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Members of the Daughters of Iraq guard program deployed at a hospital in Baghdad's Adhamiya neighborhood search arriving visitors for weapons and explosives. The 500-strong Daughters of Iraq do not carry weapons and operate in just a handful of places in Baghdad, south of the Iraqi capital and in Anbar province. (Alexandra Zavis / Los Angeles Times) |
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BAGHDAD -
The two women couldn't be less alike: Melath Dulaimi is a single woman in her mid-30s who wears a knee-length skirt, strappy sandals and refuses to cover her hair. Lekaa Mohammed is a retiring widow draped in a navy blue veil and concealing robes.
But when the U.S. military advertised for women to join its neighborhood guard program last fall, both answered the call.
"Iraqi women are the same as Iraqi men," said Dulaimi, the businesslike leader of 42 female security guards in Baghdad's blast-scarred Adhamiya section. "We want to take back our neighborhood."
The women work in pairs, frisking female visitors for weapons and explosives at schools, hospitals, banks and government offices.
The program was set up to counter a growing threat of female suicide bombers. But even as the response from women has been enthusiastic, it has faced resistance from tradition-bound community leaders who believe that fighting insurgents is men's work.
So far, 500 women have joined the more than 90,000 Sons of Iraq, a mostly Sunni Arab guard force that helped drive out insurgents from some of the country's most dangerous areas. Unlike their male counterparts, the new Daughters of Iraq do not carry weapons and operate in just a handful of places in Baghdad, south of the capital and in Anbar province.
U.S. commanders are keen to expand the program, but such efforts would require delicate negotiations with the communities where the women would operate. And the Iraqi government has made it clear that it has no intention of retaining female recruits when U.S. forces eventually hand over responsibility for the neighborhood guards.
Cultural divide
Army Lt. Col. Jeff Broadwater, who commands the U.S. troops in Adhamiya, a walled-in Sunni enclave surrounded by Shiite Muslim neighbors, would like to assign women to checkpoints and markets, which are among the favored targets of suicide bombers. But neighborhood leaders say those places are far too exposed.
"In our culture, we can't have women standing in public on a checkpoint," said Riyad abu Mohammed, deputy commander of Adhamiya's 843 Sons of Iraq. "It isn't good for us, for her or her family."
Although Dulaimi says her two brothers encouraged her to join, other members do not hide their displeasure at the idea of female recruits.
"A woman can't do this work," snapped one of Abu Mohammed's deputies, who gave his name as Sabbah. "It is dangerous."
U.S. commanders have encountered similar obstacles when they have asked the Interior Ministry to hire more policewomen. Critics blame the rise of religious conservatives for the government's apparent reluctance to tackle the threat of female suicide bombers.
There have been at least 21 such attacks since November, according to U.S. military figures, including coordinated bombings at two pet markets that killed 99 people in February. The U.S. military believes insurgents are turning to women because they raise less suspicion and cannot be searched by men in an Islamic society.
Army Lt. Gen. Lloyd J. Austin III, commander of day-to-day operations in Iraq, was diplomatic about the frustrations expressed by some of his officers.
"It is a cultural issue," he said. "It'll be one of these things that will take some time to work through. They're a little slow in letting women be able to do some jobs. We've got to break through some barriers."
Adhamiya was once one of the more progressive Baghdad neighborhoods. It is populated largely by retired military officers and other professionals who made up the elite of Saddam Hussein's secular Baath Party.
Many of its women were once employed as teachers or administrators in government offices across the city. But when the bombing of a revered Shiite shrine in Samarra unleashed revenge killings against Sunnis in 2006, most retreated to their homes, too afraid to leave the neighborhood.
For more than a year, the tortured bodies piled up. When the old graveyard behind Abu Hanifa mosque was full, a new one was carved out of a park where families had once picnicked and children had played soccer.
Husband slain
But when the U.S. military advertised for women to join its neighborhood guard program last fall, both answered the call.
"Iraqi women are the same as Iraqi men," said Dulaimi, the businesslike leader of 42 female security guards in Baghdad's blast-scarred Adhamiya section. "We want to take back our neighborhood."
The women work in pairs, frisking female visitors for weapons and explosives at schools, hospitals, banks and government offices.
The program was set up to counter a growing threat of female suicide bombers. But even as the response from women has been enthusiastic, it has faced resistance from tradition-bound community leaders who believe that fighting insurgents is men's work.
So far, 500 women have joined the more than 90,000 Sons of Iraq, a mostly Sunni Arab guard force that helped drive out insurgents from some of the country's most dangerous areas. Unlike their male counterparts, the new Daughters of Iraq do not carry weapons and operate in just a handful of places in Baghdad, south of the capital and in Anbar province.
U.S. commanders are keen to expand the program, but such efforts would require delicate negotiations with the communities where the women would operate. And the Iraqi government has made it clear that it has no intention of retaining female recruits when U.S. forces eventually hand over responsibility for the neighborhood guards.
Cultural divide
Army Lt. Col. Jeff Broadwater, who commands the U.S. troops in Adhamiya, a walled-in Sunni enclave surrounded by Shiite Muslim neighbors, would like to assign women to checkpoints and markets, which are among the favored targets of suicide bombers. But neighborhood leaders say those places are far too exposed.
"In our culture, we can't have women standing in public on a checkpoint," said Riyad abu Mohammed, deputy commander of Adhamiya's 843 Sons of Iraq. "It isn't good for us, for her or her family."
Although Dulaimi says her two brothers encouraged her to join, other members do not hide their displeasure at the idea of female recruits.
"A woman can't do this work," snapped one of Abu Mohammed's deputies, who gave his name as Sabbah. "It is dangerous."
U.S. commanders have encountered similar obstacles when they have asked the Interior Ministry to hire more policewomen. Critics blame the rise of religious conservatives for the government's apparent reluctance to tackle the threat of female suicide bombers.
There have been at least 21 such attacks since November, according to U.S. military figures, including coordinated bombings at two pet markets that killed 99 people in February. The U.S. military believes insurgents are turning to women because they raise less suspicion and cannot be searched by men in an Islamic society.
Army Lt. Gen. Lloyd J. Austin III, commander of day-to-day operations in Iraq, was diplomatic about the frustrations expressed by some of his officers.
"It is a cultural issue," he said. "It'll be one of these things that will take some time to work through. They're a little slow in letting women be able to do some jobs. We've got to break through some barriers."
Adhamiya was once one of the more progressive Baghdad neighborhoods. It is populated largely by retired military officers and other professionals who made up the elite of Saddam Hussein's secular Baath Party.
Many of its women were once employed as teachers or administrators in government offices across the city. But when the bombing of a revered Shiite shrine in Samarra unleashed revenge killings against Sunnis in 2006, most retreated to their homes, too afraid to leave the neighborhood.
For more than a year, the tortured bodies piled up. When the old graveyard behind Abu Hanifa mosque was full, a new one was carved out of a park where families had once picnicked and children had played soccer.
Husband slain
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