TIME photo essay

Football Comes Home: Soccer as Religion in Brazil

Brazil-based Sebastián Liste took these powerful photos of soccer fans and soccer players in Rio de Janeiro, for whom football is no mere pastime, it is a religion.

My friend Anirban Blah, a bollywood superagent, has a tattoo on his arm with the logo of Spain’s Real Madrid. (As a partisan of FC Barcelona, Madrid’s great rival, I’m a little ashamed that my own devotion doesn’t run quite that deep.) This makes Blah the craziest football fan in Mumbai. In Rio de Janeiro, that would mark him as someone with a mild interest in the sport. Rio is, after all, home to Delneri Martins Viana, a man so besotted with his favorite team, Botafogo, that he goes down to the tattoo parlor every Thursday to have his loyalty inked on his skin. At last count, Viana had 83 Botafogo tattoos.

Does that make him the craziest fan in Rio? Not if Desirée Rogério de Carvalho has anything to say about it. A partisan of Fluminense FC, de Carvalho has that club’s maroon and green colors painted on his teeth. (Happily for Blah, Madrid’s color is white.) Yet another contender is Carlos Eduardo Araujo, who has had his house and car painted in the red and black of CR Flamengo.

If Brazil is football’s spiritual home, then these men are its high priests. (Carlos Henrique do Nascimento takes his unofficial role as vicar of Vasco da Gama very seriously. The team believes his presence at games helps them win.) But they are only the more extreme examples of the deep passion for the sport that runs through the country’s 200 million people.

And the organizers of the World Cup—the Brazilian government as well as FIFA, football’s scandal-plagued governing body—are counting on that passion to make a success of the tournament, which kicks off on June 12. But there is another passion at play: a growing rage at economic inequality and corruption that has repeatedly exploded onto the streets of Brazil’s biggest cities over the past year. Polls show that many

Brazilians—perhaps even a majority—feel that hosting a World Cup is a bad idea, both in terms of economics and optics. Protest rallies are being planned during the tournament, and over the next few days, the news from Brazil could be as much about the action on the streets as on the pitch.

So this is a good moment to remind ourselves that whatever Brazilians feel about the World Cup, their love for the sport remains undiminished. Superfans like de Carvalho and Viana tend to the flames of footballing passion with great devotion. Long may the fire burn.


Sebastián Liste is a Brazil-based photographer. In September 2012, he received the Getty Images Grant for Editorial Photography and the City of Perpignan Rémi Ochlik Award. LightBox previously published Liste’s work documenting the community living in an abandoned chocolate factory. Follow him on Twitter @SebastianListe.

Bobby Ghosh is the editor of TIME International. Follow him on Twitter @ghoshworld.


TIME Soccer

How I Finally Got My Picture With Pelé

TIME's International Editor Bobby Ghosh with Pelé.
Javier Sirvent for TIME TIME's International Editor Bobby Ghosh, left, with Pelé.

This week, TIME International editor Bobby Ghosh stood for a photograph with the Brazilian soccer legend Pelé—a snap that both fulfilled a childhood dream and ended a journalist's longstanding frustration

Pelé, the soccer wizard, may have been the first famous person to enter my consciousness. I was just three years old in 1970, when his goals brought Brazil its third World Cup. My father, a soccer nut, had never seen Pelé play, but read enough about him to become a fan, and he passed that enthusiasm down to me. When I was old enough to kick a ball around, I scrawled ‘10’ — the number Pelé made famous — on the back of my T-shirt and tried to execute his patented bicycle kicks.

I never became the goal-scoring superstar of my own imagination, but when I started my career as a journalist it allowed me to invent a new fantasy: Someday, I told myself, I would meet my boyhood hero. Someday, I would shake hands with Pelé.

The opportunity came in 2002 when TIME sent me to Japan to cover the World Cup, my first major sports assignment. I knew Pelé was going to be there, in his capacity as a pitchman for a famous credit-card brand, and I made it my business to find him.

In the meantime, I got to meet, interview and generally hang out with my favorite players. And not just current (for the time) stars like Brazil’s Ronaldo and Argentina’s Gabriel Batistuta, but also stars of a previous era, like French genius Michele Platini and the German ‘Kaizer’ Franz Beckenbauer.

But as a newbie sports journalist, I was not entirely sure about the rules governing such encounters. Was I allowed to ask the players for their autographs or to have my picture taken with them? I decided, foolishly, that to ask would be to behave like a fan, and therefore unprofessional.

It was agonizing to deny myself the opportunity, and made worse by the fact that nobody else seemed to be following this rule. I would find myself chatting with Nigeria’s Jay-Jay Ococha, and a Nigerian journalist would come up and ask if I could shoot a picture of the two of them. I always complied, of course. But I never summoned the courage to ask for myself.

Things came to a head one night in Tokyo, at a grand party thrown by the makers of the official World Cup ball. Sure enough, Pelé was there, and to my delight he agreed to an interview on the spot. He was, true to everything I had read and heard about him, genial and charming. Just over his shoulder, a couple of feet away, Platini was deep in conversation with Beckenbauer. I felt honored just to be breathing the same air as the soccer aristocracy.

Then, a young Japanese kid came up: he could have been no more than 10 years old and he carried a camera half his size. He approached to Pelé and asked if he could take a picture. Once Pelé agreed, the kid went over to Platini and Beckenbauer and asked if they would stand alongside Pelé.

As the giants of the game lined up, I stepped out of the frame, to give the kid a nice shot of the troika. Then, just because he’s such a nice guy, Pelé reached out and grabbed my arm, and dragged me into the picture. “No, you must join us,” he said.

The kid shot a couple of frames, bowed and left.

I couldn’t believe my good luck: a picture of me with these three amazing players! But then a quandary arose in my mind. Should I run after the kid and get his contact details, so I could ask for the picture later? (Remember, this was 2002, before cellphone cameras.) Or should I take the opportunity to have a conversation with Pelé, Platini and Beckenbauer?

Naturally, I chose to stay and chat with my idols.

About half an hour later, I went looking for the kid. He was gone, and nobody could tell me who he was.

For over a decade, I have told friends the story of that picture: the one I would give almost anything for, but could never have. I imagined what the kid’s thoughts would be when he looked at it: “Pelé, Platini, Beckenbauer… but who the hell is THAT guy?”

I’ve kicked myself for my stupidity. And I’ve learned not to be so stupid: years later, when I interviewed Leo Messi, Sachin Tendulkar and Neymar, I made sure I got pictures taken with them.

But that picture, THAT picture… it would never be mine.

Life sometimes throws up consolations. Yesterday, Pelé came to the New York offices of TIME for a photoshoot. I badgered my colleague, Belinda Luscombe, to let me sit in on the shoot. When the chance arose, I told Pelé the story about that night in Tokyo, 12 years ago. He didn’t remember the incident — Why would he? — but since he remains a genial, charming man, he kindly indulged my request for a picture. And he signed a miniature soccer ball I happened to have in my office.

All that remains now is to cling to the hope that life (or Luscombe) will somehow engineer encounters with Platini and Beckenbauer. When that happens, I know I will not hesitate.

TIME Davos

No, Iran’s Rouhani Doesn’t Tweet

Denis Balibouse / Reuters Iran's President Hassan Rouhani speaks during a session at the annual meeting of the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, on Jan. 23, 2014

Time to stop imagining he's some kind of hipster-cleric and judge him by what he does

What to make of the revelation that Hassan Rouhani doesn’t write his own tweets or Facebook updates? If he had been a Western leader, it would matter very little: after all, you have to be exceptionally credulous to believe President Barack Obama or Prime Minister David Cameron write all their own social-media messages. It’s generally expected and accepted that they have people to do that for them.

(MORE: Whom to Watch at the World Economic Forum in Davos)

But Rouhani is different. To many in the West (and not a few Iranians) the Twitter account @HassanRouhani has been a big part of the Iranian President’s appeal. It made him seem in touch with the modern world, a quality not associated with Iran’s recent leaders. It also made him seem simpatico with the aspirations of young Iranians. (The account has over 170,000 followers.)

Think back to the tweet last year from @HassanRouhani wishing Jews a happy Rosh Hashanah, and the frisson of excitement it sent around the world. The impression it gave was that this new Iranian leader was a very different quantity than his predecessor, who had suggested Israel should be annihilated and who questioned whether the Holocaust had taken place. Other tweets from the same account suggested that Rouhani favored more freedoms for Iran’s women, another departure from the norm.

(MORE: Iranian President Tweets Friendly Message to Jews)

Those who believed those messages came directly from the man had their bubble burst on Thursday. During a meeting with a small group of journalists at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Rouhani responded to a direct question with the confession that he doesn’t write the pithy messages on the social-media accounts associated with him: those are written by “friends,” he said.

The meeting was meant to be off the record, but when asked by journalists if he would allow that confession to be placed on the record, Rouhani readily agreed. (This was tweeted immediately by some of us in the room … I’m reasonably sure none of us have “friends” to do it for us!)

So what? The assembled journalists never got a chance to ask the President if he had wished Jewish people a happy new year, or whether he thought Iran’s women should have greater freedoms. But he didn’t suggest that his opinions diverge from those of the “friends” who write his tweets.

(MORE: The 5 Most Important Questions for the Davos Elite)

Here’s where this leaves us: we can all now stop paying attention to @HassanRouhani, and instead focus on Hassan Rouhani. Goodness knows there are plenty of ways in the real world to measure his performance as President. For the West, the most immediate test is in his ability to keep Tehran’s end of the bargain in the six-month freeze of its nuclear program that went into effect earlier this week. There’s also his readiness to make a long-term deal that reassured the world his country will not seek nuclear weapons. For Iranians, his credentials as a reformer will be judged by his ability to deliver on the promises he made during the election campaign last year. Will he, for instance, make it possible for them to have Twitter and Facebook accounts too?

At his formal address in Switzerland this week, Rouhani said most of the right things: Iran would honor the six-month freeze and sincerely seek a permanent agreement with the six world powers, he said. It would seek a peaceful resolution to the civil war in Syria. He also promised economic and political reforms that would help to unleash the potential of Iran’s youth.

He said these things, not his “friends.” Time now for the real Rouhani to please stand up.

MORE: Rouhani’s Real Test

TIME Davos

Will Japan and China Go to War?

Shinzo Abe
Michel Euler / AP Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe speaks at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, on Jan. 22, 2014

Japan's Abe worries a conflict could be sparked by something unexpected

Could Japan and China be on course to military conflict? Asia hands all over the Pacific Rim have recently been forced to contemplate the possibility by the bellicose war of words between Beijing and Tokyo over territorial disputes, increased military spending and a visit by Japan’s Prime Minister Shinzo Abe to a controversial shrine for Japan’s war dead. But even those who game out the direst scenarios tend to add, “Surely not …”

Surely the world’s second and third largest economies have too much to lose from a war, even a small skirmish? Surely the rest of the world (and especially the U.S., the biggest power in the Pacific) would restrain both sides before it came to actual combat? Surely two modern nations won’t allow historical grievances and perceived slights to push them into war? Surely not.

But when Abe met with reporters and editors at the World Economic Forum in Davos this afternoon, he was at some pains to avoid the expression, “Surely not.”

(MORE: Chinese Envoy Calls Japanese PM Abe the ‘Biggest Troublemaker in Asia’)

Instead, Abe warned that something entirely unexpected could become the flash point for conflagration. “There may be some conflict or dispute arising out of the blue, on an ad hoc level … or inadvertently,” he said. He didn’t offer any examples, but in a different context pointed out that 2014 will mark the centenary of World War I. That calamity, the gathered journalists needed no reminding, started with an unexpected event: an assassination in Sarajevo.

It didn’t help that Abe offered no plan to tone down the tensions between the Asian giants. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a clear and explicit road map,” he said. It might help, he suggested without much conviction, if Beijing and Tokyo established a “military-force-level communications channel.”

And what would he expect the U.S. to do if the two countries came to blows? Abe skirted past the question of whether he expected Washington to take Japan’s side, but said he was already seeking closer military ties with the U.S.

(MORE: Forget Trade Talks, Biden Is in East Asia to Stop a Potential War)

He did, however, defend his visit to the controversial Yasukuni Shrine. Many Asian countries, including China, say some of the war dead who are commemorated there were war criminals, responsible for horrific acts during Japan’s occupation of much of East Asia. Abe said he was not the first Japanese leader to visit the shrine, and that his predecessors as Prime Minister had collectively visited it 65 times. Critics of his visit simply misunderstood his intentions, he said.

China would have the most to lose from war, Abe suggested, pointing out that conflict would slow the economic growth that the government in Beijing needs to preserve its legitimacy. The Prime Minister made no mention of the cost to his own country, but allowed that a Sino-Japanese war would disrupt the world economy.

TIME

Whom to Watch at the World Economic Forum in Davos

A technician checks the light in the Congress Hall before the start of the annual meeting of the World Economic Forum (WEF) 2014 in Davos Jan. 21, 2014
Denis Balibouse / Reuters

As the World Economic Forum (WEF) kicks off Tuesday in the snowbound Swiss town of Davos, more than 40 heads of state and government will be competing to make a lasting impression, for themselves and their countries, among the 2,500 participants. Here are five who will have a head start:

Maryam Rahmanian for The Washington Post / Getty Images

Hassan Rouhani
Depending on how things are progressing in another part of Switzerland — Montreaux, scene of the Syria peace talks — Iran’s president may be just a little distracted during his Davos debut. But the purpose of his trip is to take advantage of the momentum from the Jan. 20 start of the six-month nuclear freeze agreement between Iran and the six world powers. Rouhani’s message: As the negotiating parties begin work on a long-term deal, Iran is open for business. It isn’t really: most of the economic sanctions imposed by the U.S. and Europe remain in place. But Rouhani’s trip is mostly about optics. Iran, he will be saying, is no longer an international pariah. He delivers a special address on Thursday.

Benjamin Netanyahu
Gali Tibbon / AFP / Getty Images

Benjamin Netanyahu
Israel’s prime minister follows Rouhani (a few hours later) with a discussion on Israel’s economic and political outlook. Netanyahu will keep up his rhetoric about Tehran being an unreliable negotiator. Don’t buy the peace deal, he will say, it’s just a smokescreen that allows Iran to build nuclear weapons. But that message didn’t get much traction at the U.N. General Assembly in New York City last fall, where Rouhani’s charm offensive won the day. Netanyahu is unlikely to find many takers in Davos.

Enrique Pena Nieto
Omar Torres / AFP / Getty Images

Enrique Pena Nieto
Mexico’s president is one of the WEF’s Young Global Leaders, and his country is making a splash at Davos this year. He will be seeking to capitalize on Mexico’s growing economy, which has recently become the country’s dominant narrative, overtaking the usual stories about drug cartels and kidnappings. If potential investors are impressed by energy, Pena Nieto will display plenty of it: he will deliver a special address and participate in two panel discussions, all on a single day, Thursday.

Dilma Rousseff
Evaristo Sa / AFP / Getty Images

Dilma Rousseff
The president of Brazil makes her first appearance in Davos just as tough questions are being asked about her country’s economic prospects. Three years of lackluster growth have some wondering if Brazil should lose its place among the BRICS. There are doubts, too, about the country’ ability to host soccer’s World Cup this summer. Top all that off with lingering fears of political unrest, after last year’s massive street demonstrations. Rousseff delivers a special address on Friday.

Jiji Press / AFP / Getty ImagesShinzo Abe

Shinzo Abe
Japan’s prime minister has stirred things up in Asia over the past couple of years. His country’s economy has been doing remarkably well, but Abe’s aggressive rhetoric and military muscle-flexing has annoyed China and South Korea, while winning some praise from other Asian nations that see Japan as a bulwark against an increasingly militaristic China. The Chinese president and prime minister won’t be at Davos, but perhaps South Korea’s President Park Geun-Hye will have a cautionary word or two? Abe and Park both speak on Wednesday.

TIME photo essay

The Superstar and the Sex Symbol: The World’s Highest Ranking Chess Champions

When Viswanathan Anand and Magnus Carlsen lean over the chessboard at Chennai’s Hyatt Regency on Nov. 9 for Game 1 of the World Chess Championship, it will mark the coming together of the sport’s first superstar with its first sex symbol.

When Viswanathan Anand and Magnus Carlsen lean over the chessboard at Chennai’s Hyatt Regency on Nov. 9 for Game 1 of the World Chess Championship, it will mark the coming together of the sport’s first superstar with its first sex symbol. It will be arguably the most closely watched contest since the 1972 Cold War confrontation in Reykjavík, Iceland, between American Bobby Fischer and Russian Boris Spassky.

(Also on LightBox: Searching For …and Finding Bobby Fischer: Photographs by Harry Benson)

Anand, 43, the reigning champ, may be the only chess player in the world who risks being mobbed in the street, at least in his native India. Millions of his countrymen watched on live TV — yes, live TV! — when he first won the title in 2000. That’s still the highest sporting achievement by an Indian, and it led to a huge revival of chess in a country that claims to have invented the sport. Millions of Indian kids now forced by their parents to take chess lessons have Anand to blame.

If Anand has the greater fan following of the two, Carlsen, 22, has more groupies. The Norwegian with the smoldering good looks and six-pack abs has been featured in advertising campaigns as a clotheshorse alongside the likes of Liv Tyler, and turned down a small role in the most recent Star Trek movie.

As they prepared for the championship, the two grand masters granted highly unusual access to photographer Misha Friedman, himself a former competitive player at schoolboy level in the USSR in the 1980s and in the U.S. in the 1990s. Friedman recalls reading about the great duels between Garry Kasparov and Anatoly Karpov, and being fascinated by the idea of chess champions preparing for a battle of wits. The images he captured of Anand and Carlsen reveal that it’s as much physical as psychological. Anand pumps weights, Carlsen plays volleyball: even in this brainiest of contests, brawn matters.

Carlsen is the hot favorite: he’s ranked No. 1 in the world by FIDE, the World Chess Federation, and may be the best player in the history of the sport. Chess skills are measured by a complex formula known as the Elo rating system, and Carlsen’s rating of 2872 last February was the highest ever recorded. Only six players have topped 2800, and Anand’s best is 2817. (Fischer’s was 2785.)

But the world championship is as much about temperament and tenacity as about technical skill, and it would be foolish to rule out Anand, a five-time winner of the competition, now with home-turf advantage. If he wins, he may never be able to walk in the streets again.


Misha Friedman is a photographer based in New York. LightBox previously featured his work on Tuberculosis in Ukraine.

Bobby Ghosh is the editor of TIME International. Follow him on Twitter @ghoshworld.


TIME photo essay

The End of al-Qaeda? On Patrol in Yemen by Yuri Kozyrev

TIME contract photographer Yuri Kozyrev and editor-at-large Bobby Ghosh traveled to southern Abyan province in Yemen for this week's cover story in TIME International. Here, Ghosh recounts their travels with a Yemeni Central Security Force (CSF) patrol through territory plagued by al-Qaeda.

Yuri Kozyrev and I have spent more hours than we care to remember on ’embed’ with the great militaries of the world—American, Russian, NATO, Indian. But a chance to travel with a Yemeni Central Security Force (CSF) patrol in the southern Abyan province had both of us filled with nervous excitement. We were keenly aware that Yemen, a desperately poor nation at the bottom of the Arabian Peninsula, doesn’t exactly have the best-equipped army. And yet this army had just dealt al-Qaeda a major military blow in Abyan, earning the respect of all soldiers who have fought against fanatical jihadists, and those of us who have covered those battles.

We were told to bring our own vehicle because the CSF patrol was comprised of a single Toyota pickup truck, and there was no room for passengers. We met our escort on the outskirts of the port of Aden on a day the temperature topped 120 degrees and the humidity, 90%. In that heat, Yuri and I were grateful that, unlike the U.S. military, the Yemeni CSF did not require us to wear body-armor: the soldiers had none themselves. But we knew we were going into towns and villages where many al-Qaeda fighters were still at large, living among the population and just waiting for a chance to strike at the Yemeni military. The leader of our patrol, 2nd Lieutenant Tariq Bishr, warned us that we could take sniper fire at any moment.

TIME

There was also a risk we could hit a landmine: the retreating jihadists had planted thousands of them on the roads leading to the major towns of Zinjibar and Jaar. In those towns, many homes and offices were booby-trapped, designed to kill civilians (many of whom had fled when al-Qaeda had taken over) as they came home.

But if any of this worried Yuri, he didn’t show it: I’ve known from working with him for a decade that he is unflinchingly fearless under fire. He quickly developed a rapport with the soldiers in our patrol, overcoming any concerns they may have had about having to baby-sit a pair of foreigners in a dangerous place. At the start of the patrol, Lieutenant Bishr and his men were nervous about Yuri’s camera, mainly because it attracted too much attention from bystanders. But within a couple of hours, the soldiers had become Yuri’s spotters, pointing out photo opportunities and posing for pictures themselves.

The result is this series of pictures, which offers a rare glimpse into an important battlefield in the war on terror. But it’s worth remembering these were only possible because of the valor of Lieutenant Bishr and his men.

Bobby Ghosh is an editor-at-large at TIME. Read his cover story from Yemen in this week’s issue of TIME here.

Yuri Kozyrev is a contract photographer for TIME and was named the 2011 Photographer of the Year in the Pictures of the Year International competition.

TIME photo essay

TIME Style&Design: Travels Through Bhutan

Bhutan receives fewer visitors in a year than New York City does in a day. The country's breathtaking vistas and rich culture, captured here by Photographer Bharat Sikka, remain despite recent steps towards modernity.

When I first visited Bhutan, I was all of 7 years old. My memories from the trip are, at best, vague. I remember the long, tedious bus ride from the Indian border to Thimphu, and I have some recollection of a ceiling—possibly in a monastery—painted with dragons and other fantastic creatures. What I don’t recall at all is the astonishing natural beauty of this Himalayan paradise, the grandeur of its forts and palaces, the serene calm of its people. Such things are lost on little boys.

Happily, the best things about Bhutan have not changed a great deal since my youth. The gorgeous vistas, grand ‘dzhongs’ and graceful people were all in abundance during my visit this summer. To travel through the country, from Thimphu to Bumthang, Punakha and Paro, is to be treated to a succession of jaw-dropping panoramas of mountains, valleys and rivers, punctuated by fabulous man-made landmarks. (Yes, there are still dragons on the ceilings!)

My enjoyment of these was heightened by the knowledge that so few people get to enjoy them: Bhutan receives fewer visitors in a year than New York City, my home, gets every day! One consequence is that Bhutanese have not grown blasé of tourists: there is a genuine warmth toward, and curiosity about, visitors. Many of my interviews were topsy-turvy: I ended up being the one answering questions!

But Bhutan is not some magic land trapped in time, even though people frequently compare it with the fictional Shangri-La. It is a country evolving from a monarchy to a democracy; the first elected government is just four years old. It is also embracing, with appropriate caution, the trappings of modernity. Young people favor jeans and t-shirts over the traditional robes, the karaoke bars are full of customers belting out Bollywood numbers, and although major international retail chains are absent, one ingenious local businessman has named his grocery shop “Eight Eleven.”

Photographer Bharat Sikka captures Bhutan’s evolution in this series of images from our trip together.

Bobby Ghosh is an editor-at-large at TIME. Read his full story from Bhutan at TIME’s new Style blog.

Bharat Sikka is a Delhi-based photographer. See more of his work here.

TIME

Why They Hate Each Other: Behind the Sunni-Shi’ite Divide

Photographs for TIME by Yuri Kozyrev March 5, 2007

The war between the two Islamic sects has left the U.S.'s hopes of building a stable Iraq in ruins. A look at the roots of the struggle — and whether anything can stop it. (This article first ran as a TIME cover story in March 2007)

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It has come to this: the hatred between Iraq’s warring sects is now so toxic, it contaminates even the memory of a shining moment of goodwill. On Aug. 31, 2005, a stampede among Shi’ite pilgrims on a bridge over the Tigris River in Baghdad led to hundreds jumping into the water in panic. Several young men in Adhamiya, the Sunni neighborhood on the eastern bank, dived in to help. One of them, Othman al-Obeidi, 25, rescued six people before his limbs gave out from exhaustion and he himself drowned. Nearly 1,000 pilgrims died that afternoon, but community leaders in the Shi’ite district of Khadamiya, on the western bank, lauded the “martyrdom” of al-Obeidi and the bravery of his friends. Adhamiya residents, for their part, held up al-Obeidi’s sacrifice as proof that Sunnis bore no ill will toward their Shi’ite neighbors across the river.

Eighteen months on, one of the men who jumped into the river to help the Shi’ites says al-Obeidi “wasted his life for those animals.” Hamza Muslawi refuses to talk about how many he himself saved, saying it fills him with shame. “If I see a Shi’ite child about to drown in the Tigris now,” says the carpenter, “I will not reach my hand out to save him.” In Khadamiya, too, the narrative about Aug. 31 has changed. Karrar Hussein, 28, was crossing the bridge when the stampede began. Ask him about al-Obeidi, and his cheerful demeanor quickly turns sour. “That is a myth,” hisses the cell-phone salesman. “That person never existed at all. He was invented by the Sunnis to make them look good.” Rather than jumping in to help, he claims, the people of Adhamiya laughed and cheered as Shi’ites drowned.

The bridge connecting the two neighborhoods is now closed for security reasons — just as well, since the chasm between them is too wide for any man-made span. Mortars fired from the cemetery behind Abu Hanifa, a Sunni shrine in Adhamiya, have caused carnage in the bustling markets of the western bank. There are more mortars going in the opposite direction; on a recent afternoon, the sound of an explosion on the Sunni side of the river is greeted with cheers by worshippers at a Shi’ite shrine in Khadamiya.

Those cheers are just one sign of how much venom has seeped into Sunni-Shi’ite relations in the year since their simmering conflict was brought to a boil by the bombing of Samarra’s golden-domed shrine. The bloodlust is no longer limited to extremists on both sides. Hatred has gone mainstream, spreading first to victims of the violence and their families — the hundreds of thousands of Iraqis who have lost loved ones, jobs, homes, occasionally entire neighborhoods — and then into the wider society. Now it permeates not only the rancorous political discourse of Baghdad’s Green Zone but also ordinary conversations in homes and marketplaces, arousing a fury even in those who have no obvious, pressing grievance. Neither Muslawi nor Hussein has suffered personal loss, but they are relatively able to tap into the same loathing that motivates the Shi’ite militias and Sunni jihadis. “The air has become poisoned [by sectarianism], and we have all been breathing it,” says Abbas Fadhil, a Baghdad physician. “And so now everybody is talking the same language, whether they are educated or illiterate, secular or religious, violent or not.”

Worse, there are clear signs that Iraq’s malice has an echo in other parts of the Middle East, exacerbating existing tensions between Sunnis and Shi’ites and reanimating long-dormant ones. In Lebanon, some Hizballah supporters seeking to topple the government in Beirut chant the name of radical Iraqi cleric Muqtada al-Sadr, whose militia is blamed for thousands of Sunni deaths. In Sunni Arab countries like Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Egypt, sympathy for Sunnis in Iraq is spiked with the fear, notably in official circles, of a Shi’ite tide rising across the Middle East, instigated and underwritten by an ancient enemy of the Arabs: Iran.

For those who follow Iraq from afar, the daily stories of sectarian slaughter are perplexing. Why are the Shi’ites and Sunnis fighting? Why now? There are several explanations for the timing of the outbreak of hostilities, each tied to a particular interpretation of how events unfolded after the fall of Saddam Hussein: flawed American postwar policies, provocation by foreign jihadis, retaliation by militias like al-Sadr’s Mahdi Army, the ineptitude of Iraqi politicians and, lately, Iranian interference. But the rage burning in people like Muslawi and Hussein has much deeper and older roots. It is the product of centuries of social, political and economic inequality, imposed by repression and prejudice and frequently reinforced by bloodshed. The hatred is not principally about religion. Sunnis and Shi’ites may disagree on some matters of dogma and some details of Islam’s early history, but these differences are small — they agree on most of the important tenets of the faith, like the infallibility of the Koran, and they venerate the Prophet Muhammad. Despite the claims by some Arab commentators, there is no evidence that Iraq’s Shi’ite extremists are trying to convert Sunnis, or vice versa. For Iraqi fighters on both sides, “their sect is nothing more than a uniform, a convenient way to tell friend from enemy,” says Ghanim Hashem Kudhir, who teaches modern Islamic history at Baghdad’s Mustansiriya University. “What binds them is not religion but common historical experience: Shi’ites see themselves as the oppressed, and they see Sunnis as the oppressors.”

Sunnis and Shi’ites are fighting for a secular prize: political domination. The warring sects, says a U.S. official in Baghdad, “are simply communities … striving to gain or regain power.” Without an understanding of the roots of the rage that drives people like Muslawi and Hussein, any plan — American or Iraqi, military or political — to stabilize Iraq is doomed to failure. And that power struggle in Iraq, whether it draws neighboring countries into a wider sectarian conflict or forces a realignment of alliances, has the potential to radically alter the Middle East.

Origins

Islam’s schism began in A.D. 632, immediately after the Prophet Muhammad died without naming a successor as leader of the new Muslim flock. Some of his followers believed the role of Caliph, or viceroy of God, should be passed down Muhammad’s bloodline, starting with his cousin and son-in-law, Ali ibn Abi Talib. But the majority backed the Prophet’s friend Abu Bakr, who duly became Caliph. Ali would eventually become the fourth Caliph before being murdered in A.D. 661 by a heretic near Kufa, now in Iraq. The succession was once again disputed, and this time it led to a formal split. The majority backed the claim of Mu’awiyah, Governor of Syria, and his son Yazid. Ali’s supporters, who would eventually be known collectively as Shi’at Ali, or partisans of Ali, agitated for his son Hussein. When the two sides met on a battlefield near modern Karbala on Oct. 10, 680, Hussein was killed and decapitated. But rather than nipping the Shi’ite movement in the bud, his death gave it a martyr. In Shi’ite eyes, Hussein is a just and humane figure who stood up to a mighty oppressor. The annual mourning of Hussein’s death, known as Ashura, is the most poignant and spectacular of Shi’ite ceremonies: the faithful march in the streets, beating their chests and crying in sorrow. The extremely devout flagellate themselves with swords and whips.

Those loyal to Mu’awiyah and his successors as Caliph would eventually be known as Sunnis, meaning followers of the Sunnah, or Way, of the Prophet. Since the Caliph was often the political head of the Islamic empire as well as its religious leader, imperial patronage helped make Sunni Islam the dominant sect. Today about 90% of Muslims worldwide are Sunnis. But Shi’ism would always attract some of those who felt oppressed by the empire. Shi’ites continued to venerate the Imams, or the descendants of the Prophet, until the 12th Imam, Mohammed al-Mahdi (the Guided One), who disappeared in the 9th century at the location of the Samarra shrine in Iraq. Mainstream Shi’ites believe that al-Mahdi is mystically hidden and will emerge on an unspecified date to usher in a reign of justice.

Shi’ites soon formed the majority in the areas that would become the modern states of Iraq, Iran, Bahrain and Azerbaijan. There are also significant Shi’ite minorities in other Muslim states, including Saudi Arabia, Lebanon and Pakistan. Crucially, Shi’ites outnumber Sunnis in the Middle East’s major oil-producing regions — not only Iran and Iraq but also eastern Saudi Arabia. But outside Iran, Sunnis have historically had a lock on political power, even where Shi’ites have the numerical advantage. (The one place where the opposite holds true is modern Syria, which is mostly Sunni but since 1970 has been ruled by a small Shi’ite subsect known as the Alawites.) Sunni rulers maintained their monopoly on power by excluding Shi’ites from the military and bureaucracy; for much of Islamic history, a ruling Sunni élite treated Shi’ites as an underclass, limited to manual labor and denied a fair share of state resources.

The rulers used religious arguments to justify oppression. Shi’ites, they said, were not genuine Muslims but heretics. Devised for political convenience, this view of Shi’ites solidified into institutionalized prejudice. Sunnis likened reverence for the Prophet’s bloodline and the Shi’ites’ fondness for portraits of some of the Imams to the sin of idolatry. Shi’ite rituals, especially the self-flagellation during Ashura, were derided as pagan. Many rulers forbade such ceremonies, fearing that large gatherings would quickly turn into political uprisings. (Ashura was banned during most of Saddam Hussein’s rule and resumed only after his downfall in 2003.) “For Shi’ites, Sunni rule has been like living under apartheid,” says Vali Nasr, senior fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations and author of The Shia Revival: How Conflicts Within Islam Will Shape the Future.

But religious repression was uneven. Sunni Caliphs in Baghdad tolerated and sometimes contributed to the development of Najaf and Karbala as the most important centers of Shi’ite learning. Shi’ite ayatullahs, as long as they refrained from open defiance of the ruling élite, could run seminaries and collect tithes from their followers. The shrines of Shi’ite Imams in Najaf, Karbala, Samarra and Khadamiya were allowed to become magnets for pilgrimage.

Sectarian relations worsened in the 16th century. By then the seat of Sunni power had moved to Istanbul. When the Turkish Sunni Ottomans fought a series of wars with the Shi’ite Safavids of Persia, the Arabs caught in between were sometimes obliged to take sides. Sectarian suspicions planted then have never fully subsided, and Sunni Arabs still pejoratively label Shi’ites as “Persians” or “Safavis.” The Ottomans eventually won control of the Arab territories and cemented Sunni dominance. The British, the next power in the Middle East, did nothing to change the equation. In the settlement after World War I, they handed the newly created states of Iraq and Bahrain, both with Shi’ite majorities, to Sunni monarchs.

Saddam’s Legacy

When Saddam Hussein assumed power in Baghdad in 1979, Iraq’s Shi’ites had enjoyed a couple of decades of respite under leaders who allowed them some measure of equality with the Sunnis. Then came Ayatullah Ruhollah Khomeini’s 1979 Islamic revolution in Iran. Fearing a similar uprising in Iraq, Saddam revived some old repressions and ordered the murder of Iraq’s most popular ayatullah, Mohammed Bakr al-Sadr, uncle of Muqtada. Shi’ites made up a majority of those killed in Iraq’s war with Iran, which lasted from 1980 to 1988, but after it ended they were once again shut out of most senior government and military positions. With the defeat of Saddam’s army in the 1991 Gulf War, Shi’ites saw a chance to rise against the dictator. But they received no protection from the allied forces, and Saddam was able to smash the revolt. By some estimates, more than 300,000 Shi’ites were killed; many were buried in mass graves. For the rest of his reign, Saddam kept the Shi’ites firmly under his thumb. Several popular clerics were killed, including Muqtada’s father. Saddam ordered the murder of Sunnis too, but there was a crucial difference. “When Saddam killed a Sunni, it was personal — because of something that person had done,” says author Nasr. “But when it came to killing Shi’ites, he was indiscriminate. He didn’t need a specific reason. Their being Shi’ite was enough.”

Remarkably, despite the profound imbalance in political power and the legacy of repression, many individual Iraqis forged business, social and personal relationships between the sects. In Baghdad and other cities, most neighborhoods built in the modern era were mixed. Residents of Adhamiya and Khadamiya were able to reach across the Tigris and socialize. Mohammed al-Shammari, an Arabic-literature professor, fondly remembers evenings with friends in Khadamiya, followed by dinner and late-night revelry in Adhamiya, where shops and restaurants stayed open later. “Nobody asked us if we were Shi’ite or Sunni,” says al-Shammari. “And we never thought to ask each other. I have friends I didn’t know were Shi’ite until quite recently.” Among the urban educated classes, it was considered unsophisticated and politically incorrect to ask people their sect, though there are other ways to find out (see box). Some of the people mentioned in this article agreed to be interviewed only if their names were changed. Many of Iraq’s tribes have always included clans from both sects. Sunni-Shi’ite marriages were commonplace, especially among the educated urban population. In the winter of 2002, when Fattah, a Shi’ite computer technician, asked the father of his Sunni girlfriend Zahra for permission to marry her, there was no hesitation. The couple was married a few days before the start of the war, and Zahra says, “Many of the guests were themselves mixed couples.”

The Implosion

For two years after Saddam’s fall, such ties were strong enough to keep widespread sectarian violence at bay. There were provocations: Sunni jihadi groups, such as Abu Mousab al-Zarqawi’s al-Qaeda, began a bombing campaign against Shi’ite targets. But many Shi’ite extremists, rather than lashing out at Sunnis, sometimes joined them in the insurgency against the Americans and their allies. When Muqtada al-Sadr’s Mahdi Army rose against the U.S. in the summer of 2004, it was supported by the Sunni insurgency. That fall some of al-Sadr’s fighters joined Sunnis in the battle of Fallujah. Al-Sadr portrayed himself as a defender of Arabs, not Shi’ites alone. Even the hard-line Sunni clerics’ group, the Association of Muslim Scholars, hailed him as an Iraqi hero; Sunni politicians spoke of a political alliance with the Mahdi Army.

Inter-sect relations, political and personal, began to fray with the approach of Iraq’s first post-Saddam election in January 2005. Sunni parties boycotted the poll, allowing a Shi’ite coalition to sweep to power. With an assertiveness that at times bordered on arrogance, the Shi’ite-led government inflamed Sunni resentment. An especially sore point was the mass recruitment into the police and the military of Shi’ite militiamen, some of whom used the immunity of their uniforms to avenge old grudges against Sunnis. Sunni terrorism groups stepped up their bombing campaign, which convinced Shi’ites that the former ruling class was never going to accept its reduced status. By the time U.S. Ambassador Zalmay Khalilzad persuaded Sunni parties to take part in a second general election in December 2005, the two sects were some distance apart.

Then came Samarra. The operation carried the Jordanian-born al-Zarqawi’s fingerprints, but Iraqi Sunnis were the ones who would endure the bloody fallout. For many Shi’ites, this was an atrocity too far. They turned to militias such as the Mahdi Army to avenge the desecration of the site, and those militias ran amuck, slaughtering Sunnis and attacking many of their mosques. After the first, furious convulsion of violence, the militias began a more systematic campaign of kidnap and execution. The bodies of their victims, bearing signs of bestial torture, were often tossed into sewers or garbage dumps. Jihadi groups responded in kind. The U.S. military had passed on most security responsibilities to Iraqi forces, but they proved unable to halt the killings. Worse, they were frequently accused of joining in the fighting, usually on the side of the militias. Last fall two U.S.-Iraqi joint security operations failed to stanch the bloodletting.

Saddam’s execution became another flash point. Even Sunnis who had little sympathy for Saddam were incensed that the government chose to hang him at the hour of morning prayers on one of the most sacred Muslim holidays (Iraqi Sunnis celebrated the holiday one day before the Shi’ites). The choice seemed to confirm suspicions that Shi’ite political dominance would be a constant humiliation. “It was their way of telling us, ‘We’re in charge now, and you are so weak that even your holy days have no meaning anymore,'” says media analyst Kadhim al-Mukhdadi. “That morning I gave up hoping that things would get better.”

He is not alone in that hopelessness. Sectarian lines have been drawn through mixed neighborhoods. Where Shi’ites are in the majority, Sunni families have been forced to leave for fear of death. Sunnis have responded with their own sectarian cleansing. A large portion of the mostly Sunni middle and upper classes has fled the country; Jordan and Syria together now have nearly 2 million Iraqi expatriates. Inter-sect marriages have become less and less common. Zahra’s father has refused to give his younger daughter permission to follow in her sister’s footsteps and marry a Shi’ite. “He is the same man,” Zahra says in her father’s defense. “But the situation around him has changed. Now if he allows a daughter to marry a Shi’ite, people will ask questions.”

A Wider War

In Iraq, the Sunni-Shi’ite war can sometimes seem no more than a series of concurrent battles between neighborhoods such as Adhamiya and Khadamiya. The people fighting may have no conception of any greater plan. The wider Muslim world, however, tends to focus on the big picture. Shi’ites are now politically dominant in Iraq, and Iran is the leading Shi’ite power. So in most Arab capitals, the sectarian war in Iraq is increasingly blamed on Iran. Taken along with President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s nuclear ambitions, Iran’s sponsorship of the Shi’ite Hizballah militia in Lebanon and its backing of Hamas, Iran’s supposed meddling in Iraq is proof to Arab leaders that their old Persian rivals are determined to reshape the Middle East to suit their own interest.

As early as 2004, Jordan’s King Abdullah warned of a rising Shi’ite “crescent” running from Iran through Iraq and Syria to Lebanon. Although the Shi’ite-led government in Baghdad had the backing of the U.S., in many Arab eyes it represented the expansion of Iran’s influence. Sunni Arab leaders have begun to ratchet up their rhetoric against Shi’ites in general and Iran in particular. Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak in 2006 said, “Most of the Shi’ites are loyal to Iran and not to the countries they are living in.” After a storm of protest from Iraq and elsewhere, Mubarak claimed he had been referring only to matters of religion. In the predominantly Sunni Palestinian territories, supporters of Fatah have taken to branding their Hamas rivals as a Shi’ite organization. In January, Saudi Arabia’s King Abdullah informed a Kuwaiti newspaper that he had told an Iranian envoy that Iran was interfering in Iraq and endangering the region. King Abdullah also accused Iran of wanting to spread Shi’ism in Sunni countries.

But both sides are responsible for stoking tensions. Religious leaders of the Wahhabi sect, often backed and bankrolled by members of the Saudi royal family, contribute to the spread of sectarian violence by preaching a hard-line form of Sunni Islam that condemns all other strains as heresy. In Pakistan, moderate Muslims blame Wahhabi madrasahs as well as Iranian-funded Shi’ite seminaries for the escalation of Sunni-Shi’ite violence that has claimed more than 4,000 lives in the past two decades. In the latest attacks, three separate suicide bombings killed 21 during the Ashura rituals in January. In Lebanon, sectarian tensions have risen after years of relative calm. Hizballah, the Shi’ite militia, won praise from Sunnis when Israeli forces left Lebanon in 2000. But after the assassination in February 2005 of former Prime Minister Rafiq Hariri, a Sunni, intra-Muslim antagonism began to harden. Sunnis blamed Hizballah’s patron, the Syrian government, for the killing. While faulting Hizballah for provoking last summer’s war, many Lebanese Sunnis stood with Hizballah in the face of Israel’s onslaught against the country. But any residual Sunni admiration for Hizballah vanished by the end of the year, when Hizballah led a campaign to bring down the government of Hariri’s longtime friend Fouad Siniora.

Iraq’s Sunnis, for their part, have grown adept at playing to wider Middle Eastern concerns about Iran’s influence in the region. Sunni politicians stoke these anxieties in the hope that Arab pressure on the Iraqi government will force it to give Sunnis a greater share of power. “If the Arab states don’t come to our help, they will find [Iran] at their gate,” says Mohammed Bashar al-Faidi, a spokesman for the Association of Muslim Scholars. “For the sake of the entire Muslim community worldwide, the beast has to be destroyed in Iraq.” For leaders of terrorist groups, the fear of a regionwide Shi’ite ascendancy serves as a useful fund-raising tool as well as recruiting propaganda. Radical Sunni preachers and TV talk-show hosts across the Arab world are inflaming sentiments by accusing Iraq’s “Persians” of ethnic cleansing. In January, an editorial in al-Ahram, a newspaper widely seen as the voice of the Egyptian state, declared, “Iran is working actively toward spreading the Shi’ite doctrine even in countries that do not have a Shi’ite minority.” Iran, in turn, has accused Sunnis of issuing fatwas authorizing the killing of Shi’ites.

The Unbridgeable Chasm

Most Iraqis, caught up in their own terrors, have little time for the angst of the wider Islamic world. Those who can look past the daily horrors see an even more frightening future, in which their children carry today’s hatreds into the next generation. With thousands being killed on either side, the nationalist, secular slogans that were long taught in Iraq’s schools have lost much of their meaning. And children do not get too many lessons in secularism at home. “When we were kids, my parents taught us that Shi’ites had the wrong idea about Islam but were just misguided, not bad people,” says Ayesha Ubaid, 26, a Sunni doctor’s assistant whose late husband was a Shi’ite. “But now I hear my brothers and sisters-in-law telling their children, ‘Those people killed our uncle and two cousins and stole our ancestral home.'” Her son Mohammed, 8, returned from school one afternoon and angrily asked, “Why did you marry an infidel?”

Ubaid lives with three brothers and their families. In November, they all moved to Adhamiya from Shulla, a mostly Shi’ite neighborhood where she was born. “I knew every brick of every house on my street,” she says. “When we left, some of our neighbors cried and promised they would protect our house with their lives. But the next day, a Shi’ite family took the place, and nobody stopped them.” Ubaid says she had considered raising Mohammed as a Shi’ite, out of respect for her husband. But now, she says, “that would be inviting disaster.” Still, Ubaid says that in her new neighborhood, she feels as safe as it is possible to be in Baghdad.

Will she stay that way? With a large supply of luck, Operation Imposing Law, the new security operation enabled by President George W. Bush’s “surge” of U.S. troops, may halt the sectarian fighting in Baghdad long enough for Shi’ites and Sunnis to start mending fences. If all goes according to plan, the Iraqi government will use the respite from violence to launch a massive economic program that will create jobs and improve civic services like electricity and water supply. If the government can do that, says veteran Shi’ite politician Abu Firas al-Saedi, “people won’t immediately start hugging each other and become best friends again — but at least if they are busy working and making money, they will have time to forget the past.” In this optimistic view, the militias won’t take their fight from Baghdad to other Iraqi cities, where the U.S. presence is minimal, and any security gains in Baghdad will quickly spread elsewhere.

Conceivably, all that might happen. As Operation Imposing Law got under way on Feb. 14, there were some signs that Shi’ite militias might be reducing their attacks on Sunnis. Al-Sadr has ordered his Mahdi Army to lie low and avoid direct confrontation with American troops. Al-Sadr himself and several of his top commanders are believed to have left for Iran. But few in Baghdad doubt that he will be back. “He is just bending to the wind because he knows his fighters can’t face the Americans,” says Hussain al-Moed, a rival Shi’ite cleric. “But he also knows that the Americans will leave. The Mahdi Army can afford to wait.” Sunni jihadis have kept up their bombing campaign despite the security operation — and if they continue to strike against Shi’ite neighborhoods, the Mahdi Army may return to the fight.

It’s too early to tell if the new operation will damp down sectarian tensions. “There are more ways in which this could go wrong than go right,” says political analyst Tahseen al-Shekhli. “We have seen too many plans fail to have any faith in this one.” Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki, a lifelong Shi’ite partisan, has shown little patience for Sunni grievances and has failed to start an oft-promised national reconciliation process. So despite his professed conviction that the security operation is working, chances remain high that it will eventually falter, brought down by the inability of Sunnis and Shi’ites to find a political settlement or the reduction of U.S. forces that is bound to happen one day.

And then all hell would be let loose. Iraq is a country where almost every household has at least one AK-47. If there is no Sunni-Shi’ite rapprochement, a full-blown civil war would raise the daily death toll from the scores to the hundreds — to say nothing of the escalation that would come if neighboring countries became involved, Iran backing the Shi’ite militias, Arab states sponsoring the Sunnis. Such a war could continue for years, with each sectarian community splitting into smaller factions led by rival warlords. In Baghdad, the ethnic cleansing would continue to its logical conclusion, with the city split into a Shi’ite east and a Sunni west.

If it came to that, no bridge, no crossing, would convince the residents of Adhamiya and Khadamiya that they had dreams in common. Just as Muslawi and Hussein look back at the stampede over the bridge in 2005 and see different pasts, so Iraq’s Sunnis and Shi’ites may now be contemplating a future that they cannot share. There could be no more bitter legacy of the Bush Administration’s fateful decision to go to war in Iraq.

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