Академический Документы
Профессиональный Документы
Культура Документы
3/1/16, 2:44 PM
Page 1 of 3
3/1/16, 2:44 PM
The gun turret rotated lamely between the two trunks. "I was so embarrassed," he said.
Of course, violence is nothing new to Wamidh and Chelabi, who were born during the Iran-Iraq war of the 1980s and remember the 1991 Persian Gulf War.
"We were brought up in war," Chelabi said. "Hearing bombs is normal to us."
The U.S. invasion, however, and subsequent crime wave escalated the bloodshed and introduced new dangers. Chelabi's 4-year-old nephew was killed when he
picked up an unexploded cluster bomb last year, and his cousin was shot in the stomach this summer after being caught in a street battle between insurgents
and U.S. troops.
Men wearing Iraqi police uniforms kidnapped a Mansour High classmate on the way to school. Now students sometimes bring knives and guns to class.
"There are no rules anymore," Wamidh said. "Everybody just does as he likes."
Worst of all, the teens say, is the boredom. As illustrated during their prom in April, the students' social lives have been wiped out by crime and violence,
trapping them at home during a senior year that should have been filled with parties and celebrations.
"We are graduating and we can't stay out past 9 o'clock," Chelabi said. "We will always be remembered as the class whose graduation party was shut down."
For teenage girls, the environment is even worse. Although U.S. advisors insisted that Iraqi women play significant roles in the new government and freedom
from gender discrimination is guaranteed in the interim constitution, girls are finding their lives more restricted than ever.
Worried parents are loath to permit them to walk around the city without an escort, and rising religious tensions have forced many young women to cover
their heads with scarves to avoid harassment by hard-liners.
Youths like Wamidh and Chelabi find some solace in chatting online -- an activity that was forbidden before. But even as the Internet exposes the teenagers to
new ideas, it subjects them to a new kind of isolation. When teens from other countries, particularly the U.S., discover that Wamidh and Chelabi are from Iraq,
they often shun them in chat rooms or bombard them with nasty instant messages.
"Everyone calls us thieves and terrorists," Chelabi said. "Now I lie and say I'm from New York or Kansas."
It's little wonder that the young men have buried themselves in schoolwork. Jassim Lukmean Abdul Razak, 60, who has been principal of Mansour High
School for Boys for 24 years, says this year's class has been more studious and more mature than those of previous years.
"This class is more anxious," Razak said. "But I think they will distinguish themselves academically because they have spent more time studying. There's not
much else to do."
Mehdi, the sociologist, worries about the long-term impact. In the absence of structure and tradition, he warned, young people might be more prone to seek
stability in religious fundamentalism, such as an Iranian-style theocracy, or in autocratic leaders.
"This may turn out to be a generation susceptible to anyone who can provide strong leadership," Mehdi said.
Similar trends have already been seen among Iraq's impoverished classes. Many disenfranchised young men have been drawn to radical Shiite Muslim cleric
Muqtada Sadr.
It's unclear how this generation will view the United States in the future. Wamidh and Chelabi are fascinated by American culture. They wear New York
Yankees baseball caps and use American slang in their e-mail.
Chelabi's father and grandfather studied in the U.S., and he is eager to do the same. After the war, the pair befriended soldiers and volunteered as interpreters.
But by May, after more than a year of U.S. occupation, they were struggling to cope with new, conflicting images of America. Battles in Fallouja and Najaf had
killed hundreds of Iraqis. Pictures of U.S. soldiers abusing Iraqi prisoners in Abu Ghraib prison dominated the media.
"In the beginning, I think the Americans wanted to help us, but now I don't know," Chelabi said. "I don't think they really want the situation to settle down.
They don't really want to create a government. They just want to stay here."
As June approached, both students tried to block out the problems and focus on their upcoming final exams, all-important tests administered over seven days.
Their scores would determine which college they could attend and in what field they would study.
"I'm not thinking about politics now," Chelabi said. "I'm thinking about being a doctor. After that, then maybe I'll think about helping the country." To study
medicine, he needed to score 98% on the exams.
Wamidh was less worried. He still wasn't sure what career he would pursue. He had once thought about politics but was no longer interested.
Exams began in 110-degree heat with the two sitting side by side. Power outages meant they had to take the tests without air-conditioning. "I'm writing with
http://articles.latimes.com/print/2004/aug/17/world/fg-iraqteen17
Page 2 of 3
3/1/16, 2:44 PM
one hand and wiping sweat with the other," Chelabi said.
On the fourth day, Wamidh failed to show up. Chelabi recalled nervously eyeing Wamidh's vacant desk as he finished his exam, then racing to Wamidh's house
when the test was over. He discovered that the Wamidh family had abruptly left for Syria, fearing rising violence and terrorism before the transfer of
sovereignty.
For Wamidh, it was a welcome adventure. "I'm leaving," he said excitedly from a cellphone as he headed toward the border in a taxi. The family hoped to
reunite there with his father, who had been working in the United Arab Emirates. "I'd rather stay alive than keep living here and finish my exams."
Within days, Wamidh was e-mailing Chelabi about his exploits in Syrian discos and encounters with Russian girls.
Back in Baghdad, Chelabi had never felt more alone. "Nafae didn't just blow off his exams -- he blew off Iraq," Chelabi said. "And he didn't even say goodbye."
Adding to his depression, Chelabi choked on his exams. He earned a score of 80%, well short of what he would need to get into medical school. That meant he
might have to settle for engineering school.
Originally he had planned to celebrate the last day of tests with a big party. Instead, he spent the night tearfully solving questions he had missed and helping
another close friend pack before moving with his family to Jordan.
"Now it's really boring here," he said. He looked for a summer job, mostly to pass the time. He played tennis and swam at the country club, but it wasn't the
same without his pals.
He wondered if he should leave Iraq too. "But even with all the problems, it's my country," he said. "It's a piece of my heart."
About a month later, Chelabi got good news. Wamidh made a surprise return. He left his family in Syria and came back to take the four exams he had missed.
"I got bored in Syria," Wamidh said. As much as he complained about Iraq, he found it difficult to stay away. "I can't explain it. But it's hard to leave Baghdad,"
he said. "It's part of my life."
http://articles.latimes.com/print/2004/aug/17/world/fg-iraqteen17
Page 3 of 3