The Americans claim attacks on their troops in Iraq are perpetrated by rogue officers from the old regime. But there are other causes, writes Graham Usher from Faluja "Try the blue door," said the boy, chewing gum, a bike tucked between his legs. "One of the martyrs lived there." We are standing outside Qa'id (The Leader) Girls School in Faluja, a dry desert town 70 kilometres west of Baghdad resting on the grasslands of the Euphrates. On 28 April several hundred residents staged a march protesting the American army's occupation of the school. In this staunchly Sunni, conservative town, the locals didn't like the idea of US troops scanning the interiors of their homes through binoculars and crosshairs. The army suspected the demonstration might be a provocation by Iraqis still loyal to Saddam Hussein's regime. Either out of jumpiness or because they were shot at, soldiers on the school roof fired on the crowd. Fifteen Iraqis were killed and 75 wounded. The "liberation" had turned sour. For Iraqis in Faluja the Americans started to feel, act and look like occupiers. The blue door fronts a mud-colored house opposite the school. There are seven bullet marks seared into the metal. The home belongs to Wasama Al- Salah, a 33-year-old taxi driver. He looks older than his years: his hair is thin and his shoulders sag beneath a blousy jalabiya. He smiles as he waves us into his living room but there is not much in his eyes. The "martyr" was his 40-year-old brother and father of two, Walid. A second brother, Musama, lives next door. His parents own the third house in the row. "This is what happened to us" on the day of the protest, he says. "Once I heard the demonstrators chanting I stayed in my home and locked all the doors. I told my brother to do the same. As the crowd moved closer to the school the soldiers started firing. That's when the first people were killed. The people tried to escape through my brother's house. My brother opened the door and was shot in the leg. I heard his wife and children crying. I tried to help him. So did Walid. He was shot dead immediately." Wasama hauled his brothers to the garage and tried to drive to the hospital. His car was hit with 72 American bullets. "I was wounded twice in the head and rolled out onto the road. Even when I was lying in the middle of the street the Americans were still shooting at me. I stood up and got shot in the back. I felt the bullet explode inside me. I crawled through a broken wall to the road at the back of my house. That's where the ambulances were. The Americans prevented them from reaching the front." He tallies the toll to his family from that day: "A brother was martyred; another brother lost his leg; my mother was wounded in the shoulder; my sister- in-law was hit twice in the legs; and my car -- my livelihood -- was destroyed. That's what the Americans have brought to us." They have brought him more since. While Wasama was in hospital the army threw barbed wire around the blue gate and searched his house, looking for weapons. They found none. But they wrecked his home. Last week US soldiers shot dead Wasama's 28-year-old cousin. He was killed opening a door when soldiers raided his home. "You can't imagine how I felt. My cousin was my best friend. I haven't slept three hours since then." With a weary hand he waves aside talk of restitution. "The human rights organisations have investigated my case. The Americans admitted they did wrong. They were supposed to give me compensation, at least for my taxi. But the Americans offered me nothing. After my cousin was killed an American officer came to say sorry," he shrugs. Since the killings at the school over 40 American soldiers have been killed in armed ambushes in Iraq. In Faluja there are now anywhere between four and eight attacks a week on US patrols and positions. The Americans say those behind them are disaffected army officers from the former regime. Iraqis say only some of the "resistance" can be explained like this. Much is vengeance pure and simple, born of the killing of innocent Iraqi civilians or the aggressive army arrests, searches and patrols that are now a routine part of American rule here. Wasama has little time for resistance. He is trying to put back together the wreckage of his life. He has 50 pieces of shrapnel peppered throughout his body. He suffers from the shakes and feels pain every time he sits down. His psychological state is "zero", he says. "I cannot work but I need money to feed my family. I have to pay for at least two more hospital operations. I receive money from my tribe but..." he pinches his lips awkwardly. "I used to be the one who gave out money. I used to be the strongest man in my family. People respected my strength. Now look at me. I'm weak." There is no culture of martyrdom in Iraq. There is a culture of revenge. It is etched deep into the mindset of tribal cities like Faluja and was massively reinforced during the 23 years of Saddam Hussein's brutal policies of divide and rule. Given what has happened to him, does Wasama believe vengeance is now his? He pauses for the longest time before he answers. "I don't think about revenge. I think about feeding my family. To sacrifice myself would be to sacrifice 23 members of my family. No, I will not lose my mind over what happened to me."
