In Baghdad, University Students and Professors Feel the Heat

A swarm of security guards stormed the classroom where Mais Khalid and her classmates were taking a drama test last week. Waving their guns around, they ordered everyone to leave. It wasn’t safe for students to remain at their desks, they shouted.

Outside, people had gathered to protest the recent slaying of a popular Shiite Muslim student activist, killed after he threw a party to celebrate the new government.

“The professor had to take all of us up to his office and give us the exam there,” the 21-year-old French major said.

For Khalid and her classmates at Baghdad University, focusing on the books isn’t easy. With only days to go before the all-important national exam, the Class of ’05 feels spent, its spirits threadbare.

“We’re really tired,” said student Noor Sabaah, 23.

The power routinely falters, turning classrooms into caldrons -- without fans, warm heads grow drowsy, the hours long.

The drive to campus can be dangerous and slow. Students miss lectures, held back by roadblocks and gridlock. Even in front of the university gates, cars idle as guards check for weapons and bombs.

At times, professors don’t show up either. Some have taken early retirement or left the country. Amid the unrest that followed the shooting of Masar Sarhan, the Shiite student, a number of Sunni professors fled, fearing retribution.

“It’s even worse than the fall of Baghdad,” said Khalid, the student in the drama class. “Even the professors are getting threatened.”

At least 100 university lecturers have been assassinated during the last two years, said Isam Alrawi, who heads the Assn. of University Lecturers. The majority of the killings had political or sectarian motives, he said. “They were all highly qualified Iraqis including Muslims as well as Christians, Shiite as well as Sunni and Turkmen.”

Sometimes death is random. This month, a mortar round hit another Baghdad campus, killing four at the College of Engineering.

After graduation, employment prospects are grim. The official jobless rate is 18%, but the new planning minister recently acknowledged that the real figure is probably closer to 50% when factoring in underemployment.

Khalid said her sister had graduated with a degree in agriculture two years ago and has been unemployed since. Their neighbor earned a degree in literature.

“Now he’s a taxi driver,” she said. “It’s the only way he can buy his bread.”

Shata Saadi, the newly appointed dean of the College of Education, tries to be optimistic. But she acknowledged, “All of us are tired, tired by the situation, tired by the chaos we’re in.”

Still, teaching children is about the future, Saadi tells her students, it’s about hope.

But the pep talks failed to reassure Suha Najir, 22.

“Considering the situation, I don’t think I’ll get a job, a respectable job,” she said. “We talk about it every day. We dream.”

When Najir left the room, Saadi commented, “It’s the lost generation.”

Ehsan Hassan, a sociology professor, has trouble recognizing the institution where he has taught for decades. Last year was bad, he said, but this year is even worse. “Academic standards are going down,” he said. At the exams, “we expect a high rate of failure.”

Before the invasion, about 15% of students failed the year-end exam, he said. Now it’s closer to 30%. And the exam is crucial: It counts toward 50% of the final grade.

Some students defer the exam, while others try to catch up by cramming.

“The material, they’re not absorbing it,” Hassan said. “On the eve of the examination, they are frightened.”

But on a recent morning, the campus appeared idyllic. The hedges were newly trimmed. Near the cafeteria, three students agreed on the many charms of a local pop star. Elsewhere on campus, a couple shared a moment, shaded by a tree.

Conversations between men and women on campus reflect the despair, observed English major Wrood Tariq.

“An old man complains about the suffering of life, about what life has done to him,” she said. “You’re not sitting with a young man. You’re sitting with an old guy.”

By the entrance to the library, a woman collected cellphones, handing the students little pink and yellow slips in return. The collection had a dual purpose: security and noise control.

Upstairs, three chemistry students -- a woman and two men -- bent over notes and calculations that fluttered in the breeze from a nearby fan. The dusty bookshelves were half empty. A copier -- not much use when electricity is sporadic -- stood unplugged in a corner.

Hadwa Imad, Noor Sabaah and Marwan Ismael were proudly studious. “If we have an exam, we work for 10 hours,” Imad said.

Sabaah immediately teased her. “Us boys,” he joked, “we only have to study five hours.”

Behind him, a poster says: “True victory for Iraq is Independence -- participate in the election.”

That was nearly four months ago. Since then, violence has escalated, making May the bloodiest month in recent memory.

It was better during the reign of Saddam Hussein, said Ismael, and Imad agreed. Sabaah flared up. That’s stupid, he said, but his temper quickly evaporated. It was too hot to argue.

A tall student approached. He wore glasses, and a selection of pens in his shirt pocket.

Sabaah pulled out a chair, but Mohammed Azhar, 28, remained standing.

Azhar commanded their respect. He is the top student in the chemistry department, they explained with awe. He would like to continue studying and then get a job in his field, he said, perhaps in a government ministry or academia.

But even Azhar has doubts about the future.

“I’m very ambitious,” he said, “but it depends upon Iraq.”

Times staff writer Shamil Aziz contributed to this report.