Survival in the Place of Ravens
Stories of survival matter. Particularly in times of uncertainty and anxiety.
Fadhil Abbas was imprisoned in Abu Ghraib under Saddam Hussein’s Directorate of Security in 1986. That imprisonment and torture changed his life forever. For the better.
I was shamelessly eavesdropping on a conversation in the Vesterbro Library at the edge of Enghave Plads in the city of Copenhagen, Denmark. What caught my attention was the slow, precise Danish the older woman was using as she spoke to the man, seated, with a laptop, books and notebooks strewn all around him. What transpired in the next few minutes was a cross-cultural, cross-continental, intergenerational moment I will not soon forget.
“You must be writing something very difficult because you are sighing a lot,” she said. She was right. While I had not consciously heard the sighs, I had noticed, more than once, that the man was frequently rubbing his forehead and putting his head in his hand.
“I was a prisoner in Iraq under Saddam Hussein,” he told her. “I am trying to document what happened to me and to many others.” She nodded in understanding and told him that some Danes, especially those of her age, also experienced horror during the Nazi occupation of Denmark. He smiled, sincerely and broadly and replied, “Yes, but there is a written record of that. The tyranny and terror of Saddam Hussein has not been documented in detail.”
I was anxious to share what I had observed with my friends and family as the kindness of the interaction I had observed was in direct contrast to the stereotype of the elderly Dane. Many of them are xenophobes, my friends told me. Many older Danes dislike people who are not “rigtig Dansker”, some said.
As I prepared to leave, I scribbled my email address on a piece of paper and approached the table where the man was sitting. I told him I had been eavesdropping and had heard he was working on a book and that I would be happy to help in any way I could. I told him I felt his work was profound and very important. We made our introductions and the man I now know as my friend, Fadhil, asked me where I am from. I dropped my eyes to the floor and looked up sheepishly, “U.S.A.” I replied. Fadhil then grasped my hand and stared intently into my eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so very much. April 9, 2003 was the happiest day of my life thanks to American soldiers.”
I struggled to choke back tears in response to his sincerity. I have heard many comments about the war in Iraq but no one had ever thanked me nor had I expected them to do so. I had not fought in the war though I do know some who did and I remember all too well the U.S. armed services calling my students from the university where I taught (many in the Army and Naval reserves) to service in the months following September 11, 2001. While I now know the total number of deaths related to torture and murder in Abu Ghraib prison under Saddam Hussein is unknown and there are mass graves purported to contain the remains of over 1,000 Iraqis at Khan Dhari and Al-Zahedi, I did not know the details of the horrific experience of an Iraqi man imprisoned in his own country. I wanted to know more about what happened to Fadhil and what he wanted the soldiers who served in Iraq to know.
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Fadhil has since shared, in painful detail, his experience as a prisoner under the directorate of security for Saddam Hussein. Arrested and imprisoned in 1986 while a university student in the department of engineering on the cusp of graduation, Fadhil Abbas was tortured and starved for having written anti-Ba’ath party slogans on a wall at the university. Fadhil was born into a wealthy family and had led what he describes as a very good life but had grown increasingly concerned about the people of Iraq while a student of engineering in the 1980s.
Just a few days before graduation after having finished his last exam and having had his graduation photo taken, Fadhil and two of his friends slipped quietly into the department of engineering under the cover of darkness and painted their sentiment about Saddam Hussein and the Ba’ath party of Iraq on the walls. Fadhil says it took him quite some time to comprehend what he had done, how he could have been so naïve, how that one action destroyed his future and nearly destroyed his life.
Fadhil was placed in a cell with nothing but water and gravel on the floor, at times, chained to the ground and at other times, strung up to the ceiling and beaten for hours on end. As he tells me of these horrific experiences, he also tells me of the bird that he could hear singing every morning and how he would apologize to God for not being able to pray. I still marvel at his strength and his ability to have found beauty in while enduring unspeakable torment.
Recently, Fadhil has started to write about his experiences because he knew, in some way, that it was time to face the atrocities of his past. This task of writing is difficult, “more difficult than I expected,” he admits, but he does so for himself, because he feels his story is important for the Arab nations, for the broken Middle East, and for all of those who want to sleep at night. He feels this important part of history has not been well-enough recorded and he wants to describe how what happened to him changed his humanity. Fadhil says he is shocked to hear any man or woman say they do not fear death, as he knows they are lying. He told me about just two nights in Abu Ghraib and concludes by saying, “it was not death we were afraid of, but how it would come.”
“The imagination,” he tells me, “could never come up with such atrocities.” Yet Fadhil and his fellow prisoners fought for life each day and now, living in Denmark since 1997 with a wife and four children, Fadhil says he remains grateful for having survived his imprisonment. When I asked Fadhil if his encounter with the elderly Danish woman was typical of his experiences in Denmark, he smiles kindly, and shakes his head no.
“But I love this country!” he says emphatically. “And I love America.”
Fadhil’s encounter with the elderly Danish woman ended poignantly. She kissed Fadhil on the forehead as she left him. Still shamelessly eavesdropping, tears streaming down my face, I beamed about this remarkable moment of human kindness. I do not have experiences like this every day and I am happy to know Fadhil and hope to help him share more of his story, particularly with the soldiers he so very much wants to thank. As for Fadhil, every day of his life is poignant and he has an astounding appreciation for every aspect of his freedom. Nearly 30 years after his imprisonment, Fadhil remains grateful for life’s simple pleasures such as good food, good friends, and family and of great importance to Fadhil, laughter.
As a resident of Copenhagen, recently returned after 16 years, I see the intersection of countries and cultures, including the horrors some have experienced, in the faces on the street. I see a city that has grown and changed radically due to Danish innovation and progress as well as an influx of immigrants such as myself. What I am learning is not to assume that I understand the challenges other immigrants face and never to presume I understand the hearts and minds of Danes who have always been here. However, I can claim that I seldom hear of the kind gestures of elderly Danes who are watching their country change and grow in a myriad of ways. Let alone that they kiss us for it.
*Abu Ghraib prison is located 32 kilometers west of Bagdad and the English translation is Place of Ravens.
