," he said, "the pages of the totalitarian order will be turned and never opened again." The U.S. Embassy has gone to great lengths to limit its public involvement in the elections, and the American military, which will have 150,000 troops in the country during the vote, is expected to stay far from the polling stations. Given the level of disenchantment and skepticism about the United States in Iraq, it may be the best way to ensure the elections' legitimacy. "Sometimes when the Americans say 'Good morning,' we get suspicious," said Yassin, a literary critic. But there was none of the ferocious anger about the occupation often displayed in places such as Sadr City, loyal to a militant Shiite Muslim cleric, or predominantly Sunni Muslim neighborhoods like Adhamiyah. Instead, the three men said, they would wait it out. "Sooner or later, it will end," Yassin said. "History says so." Along the walls near them were pictures of an earlier occupation: the entry into Baghdad in 1917 of British Maj. Gen. Stanley Maude at the head of the army that had defeated the Ottomans, the pontoon bridge he built across the Tigris, a British military checkpoint in 1923. Maude died during the war; Iraq didn't achieve independence until 1932. "The Americans will leave," Karim said. "They will leave like the other occupiers, whether it's a short period or long." In the meantime, the three men said, they would remain hopeful. "I'm optimistic 1,000 percent," Danif exclaimed. Karim nodded. "I'm twice as optimistic," he said. Yassin smiled. "I'm optimistic, but I know there will be obstacles and difficulties." He nodded to the others and said: "It's just the beginning."
