Donna Mulhearn, Baghdad
In the chilly darkness, Baghdad father of three Ali rises at 3am. He grabs a blanket and makes his way to the car.
He nervously watches the fuel gauge, deep in the red, as he slowly crawls through back streets to join the queue. At this time in the morning it is only a few kilometres long. If he's lucky he'll be at the front of the queue in eight hours.
In oil-rich Iraq, Ali is lining up at the local petrol station to fill his car.
As he waits, he tries to sleep a little, but also has to keep watch for any cars trying to jump the queue.
There are often violent scuffles as tempers flare during the long, arduous waits. In the summer, Ali lost his neighbour, 21-year-old Haider, when he was caught in the middle of a "who-is-next" argument and shot, at the entrance of a petrol station. In the Baghdad heat, the collective blood boils as the temperatures rise in a car that can reach 50 degrees on a summer's day.
Ali knows to wait on the road as soon as the sun is up, so as not to lose his spot. He chats with the others as they settle in for a long day, pushing their cars a few inches every half hour or so.
One of the most astounding sights in Baghdad today is these queues of cars, utes, trucks and buses that snake for up to five kilometres along major highways and neighbourhood streets.
For the most part, they look like long rows of parked cars and often take up a whole lane of a busy road that would normally be used by drivers. This only adds to the traffic chaos in Baghdad that makes journeys of 10 kilometres take two hours.
Ali is an electrician. His car is crucial for his work as he constantly has to move from house to house. "The waiting is terrible, but it's not the only problem", he says.
"It is stealing my work time and my business has suffered. While I am in the queue it means I cannot go to work. This means I lose money.
"I have a wife and three boys. I don't have a regular salary from a government job. I cannot afford to lose any time off work.
"And when I have to wait all day, I not only lose my work, I also lose all my energy."
Ali's story is typical of ordinary residents of Baghdad trying to cope with the chaos caused by the inexplicable shortage of their most plentiful resource — oil.
Ali says he has often queued for six or seven hours, only to get word that the petrol station has run out of fuel. Waiting in vain makes it all the more bitter.
"This happens all the time to everyone. I don't just feel frustrated, I feel so angry that I want to go and do something about it."
Ali says he passes the time in the queue counting the cars, guessing what time he'll finish and discussing politics with his fellow queue members.
"When we talk it is always about the Iraqi government and the Americans", he said.
"We ask each other: why does the government accept this?
"Do they think that the Iraqi people are idiots to be silent about this?
"One day the people will explode."
Ali explains that desperate drivers who cannot afford to wait are forced to purchase from the black market — at five times the cost.
Boys by the side of the road use plastic soft drink bottles to siphon the illegally obtained petrol into cars from jerry cans.
Petrol is still relatively cheap at the petrol station (although higher than government regulations) but on the black market is up to US$8 for a 20-litre can.
Before the war, the average car would be filled for 25 cents. And there was never a wait.
Naturally, Ali and others angrily blame the US occupation for the suffering caused by the fuel shortage. "The Americans have stolen our oil. And then they put in a government that refuses to help us.
"Everything is getting worse and I worry about the future for my children.
"Every day we ask the same question: when will the suffering finish?"
Ali's tank will last a few days. Then he will rise again in the darkness of the early morning to join another queue.
[Donna Mulhearn is an Australian aid worker currently based in Iraq.]
From Green Left Weekly, December 8, 2004.
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