One Iraqi's collateral damage

Ahlam Al-Jabouri did fearless humanitarian work under the U.S. Army in Iraq -- but when her life was torn apart by sectarian hatred, U.S. authorities were MIA.

By Marc Perelman

Read more: Refugees, Politics, News, Iraq, Baghdad

Photo: Marc Perelman

Ahlam Ahmed Mahmoud al Al-Jabouri in her apartment in Damascus, spring 2007.

June 11, 2007 | DAMASCUS, Syria -- The tragic abandonment of many Iraqi translators, drivers and security guards working for the U.S. war effort has been widely documented for some time now. Human rights groups and some American politicians are urging the Bush administration to do more to protect and shelter Iraqis who face deadly reprisal. But Iraqis on the front lines of the war are not the only ones whose lives have been shattered after working under U.S. authorities to help rebuild their country.

Ahlam Ahmed Mahmoud al Al-Jabouri, a 42-year-old mother of three, belongs to another category of imperiled citizens-turned-refugees whom no one seems to care about. She is among thousands of Iraqis who have worked in seemingly less exposed positions for the U.S. and Iraqi authorities, carrying out administrative tasks, rendering basic services or, as in Ahlam's case, doling out crucial humanitarian aid to the people of her country. But even delivering help to the poor, the handicapped and the displaced did not spare Ahlam from being labeled a traitor by some of her fellow Sunnis. In the past two years, Ahlam has been kidnapped and tortured, was forced to flee Iraq, and lost one of her teenage sons under dubious circumstances. Although she was officially recognized for her exemplary humanitarian work by the U.S. Army more than two years ago, U.S. authorities have done little to help her, and her struggle to find safe haven continues today.

Ahlam's ordeal casts light on the depth of the resentment among Iraqis in general, and Sunnis in particular, over the U.S. invasion of Iraq and the resulting sectarian conflict that has engulfed their country in the past two years. The fact that a respected aid worker like Ahlam has faced brutal reprisal speaks volumes about the fractured state of Iraqi society.

Nowadays, Ahlam lives with her family in a drab three-story building off "Iraqi Street," the new name of the main thoroughfare of Said Azainab, a destitute neighborhood of Damascus overflowing with tens of thousands of Iraqi refugees. This capital city has lured the vast majority of the more than 1.2 million Iraqis who have fled to Syria. An additional estimated 1 million Iraqis eke out a living in neighboring countries, mostly in Jordan, while 2 million Iraqis are displaced within their own country. The Iraq war has caused the most significant population displacement in the region since the Arab-Israeli conflict of 1948, according to the United Nations.

On a recent spring day, Ahlam saw her son and her daughter off to school, kissing them goodbye and hurrying them through the door of their small flat. Wearing a dark gray overcoat over a traditional black head scarf, she then settled on a couch and began telling her story in a calm voice and neutral tone. But as she delved into her recent past, recounting her daily struggles and pondering an uncertain future, her voice began to trail off, her pitch-brown eyes welling up, her hands nervously twisting her handkerchief.

Before fleeing to Syria two years ago, Ahlam worked for the Al-Khadimiya General Information Center in Baghdad, one of several civil-military structures set up by the U.S. Army to assist Iraqis shortly after the March 2003 invasion. She was in charge of overseeing assistance to rural areas near Baghdad, especially the provision of medical treatment to orphans and financial compensation to civilians caused harm by the U.S. military. She soon began receiving anonymous threats. In December 2003, she found a flier claiming she was an American spy. Fearing for her family's safety, she decided to move to Syria in February 2004. But after two of her brothers still in Iraq convinced her that her exile had tarnished the reputation of their Sunni tribe, the Al Jabouri, she left her immediate family members in Syria and returned to Iraq to resume doing relief work.

By then, sectarian violence was becoming a fixture of daily life in Iraq -- and as a Sunni tending to mostly Shiite areas, Ahlam's courage and dedication were highly valued by locals and U.S. authorities alike. In a letter of commendation from April 20, 2005, Daniel J. Barzyk, a U.S. civil military officer under whose supervision Ahlam worked in Baghdad, praised her "impeccable" interpersonal skills and her "outstanding" attention to detail. He wrote that she has "repeatedly shown her concern for the people of Khadimiya and all of Baghdad by requesting additional support for the poor and the disadvantaged. She truly desires to help others with no intent to advantage for herself." Barzyk recommended that she be nominated an "Ambassador for Hope" and travel to the United States to draw attention to the mounting humanitarian needs of the Khadimiya area.

But Ahlam didn't go to the United States, and her family became more deeply entangled in the unending cycle of Iraqi tit-for-tat violence.

On July 3, 2005, still recovering from recent surgery she'd had, Ahlam was leaving her home for work when several cars pulled in front of her. The assailants grabbed her, yanked her into the trunk of a vehicle and drove for several hours before locking her in a room, where she was blindfolded and tied to a chair. They kept her there for five days, Ahlam said, during which time she was beaten and interrogated about the location of American troops, translators and contractors working for the United States.

"They told me they were after me because of what I was doing and warned that they would kill me," she said, adding that she suspected her assailants were likely linked to al-Qaida based on their clothing, their foreign accents, and what her family told her after she was released.

Next page: A plea from a U.S. Army officer; the mysterious death of Ahlam's 12-year-old son