In Iraq, Singing for a Chance at Hope and Glory

TV Reality Shows Offer Rare 'Breath of Fresh Air'

BAGHDAD -- In the basement of the heavily guarded Babylon Hotel, on a low, black stage lit up like an operating room, contestant No. 65 was having a bad day. In the morning, Yasser Ibrahim, 22, had passed checkpoints and closed roads, armed soldiers and traffic jams, traveling two hours on a trip that normally takes 15 minutes.

When he arrived, he found dozens of young Iraqis, neatly dressed like him, lining up for a dream that has become ever so elusive in Iraq.

"Fame. I hope for fame," gushed Raghad Laith, 16, looking fabulous in a long, black dress, high-heeled shoes with dazzling rhinestones, red lipstick and green eye shadow. "This is a great chance to become a star."

If you thought Iraq was only a dire tableau of bloodshed and mayhem, take a closer look. Ibrahim, Laith and the others at the Babylon Hotel were auditioning for "Iraq Star," the country's version of "American Idol." It's one of a growing stream of made-in-Iraq reality television shows, produced under often-perilous conditions, that are being beamed across the Middle East.

In a nation trapped by war, the shows provide hope, opportunity, escape and psychological healing for ordinary people. Their popularity speaks to the resilience of Iraqis and their longing for normal rituals amid instability and chaos.

"Such reality programs mean a lot to Iraqis," said Haitham Shaobi, the head judge of "Iraq Star" and a music historian. "We know there's a campaign underway to freeze life in Iraq. These programs show that Iraqis are holding on to life."

There are reality shows about rebuilding bombed homes and transporting war victims to neighboring Jordan for medical care. Others follow Iraqis who are given loans to create a business, aspiring directors learning how to make films, and teachers who have had their poor eyesight corrected.

At the Babylon Hotel last weekend, some of the amateur crooners said they hoped their talents would be noticed by producers abroad and earn them a ticket out of Iraq. Others simply came to tune up their rusty voices: In checkpoint-and-curfew-riddled Baghdad, there are no places to showcase their abilities. Most contestants appeared happy just to get out of their homes and do something productive. In today's Iraq, that itself is a luxury, they said.

So there was Ibrahim on the stage with a green card painted with the number 65 dangling from his neck. Cleanshaven, with short curly hair, he wore a short-sleeved white shirt, blue jeans and white leather shoes. A thin silver chain circled his neck. His chest was exposed. Beads of sweat slid down his round face.

He stared at the three judges at the other end of the colorful but spartan set inside the hotel's former casino. There was no audience, only a group of musicians with traditional Iraqi instruments. They began to play. Microphone in hand, Ibrahim took a deep breath and launched into an Iraqi folk song.

Seconds later, his voice dropped lower. Then it started to crack.

One of the judges raised his voice. The musicians stopped.