Anniversaries of wars are difficult moments to commemorate. Journalists and analysts pore over what has happened since the war began, diplomats and politicians reflect on how it bolstered or hurt their careers, and historians begin to consider when the right moment would come up to write a book chronicling it.
This month, marking the 20-year anniversary of the 2003 war in Iraq, much is being written and said: how the war changed Iraq, how it impacted the United States’ place in the world, and how it led to an undermining of the international order. It is also a moment to laud some of the few but important successes of the country, such as the political pluralism that has developed there and Iraq’s global opening after years of sanctions and war made it largely off-limits.
Yet, the anniversary is also one of personal contemplation for millions of Iraqis who lived through the war and its aftermath—inside the country and abroad. Of course, for more than half of Iraq’s current population, who were babies when the war began or were born after 2003, the anniversary is merely one more part of the very complicated history of their country and they don’t pause to reflect on it for too long. For the rest of us, it’s impossible to avoid.
Iraqis like me who escaped the horrors of the 2003 war often suffer from guilt. In part because some of us were so desperate to end our exile, to break the hold of then-leader Saddam Hussein’s regime on Iraq, that the war seemed like the least of many bad options. And in part because we also suffered from the trauma of the war: fearing for loved ones and the country, suffering exile and longing for home, and being unable to attend funerals of family members and friends—and thus never really processing our grief.
Yet what we endured pales in comparison to those who lived through the war. After all, what right does someone—who lived in safety, had access to great health care, and could speak their mind however they wished—have to speak of the pain of war? A psychological pain, grief, and nostalgia for a time that would never come—that cannot be compared to the pain suffered by those who stayed in the country.
I first heard the term “survivor’s guilt” in 2015, when a friend observed my emotional unraveling over news of the Islamic State wreaking havoc in Iraq emerged, as Iraq’s second city Mosul—and my father’s hometown—was abandoned by the Iraqi army in 2014 in the face of psychopathic extremists and as a renewed cycle of destruction was unleashed on the country.
Worry and anxiety about Iraq had always been part and parcel of my existence—I was born in 1980, the year the Iran-Iraq War broke out, and some of my earliest memories were of my sister and me huddling with my mother when the “battle of cities” meant civilians were directly targeted in aerial bombardment. In 1990, when Saddam criminally invaded Kuwait, my father—a diplomat representing Iraq at the time—took a stance against the invasion. Almost overnight, we went from being a diplomatic family to a refugee one. Each turning point in my life has been dictated by political decisions. Yet, as an Iraqi, I am in no way unique and—by many measures—quite lucky.
But in 2015, my ability to process news of Iraq as part of my job and follow every detail of Iraqi politics out of loyalty to my family and loved ones still in the country—many of whom lived in Mosul under the Islamic State’s reign of terror and with no government presence—broke down. Survivor’s guilt explained how I felt. The guilt is both for surviving and thriving in my existence outside the country, one shared by many Iraqis I know around the world, but also feeling compelled to still be a part of it.
A younger Iraqi friend recently told me: “I feel lucky that I didn’t take a position on the war.” I was surprised that he hadn’t since he is quite vocal on the political situation now, so I asked, “How could you have not taken a position?” He smiled, replying, “I was a child.” The passage of time came as a jolt, even though I am acutely aware of the fact that 20 years have passed since the war. But it is the realization that those who matter, who are coming of age now or are ready to enter positions of influence in the country, had no opinion or choice on the war. Yet, they are the ones left with the burden of carving a better future.
Their predicament is a reminder that, when counting the losses of the war, there is one casualty that is too often forgotten: opportunity.
The anniversary of the 2003 war isn’t just about taking stock of what happened during the war and its immediate aftermath. It is also about taking stock of the lost hopes and broken dreams that followed.
In 2003, those in charge had a rare opportunity to rewrite Iraq’s story. Had a system of good governance, rooted in the rule of law and public service among politicians, been put in place, even with some flaws, Iraq could have risen up to be a leading economic and cultural regional powerhouse. Certainly, a number of Iraq’s neighbors, such as Syria and Iran, would not have stood back and allowed it to happen. But without Iraqi politicians bickering among themselves over personal gain and without others willing to act as proxies for other countries or causes, Iraq would not have suffered as it did.
Some would say it is naive to believe that the aftermath of the 2003 war could have ever led to a more peaceful, prosperous future. But the removal of Saddam’s dictatorship did not necessitate the dismantlement of state institutions, the blanket dismissal of security forces, the looting of army depots, and the occupation that refused to take any responsibility for the civilian population.
There was a misguided American view that Iraqis did not have much that bound them together and that their communal identities would take precedence over a national identity, leading to a number of disastrous policies. U.S. officials and Iraqi opposition leaders from abroad promoted sectarian and ethnic divisions as a way to rule a country based on a rich fabric of interwoven communities. Policy decisions translated into the destruction of lives. And without all those counterproductive decisions that were systematically made after the war, the picture in Iraq would undoubtedly be very different.
This week, I attended a roundtable discussion with Iraqi Prime Minister Mohammed Shia al-Sudani. He is Iraq’s seventh prime minister since Iraq got its sovereignty back in mid-2004—all remain alive and left office through a peaceful transition of power, which is a significant achievement, even if how they came to office raises questions about a deeply flawed political system.
I asked Sudani what his greatest challenge is, five months into the job, and he responded without hesitation that it’s “regaining the trust and confidence of the people. … They have completely lost faith in the political class.” No truer words have been uttered by an Iraqi politician. Dwindling voter turnout—36 percent of all eligible voters in the 2021 elections—reflects a general disenchantment with a political system that is plagued by corruption and kleptocracy.
There are also moments to remember and laud, such as when Iraqis were able to vote freely for the first time in 2005, when Iraqi forces liberated cities under Islamic State control, when Iraqis showed one another kindness during times of hardship—and even when Iraq won the AFC Asian Cup in 2007. When the pope visited Baghdad, Ur, Najaf, Mosul, and Erbil in 2021—an overwhelming sense of joy was matched by tears for the potential of unity that binds Iraqis. That potential, and its loss, is ever present.
Iraq’s politicians regaining their people’s trust is a tall order, but it is the only way that Iraq can start a new chapter. Politicians need to show that they are public servants—serving the Iraqi people and state rather than using their votes to get into positions of power and influence to enrich themselves and their patronage networks. That means protecting state funds from endemic corruption and using them to allow Iraq to flourish.
Establishing a sovereign wealth fund like those of Iraq’s neighbors, creating jobs by allowing the private sector to thrive, and curbing the dangerous militias that have seeped into state institutions are among the steps needed to bolster the Iraqi state and allow politicians to regain people’s trust.
With Iraq’s young population, abundant natural resources, rich history, and tourism potential, the country is ripe for success. Yet another opportunity will be lost if those in power refuse to heed the calls of protesters who shook the political system in 2019 under the slogan: “We want a homeland.” This postwar generation wants to live under the umbrella of a united Iraq, free of regional interference and armed groups in all their forms.
