Blood from a stone
In one of the world's most oil-rich countries, petrol remains a scarce commodity. Ashraf Khalil chronicles a day in the life of two Baghdad gas stations
10am, 7 January: Relative calm reigns over the Yarmuk gas station in the upscale western Baghdad neighbourhood of Al-Mansour. Surrounded by low concrete barriers, bands of eager looking members of the Iraqi Civil Defence Corps (ICDC), the station looks like a half-vacated military post planted along a busy city avenue.
Part of the calm is unnatural. The station, which is meant to open at 7am, is temporarily out of gas and waiting for its morning tanker shipment. The line of cars awaiting fuel stretches well down the block. Most of the drivers have been there for two hours already, and Bilal, an ICDC soldier, politely fends off a stream of inquiries with assurances that the tanker will arrive in "a half-hour, God willing".
Decked out in fresh fatigues and wrap- around mirror shades, Bilal gripes that the citizens don't respect him the way they do the Americans, but says most of them are fairly patient. "They're used to it. We know they're frustrated, and they know we're just trying to help," he said.
Iraq's fuel crisis is hardly new. The Ministry of Petroleum recently established an alternating daily ration system based on whether the car's licence ended with an even or odd number. Each car is only allowed 30 litres of gas -- about half an average car's tank. But many gas station employees live solely on tips, so drivers say it's easy, if costly, to bend the rules.
The current situation is still worlds better than the low point in mid-December, when an average gas line wait could last most of a day and black market prices soared. Omar, a young civil servant, recalls the team effort that was required just to survive the ordeal.
"I would come with three or four friends with their cars," he said. "One of us would go home to eat and sleep and the others would watch his car."
Still, despite the consumer forbearance, Bilal has no doubts what would happen if Yarmuk and many other Baghdad gas stations weren't under constant armed guard.
"It would be a massacre," he chuckles.
The reasons Omar and others remain willing to endure the wait rather than turn to the thriving black market aren't hard to understand. Gas from stations is nearly free -- a legally mandated 20 Iraqi dinars (approximately 1 cent) per litre. Black market prices range from 250 to 600 dinars per litre, depending on the official supplies. The vast discrepancy between official and market prices has created some unusual paradoxes.
"I know taxi drivers who would wait in line, fill up their cars, then empty the tank again and sell the gas," Omar said. "They made more money that way than they would actually driving the taxi."
Naturally, theories abound among the customers as to the reasons why one of the world's most oil-rich nations should be locked in a lengthy fuel crisis: corrupt officials selling gas on the black market; sabotage of the country's vital oil pipelines; the sudden boost in the amount of cars in the country (an estimated 600,000 to 1 million) since April; and, of course, old-fashioned conspiracy theory.
"The Americans are stealing our oil," says one man. "They're stealing even more than Saddam ever did."
Faces all around brighten up as the 34,000 litre tanker truck rumbles up the street. Soon the station is humming, with all 13 functional pumps working non- stop. The station's administration -- all government employees -- seem very proud of their operation, showing off letters of commendation. Still, manager Ayad Mostafa Shaker doesn't see the day coming anytime soon when his station will be able to function without the constant presence of the ICDC troops and the routine daily check-ins by US soldiers in tanks.
"The people are still too tense," he said. "I need protection, especially that of the Americans. The people are afraid of them."
12.30pm: Ateyfiya station. The situation isn't nearly as harmonious at this small privately run station in the downtrodden Shi'ite neighbourhood of Qadhemiya. Cars line the street in a loose double stack. Around the back, hundreds of black-robed women jostle in the mud to buy heating oil. The day before, station employees caused a ruckus by announcing that kerosene had run out in the middle of the day. An Iraqi soldier checked the storage tank and discovered that 14,000 litres remained. The employees professed apologetic shock, but the soldiers remain convinced they were planning to sell the excess on the black market.
Meanwhile, the station's owners have found themselves in a looming dispute with the Ministry of Petroleum, which could shut them down. The day before, a ministry official stopped in and announced that their seven-month-old 15- year contract was being cancelled and that the station was being reclaimed. No reason was given, they said, claiming that ministry officials hope to squeeze them out and install cronies in a sweetheart deal.
"There are mafias inside the Ministry of Petroleum," says station manager Qais Abu Mohamed. "Things like this never happened, even under Saddam."
Ministry of Petroleum inspector Salah Hassan, when interviewed at another station, was unable to comment on the specifics of the Ateyfiya case. But he said the private station owners are notorious for diverting their stock to the black market and encouraging the fuel shortages. He sounded almost sympathetic -- saying the state-run economics of their situation make a certain amount of corruption almost mandatory. The private stations pay 31 million dinars (about $18,200) per year for their franchise, and aren't allowed to sell their gas for more than 20 dinars per litre. With each tanker producing 10,000 dinars (less than $6) of profit at that price, and a per-station average of one or two tankers per day, the math simply doesn't add up.
"The legal path won't cover their bills," he said.
Either way, the ministry has announced its intention to starve the station's fuel supply and force them to surrender the keys. At 2.30pm, disaster looms; the station is down to 4,000 litres -- almost the minimum required to maintain pump pressure.
Into the midst of this mess come two tanks from the 3rd Brigade 13th Armour Division on a routine daily check-in. The soldiers are quickly sucked into a mediating role, with the station owners ranting to them about ministerial power games. Clearly blind-sided by the unexpected situation, the soldiers chase away curious journalists.
There's little they can do except promise to take their concerns to their commander, but it's a telling point that the station owners instinctively cast the Americans in the role of saviour. Nobody asked the half-dozen armed ICDC soldiers to help solve their problems.
Major Shawn Mahana, an army civil affairs officer, said it's no surprise the US troops are being asked to mediate a dispute they have neither the background to understand nor the authority to handle.
"Right now we are the biggest people on the block," he said. "Over time [the ICDC] is going to have to acquire the confidence and trust of the Iraqi people."
The army's main mission in regard to Baghdad's approximately 100 gas stations is symbolic, but vital, Mahana said. They're there to show a public US commitment to keep the lines moving, and to discourage officials, from the ministry down to the stations, from going into business for themselves.
"Not to point any fingers, but if the ministry knows we're watching and the people in charge of distribution know we're watching ... I'm not saying it eliminates corruption, but it does help limit it," he said.
It's no accident, he noted, that the fuel supply situation started improving two weeks ago, shortly after the army decided to make regular daily appearances at select stations.
"Shortages happen when we take our eye off the ball," Mahana said.
5.30pm: But often, despite the best intentions, the fuel just simply runs out. The Yarmuk station is closed down. The gas ran out an hour before, with approximately 76,000 litres sold that day. The growing darkness means there will not be another daily shipment; the tankers don't run at night for safety reasons. Shaker, the manager, laments the circumstances -- especially since the odd/ even system means that the customers who were turned away won't be able to come back for two days.
Still he professes optimism, credits the influence of the daily army presence and hopes the Americans won't leave Iraq "for years". Asked if he thinks the US will pull out of Iraq this year, Shaker says, "I don't think so. I hope not."
7pm: No such optimism reigns in Qadhemiya. The gas ran out by 3pm, and a group of owners and managers slump moodily in the office. There are plans to approach several ministry officials the next day, but the mood is one of black humour.
One man announces, "We've been placed under sanctions," and another half-jokes about staging a sit-in strike. They toss around the irony that a perfectly functional gas station has just been closed down in an oil-rich country where demand is healthy.
"Even when the tanks were rolling through the streets, even through the looting, we kept this station open," says Abu Mohamed, the station manager. "Now this is what shuts us down?"
