In a Land Without Order, Punishment Is Power

The sheik has his authority, backed by what he says are the hundreds of armed men he can cull from the tribe's 12,000 members. But in a sign of his curtailed reach, he twice failed to get elected to parliament, and villagers sometimes treat him as just another player.

Militiamen rarely roam with their weapons through the narrow dirt roads bordered by dried palm fronds, cattails, bougainvillea and fields of clover. But everyone knows who they are, and their graffiti clutter the walls. "Long live Moqtada," one slogan reads. "All of us will sacrifice to defend Sadr," another declares. In green is written, "Yes, yes to Islam." Next to it in blue, a little out of place, is scrawled, "Long live Real," a show of support for the Spanish soccer team Real Madrid.

Authority, in a way, has atomized. Few go out after dark, when many feel militias are most active. Police never enter, so to protect religious celebrations at the Hajji Ahmed Husseiniya, a local worship hall, neighbors gather a dozen youths with their guns and post them at each end of the street.

When trouble arises, villagers say, they try to settle it themselves, then go the sheik, representatives of the Islamic parties or the town's part-time cleric. (Another alternative: "I'd run away," said Jalal Abdel-Amir, a 27-year-old villager.) Usually, they keep to themselves. With violence endemic, it is often heard that if it's not your neighbor, friend or family killed, you keep quiet.

"You can say that the people protect themselves," said Shihab Ahmed Allawi, a 35-year-old construction worker.

Down the street, a little way from the trash-strewn banks of the eddying Shatt al Arab, Kifah Mahmoud, a 47-year-old grocer, stood in a store adorned with portraits of Shiite clerics and named after the sword of a Shiite saint, Dhu al-Fiqar. It takes faith these days, he said. "You can't be sure you'll go somewhere and come back safely. You can't reassure yourself about that."

Serial Strife

In his tribal reception hall, near a television hooked to a satellite dish, the drone of the generator outside, Aidani bellowed into his cellphone. "He must bring the gun to us!" he shouted, flashing his more temperamental side.

The dispute had begun simply. The day before, Mahmoud Shaker, a 16-year-old from Aidani's tribe, was riding his bicycle laden with pots for iftar , the traditional meal that breaks the Ramadan fast. Someone cleaning part of a sidewalk sprayed water on him as he rode by. Shaker protested, and the man pulled a gun and pistol-whipped him. The sheik wanted a sit-down with the assailant's tribe.

"They have to be in our place within five days," he told the mediator.

He hung up the phone, his third call in 15 minutes. Each time, the tribe had refused to meet.

"They better come," the sheik said. "If they don't, I'll have something else to hold against them."

He leaned back on a cushion resting against a grimy wall, three fans overhead churning the hot air.

"Problems create problems, one becomes two," he said. "These kinds of things should be dealt with by the law."

A little later, Sheik Fawzi Kaabi entered. Everyone in the room stood. "Take your rest," Aidani said afterward.

Kaabi, a stout man in a head scarf checkered white and black, is 46, but said he should be 460: "Every year has become 10 years because of the problems." Kaabi, called "the judge" by a friend, had come to mediate another dispute.

Men from Aidani's tribe had killed three people from the Abadi, a neighboring tribe, although the circumstances were in dispute. A death these days costs between 20 million and 25 million Iraqi dinars, or $13,300 to $16,600. Each person in the tribe is expected to contribute, effectively an insurance policy. But Aidani was resisting, pleading his case that the neighboring tribe had refused to pay blood money earlier.

"We're on standby," the sheik warned, with the mildest bluster.

He said no more. Everyone understood it meant sending his armed men to settle it another way.

"It's like a serial," the sheik said after Kaabi left. "It never has an ending."

As he spoke, there was a hint of hesitation, even doubt in his voice. He ran through the conflicts he had to arbitrate: murder, theft, kidnapping, rape, broken contracts, land disputes and on and on. "There's nothing that's not present in Iraq anymore," he said. "Anything you can imagine in your head is here." In each, he had to negotiate, cajole and, more often than not, threaten.

Each time, the stakes seemed to be raised; each refusal drew a bigger warning.

"It wears me out," he admitted.

As he often does, the sheik spoke in proverbs. He uses one frequently these days. It is as much imperative as reality.

" Lil qawi ," he said. "To the strong."