Going to Court in Iraq
The chance came up suddenly. I was on the ground at an Iraqi-run jail, photographing the conditions there, when one of the Iraqi guards called out a series of names. One by one prisoners hopped up from their spots on the floor to assemble in the courtyard outside. An Iraqi translator working with the US Army was with me; he keeps his real name secret, like all the Iraqis working for the Americans, though his nickname was emblazoned on his US-style fatigues: Slim. I asked Slim what was going on.
“They are calling them to appear in court,” he said.
“Well, I better go with them and see what it’s all about,” I said, after a pause.
“Why not?” Slim said.
The ten or so prisoners all seemed to know what to do: they grabbed orange jumpsuits and blindfolds from a pile in the corner, and started to don them over their clothes. Then they silently lined up for the trip. They were surprisingly docile, with the vacant stare of prisoners resigned to their lot.
The prisoners were loaded onto the back of a truck to head to the court building nearby. They removed their blindfolds themselves long enough to scramble down from the truck when they arrived, then put them back on. Each prisoner laid a hand on the one in front and they were led in a long file into the court building.
This court building clearly wasn’t designed as such; it was a just simple small structure, the size of a small house.
The prisoners were brought into a room in the back, and then one by one brought into a makeshift courtroom. Two judges, balding men in ties, sat behind small desks, with a stack of prisoner dossiers by their elbows. A middle-aged woman in black sat intermittently in a chair across from them; she, it turns out, was an Iraqi lawyer and acted as a sort of public defender. A TV was on in the corner, quietly playing Lebanese music videos.
A prisoner was brought in before the judges; I asked Slim to translate what was going on.
“The judge is telling him that he is accused of being in a kidnapping ring,” he said.
“What is the prisoner saying?” The young man in orange was rambling in Arabic and gesturing wildly.
“He says, ‘No, I am not.’”
“That’s all he’s saying? Look, he’s still talking.”
Slim cocked his head toward the prisoner.
“Okay, he’s saying: ‘No, I don’t know any kidnappers, I am innocent, I just own a simple shop in Ameriyah,’ things like that.”
The judge nodded, took a few notes, and then sent the prisoner off. Once he left I talked to the judge.
“So the guy says he’s innocent?” I asked.
“Yes, he says he is not a kidnapper,” the judge said, still writing. “Maybe yes, maybe no.”
“How many people admit to guilt here? Does anyone come here and say ‘Yes, I did what you say?’ “
The judge thought a few seconds. “It happens sometimes. Maybe five percent of the time.”
“What’s going to happen to this guy?”
“He will go back to jail, until he has a trial.”
“When will that be?”
The judge smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometime.”
Each of the prisoners was seen in this way, most of them accused of either kidnapping-related crimes or of insurgent activity. One was allegedly found with a bomb in his trunk; he was the most quiet. Most of the others animatedly engaged the judges; some of the prisoners seemed relaxed and smiled a lot, like they were giving a sales pitch.
By lunchtime all the hearings were finished, and I headed back to the