Back in January, I wrote a blog piece entitled, “The Colors of Warka,” in which I chronicled the United States Ambassador’s trip to Muthanna.  During that visit the Ambassador attended the first-ever exhibition for women artists in Muthanna.  I wrote a bit about the artists in that blog, but wanted to share an update.

In late 2008, when we learned that Ambassador Crocker (the US Ambassador to Iraq) was coming down to Muthanna, we assembled a group of women artists from the province interested in working with the PRT on a cultural program.  We asked them to contribute their paintings for a special gallery showing in honor of the Ambassador’s visit.  We put it together in a few weeks, and the event was splendid.  But, there was much more to the event than just a special showing for the Ambassador.   The PRT, in cooperation with a local Iraqi NGO, wanted to support art in Muthanna, and planned to hold a major exhibit of close to 100 paintings - all by the women of the province.  We gave the forty women a month to paint (each received canvases, paints, and an easel), after which time, the exhibit would open in three of Muthanna’s largest cities: Samawa, Rumaytha, and Khider.

After months of planning, the exhibit opened last week in Muthanna’s capital city, Samawa.  It was well attended . . . or so I was told.  Due to a transportation mix-up on base, I missed my helicopter and the opening.  But, one of our local Iraqi staff who was able to attend, reported that the opening was a success.  Eight media organizations (print and television) showed up to cover the event, and a broad cross-section of Muthanna’s citizens came out to see this landmark exhibit.

Back at base, I was eager to remedy the transportation problem, and after a bit of negotiation, my colleague, Albert, and I found our way to Samawa the next day.  The NGO that co-sponsored the event did a terrific job decorating the exhibit hall and lighting the room.   Many of the artists were there again on the second day, and it was great to see them. What struck me, though, was how many other people were present.  A college art professor had brought his forty male students to see the exhibit.  Writers, poets, and other members of the artistic community were perusing the paintings and chatting with one another.   At one point, I looked over and saw the Director General of Veterinary Affairs, whom I remembered from a PRT-sponsored sheep-dipping event some months ago.  He told me he saw the exhibit on the news last night and decided to come down and check it out.  The atmosphere was so relaxed and reminded me of any number of art museums I had been to in other parts of the world.  Patrons, both men and women, leaning in to look at the artists’ signatures, men sometimes disagreeing on the meaning and significance of this painting or that painting.  For a moment, I forgot I was in Iraq.

The piece above was the most talked about at the exhibit, and I was happy to see that the artists had not shied away from portraying the difficulties facing Iraq.  When we distributed the supplies a few months ago, I informed the women that they should feel free to paint whatever they liked.  I made a special point of letting them know that I had no expectation that they should create art that was flattering to the United States.  If there were negative feelings about the U.S. that these women wanted to express through their art, we supported that whole-heartedly.  Certainly, I didn’t want the exhibit to become a “The Colors of the USA Out of Iraq,” but if the exhibit had descended into that, so what?  Negative feelings about the U.S. presence in Iraq - expressed on a canvas - were far more palatable to this diplomat than shoe-throwing, IEDs, or suicide bombs.   

For me, the exhibit was an example of public diplomacy.  The fact that the United States was supporting art — its creation and exhibition — in Muthanna was a signal to the Iraqi people that the relationship between our two countries was normalizing.  Soldiers had provided security, but diplomats would help usher in an era of normalization. 

The event also meant a great deal to my trusty sidekick, Albert Hadi (pictured above).  Albert is the PRT’s Senior Media Specialist and my deputy for public diplomacy.  He’s Iraqi-American, and has been an invaluable resource for me and our PRT in helping us navigate the intricacies of Iraqi politics and culture.  I was proud of the artists, but I could see that Albert was experiencing something far beyond the pride I felt.  As we both listened to a woman describe giving her first on-camera interview the day before (in essence, her first time to speak to a man not in her immediate family), I saw Albert’s eyes well up.  I often think of what it must have been like to be born in Iraq, naturalized in the US, and then return to a homeland in such turmoil.  Albert’s an American through and through.  But, in his hyphenated status, this Iraqi-born American was seeing the citizens he left behind making progress.   Not only was he seeing the progress, but he had contributed to making it a reality. 

We spent a great deal of time talking with all of the artists, and all were so appreciative of our efforts.  The compliment that meant the most to me yesterday was that many of the women had brought their families to meet us.  This was a significant detail that couldn’t be ignored.  Married or single, it is highly inappropriate for a young Iraqi woman to speak about meeting and talking with an unmarried man (add American and unmarried and you can double-down on the cultural taboo).  But, through our meetings and planning, we had established a foundation of mutual respect with these women. This respect had begun to break down and dispel the obvious cultural prohibitions.  I had never shaken hands with any of these women, and we always kept a respectable distance from one another as we spoke, but there was a genuine respect and admiration that we all shared.  One woman asked for my e-mail address.  She told me that her brother wanted to write me a letter to thank me.  He wanted to write “to the American who respected his sister.” Respect.

      

When I first met this group of artists, we took the photo below.  At the time, I asked them if I could post it on my blog, they said it would be ok, but I could sense they had reservations.  That evening I downloaded my photos to my laptop and began playing with the images.  I blurred their faces, began to post the image, but stopped.  It wasn’t how I wanted to portray these women.  In many ways, their faces were already blurred.   Through art, we were trying combat the faceless nature of women in Iraq.  To have posted the photo would have only made their facelessness more prominent.  So, I sat on the photo.  Wondering if it would be the only image I had to remember them.

Five months later, I watched almost all of these women giving on-camera interviews with local, national, and satellite media stations and took this picture below.  What a change.  These are the same women who are pictured above.  There is a comfortableness in the “after” shot that just wasn’t there in the “before.”  Prior to getting to know the artists, they would have never dreamed of removing their abaya.  Months ago they were half-covered faces, peering from behind a veil.  Today, the vibrance of their faces, the colors of the clothing, the strength in their voices, all told me they felt like they could do anything.  The picture below is one that I will always treasure because it represents tangible progress. 

I could have stayed at the exhibit all day, but we had a schedule to keep and a helicopter to catch.  Before we had to leave, though, I found myself immersed in a deep conversation with a couple of Iraqis about the US Embassy’s support of the exhibit, and about diplomacy in the Middle East.  I told them that I would finish my assignment in Iraq at the end of July, and then work in another Gulf country as my onward assignment.    One of the Iraqis said to me, “Stay.  Do you have to leave?  I wish you could stay longer in Iraq.”  I thought, “An Iraqi has just expressed a desire for an American official to stay longer in Iraq.”  Wow.  Talk about change I could believe in . . .   I felt that sentiment from many of the artists and their families.  This is the America that we wanted them to know.  I’m not naive about war and the sacrifices it has taken (and still takes) to get us to this point.  But, in keeping with the spirit and sentiment emanating from the White House these days, I am honored to play a role in reintroducing America and Americans to this forgotten corner of Iraq.

One final thought on the exhibit before I conclude.  The stories of these women shared one common thread: they were all taking risks by participating in this event.  One of the women (not pictured above or in any photos on this blog) told me a story that summed up the great risk involved in attempting to pull off The Colors of Warka.  She told us that she had watched the other women giving media interviews at the opening, and wanted desperately to do so herself.  Summoning up the courage to do so, she approached a reporter from a Muthanna-based television station.  “I would like to be interviewed,” she said.  She told us that she stood before the camera and spoke of her art, what art meant to her, and how she felt she had expressed her voice, publicly, for the first time in her life.  She said she felt a sense of triumph after the interview, but that soon after a sense of dread overtook her.  Her husband would certainly beat her that evening.  “It was worth it,” she told us.  “To have spoken to so many, to have said what I said before the people, it would be worth the punishment.”  She described the long ride home, dreading the beating, but confident in her decision to speak out.  When she arrived home, her husband was waiting at the door with his cell phone, in hand.  "Did you see yourself?” he said.  “You looked great!  Mash'allah!  You were on television!  My wife was on television!  I called my family and everyone I know.  Look at you!!  You've made our family famous!  This is wonderful!"   She told us that when she walked in, her children embraced her and her husband told her that he was so very proud of her.  She told us that later that evening - after her husband had finished calling everyone he knew - that he told her, "I never looked at you as an artist. Only as the woman who cleans the house and raises the children.  But, today, I am so proud of you."

I needed tissues more than my Kevlar and helmet on that day, and any day that happens in Iraq is a good day.