We were told that 10 American soldiers died in roadside bombings and a helicopter crash on Memorial Day, making May the deadliest month of the year for U.S. troops in Iraq. And what of the civilians that call Iraq home?
In Iraq, every day Is Memorial Day, as the following excerpt from TIME conveys.
The Shi'ite militias that forced Azhour Ali Mohammed from her home in Baghdad's al-Dolai district last month shot her husband Amer dead before her eyes and torched all her worldly possessions. And the fear that the killers may come back for her and her two little children prevented her from mourning her husband. "I could not hold a proper wake for him," says the young widow. "He deserved at least that."
A society with as much experience of violence as Iraq learns to adapt its mourning traditions to its circumstances.
Up to half a million soldiers and civilians were killed in the war with Iran in the 1980s,
Hundreds of thousands were massacred on Saddam Hussein's orders in the 1990s
Tens of thousands have died in the Shi'ite-Sunni sectarian carnage in the past two years.
Under Sdadam, Iraqis developed a new custom: families in mourning painted notices on black banners — the name of the deceased, the manner of their death and the date and location of the wake — and posted them on street corners. The practice continued after Saddam's fall. Many of Baghdad's major intersections became festooned with black banners. The mounting death toll from suicide bombings and roadside explosions led to a boom in the funerary industry — coffin makers, grave diggers, caterers. Wakes were often held in mosques, and before sectarian hatreds flared up it was not uncommon for Sunnis to use Shi'ite mosques, or the other way around.
These days, mourning has itself become potentially deadly: Sunni suicide bombers have been known to target Shi'ite wakes, and Shi'ite militias have attacked Sunni funeral processions. So when Azhour went to collect her husband's body from Baghdad's central morgue, only her father and brother volunteered to go with her. They put Amer's body in a simple wooden coffin, strapped it onto the roof of the car and drove as quickly as possible to the nearest Sunni graveyard. "I was terrified that [Shi'ite militias] would see the coffin and stop us," she recalls. "And once they found out that we were Sunni, they would kill us as well."
[Excerpt of TIME article by Bobby Ghosh]
In Iraq, every day Is Memorial Day, as the following excerpt from TIME conveys.The Shi'ite militias that forced Azhour Ali Mohammed from her home in Baghdad's al-Dolai district last month shot her husband Amer dead before her eyes and torched all her worldly possessions. And the fear that the killers may come back for her and her two little children prevented her from mourning her husband. "I could not hold a proper wake for him," says the young widow. "He deserved at least that."
A society with as much experience of violence as Iraq learns to adapt its mourning traditions to its circumstances.
Up to half a million soldiers and civilians were killed in the war with Iran in the 1980s,
Hundreds of thousands were massacred on Saddam Hussein's orders in the 1990s
Tens of thousands have died in the Shi'ite-Sunni sectarian carnage in the past two years.
Under Sdadam, Iraqis developed a new custom: families in mourning painted notices on black banners — the name of the deceased, the manner of their death and the date and location of the wake — and posted them on street corners. The practice continued after Saddam's fall. Many of Baghdad's major intersections became festooned with black banners. The mounting death toll from suicide bombings and roadside explosions led to a boom in the funerary industry — coffin makers, grave diggers, caterers. Wakes were often held in mosques, and before sectarian hatreds flared up it was not uncommon for Sunnis to use Shi'ite mosques, or the other way around.
These days, mourning has itself become potentially deadly: Sunni suicide bombers have been known to target Shi'ite wakes, and Shi'ite militias have attacked Sunni funeral processions. So when Azhour went to collect her husband's body from Baghdad's central morgue, only her father and brother volunteered to go with her. They put Amer's body in a simple wooden coffin, strapped it onto the roof of the car and drove as quickly as possible to the nearest Sunni graveyard. "I was terrified that [Shi'ite militias] would see the coffin and stop us," she recalls. "And once they found out that we were Sunni, they would kill us as well."
[Excerpt of TIME article by Bobby Ghosh]
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