A/N: A side story and change in POV to showcase how our Saddams policies have begun affecting the populace.
August 1979 - Basra
"Hasan are you not coming to watch the match?"
"No brother, I have to go mind the shop. My dad and uncle have some suppliers to meet," relied the youth called Hasan with a sour expression on his face.
"Aiii, you'll miss us thrash those bloody Baghdadis....but I guess you dont want to see them thrashed do you college boy?" replied the other youth Ahmed laughing raucously.
"Shut up!" snapped Hasan but the grin on his face belied his words.
He was very sour about missing the match though. The Editor of the newspaper had somehow procured ten tickets and had offered to take all the office's men to the game. Hasan had been looking forward to the game for months until his father had shattered his dream last minute by announcing that he would have to look after their family's grocery shop that evening.
"I'm here," he announced dully pushing aside the partition that separated the front of the shop from the punters. His uncle said a hasty 'hello' as he stocked the shelves while his father simply grunted as he continued working with the calculator.
Later that evening as the sun began to set and he was propped up against the storefront people watching idly his thoughts became more and more negative exacerbated by the lack of customers.
'Could've just shut shop for one night,' he thought angrily.
Hasan was frustrated and depressed although he didnt know that he suffered from the latter. A 24 year old civil engineering graduate from the University of Baghdad, minding a grocery store would have been inconceivable to him just five years previously.
He had left for Baghdad with his and his familys hopes lying on his shoulders. He had always been a bright student, he even picked up decent English by attending after school tuitions. The world beckoned. And yet after struggling through four years of stresses, strains and shears he had nothing to show for it. There just weren't any jobs especially not for a Shia from a nondescript background. He struggled for months to land an engineering job anywhere in the country with no luck and so he returned, cynical and ashamed.
In Basra, there was no time to wallow. His father, gruff and business like that he was didnt castigate his son nor did he comfort him. He simply demanded that the boy either get a job or help out with the family shop.
Hasan had no intention of being a shopkeeper. Engineer or not he was an intellectual and he would do an intellectual job or not at all.
He eventually landed an underpaying job as a journalist with a new newspaper in the city, the Basra Post. It was a team of relatively young men and a few women who were passionate about their country and wanted change. He had never been particularly political earlier but it was hard not to be infected with the aura of his new colleagues.
And so he threw himself into his work. They wrote about the garbage in the streets, the corrupt police and officials, the midnight disappearances, the subjugation of the Shias and Communists. Hasan felt useful for the first time in a long time. He started participating in protests and marches to the dismay of his family who wanted him to focus on earning a livelihood and not risk the wrath of the Ba'athists. But he didnt listen, he thought he had found a purpose and a woman...Ayesha, an open-haired, jeans wearing, cigarette smoking wild child who worked with him and with whom he was smitten.
September 1979 - Basra
"He's finally done it. Hes finally gone too far!" crowed the Editor victoriously in the Monday morning meeting.
"Who's done what Hussein?" asked Ahmed yawning.
"Saddam. Saddam went and signed an oil deal with the Americans. Hes allowing them to set up a military base right here, outside Basra!"
They were all instantly awake then. They couldn't believe what they were hearing. Despite the revolutionary nature of their newspaper, they had a little bit of journalistic integrity.
"What's your source?" Ayesha asked suspiciously. It was earth shattering news...unbelieveable news.
"The Americans...they're bloody announcing it on all their news channels. About how it's such a great deal!" the Editor said loudly with a twisted grin. They couldn't doubt it after that. He was the only one in that group with a TV and probably one of the few in the city with global channel access.
They made a hundred plans that day. They were certain there would be mass unrest, not just in Basra but in Baghdad and Tikrit and Kirkuk and Erbil. A chance for all communities to rid themselves of the disease called Saddam.
They waited and waited for the protests to start. But day after day the wait was futile.
"What the fuck is happening! Why aren't the leaders giving us the go ahead?" Ayesha asked frustratedly one day. Hasan loved her passion.
"I spoke to Masood Pasha. I told him we were ready to take to the streets," said the Editor sounding tired. "He told me that under no circumstances were we to protest as it wasnt the right time."
"Well fuck him then. I'll speak to Secretary Bassam," replied Ayesha referring to the leader of the Communists in Southern Iraq. "The Communists will lead this revolution like always."
But that never happened. And Hasan kept being pulled into shopkeeper duty feeling more and more frustrated each day.
One evening, his father asked him to join him for a coffee after dinner. They had halted that particular tradition a long time ago as the distance between father and son grew day by day.
Hasan sipped his coffee awkwardly as he sat beside his father on the terrace of their house.
His father placed a loose sheet of paper on the small table between them.
"What's this?" Hasan asked picking up the paper.
"Have a look."
Hasan read the leaflet which was written in Arabic. In it, the Basra Port Development Authority invited English speaking individuals above the age of 18 to interview for a position of official translator at the Port which would soon begin redevelopment and expansion. The Port was less than an hour by road south of the city.
"You want me to apply?" Hasan asked incredulously. "You want me to work for Americans."
His father looked him in the eyes then. Hasan didnt remember making eye contact with his father in years.
"American this, Shia that, Communist...these identities that you prattle on about are for useless people son," his father said firmly but softly. "The only thing that matters is ensuring your survival and the survival of the people who depend on you."
"Baba...the Ayatollah himself calls America the Great Satan..."
His father shook his head, "Son the Ayatollah and his ilk dont need to work to ensure their familys survival. They have the gift of charisma so foolish men with stars in their eyes pay just to hear them speak. The rest of us dont have that luxury."
"Baba..."
"Son the only enemy is deprivation."
Hasan grew desperate, "Baba, think about what people will say if your son works for Americans!"
Again his father shook his head, "Son. I have lived longer than you. I am telling you that people are selfish and hypocritical. They will criticize you and then the next day go and do the exact thing they criticized you for. Never give credence to what people say. Always look out for yourself and your dependents."
Hasan was tongue tied. He felt like revolting but this quiet gruff man had financed his studies and not criticized him once when he returned home empty handed nor when he started working at a newspaper.
"Baba..."
"Son...I have never asked you to do what I say, but please this one time...for me...just go and interview."
And that was that.