Shoot an Iraqi: Art, Life and Resistance Under the Gun [Paperback]

In November, 2010 I read about the artistic exploits of Wafaa Bilal and was intrigued. So intrigued I blogged about his latest project and posted it in several online forums. I also ordered his book, "Shoot an Iraqi; Art, Life, and Resistance Under the Gun" co-written with Kari Lydersen. I read it in one sitting. Astonishing in content and brilliantly written, Bilal and Lydersen have taken, by my first estimate, an ill-conceived, albeit somewhat artistic, publicity stunt and turned it into a MUST READ commentary on the cost of war...now my second and more accurate estimate.

In a nutshell Wafaa writes about his confinement to an exhibit room at the Flat File Gallery in Chicago. He called the exhibit "Domestic Tension" and lived within its confines for one month. That's the domestic part. The tension comes from the added twist. If you visited him, either on-line or in person, he gave you the option to fire a yellow paint ball at him at 300 feet per second, all day, every day. Approximately 65,000 balls of yellow paint were fired during his ordeal. He was forced to live under the fear of being whacked at anytime. There was a field of fire available to the paint ball gun which he could escape be remaining close to the ground...inducing the stress of literally living "Under the Gun". When online visitors stopped in they could chat with him directly, setting up a tension between those who could reach out to the humanity of the situation observing and bearing witness to the ongoing persecution, and those who wanted to have sadistic fun at the expense of another human being. (NOTE: Although sadistic fun unfortunately occurs in warfare I do not believe it is a primary driver yet it does become another ugly cost of war).

As he writes about his ordeal during his month in captivity he wraps in the story of his early life growing up in Iraq under the brutal dictatorship of Saddam Hussein. He describes what life was like for the Iraqi people, their hopes and dreams for education and prosperity, their day to day family existence, with both their good humor and sanity evaporating during what has now amounted to almost three decades of constant war. Wafaa escaped as a refugee to Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and finally to the United States but carries the scars of many haunting years of fear and persecution in its countless forms. That is what he was trying to recreate in "Shoot and Iraqi" as a cathartic response to the guilt he has felt by leaving Iraq and thus surviving to tell his tale.

"Shoot an Iraqi" is not a war protest, though many who read it might consider it so...I might also add that some associated with his project seem to convey a clear anti-war vibe...yet Wafaa resisted the invite to preach rather he simply wants us to think about the cost of war in human terms rather than ethical or moral implications. This book is also not an indictment on the use of remotely piloted vehicles to execute war, which have gained so much favor and criticism during the wars in the Middle East...yet remain highly misunderstood. Again, Wafaa resists the temptation to draw too many parallels between what he was doing and this new brand of warfare. Early on he exhibits a desire to make the parallel, primarily when he attributes a tragic event which cost the life of many innocent civilians to reconnaissance conducted by an unmanned aircraft. Only in the sense that violence is being executed at a distance can the two be compared. No other parallels to this brand of warfare exist. But this is not a debate to have in this book review. The other parallels to the stress of those caught in the war zone and living minute by minute "Under the Gun" with the constant threat of death are quite real.

Wafaa has a unique vision in his art form that will continue to elicit strong criticism, censorship, and even persecution, whether intentionally by his own hand or by the hand of ignorance. He grows and we grow as a result of what he has experienced and has shared. This book goes a long way in reducing the hand of the ignorance...in this particular case mine.

From a vantage point different from that of the previous reviewer, I'd like to add that I found the book to be a beautiful, moving story. It weaved between the author's tumultuous childhood in Iraq, and the recent past, documenting an interactive art piece in Chicago which gathered nation-wide attention. As a non-artist, I appreciated having a better understanding of what experiences influenced Bilal to move forward with his "Domestic Tension" piece, and it made me a much more sympathetic voyeur (I had known about Domestic Tension while the website was live.) So much of what we hear on the news about Iraq is de-personified, but when you read an account this intimate, you begin to think twice. Very eye-opening, well written, didn't want to put it down and read it straight through. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

In May 2007, a man from Iraq lived continuously in a small room in Chicago. He had connected a paintball gun to the Internet so that anyone, anywhere in the world, could take potshots at him. (The gun made an ominous ratcheting sound as it swiveled to follow Wafaa Bilal's movements -- and paintballs, when fired at close range, can penetrate cardboard.)
People from 136 countries fired at Bilal, that cowering fellow in the protective goggles over in the corner. In fact, in just one month, they fired at him 65,000 times (or about once every 40 seconds). Soon nearly every surface of the room was splattered with viscous, smelly, yellow paintball gunk.
Geeks hacked in to turn the paintball "marker" into a rapid-fire machine gun. (They were anonymous; for them, it was like playing an online game.) Other geeks intervened, left-clicking frantically to avert the gun from Bilal. The sadists and caregivers of the virtual world were at war.
But why would anyone subject himself to continual "gunfire"? You might do it if you had lived in a totalitarian state -- the spies in the universities, the snitches in the street, paranoia like something chafing against your skin -- and if you had PTSD from living through Saddam's wars, and if you had endured the filth and famine of refugee camps just to escape your own homeland. You might do it because what remains of your family is still living in that "man-made disaster," a war zone -- and because, out of sympathy, you wanted to put yourself through the same hell that they're living in.
Bilal's other performance-art pieces -- a suicide bombing scene satirically recreated, getting himself waterboarded -- suggest that he craves publicity both for himself and for the miseries of Iraq. But as good as all the shooting-gallery suspense is, the best parts of Bilal's account are his flashbacks to life in Iraq -- poverty, competitive studies, depression, religious zealots, Saddam's propaganda everywhere.
Meanwhile, back here in the States, it's 3 am. Drowsily, you surf over to grainy video of a man in a keffiyeh, his eyes wide and darting behind those thick goggles. Do you intervene, or just watch? Or do you shoot?