Concrete Peace

The horrific sectarian cleansing of much of Baghdad in 2006-2007 separated the warring parities. As a consequence of the surge, the sectarian cleansing slowed and has now basically stopped. It is not "complete" in the sense that there are still some Sunni neighborhoods (mostly in western Baghdad) and a few (somewhat) mixed areas elsewhere, but Baghdad has become a city of enclaves. Beyond the U.S. troop increase, the greater emphasis on population security, and the recruitment of local Sons of Iraq to patrol neighborhoods and man checkpoints, there is another ingredient to the fragile, Balkanized peace in Iraq's capital: concrete. Baghdad could now be called "The City of Walls."

Baghdad hasn't been this quiet in years. But the respite from bloodshed comes at a high price.

Up to 20 feet high in some sections.

Rows after rows of barrier walls divide the city into smaller and smaller areas that protect people from bombings, sniper fire and kidnappings. They also lead to gridlock, rising prices for food and homes, and complaints about living in what feels like a prison.

Baghdad's walls are everywhere, turning a riverside capital of leafy neighborhoods and palm-lined boulevards where Shiites and Sunnis once mingled into a city of shadows separating the two Muslim sects.

The walls block access to schools, mosques, churches, hotels, homes, markets and even entire neighborhoods — almost anything that could be attacked. For many Iraqis, they have become the iconic symbol of the war. . . .

Indeed, new walls are still going up, the latest one around the northwestern Shiite neighborhood of Hurriyah, where thousands of Sunnis were slaughtered or expelled in 2006. They could well be around for years to come, enforcing Iraq's fragile peace and enshrining the capital's sectarian divisions. . . .

First introduced by the Americans in 2003 to protect their Green Zone headquarters, walls became much more widespread with the launch early last year of a major security campaign in Baghdad. In some walled-off neighborhoods, access was granted only on proof of residence or special ID cards.

Nowadays there's hardly a street in Baghdad without a wall — or a cheaper substitute like barbed wire, palm tree trunks, mounds of dirt or piles of rocks. They're even used to control pedestrian and vehicular traffic in risky areas.

A core principle of COIN is separating the population from insurgents and monitoring and controlling access points to prevent reinfiltration. Walls, berms, and other barriers all serve that purpose. In Baghdad, the security benefits of walls are obvious. But we should not forget that the very need for the walls is an indictment of the failure to provide genuine population security in Baghdad through other means much earlier. And we shouldn't forget the very real, very human downside to these barriers: one person's secure "gated community" is another person's prison.

Some walls are colorful, painted by young local artists with scenes depicting green pastures or the pomp and glory of Iraq's ancient civilizations.

Others are commercial, plastered with fliers advertising everything from the local kebab joint to seaside vacations in Iran or university degrees in Ukraine.

Still others are religious or political, with posters of popular clerics or graffiti hostile to the United States, Israel or — most recently — Iraq's prime minister.

Most are just bleak and gray, a reminder that danger lurks on the other side.

Dora, a one-time stronghold of Sunni insurgents in southern Baghdad, has so many walls and observation towers that some parts resemble a maze.

The district's notorious Moalimeen area, which until a year ago had been among the most dangerous places in the capital, is now accessible to pedestrians through revolving iron doors guarded by security troops.

"The walls have stopped gunmen from coming into the neighborhood," said Salim Ahmed, a 29-year-old oil refinery worker who lives and works in Dora. "But we also feel that we are in a prison and isolated from the rest of the city." . . .

In April, the U.S. military sealed off the southern section of Sadr City to put the American Embassy and Iraqi government offices out of range of rockets and mortars fired by Shiite militiamen.

The shelling has since stopped, and quick-thinking entrepreneurs rushed to lay claim to a spot against the wall to sell fruits and vegetables.

Because of the Sadr City wall, Mustapha's journey to work every day now involves a 15-minute walk and two minibus rides — a major inconvenience considering Baghdad's unforgiving summer heat.

"It's both annoying and useful," Mustapha said. "It makes us feel like prisoners, but things have calmed down since they built it."