Jubilation Turns
To Hate As Aid Arrives
Burhan Wazir in Zubayr,
Iraq, The Guardian
March 27, 2003
The young man wearing the
brown shawl summed it up succinctly: "We want you to go back home.
We do not want your American and British aid," he said, his eyes
flashing with anger.
If the British humanitarian taskforce had any doubts as to the legitimacy
of his claims, the sudden burst of gunfire from a nearby building left
no one in any doubt.
The first attempt to deliver
aid to the Iraqi people was, in all respects, a practical and logistical
disaster. A convoy of vehicles, including two water tankers and as many
Warrior armoured vehicles, had set off from the abandoned Shaiba airfield
earlier. The intent was to deliver food and water to win over the hearts
and minds of the beleaguered Iraqis.
As the convoy pulled up inside
the town, however, a crowd of predominantly young men ran towards it.
Fights and skirmishes broke out for bottles of water. Iraqis asked for
food and cigarettes. And while a cordon was quickly created, hundreds
rushed towards the trucks, overpowering the soldiers.
"We have had no water
and no food," said Ali Abdullah, 50. He stood away from the crowd,
stroking his beard and surveyed the scene intently as crowds of young
men fought over the water.
"For five days now,
we have been without electricity. Have you brought some electricity?"
The exercise had been beset
with a number of difficulties from the outset. On leaving the nearby
Shaiba airfield - a series of abandoned hangars, runways and outbuildings
on the road to Basra - there had been innumerable delays as reports
of violence filtered back from Zubayr. Earlier, there had been a delay
in confirming security in the town.
Inside Zubayr, however, the
distribution initially began with good nature. Young men joked with
each other, smiled and passed around bottles of water. Within 10 minutes,
however, an undercurrent of resentment flowed to the surface. The war,
the bombing, sanctions and their cumulative toll all boiled over.
Jalil Ali, 25, the young
Iraqi in the brown shawl, asked if any of the humanitarian aid was being
provided by Americans.
"Take it back,"
he yelled, pretending to push it away. "We want the Americans to
go back home. We do not need them here. Go back home. I do not need
this."
Around him, his friends giggled.
Not far away, people rushed out of earthen buildings and raced down
a dual carriageway. Ali, however, seemed to realise the irony only too
well. "They bomb. And now they want to give water and food. How
can they do both? How?" It was then that the gunfire erupted.
Earlier, the soldiers had
been optimistic but pensive. After enduring a rainy and windy night
in the disused hangar at the Shaiba airfield, the convoy had been well
intentioned. It was a curious sight: a line of trucks bearing much-needed
humani tarian aid - aid that betrayed all the hallmarks of an occupying
force, but aid none the less. The Iraqis, while initially jubilant,
were quickly sceptical.
"I need electricity,"
said Moyed Abdullah, 33. "I need to power my house. See the electricity
lines? They are not working; they have not been working for days. Do
you bring any electricity?"
Around him, British and US
soldiers struggled to control the crowds. Time and again, the Iraqis
were pushed back - always, they seemed to slip in under the makeshift
rope-line. After a while, it seemed, it was better simply to stand back
and wait for the inevitable to happen.
The burst of gunfire from
across the road finally stopped all attempts to supply the aid. As soldiers
leapt into the jeeps, a Warrior turned round and took out the position
the gunfire had come from. And with daylight fast fading, the humanitarian
taskforce decided to speed back to its base at Shaibah airfield.
Tomorrow, they will undoubtedly
try again to win the hearts and minds of the Iraqi civilians. And presumably
tomorrow, they will encounter yet more resentment.