Free Expression Has Costs, Many Iraqis Say

At a makeshift gallery at the Academy of Fine Arts, a cello sits propped up on a chair. It has only one string and is connected to an intravenous drip, intended to inject it with new life.

On a nearby display stand, a mass of burned rags and scraps has been cast into an effigy of an Iraqi soldier. Parts of the dummy’s limbs are missing. Its face has no identity. But it sports an Iraqi badge for bravery.

In the Iraq of Saddam Hussein, such images of the wanton stifling of creativity and the faceless, senseless sacrifice of Iraqi servicemen were forbidden.

“Before, we used to do only commercial work,” said Mukdad Ahmed, 31, a painter and fourth-year student at the academy, who is one of a new group of artists intent on expressing radical thought. “I felt oppressed. I could not express myself as I wanted. Now we concentrate on [depicting] the former situation and the new one.”

The demise of Hussein’s authority has opened the floodgates of artistic expression, outspoken media and religious liberty. Painters, writers, academics and spiritual leaders are all finding new voice.

But many Iraqis fear that the new freedom of expression is leading some to go overboard. They are concerned that pornography and other vices typically associated with Western societies are beginning to seep into their culture.

“Iraqis are pleased to have new freedom,” said Fawzia Atia, a sociology professor at Baghdad University’s College of Arts. “But we are paying a price, hopefully temporarily.”

Under Hussein, rigid rules were the order of the day for the general public. Access to pornography, prostitution and drugs was reserved for the privileged few, and the consumption of alcohol was limited and state controlled.

Newspapers knew what they could publish, artists what they could paint. Television broadcasts were dominated by the dictator’s speeches and reports of his daily activities. The pro-regime indoctrination began at an early age.

“Children were faced with the system as soon as they joined kindergarten,” said Atia. “Even a 2-year-old was taught [to say] ‘Father Saddam.’ ”

Today, such requirements -- though defunct only a matter of months -- seem distant to the many Iraqis who have adopted a policy of “anything goes.” At a seedy cinema on a Baghdad thoroughfare, salacious advertisements for B-grade sex films plaster the notice boards and walls of the entryway. Some of the most blatant images have been blotted out but not enough to hide the explicit nature of the pitch.

Men and boys scurry sheepishly in and out past three security guards at the door.

In the past, such films would have been ferried directly from the port to the censor’s office at the Ministry of Information, a Hussein-era censor recalled. They would have arrived in a sealed box, accompanied by a security guard. A committee of censors would have decided whether the film could be shown. Scenes containing sex, violence and bad language were automatically cut out.

Restrictions on the importing of foreign films fell away after the regime’s collapse. But the pornography has infuriated many Iraqis, and some cinema operators have been vilified.

In some areas, religious and political groups have reportedly distributed leaflets warning theaters not to show movies with sexual content.

“There are some people who have translated freedom to mean promiscuity and the disrespect of values and norms,” said Sheik Riath Husain Taai, the imam at Baghdad’s Faraj Ali Saleh mosque. “This is very destructive.”

Atia said that such vices were spreading throughout society because many Iraqis were overwhelmed by the sudden avalanche of liberation, adding that this has also been reflected in a breakdown of civility and numerous long-lived inhibitions.

“The concept of freedom and democracy is new for Iraqi citizens. That’s why they are sometimes misunderstood,” the sociologist said.

“When you go to the streets, you see people selling things in the middle of the road. Cars drive on the wrong side and park in the wrong places. There is misbehavior, chaos.”

Random violence and other crimes have also become more common since the fall of the regime, whose brutal system kept such transgressions largely in check while its agents committed atrocities in the name of the state.

“Now we can say whatever we want, and we are happy with that,” said Sheik Yahya Matook, the Sunni Muslim imam at Baghdad’s Aaisha Haider mosque. “But we miss having security.”

For artists like Ahmed, the current relative lack of law and order is a small price to pay for creative freedom -- assuming that such disorder doesn’t last very long.

His paintings now portray memories of childhood hardship and repression, the conflict between good and evil and images of fields containing mass graves. His cousin was recently found buried in one.

“For artists, there is absolute freedom now,” Ahmed said. As if to underscore that, a huge, colorful mural portraying mythical scenes from the “Arabian Nights” and tales from the fabled city of Babylon was recently splashed across a long wall in downtown Baghdad.

Though seemingly inoffensive, no painter would have dared embark on such an undertaking in the past, simply out of fear, art students said.

Theater student Yahid Ibrahim Elayh, in his third year at the art academy, revels in the opportunity to direct plays that were once forbidden. He recently staged a production of the absurdist Samuel Beckett drama “Waiting for Godot” at a Baghdad theater.

“There are no censors now. I can say whatever I want to in my plays,” said Elayh, 27. “No one can deny me this right. It makes me feel so happy, I want to dance.”

Abdul Salam Samer shares this sentiment. He said the words in his stories now sing off the pages of the new biweekly newspaper Assaah, where he is editor in chief.

A journalist for 22 years, he used to work for Iraqi state media. His last job was war correspondent for Al Jumhuriya, a government newspaper. Even when Iraq’s military was being decimated, he had to report that it was winning.

There were only about a half dozen newspapers and magazines in the country, compared with more than 100 now.

“Now I choose whatever themes I like,” Samer said. “I never write anything unless I believe in it. Without freedom, there can be no honest information.”