When Ahmad Khidr’s wife, Nadia, was close to her pregnancy’s full term, the Shia grocer drove her to a friend’s house each evening before the curfew began.
“We were terrified she would go into labour during the night,” said Ahmad (23). “I did not want to risk taking her to a hospital at night. But there was a midwife living in the house opposite my friend’s house. I would pick her up in the morning and take her home. And in the end the baby did come during the night.”
Ahmad and Nadia were sitting playing with Mahdi, now six months old. “It is a headache for everyone having a child. Some people spend two or three nights at the hospital waiting for the baby to be born. But then it is very expensive. It can cost them $500 in fees even before the mother goes into labour. I am a poor man. I could not afford that. I even had to borrow money for the midwife’s fees, so I needed to be sure she was close to a midwife.”
It is a familiar story in a city where many of Ahmad and Nadia’s friends have put off marriage — and having children — because of the escalating bloodshed. Nadia (24) who trained as a schoolteacher but has not taken a job because of the risks posed by the war to women professionals, rarely leaves home. “I don’t go out. Ahmad does the shopping and runs errands for me. I am too frightened for myself and for my child. Even then I am frightened when Ahmad goes out to work.”
More frightening still is the question that Mahdi’s very existence poses for the couple. “Now that I have a child … I feel confused and frightened,” admitted Ahmad. “What is the boy’s future going to be? I know a lot of people who have postponed trying for a child because of the situation in Iraq. Some of our friends have even put off getting married.”
The problems of childbirth and early infancy in Iraq are not restricted by class, education or sectarian boundaries.
Ammar Hadi is a 30-year-old Sunni communications engineer who lives in the once pleasant neighbourhood of Zayouna. His daughter, Amani, was born on January 4 and his son, Abdullah, the year before the United States invasion of Iraq. “I am grateful that I have a son and daughter. I really am. But I feel that my children’s destiny is entirely unknown.’
Ammar’s fears were the same as Ahmad’s: that his wife would go into labour during the curfew and be trapped at home or that they would be forced to risk driving through the dark streets dodging jumpy US patrols. “My real dread was that my wife, Alaa, would go into labour at night. Her family comes from Mosul so we decided it was better to go there to have the baby.”
Many of Baghdad’s Sunnis are fearful to go to hospitals that are often Shia controlled. Ammar said that as a Sunni he felt safer in Mosul. “It is a dangerous journey, but I felt safer her being in hospital there because we are Sunnis. Going to hospital here, you feel like a sitting duck.
“My main worry now is that there are not many physicians left inside the country should something go wrong.”
Ammar had considered fleeing abroad — perhaps to the United Kingdom where he was once sent by his company — and the birth of Amani has made him think about it again. “When I saw my daughter born, it made me think about it much more deeply. I probably could leave. The question is, could we settle anywhere else?”
It has also occurred to Ahmad, who had been thinking of fleeing to Jordan. But the birth of his son has had the opposite effect. “We did think about trying to seek asylum in Europe but having a baby has made us think. What language will he speak? I am worried about what kind of culture he would grow up in, so we have decided to stay.”
But if having a baby in Baghdad is hard, it is most difficult for those with the least resources, such as Mohammed Mahmoud. In better times the 30-year-old shined shoes in the Karrada neighbourhood. But the violence put an end to that 12 months ago. Now he survives on his wits, by his food ration and when times are really hard and his six-month-old son Hussein needs medicine, by selling some of his ration to raise cash.
“I am a supposed to receive a ration. But, for instance, we have not had flour for four months. I was a shoe polisher, now I’m unemployed living in the same house as my two sisters and their families. If I could take Hussein and my other child abroad, away from the violence, I would not hesitate. But only those with money can afford to leave. All I want for my son is a stable life when he grows up. For now, life is tasting really bitter.”
The sound of a machine gun in the distance punctuates his comments. “It is difficult to get milk these days or to raise the money to find a doctor, if Hussein gets sick.
“My thought is that anyone who is thinking of having a child in Baghdad these days should not. It is not right.” – Guardian Unlimited Â