“If people in Germany had followed your argument, neither my parents nor I would have gotten citizenship,” I told him. I couldn’t understand why granting citizenship to non-Shia would bother him so much if his party truly represented the interests of all Bahrainis. I acknowledged that I didn’t live in the country and therefore might not have the full picture. When I had asked Abu Hussain in the car about some of the big business owners in Bahrain who were supposedly Shia, he had replied, “Well, these people are close to the system. That’s why they were successful.”
Then I asked Ali Salman about family law for Shia women. Bahrain technically has three courts: a civil court, a Sunni court, and a Shia court; it also has two sets of family laws, one for Sunnis and one for Shia. If a Shia woman marries at a Shia court, she cannot get a divorce as easily, even if her husband beats her. Al Wefaq had argued against changing this. I told him I couldn’t understand how he and his political party, which opposed discrimination so loudly, had voted to take away the rights of Shia women.
He said this was a religious matter, not a political one.
“But Sheikh Ali, if on one hand you argue that there shouldn’t be any discrimination against anyone, how can you allow Shia women to be discriminated against?”
“That’s not the most important thing, not even for Shia women,” he said. “What is important is that the prime minister can be chosen by the people and doesn’t stay in power for over forty years, like now.” (The prime minister, Khalifa bin Salman al-Khalifa, was the uncle of the king and had been in office since 1970.) He didn’t seem concerned about the growing influence of religious leaders in Bahrain.
I left the meeting with more questions than answers. I wondered if I was the only journalist working for a Western media organization who found Ali Salman’s views questionable for someone who was widely considered a “democrat.” Was the Bahraini opposition movement about democratic values, or was it simply about sectarian power? Ali Salman was a cleric as well as a political leader, and his religious authority added greatly to his power. I remembered how, after the fall of Saddam, whole neighborhoods in Baghdad had become sectarian enclaves as residents became more religiously observant, and how women—who had been more or less independent and had access to all kinds of jobs—were suddenly forced to cover up, to change their lives, and to give up most of their freedoms. There was something else Iraq had taught me. When there was a growing overlap between sectarianism and politics on one side of the divide, the other side would grow more extreme in response.
“Isn’t he a great leader?” Abu Hussain asked when I got back into the car. “He would make a great prime minister, don’t you think?”
I put on my big sunglasses. I’d hoped to avoid another political debate, but he’d asked for it. Besides, I thought Abu Hussain and men like him should be challenged from time to time. I told him about my experience in Iraq and that I didn’t think religious or sectarian political parties or leaders like Ali Salman would work in multicultural and multiethnic countries. “It doesn’t mean that there shouldn’t be reforms or discussions about human rights,” I told him, but I wasn’t certain that Al Wefaq could gain the trust of all Bahrainis or would represent the interests of all.
“But that doesn’t matter,” Abu Hussain answered. “Democracy means that the majority will win and has the right to rule over the minority, like in the West.”
But what about a constitution that protected the rights of other groups as well? My conversations with Al Wefaq members and Abu Hussain made it clear to me that while Bahrainis and Westerners both talked about “democracy,” each side used the word to mean something different.
While the media and politicians concentrated mainly on Al Wefaq and the government, less was said about the unhealthy effect the conflict might have on Sunnis. One afternoon, I went to the small town of Busaiteen to interview four students I’d met at the University of Bahrain, along with their friends. They were all Sunni, and they were angry at their government and the West.
The government was “too soft on those Shia terrorists,” a student named Adel told me. He called the protesters terrorists because they used Molotov cocktails and burned tires and had beaten up some of his fellow students.
I asked if he understood the Shias’ demands for more rights.
“Look, we all know in the Gulf that people from the royal family have more privileges than others,” his friend Muhammad answered. “It doesn’t matter if you’re Shia or Sunni.”
“So then why are you unhappy about the protests?” I asked. “Aren’t those some of the demands being made?”
They all shook their heads. “No, no, that’s just an excuse to win the West over. What they really want is to turn Bahrain into a new Iraq,” Adel said. “They want a sectarian war.”
I asked why they were angry at the West.
“Because your governments are turning a blind eye to how radical and violent most of those people are,” a student named Khaled said. “Instead, you’re supporting them.”
“What support do you mean?”
“All these comments from human rights organizations and politicians about how Shia protesters were treated. Why are there no such comments about the violence they are using? Aren’t these double standards?”
Adel broke in: “To us and others here, this looks like a Western conspiracy to weaken Sunnis and give Iran more influence in the region,” he said.
I spent almost two hours with them and could hear the anger and fear mixed into their arguments. I wondered how things were at the university, or if they had Shia friends.
“We never grew up asking if one was Shia or Sunni or Christian or whatever,” Adel answered. Then he looked down and took a deep breath. “But now both sides keep to themselves.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t trust each other anymore.”
Since I had first come to Bahrain, most of the protesters had agreed on one demand: that the prime minister should step down. I asked his office for an interview but didn’t expect much. Instead, I followed up with one of the Al Wefaq members I’d met several times before, at the Friday sermons in Diraz.
This man had become one of the most reliable sources I’d met in Bahrain. I often went to him to double-check information and for deeper discussions about where the country was going. He asked not to be named for various reasons. “Let’s meet at Costa Coffee Shop on Boudaya Road,” he said.
I thought I would visit some nearby villages before the meeting. I wore the sequined abaya I’d gotten in Zarqa over a T-shirt, jeans, and a black Pakistani scarf.
After Abu Hussain and I had finished our tour through the villages, he drove me to the coffee shop, a renowned opposition-group hangout.
“Why Costa Coffee Shop?” I asked my source when I met him there. He told me that the owner was a supporter of Al Wefaq and the protest movement.
“So does it mean you guys are boycotting other coffee shops? And vice versa?”
He confirmed that this was the situation.
“If you all hate each other so much, how will this country ever be one?” I asked him. “How will the wounds heal?”
“With time,” he answered. “Insha’Allah.”