Open Shutters: Six Iraqi Women Show the War through their Eyes

The story of the Iraqi war was told to us by foreign correspondents and so-called embedded journalists.  Not the people who endured it.

London-based photographer Eugenie Dolberg was frustrated by the coverage of the Iraqi war and occupation--realizing that the voices of Iraqis were not reaching the West.

Dolberg wanted the women of Iraq to tell their stories--through photojournalism and their own words. Which is exactly what she’s done—helped by Iraqi novelist and professor Irada Zaydan.

They found a group of diverse women who were brought to Damascus for three weeks to learn photography.  The women returned to Iraq to document their lives despite the constant dangers of bombings, curfews and road closures; they reassembled to edit their massive material and share their stories--stories that cut across political. regional  and religious divisions.

The stunning work of these anonymous Iraqi women has become a travelling exhibition which has been shown in the UK, Abu Dhabi, New York, Kabul and a feature documentary on the project  by Maysoon Pachachi was recently completed.  The organizers are interested in showing the photographs and documentaries in North American venues.  

Lujane’s Story, Deserted

Lujane works in a college. She refuses to allow the conflict to affect her
daily decisions, however dangerous or inconvenient things are. She goes
to work but is distraught at how empty her city is.  It is not easy to take
pictures on the streets of Baghdad; especially if you are the only person
on them.  

Lujane however, determined to show what had become of her once
bustling city, took an eerie series of empty cityscapes.
 
“Normally, it would take an hour to get to work, but these days I often
arrive just as the day is about to end.  I try to make use of the time in the
car reading books and magazines. One day the Americans had closed a
road, and our driver, like many others, turned around and took another
route down a dirt side street.  Suddenly there was heavy gunfire -
someone trying to drive through a checkpoint.  I sat watching, clutching
my handbag in my lap.  When I got home I wanted to watch TV.  I
reached into my bag for my glasses.  They were smashed and splintered.
 Rummaging around, I felt something cold and metallic: a bullet casing.
 I will never forget the terror I felt – that bullet could have gone through
me.”

Antoinette’s Story, Motherhood

Antoinette lives in Mosul, she is Christian and is finding it harder and
harder to belong to a minority. She moved from Baghdad to be with her
husband. Her children are by far the most important things in her life
although she struggles to maintain a sense of normality for them.
Her black and white photographs are motherhood with all the love and
silent struggle that it entails.
 
“Everyday I say goodbye to my daughter and send her off to college.  I
kiss her and stand at the window praying she’ll arrive safely. I call her
several times while she’s on her way to college and if I hear any
explosions, I insist that she keep talking to me until she gets there.
I am torn. My life and that of my kids is in Mosul – our house, our
memories, everything that we know and that means anything to us.  But,
am I not being unfair to them if I choose to stay?  And if I left, where
would I go?  What kind of future can I possibly offer them? I live in
constant anxiety and terror.”

Um Mohammad’s Story, Bitter

Um Mohammad is from Basra. During the sanctions she and her husband
scraped money together to make a home in Baghdad. The night before the
invasion, they returned to Basra where they thought it would be safer for
the children. When they went back to Baghdad their house had been
looted. Again they returned to Basra, which had always been a
cosmopolitan centre of trade, a city she loved and felt reflected in. Um
Mohammad watches her own identity being stripped from her as her city
is destroyed and taken over by religious parties and militias.  
Her photographs are loving portraits of Basra resonating loss and time
past.
 
“Everything in Basra is forbidden now: laughter, coloured clothes,
music, walking in the markets, going to the parks. Everything beautiful
has been stolen from my city.  And the British who came in the name of
liberating Iraq, just watch it all, smiling.  Yes, we have been freed from
life and we have begun a mourning whose end we do not know”.