1.’You’ve Had Four Years to Prepare’
A week and a half prior to voting, I attended an event organised by the Imperial College Iraqi Society entitled â€کWhy should I vote for you’. One half of the event was structured like the BBC’s Question Time. Representatives from several of the Iraqi political coalitions were present and the debate that ensued, though heated at times, was lively and informative. One could even be seduced into thinking, that the firm steps Iraq has taken towards democracy, are now irreversible. However, the other half of the event undermined this assumption. We were addressed by a representative from The Independent High Electoral Commission (IHEC) sent to organise the election in the UK.

He spent most of the evening doodling on a piece of paper like a despondent teenager who had been forced by his parents to attend an event against his will. He spoke in a barely audible voice and rarely if ever looked directly at the audience. His presentation was short and uninformative. The IHEC representative failed to mention where the election was going to take place until a member of the audience asked him about it. He told us that there would be â€کtwo centres’ in Wembley, both in the same building and others in Birmingham and Manchester. When asked why the election was not being held in multiple centres to cater for the needs of the large Iraqi community in London, he mumbled something about inadequate time and budget to prepare for the election without offering a reason for that inadequacy. He went on to say that in order to vote, members of the expatriate community would have to present documents proving to which district in Iraq they belong. Very quickly it was pointed out to him that many Iraqis have no such documents for a variety of reasons amongst them: leaving those documents behind in Iraq when they fled the country or for the younger generation, being born in exile. His answer was: â€کwell you all had four years to get your papers in order’. At this point a man in the audience shouted: â€کyou’ve had four years to organise a decent election and you failed, how dare you lay the blame at our door?!’ The moderator told the man to be quiet and IHEC representative continued his relentless doodling.

2. â€کDon’t Expect to Vote in a 5-Star Hotel’

The queue to enter the voting centre in Wembley was disheartening to look at. It was the kind of queue one associates with the ex-communist countries: long and seemingly immovable. I joined an Iraqi poet friend I had arranged to meet there. We tried as best we could to warm ourselves with conversation and by hopping on the spot. Despite the sunshine, the temperature was close to freezing and it was clear that few of the people in the queue had prepared themselves adequately for the long wait. I suspected that many of them had also voted, as I did, in 2005. In that election things were very different. Voting was held at a larger centre, capable of accommodating London’s sizeable Iraqi population and the whole process of registration and voting (sensibly held on two separate days) was efficient and quick. There was also more of a noticeable jubilant atmosphere in 2005. I remember a group of young Kurds dancing in a big circle outside the voting centre, their drum beats and songs could be heard from a distance. This year, although many of them turned out in their colourful clothes and waved their Kurdish flags proudly, they were certainly more subdued. The sense of celebration was gone, perhaps as a result of disappointment with their politicians.

After two hours of shuffling forward at a snail’s pace, my poet friend decided that he could no longer endure the freezing cold. He was not alone. Many Iraqis, particularly the elderly, were beginning to give up and turn around. After the poet left, it took another hour to reach the front gate where people were allowed in one at a time. I was asked to join yet another long queue outside the front door of the voting centre.

Finally I entered the building and was ushered into a small hall. I looked around and wondered why such an inadequate space was chosen as the venue for this important event. Was it for lack of funds or did the Iraqi government allocate adequate sums but somehow the money found itself in the pockets of corrupt officials? I recalled a circulating email I had received which contained the resignation letter of the election organiser in Manchester. His letter was addressed to the IHEC representative so very fond of doodling. Amongst the many reasons for resigning that were outlined in the letter was the following point: â€کit is shameful to select a building [in Manchester] that has been abandoned for years and for the task of renovating it to fall on our shoulders....When I asked you for a budget to clean the place your reply was â€کdon’t expect to vote in a five star hotel’’. He goes on to write that some of his co-workers found three alterative locations for voting but they were all rejected by the IHEC for unknown reasons.

3. â€کI’m Doing You a Favour’

Several registration desks were lined up along the length of the hall. I was guided to one of them by an usher. The lady sitting behind it was middle-aged and wore a hijab wound tightly around her egg-shaped head.

I handed her my Iraqi passport and ID, both containing the same photo of me as a six or seven year-old child, taken in the late 1970s before Iraq entered its long decades of war. As was the case for many Iraqis, my family and I left the country because of Saddam Hussein’s murderous regime. We had to endure exile, going from country to country and always struggling with officials over matters of visas and residency status, a wearisome battle that is only too familiar to millions of Iraqis. Our passports expired but we kept them in the hope that one day we would return. When the dictator was deposed, we were elated. But it was a short-lived euphoria and conditions in Iraq soon grew more dangerous than ever before. This voting process represented, for me at least, a vital link with the Iraq that I have been repeatedly denied.

â€کSorry this passport is category K. We no longer recognise K’, the lady said before noticing the ID card. â€کThis will do. Oh, wait it says you were born in Prague. Do you have any proof to which district you belong in Iraq?’

â€کYes, just look at the back of the ID. It was issued in Karada Al-Sharqya, that’s where we used to live in Baghdad’.

â€کSorry that’s not good enough’.

â€کWhat are you talking about, I voted in the last election with these very same documents?’

She called out a man’s name. A short, balding election officer rushed over to the desk. He leafed through my documents and asked:

â€کDon’t you have anything that proves you were born in Baghdad?’

â€کLook, I was born in Prague. My parents met and married in Prague. But they are both Iraqis, both born in Baghdad’.

He said in the tone of someone for whom the matter is now closed: â€کSorry, we need something to prove you are Iraqi’.

That’s when I exploded. â€کWhat the hell are these documents then? Here, look at my Iraqi passport, look at it! Look at the ID card, issued clearly and with no ambiguity in Baghdad. Why am I being punished for being born somewhere else?’

He didn’t expect this outburst. Other voters began to look at us. He tried another tactic:

â€کDo you have your father’s documents, proving he was born in Baghdad?’

My head began to spin at the stupidity of all this.

â€کMy father lives in Lebanon. What am I expected to do? Drag him here all the way from Beirut just so I could vote? Why are you being so difficult? You should be making this process easy, not putting ridiculous obstacles in my way’.

â€کSorry these are the rules, I didn’t make them.’

â€کI’ve been waiting over three hours in the freezing cold to vote. I’m going nowhere!’

Now other election officers were heading our way, alarmed by my raised voice and cheeks burning with red anger. A man in a brown suit held me by the arm and said â€کwe’re trying to help you. You’ll get nowhere if you carry on like this. Just listen to me, I’m doing you a favour’.

â€کWhat are you talking about? Voting is my right’. His use of the word â€کfavour’ reminded me of Saddam who made it seem that anything positive he did, say building a highway or a hospital, was somehow a â€کfavour’ he was doing to the Iraqi people rather than his duty as their president.

A squabble broke out amongst the election officers. Some argued that their own sons and daughters face the same dilemma as me as they too were born outside Iraq and that it was unfair to prevent them from voting. Others wanted to stick to the letter of the election law, despite its discriminatory nature.

Suddenly another officer, younger than the rest, who had been watching in silence, pulled me towards another registration desk. â€کStay here, it will be alright’.

The lady behind the desk leafed through my documents slowly. The young officer leaned over her and said in a hurried voice â€کhe’s from Baghdad, he’s from Baghdad. Get on with it’. She refused to accept my Iraqi passport but instead took down my British passport number and details from the Iraqi ID card. After long hours of waiting and harassment, I was finally handed the ballot paper.

4. The Loss We Cannot Afford

I walked past the long queue of people still waiting patiently in the cold to get in and thought how much worse conditions must be in Iraq. At least here in the UK we did not have to worry about car bombs and rocket attacks. And upon returning to our homes, we did not suffer the continued frustration of electricity or water cuts. Nevertheless, I felt that the IHEC had succeeded in giving us a taste of the disorganisation and poor services people in Iraq have had to endure. The feeling that the state is working against you rather than for you, so prevalent in the Saddam years, has not disappeared.

I was not the only voter given a hard time. Many Iraqis were being turned away for not having the right documents. Among them was Dia Al-Azzawi, arguably Iraq’s most famous living painter.

The drafting of the election law (approved at the end of 2009) was a long and arduous process. The government and opposition groups were in a tug of war over the law, each side trying to shape it to their advantage. The resulting legislation failed to sufficiently take the complex situation of Iraqis in exile into consideration. Not everyone is able to prove to what district they or their father belongs (and what about our dear mothers, why don’t they count?). To exclude those who fall in that category from voting is to continue the sorts of discriminatory practices that were prevalent under the Saddam regime.

Seven years after the invasion, basic services are still lacking in most parts of Iraq and the security situation, though much improved, is very far from ideal or even adequate. Democracy has been our one clear gain. If that is lost then all is lost.