from BABYLON to
BUSH'S AMERICA

Ihab Hassan lives in uncertainty. Six years after taking asylum in the United States, the Iraqi political refugee is troubled by one question.

"What must I do to be considered a good person in America?" he asks. The question sounds rhetorical, but Hassan is waiting for an answer. "I have done all I can to be an American, all the things Americans do. I work, I pay taxes, I learned English, I educated myself, I wish to start a family someday. But still the government is telling me that I cannot be trusted."

Hassan, 34, is an Arabic instructor at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, where he plays a direct role in preparing troops to wage war in his homeland. But the government Hassan serves has yet to fully accept him. His repeated attempts at gaining permanent residency have gone unfulfilled by U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. Without a "green card" establishing permanent residency, Hassan cannot become a naturalized citizen and is still vulnerable to having his refugee status revoked.

"It is worse than being made to feel like I am not an American," he says. "It's like being made to feel not human. If I am given citizenship, then I will feel that the people in the U.S. government understand the things I have been through. I came to America with a story of real struggling, with real tragedy, but also with real love and shrewd respect."

* * *

Ihab Hassan was a senior in high school when Saddam Hussein sent more than 100,000 Iraqi soldiers spilling across the border into Kuwait during the summer of 1991. Seven months later, a coalition force of 34 nations (74 percent of whom were American troops) expelled the dictator and his army from Kuwait.

Even before the Gulf War had officially ended, U.S. officials encouraged an Iraqi rebellion. In a Feb.15,1991, speech, President George H.W. Bush declared, "There is another way for the bloodshed to stop, and this is for the Iraqi military and the Iraqi people to take matters into their own hands."

One week later, a CIA-sponsored radio station called The Voice of Free Iraq began broadcasting descriptions of a large rebellion swelling in southern Iraq. One broadcast featured the words of Salah Omar al-Ali, a former high-ranking member of the Baath Party:

"Honorable sons of the Tigris and Euphrates ... you have no option in order to survive and defend the homeland but put an end to the dictator and his criminal gang."

Violent uprisings exploded on March 1, 1991, the day after international peace was declared. The Kurds in the north and Shiites in the south took to the streets, determined to bite down hard on the hand that had cracked the whip for so many years.

In his hometown of Babylon, the great city of antiquity 50 miles south of Baghdad, Hassan was one of thousands who fought Saddam's forces as they returned from Kuwait. Shouting anti-Saddam slogans, they attacked government buildings, broke open the doors of regime-run prisons, and seized portions of Saddam's remaining weapons depot.

Leaders of the Shi'a rebellion appealed to U.S. troops stationed in the Euphrates Valley. The rebels had captured 15 of Iraq's 18 major cities; soon they would march to Baghdad and topple Saddam's regime once and for all. But they needed help from the United States.

The help never came. U.S. forces were given orders not to intervene as Saddam loyalists regrouped in Baghdad and launched a crushing counterattack. The uprising was doomed.

Despite being in position to easily down Saddam's artillery-mounted helicopters, U.S. forces were idle as the helicopters strafed across city streets, indiscriminately killing thousands of civilians. Saddam's counterrevolutionaries went door-to-door, rooting out suspected rebels and executing them in the streets. They raided schools and hospitals, killing women and children, wounded and unarmed.

"It was like a trick," Hassan says of the U.S. inaction during the uprisings. "President Bush himself pushed the Iraqi people to make revolution against Saddam, but in one way or another, the U.S. helped Saddam defeat the revolution. We were betrayed."

In all, more than 100,000 Iraqis died in the aftermath of the uprising. Millions more fled the country in what the United Nations has deemed the greatest mass exodus in the history of the organization.

For participating, Hassan was arrested by Saddam loyalists in late March and thrown into a dark and dingy desert jail cell. There he experienced firsthand the brutal disregard for humanity used by the second Bush administration to justify the 2003 Iraq War.

"I saw so many terrible things," he says, lowering his head to hide the pained look on his face. "They were torturing people, burying them alive, burning them or beating them to death, pouring acid on them, breaking arms, breaking legs."

Each day he and hundreds of other prisoners were led from their jail cells into rural areas, where they were bound, gagged and forced to kneel at the edge of mass graves dug in the fertile Mesopotamian soil. Then the counterrevolutionaries randomly picked dozens at a time, putting bullets in the back of their heads and kicking their lifeless bodies into a bloody pile at the bottom of the pit.

Hassan was spared from death but not from suffering. "They poured acid on my face and chest," he says, his normally strong voice shrinking to a whisper. "They hung me from one leg upside down for three days. I lost all the ligaments in my knee."

In June, his family bought his freedom after selling nearly everything they owned -- cars, jewelry, furniture. Outside the prison walls, Hassan faced a difficult reality. Babylon, not only his birthplace but also one of the birthplaces of civilization, had been wracked by violent chaos. He was surrounded by the rotting remains of dreams destroyed. There would be no free Iraq.

"This dictator, we had been oppressed by him for so long," he says, recalling those fleeting weeks in March when Saddam's chains were temporarily broken. "We had been under his rule, gripped by his iron fist, so we were all so happy to taste that freedom, to be able to express ourselves. But it was taken from us."

* * *

In 1993, Hassan began studying Arabic literature at Baghdad University. Language and literature became a refuge for him, allowing an escape from the nightmares of life under a ruthless dictator and granting him an outlet for the multitude of emotions festering inside him after his experiences in prison.

"I learned how literature works, how it can work for you," he says. "[In Baghdad] my poetry and my strategy for writing became more polished and shaped." Along with a half-dozen friends, he formed a poets' society. Every week the group met to share poetry, eventually compiling their work into a newspaper they named al-Ashraah, the Arabic word for "sails."

"We paid for it out of our own pockets," Hassan says, smiling proudly. "We wrote articles that protested the regime and its state-run newspaper. I started to challenge the regime, as well as myself and my life there."

Hassan's strongest political statements were indirect, often told through parable and extended metaphor. "We protested using symbolism," he says, which allowed him to escape immediate persecution. "But after a while they kept asking what we meant by this one or by that one."

He walked a tightrope, one that would snap after he published a poem invoking Husayn ibn Ali, the grandson of the prophet Muhammad. Husayn, a legendary figure in Shiite culture, was martyred in the Battle of Karbala in the year 680 A.D., leading a force of only 72 men against an army of 40,000.

"To say his name is to speak of revolution against evil tyranny," Hassan says. "He sacrificed himself, going into battle knowing he would die, in order to fight oppression." For this rebellious act of intellectual expression, Hassan was again captured, imprisoned, and tortured.

As he recalls the torture he experienced in the Baghdad prison, he stops to rub his reddened eyes -- eyes that he says required four surgeries to repair the damage done by Saddam loyalists. In all, Hassan has endured eight surgeries in order to piece together what Saddam and his followers tried to break apart.

Upon graduating from Baghdad University in 1997, he was denied his degree unless he joined the Iraqi military. "If I refused," he says, "I would be sent to prison. My parents could be sent to prison."

Glynn Wood, a professor of International Policy at the Monterey Institute for International Studies, says that all Iraqi males were required to join the military. "It is really without historical equivalent," Wood said of Saddam's command over Iraqi civilian life. "Even the Soviets at the height of their power didn't have that kind of control."

Wood recalled the experiences of a former student, who graduated from Baghdad University in 1984. Immediately following the graduation ceremony, the students were locked inside an auditorium, given their military assignments and sent directly to their posts.

"You cannot refuse the assignment," says Muyid Kamel, a fellow Iraqi who befriended Hassan in 2001. "He was forced. I would say 90 percent of people in the military were forced into it. A very high percentage weren't loyal to Saddam."

Hassan's superiors, familiar with his track record of anti-Saddam demonstration, placed him in a 400-man infantry unit within the Republican Guard, where he could be closely watched. Republican Guard forces were never sent out into battle, remaining at Saddam's palace to act as a last line of defense.

"They put me in the Republican Guard because [the Iraqi Intelligence Office] knew of my poetry," he says. "I was considered a threat."

"If you were in the Republican Guard, you didn't step out of line," Wood says. Guardsmen were entitled to vastly more privileges and status, but were also closely monitored for even the slightest signs of dissent. "I'd say that he was much more likely to be tortured or executed as a member of the Republican Guard."

While in the military, Hassan says he constantly feared for his life. Since he could no longer use symbolism to mask his dissent, he suppressed his opposition to the regime until completing his mandatory service in March 1999. Upon being discharged, he immediately fled the country, heading west through Al-Anbar Province into neighboring Jordan.

"When I left Iraq, I told my mother, 'forget my name. I am not coming back to this country while Saddam is president.'"

* * *

Hassan couldn't believe the scene unfolding before him. For the past year, he'd been living in Amman, Jordan, working as an Iraqi correspondent for Azzaman Daily Newspapers, a UK-based Arabic language publication and a well-known voice of opposition to the Baath regime.

Now he was sitting in front of representatives from the United Nations High Council on Refugees, in Geneva, Switzerland. He'd been granted political refugee status, and given his choice of three nations in which to take asylum: Australia, Canada or the United States.

"You might laugh at this," he says with an embarrassed smile, "I believed that America was like heaven for immigrants. I wanted to discover this country."

When he arrived in East Lansing, Mich., in May 2001, he had virtually nothing. Initially housed by a Catholic church, he was given $30 to buy clothing at a thrift store. "It felt like $30 million," he says.

Since he spoke no English, his degree had little value. The only jobs available to him were low paying and often demeaning. He washed dishes at Old Country Buffet, stocked shelves at a local dollar store and worked as a house cleaner at the Holiday Inn.

"Many times I worked 90-100 hours a week, sending the money home to support my family," he says. "I was so eager to show them that I could be a successful man in my new home, America."

During that same time he hurried through the ESL program at Lansing Community College before transferring to Michigan State University, where he studied English for Academic Purposes.

When George W. Bush declared war on Iraq in 2003, Hassan tried enlisting in the Marines. "That is how happy I was to change this regime, knowing that we could free Iraqis from this dictatorship," he says. "I wanted so badly to be a working part of this nation, to do all I can to help the American soldier." The Marines turned him away because he didn't have a green card.

In early 2006, when the opening at the Defense Language Institute presented itself, he jumped at the opportunity to aid the U.S. military campaign in Iraq. Even though his support for the war in Iraq had waned considerably by then, he wanted the chance to train U.S. soldiers. He believed it might save the lives of innocent Iraqis.

"At DLI, I am in a position to influence with kindness the impression that soldiers have of Iraqis," he says. "Many of them have never met an Iraqi, never spoken to the people of that nation, so it is easy to see them as not having mothers and fathers, sisters or brothers. I am able to shift the negativity of that impression."

"He's a decent man, polite and considerate," said Khaled Sellami, an Associate Dean at DLI's Middle East School (ME3), where Hassan teaches. "He's doing very well. I've observed his class three times, talked to his students, and evaluated the questionnaires they filled out. They all say very good things about him. He is demanding as a teacher, he works hard and is very well prepared."

"He teaches more than just the Arabic language," says Greg Lewis, a major in the U.S. Marine Corps. "He teaches them about the culture and history of Iraq, and tries to put a face on the Iraqi people.... he's obviously very concerned with the relationship between Iraq and America, and definitely has a heart for both countries."

But Hassan says the government has rewarded his contributions with intense suspicion. By his own count, he has been fingerprinted nine times since first applying for adjustment of status on June 29, 2002.

What troubles him most about his inability to gain citizenship, he says, is that government officials refuse to tell him why his requests are still pending after so many years. "A lot of people who came here seeking a home, seeking a future, they are struggling with the immigration process," he says. "And it's for nothing -- when you ask them for a reason, they don't give you an answer. ... so I wait, and I wait, and I wait, but still nothing."

In January 2007, Hassan enlisted the help of Rep. Sam Farr, who sits on the subcommittee that funds USCIS, formerly Immigration and Naturalization Service, through the Department of Homeland Security. In a March 27 hearing, Farr questioned Emilio Gonzalez, director of USCIS, about the difficulties many legal immigrants have navigating the naturalization process.

Farr's office in Salinas employs three full-time caseworkers whose sole responsibility is adjudicating immigration benefits that the foreign nationals struggle to get themselves.
"All they do is immigration and citizenship issues," Farr said to Gonzales, according to rough transcripts of the hearing. "They do your work, but I pay them."

"We have 100 cases pending from last year, where we've gotten absolutely no response on the status of these cases. So far we have 37 this year. Absolutely no response on the status."

But USCIS is not completely to blame for the delays, says Marie Febrechts, a spokeswoman for USCIS. To grant immigration benefits, USCIS relies on the FBI to perform security checks and the State Department to make visas available. "Our normal processing time is about six months," she says. "We can't grant immigration benefits until the FBI completes all its checks ... so there are people who do end up waiting a couple of years."

In a 2006 report to Congress the USCIS ombudsmen pointed the finger directly at the FBI. "FBI name checks ... significantly delay adjudication of immigration benefits for many customers, hinder backlog reductions efforts, and may not achieve their intended national security objectives." The report suggests that the FBI's name-check process should be "re-examined."

But FBI Special Agent Joe Shadler says that the agency's backlog was initially created by USCIS. In December 2002, USCIS submitted 2.7 million names to the FBI's National Name Check Program in addition to the expected number of submissions.

"USCIS wanted to change the depth of information it received," he says. "That was the genesis of the backlog, and it still remains today."

Shadler explains that the massive influx of applications received by the FBI in 2002 created an instant backlog of 440,000 names, which the FBI has reduced to 11,000 as of October 2006. "We do have a backlog," Shadler admits, "but it's shrinking on a daily basis."

Many cases require manual review, and those case files can be difficult to obtain. FBI files are currently stored in one of 265 locations worldwide, and often must be sent via ground shipping. "It's a case-by-case thing," Shadler says of processing times and potential delays, "it depends on how much information is available, where the information is, and where it falls in the pile."

"It seems like it's not a priority for them," says Nadine Wettstein, an attorney with the American Immigration Law Foundation. "They aren't dedicating much of their resources to these security checks. Their systems are so inadequate that it's become an unwieldy situation ... it's ridiculous."

Atessa Chehrazi, an Immigration lawyer with Jackson & Hertogs in San Francisco, says that the FBI's backlog hinders USCIS' abilities to manage the immigration process. "The problem now is that there this growing backlog, and the immigration process is held hostage, so to speak. USCIS has little control over processing times ... people are getting stuck in the process."

Chehrazi also points out that the name-check process may actually be hurting national security, instead of enhancing it. Because the individuals filing applications are physically present in the United States, delays in the process can prolong the amount of time they remain at large inside the U.S. "One would think that situations requiring further review because of potential security threats would be given a higher level of attention," she says. "Instead they're just sitting in a holding pattern."

Hassan says he is stuck in that holding pattern, repeatedly running headfirst into a brick wall of bureaucracy. Maj. Lewis, who has accompanied him to USCIS field offices on occasion, has witnessed those collisions firsthand.

"I've tried to explain to him the concept of a bureaucracy, with all the red tape," Lewis says. "I've tried to tell him he shouldn't take it personally."

But Hassan says the waiting has taken a personal toll on him, thrusting him into a deep identity crisis. "To be ignored for so long, it makes me question if I am a real person or just a ghost, with no physical or material existence."

When he fled Iraq, he left behind not only totalitarian oppression, but also family, friends, community, culture and heritage. These sacrifices are difficult enough, he says, without having to overcome bureaucratic roadblocks.

"I left my entire life in Iraq, everything I was," he says. "I have worked so hard to become a member of this family. I work towards their success; I share in their sadness. But I'm not considered part of this family. I'm treated as an outsider. ... I feel like a cancer, trying to force my way into a healthy body."