The new Iraqi administration is struggling to come to terms with the country's past as de-Baathification becomes re-Baathification, writes Karim El-Gawhary "They leave us standing outside in the sun for the whole day," shouts Mohamed, a red-faced primary school teacher, protecting his face from the broiling midday sun under a piece of yellow carton. A woman stands next to him furiously fanning herself with a similar piece of cardboard. At the gate of the heavily guarded green zone, which houses the American embassy as well as the new Iraqi government, several dozen teachers are fighting for their future. The people gathered here have one thing in common: within the framework of the de-Baathification policy introduced at the end of the US-led war on Iraq, all were fired from their public service jobs for being members of Saddam Hussein's former governing Baath Party. All of these people have been unemployed since last September, they say, and have had no income since then. They are now looking for absolution from the new Iraqi government. "We are not criminals," says the woman fanning herself, who introduces herself as the former director of the Academy of Art. Mithal Alusi is the man responsible for deciding if they are criminals or not. He is something of Iraq's own Gauck Commission and the head of the de-Baathification Committee. "We have to differentiate between those who had no other choice but to become members of the party, and the criminals," is how Alusi explains his task. More than 60,000 public service employees lost their jobs under Paul Bremer's post-war Iraq de-Baathification policy. Almost 35,000 applications for reinstatement have been submitted, 10,000 of which have been processed. One in five applications was rejected and most of the successful applicants have already returned to work. "It's true, Iraq was held hostage by the Baath Party, and most people had no choice but to join. Our job, however, is to root out those who don't want to see any change happening in the new Iraq," is how Alusi defines his mission. And there is no question of reinstating high- ranking Baathists. "These are the ones who just took whatever they wanted," he said. But according to the guidelines, those who were only responsible for writing reports are allowed to be reinstated, as long as they have no blood on their hands. Ironically, the reports they wrote may work against some of the applicants. In Saddam's regime every action was meticulously recorded, and some of the old security service files have been evaluated and computerised. "Each application for reinstatement in the public service now goes through the computer," explained Alusi proudly. His committee has few friends. For some, namely the offenders and their cronies, the de- Baathification criteria are too strict; for others, the victims of yesterday, they are not strict enough. Within the committee itself no secret is made of where sympathies lie: The slogan "Baath = Nazi" hangs on the wall of somebody's office, and in the corridors lie piles of posters depicting scenes from the mass graves, with people desperately searching for remains of their loved ones. "Never again" is the motto of the De- Baathification Committee. The committee is headed by Ahmad Chalabi. This is interesting because, although he headed one of the most important opposition groups to Saddam Hussein's regime from exile, he has now been sidelined by the Americans. His tarnished image in turn has damaged the reputation of the Iraq De-Baathification Committee. The new Iraq Prime Minister Iyad Allawi has his own idea of de-Baathification. He wants to offer many of the old party members amnesty and reintegrate them into the system. He would like nothing more than to abolish the committee in an effort to pacify Iraq. "But if we forget everything, then what type of fresh start will that be?" wonders Alusi. "If everybody is allowed to return, then the terror of the past few months has paid off," he says bitterly. He goes on to list a number of former high-ranking Baath officers who are already ensconced high up in the new government, like Alawi's secretary Razem Al- Awadi, or the police chief of the western Anbar region, Jaadan Duleimi, not to mention the Iraqi secret service agents dealing with Iran and Syria who were to be recruited as informers by Western secret service agencies after the war. "Of course, we wish Alawi success, but if he closes his eyes to the past, he'll never have success," is how Alusi sees the situation. Down the corridor, behind the second door on the left, Abdel-Aziz Al-Wandawi is faced with that very past -- in the shape of scraps of paper, forms and old secret service files stuffed into dozens of bags which lie on the floor of the corridor facing the door. "This is an archaeological dig," he jokes, retreating into his office. The past and future of the teachers currently protesting in front of the gate, as well as other former public service employees, lie side-by-side on his desk, neatly separated. To his right, the in-tray full of applications in which the candidates are required to condemn the Baath Party in writing and detail their history: ranking within the organisation, income earned through the party and confirmation that any weapons which they received have been surrendered. On the left are two piles: one with the applications for reintegration, and the other -- somewhat smaller pile -- containing applications which have been rejected or require further investigation. Anybody providing incorrect information will not only definitely lose their job, but will also be taken to court. This, says Al-Wandawi, is the bureaucratic alternative to victims taking the law into their own hands. Whenever the official de-Baathification runs into difficulties, the death toll on the streets rises with old scores being settled in the classic fashion. Like a few weeks ago when the rumour started that the authority was to be closed and 17 former Baathists were killed in less than a day. Al-Wandawi manages to process in the region of 100 files per day. He is not particularly sympathetic towards the cause of the teachers gathered in front of the gate. "The people are impatient because they haven't worked for 10 months. But what about those who weren't permitted to work for 10 years under Saddam Hussein, or were put in prison?" he asks angrily. And he is speaking from experience: he used to be the head of the Iraqi civil aviation authority and later chief engineer with Iraqi Airways with responsibility for all airports, and he lost his job in 1991, apparently, for insufficient loyalty to the regime. He realised he would have to come to terms with his past when a particular file landed on his desk. It belonged to none other than his successor at Iraqi Airways. "I left the file, untouched, on my desk for two days," he said. "I wanted to cool down first," he recalls. But he finally approved the reinstatement of his former rival. "He rang me later to thank me and I told never to get in touch with me again." He defends the decision he made -- an obviously difficult one: "He was an opportunist, but not a criminal Baathist." He was later given the file of a man who had allegedly threatened both himself and his son. He, too, was reinstated. "It's not like in Saddam's time, when the guilty had to prove their innocence; today we have to prove they're guilty." Al-Wandawi has centralised the entire process. He himself deals with every application because, he says, he is worried that other colleagues will fail to remain impartial. Many are also victims of the former regime, each with a painful past of their own. And to prove a point, he calls in his colleague from the office next door, a former pilot. He rolls up his jeans to reveal deep scars on his thigh, a souvenir of the torture he received while in prison under Saddam's rule. A few days ago, somebody on the street spat into his face, says Al-Wandawi, apparently for being too lax with the Baathists. This is the other side of the coin. Al-Wandawi, meanwhile, has every reason to seek revenge. His brother spent more than five years in one of Saddam's penitentiaries; he was a paraplegic when he was released and died soon after. "He was 10 years younger than me," he said. Al-Wandawi pauses to look at the mound of paperwork on his desk. "It's my job to bring the Baathists back to work, but who will help their victims?" he asked. "It's a personal agony", he says. Then he points to his boss: "You see? Not a single grey hair on his head. I have to keep my emotions out of things and work like a machine," he says, "to make sure the Baathists are allowed to return to their jobs." Reconciliation, revenge, contempt for opportunists: all the emotions connected with the new Iraq have landed on Al-Wandani's desk. Between the in-tray and the out-tray a single man is fighting to make the right decisions. In his job there is no room for dealing with Iraq's bloody history, the most he can do is call people to account. But he is plagued by the feeling that he lets the wrong ones slip through. Although not for good, he believes. "Because at the end of the day," he muses, pointing upwards, "our past has only one judge."
