September 25, 2006
Baghdad Journal
As Iraqi Lights Flicker, ‘Generator Man’ Feels Heat
By KIRK SEMPLE

BAGHDAD — In offices across Iraq, a ritual plays out every morning during the hottest months. Haggard employees drag themselves into the room, mumble a pleasantry or two and slump into their chairs, moaning about what a bad night’s sleep they had: the power went out, the backup generator was broken, the heat was unbearable, the baby would not stop crying, mosquitoes were everywhere.

Inevitably, these grievances, like hornets, will gather in a single cloud of fury and swoop down on one target: the generator man, probably the most vilified figure in Iraqi society after Saddam Hussein.

Iraq has three sources of electrical power. At the low end is the frail national grid, which provides only about one hour of electricity every four hours — a total of six hours a day — and sometimes less.

At the top is the small, personal-size generator, a feature in many homes, though the steadily rising cost of fuel now makes it a luxury for most families.

Filling the gap, and carrying the load for much of urban Iraq, is the generator man, owner and operator of the neighborhood power plant. Throughout Baghdad, for example, there is at least one generator every few blocks to help power nearby homes and businesses.

The machines sit beneath corrugated tin roofs, on patches of sidewalk or in empty lots — hulking contraptions the size of small cars, jury-rigged with tubes and pipes that sputter and belch and make a deafening racket.

Customers run colored wires from their homes to the local generator by way of utility poles, converging with others into one wild, polychromatic river of wire that plunges through the roof of the generator shack, stopping at a makeshift fuse board.

In theory, the generator man provides 10 to 12 hours of power a day during periods of peak demand, seamlessly switching on when the national grid switches off. His services are especially valued during summer, when temperatures usually hover well over 100 degrees and air-conditioners are essential for sleep.

In addition, the generator man offers a better option, theoretically, than the personal generator, allowing families to pay less for a stronger current that will allow them to run all their major appliances simultaneously, rather than having to decide whether to forgo the television and computer for the washing machine or the air-conditioner and hair dryer for the refrigerator.

A subscription for about 10 amperes from the generator man — typical for an average middle-class family here in the capital — costs about $65 a month, a mere fraction of the cost of drawing a similar current from a personal generator for several hours a day.

But in practice, most here say, the generator man often falls way short of his promises.

“My generator man?” seethed a seemingly well-adjusted, middle-class mother in Baghdad one recent sleep-deprived morning. “I want to cut his head off.”

Many Iraqis say the generator man employs various tricks to try to save himself money: he starts his generator late and turns it off early; he prolongs repairs after breakdowns, both real and bogus; he claims he cannot get fuel because of national fuel shortages. Yet, they say, he never reimburses customers for lost hours.

“They are a bunch of thieves!” said Yusra, 47, an industrial engineer who lives in the relatively prosperous Mansour neighborhood in Baghdad and who requested that her last name not be published for fear of reprisals from her generator man. “We are 99.9 percent dependent on them! They are ruling our lives — not day by day, but hour by hour!”

Firas, 19, a university student who lives in Saidiya, a middle-class Baghdad neighborhood, and who asked that his last name not be published, said his generator man fiddled with the wires that lead to the homes of customers who offended him, causing interruptions to the service, or decreasing the current.

Talk to the generator man, however, and you will meet the self-styled savior of the republic.

“It’s a tiring job,” sighed a generator man who gave his name as Abu Fatma to protect his identity. His generator supplies power to about 95 homes and businesses.

Like the dozen or so other generator men interviewed for this article, Abu Fatma, 28, and his brother and partner, Hatem Abdul Karim, 22, were good-natured and remarkably unfazed by the hate they engendered.

On a recent afternoon, the brothers were hanging out around the corner from the generator, waiting for the national power grid to shut down so they could jump into action. Next to the generator was a small, windowless hut, not much bigger than the generator itself, containing a mattress and a television. This is where Mr. Karim, as the chief operator, lives round-the-clock.

The way the brothers see it, they are providing a very important service and a very difficult one under difficult circumstances. Rather than complain, they say, their clients should appreciate their hard work in the face of mounting fuel prices, chronic fuel shortages, dirty fuel that clogs up the machinery, the uncertainties of the national grid that require 24-hour vigilance, and costly and time-consuming repairs.

“The people, they only think about themselves,” said Abu Fatma, his fingers stained with grease, sounding not so much resentful as resigned. “They complain and complain.”

During one generator breakdown, his brother’s shack was pummeled with sandals and other shoes, one of the worst insults in the Arab world. Mr. Karim and other generator men say they have been physically attacked by furious customers.

Generally, though, customers will vent by telephone.

“We should start the power at 1 p.m.,” said Moyid, co-owner of a generator in a residential section of the upscale Karada neighborhood, who gave only his first name. “If it turns 1:05 and we haven’t provided the power, the phone won’t stop ringing.”

As if on cue, his cellphone rang. It was past 1 p.m.

“I’m very sorry,” Moyid told the caller, explaining that he had been distracted by a journalist and had lost track of the time. As he cranked up the generator, which erupted in a roar, one of his partners retrieved another cellphone dedicated to the generator and discovered it had received 30 unanswered phone calls in recent minutes. Everyone laughed.

Generator men insist that the laws of the free market apply to their business — the unhappy customer can always run his line to another generator. (Generator men are squirrelly when it comes to questions about earnings and say, simply, that the competition is tough and their profit margins slender. )

But disgruntled customers are often dissuaded from switching by the expense of running a new wire to another generator and paying a new subscription fee. And for many who switch, life remains the same.

“This year we changed our subscription three times, from bad to worse,” said Firas, the university student. His family, he said, had fallen victim to a ploy commonly used by new generator men: they begin by offering more hours and lower rates than their competitors, but once they have captured a share of the market, they lower their hours and raise their rates.

Generator men are supposedly regulated by local district councils, which are charged with ensuring fair rates and energy supply. But many Iraqis say this system is a joke and rarely enforced.

The generator man, said Yusra, the industrial engineer, is just one of many travails Iraqis have to deal with daily, from corruption to foreign meddling to poor public services. “You want to smack him but you have to smile at him,” she grumbled. “You can’t think about dignity.”

“We are a humiliated people,” she said.

The generator man, perhaps because of his visibility and accessibility, becomes the embodiment of all that is wrong in Iraq — or, at least, all that is not working as it is supposed to work, which to most people is just about everything.

“Most of our customers are really angry,” said Muhammad, a university student and the co-owner of a generator in Karada. He also preferred not to give his full name. He was lounging with his two partners on the carpeted floor of a concrete and brick hut next to their machine, waiting for the national grid to shut down.

“Very few people sympathize with us,” he said. “Most care only about themselves.”

Ali Adeeb, Sahar Nageeb, Khalid W. Hassan and an Iraqi employee of The New York Times contributed reporting.