Afew days ago, Mahfuz Anam wrote a touching commentary on the thoughts that might be going through the mind of an Iraqi father at this time of war. It captured their mental framework as closely as one might hope. As a young man just out of his teens, it got me thinking about what would be going through the heads of the people in my age group in Iraq. They are arguably the most important segment in the demography, just beginning to define their dreams for themselves, for their country and for their people. Disillusionment at this stage of life leads many to go astray, and a supposedly 'liberated' but ravaged postwar Iraq cannot be rebuilt unless the young men and women in their late teens and early twenties are active participants in the rebuilding process. This is my account of what I think, and what I fear they might be going through.

Walking along a road leading out of Baghdad, Roger Waters' lyrics from his early nineties hit 'It's a miracle' float down to me like birds on Francis of Assissi's shoulders. 'Between the Tigris and the Euphrates, there's a leisure centre now./It's a miracle.' A miracle indeed it will be. If it ever happens. Lying between those two great rivers is my home, my city, my Baghdad. Far from a leisure centre, it now resembles an incinerated morgue. Piles of smoke make their way towards the sky, as if trying to get as far away as possible from this Godforsaken land. Debris cover the ground like leaves under a tree in autumn. Dead bodies, some in full, some in parts, make people turn their

eyes away in disgust. Loved ones weep though, and they do not turn away. Humanity thrives on hope, and these people can never let go of the hope that perhaps somewhere inside a ripped-off hand, or a torn-off leg, or a blown-off head, might reside the soul of someone they loved. The world might sing the old tune of 'every man for himself' all it wants, but in reality, we all live for and because of each other. Our lives, past, present and future are forever entwined with those of the people around us.

I had my future ahead of me. But I have lost it. It is hard to think of something more frustrating than losing your future. Just about to enroll in college. Always received good grades. Nothing spectacular, but solid. Saddam Hussein's regime cast a dark shadow over us with its despicable behaviour towards dissidents, but we

all knew that as long as we kept our mouths shut, we were safe and they would leave us alone. The 'Butcher of Baghdad' could not go on reigning forever, and once he was gone, we could slowly start changing things in our beloved homeland. Neither of his sons, nor his other deputies, are assumed to be half as bit as cruel and demented as he is. In the meantime, we and coming generations would slowly build up our stock. I have already lost my father to an American bomb. Not to talk of the infinite hole it has left in my heart in terms of love, which I cannot express in words, it has robbed me of my future. In literal terms, I still do have a future but it is not my future. It is a future George W Bush has set out for me, and I don't want that future to eventuate into my present.

Once the war is over, and Saddam

is gone, and American oil companies have received the contracts they crave, there is talk of a new Iraq. An Iraq where the people's voice is heard. Will we really be so much better off I ask myself? Is President Bush trying to tell me that I was willing to lose my father without even getting the chance to bury him properly because his parts lie scattered all over Baghdad just so that my voice could be heard? Will my orphaned cousin not miss being kissed before going to bed by her mother just because her voice would be heard? Is losing the girl he loved the price my best friend was willing to pay so that his voice could be heard? The answer is irrelevant because in reality, no-one's voice is heard. We heard of the wonders of a democratic system, but if democracy really is about governance 'of the people, for the people and by the

people,' then how come despite the millions of people protesting all over the world, including the United States, American planes are bombing us with gay abandon? The truth is, democracy is a mythical, imperfect concept the way it is practiced. The only voice that counts is of the one who is most powerful. And it is my, and every Iraqi's misfortune that George W Bush rose to that position.

Who will pay for my education in Bush's Iraq? Who will guide me when I'm lost? Who will inspire me to get up when I'm down? Foreign aid will flow in, but how many of us crave the money which cost a father, or a mother, or a brother or a sister? I do not, and I know few who do. Especially the money of those who kill our people and describe them as 'collateral damage.' The disdain with which they view human life other than their

own is encapsulated in that term. There will be two roads ahead of me after the war. Live in and try to rebuild an Iraq that I can never call my own again (it would be different if my father was a martyr who died fighting Saddam, which is far from the case) or leave these shores and live with the memories of an Iraq that was mine. The latter is my preferred choice. I will try not to cultivate revenge in my heart, but I know many will. They are the ones I feel most sad for. So many young men I played soccer with on the streets of Baghdad with youthful innocence have been changed by this conflict. They left with anger accompanying their sadness, and left behind their innocence. They shall join the growing army of terrorist organisations to harm the Americans, and their vendettas will not be settled until they do so or die trying. I cannot really

blame them. Bush led them off the paths they had defined for themselves, took the lives of their near and dear ones and then expected them to walk his path. It is a case of having the proverbial cake and eating it too, and as we all know, you cannot do that. The cycle of violence this world is caught up in is guaranteed perpetuation, and the only losers will be the thousands who will lose their lives and those whose lives are connected to them. As long as those who are in positions of power are safe, everything will be fine and everything can be swept under the carpet. They are putting different values on lives these days. Valuation is at the discretion of the most powerful, and sadly, Iraqi life is only valued at 'collateral damage.'

Shayan Khan of Baridhara, Dhaka is a student.