In Iraq, young boys sell gasoline from small, roadside petrol stands. They stand beneath the large, dusty umbrellas of Pepsi stands. They wait for customers in cars. They sell fruit and vegetables from makeshift carts and sidewalk stores. They run errands for shop owners. They work as hard as men.

I saw this in the summer of 2003 in Baghdad. Much of my time in the city was spent looking at how young boys were fairing in the midst of the war. I met and photographed them in hospitals, in an orphanage, in a hotel where I was staying. I was struck by how they held themselves, often like responsible men, like protectors and guides. It was apparent that from an early age they had been entrusted with great responsibility. With more freedom than their sisters, charged with upholding the honor of family, tribe and the society at large. I could see this in the serious way they sat in front of my camera.

In Iraq, fathers are often called by their son’s name, with the added prefix, Abu, meaning “Father of”. There was a lot of talk about this father’s son or that father’s son, my son, his son, Saddam’s son. Bush, the son of George Bush. Saddam, the son of a whore. Saddam the son of a bitch dog. Words scrawled on the crumbling walls of Baghdad. It seemed the most important question was not what kind of a father you were, but, rather, what kind of a son.

In the Dar Al Doula Lil Sarar Fi Al Wazeria orphanage I photographed boys between the ages of seven and fourteen. The boys sat together; some held hands; some hugged each other. Brothers. Some had families that could not support them. Some had fathers who had died or disappeared. Others had fathers who had divorced and remarried. The boys fashioned their absent fathers into mythic figures who had shaped their lives in one way or another.

The story goes: When Saddam Hussein’s mother was pregnant with him, she tried to kill herself. Her husband had died; her older brother had died. Grief led her to suicide. She survived. So did her child.  The first years of Saddam’s life were shaped by his uncle, his mother’s younger brother, with whom he lived. Saddam, to some extent, was an orphan. This may explain why he made sure Baghdad’s fatherless sons were well clothed and fed.  His support ended in March 2003. After Saddam’s regime collapsed, UNICEF and the Red Cross made sure the children had what they needed. Saddam had been their Protector. Now George Bush was their Liberator.

“You love Saddam?” one boy asked me at Dar Al Doula Lil Sarar.
“No,” I answered.
“You love George Bush?” he asked.
“No,” I answered.
 He laughed.
“What about you? Do you love Saddam?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I love Saddam.”
“George Bush?”
“Yes,” he said. “I love George Bush.”

As I photographed the boys, I wondered what their world would be like when the youngest of them entered adolescence. In Iraq, adolescence was the time when boys were traditionally drawn further into the company of fathers and grandfathers, into the larger world of men. What would that world of men look like, then, for these fatherless ones?

Adam Shemper
www.shemperphoto.com