Grim times for the elderly in Iraq
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Saad Khalaf / Los Angeles Times
Hassan Ghazi, 77, came to the Mercy Home for the Elderly in Baghdad after his wife died and he began to lose his sight.
Aging Iraqis traditionally lived with relatives, but as conditions in the nation have worsened, a new phenomenon has popped up: the old folks' home.
By Ned Parker and Caesar Ahmed
August 6, 2009
Reporting from Baghdad -- They are old men and women who have lived through the monarchy, Saddam Hussein, the U.S.-led invasion and religion-fueled civil warfare.
Now, they putter about in a house on the Tigris River, passing the time on cots with pink sheets, in whitewashed rooms, with the faint smell of sweat mixing with the odor of sewage from the waters outside their windows.
The guests of the Mercy Home for the Elderly, a residence for indigent senior citizens, come from across Iraq and include Sunnis, Shiites and Christians.
Funded by prominent Shiite cleric Ayatollah Hussein Sadr, the two-story stone building, opened in November 2006, houses 43 men and women who have nowhere else to go.
At midday, they gather at plastic tables in the lunchroom, where they often eat a meal of lamb before retreating to a hallway to chat with one another or sit by themselves thinking about the past, when they still had families, loved ones, their health and, for some of them, their wits.
The elderly in Iraq traditionally lived with relatives, but as conditions worsened in recent years, some families abandoned their parents, a brother or sister.
Some were sent to Mercy by their kin; others were brought here by a hospital or the police after they showed up penniless on the doorstep of a mosque.
Manager Hadi Hamid Taie says his guests are mostly victims of the violence and economic hard times that followed the American-led invasion six years ago. He believes their families would never have sent them to Mercy before the war.
"This phenomenon is new," Taie says. "According to our religion, it is not permitted to abandon your parents. On the contrary, Islam requires that you take special care of them."
In 2003, the year the war began, there were two government-run homes for the aged in Baghdad.
In addition to Mercy, two private nursing homes have since opened in Baghdad and a few more in southern Iraq.
"The hard circumstances that the country faced -- the fighting and killings, the displacement -- all of these factors have left senior citizens homeless," Taie says.
At the height of the violence in 2007, Mercy had 73 residents. But as the situation has improved, some children have taken relatives back. The home has open beds, and can easily take care of those who show up at its doors. And people do continue to arrive, victims of bloodshed, poverty and instability in Iraq.
The residents are a testament to the country's suffering: an 84-year-old woman whose family was killed and whose home was bombed in Basra last year and now lies curled up in bed; a man in his 80s who lost his faculties in Saddam Hussein's prisons and now speaks gibberish as he tries to massage people's heads to show off his psychic powers.
Then there are those whose pain lies in remembering what has been taken from them and their yearning for the happier days of the past.
Najea Abdul Hussein, 72, is an emaciated woman with a look of fear and helplessness. Ten months ago, she lived with her younger sister and her family in the western Baghdad neighborhood of Hurriya. It was then, she says, that her sister ordered her to leave, shouting, "I can't take care of you. Go to your brothers."
Najea Hussein says she headed off past alleys, palm trees and sand-colored brick homes toward the western bank of the Tigris. No longer wanted by anyone, she planned to drown herself.
As she walked, she says, she bade farewell to the city she had known -- the streets where she and her father once rode in a horse-driven cart on weekends to the Imam Kadhim shrine, with its gold dome, its Shiite pilgrims dressed in black as they entered the sacred ground. It was in Baghdad where she met her husband, an army sergeant, during the time of Abdul Karim Qassim, Iraq's first prime minister after the monarchy fell in 1958.
Najea Hussein was her husband's second wife, the one he spent all his time with, she recalls, because she was young and pretty. They lived together for 20 years before a heart attack struck
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