Iraq: three years on

Before first light on 20 March 2003 missiles rained down on Baghdad as the American-led invasion began. Saddam's regime was toppled but, three years on, the war still rages. About 35,000 Iraqis, 2,500 allied troops and 109 journalists are dead. The lives of millions have changed forever. Here are some of their stories Sunday March 12, 2006 The Observer The poet

'My mission was to try and rehumanise our society' Abdullah al-Baghdadi, 41, a poet, lives in the Karrada district of Baghdad

On 9 April 2003, when I saw the statue of Saddam being hauled to the ground in Baghdad's al-Fardous square, I had such hopes for the future. Seeing the tyrant lolling on his back with a rope around his neck was the ultimate in poetic justice. It opened up all sorts of possibilities for artists and intellectuals in Iraq. Previously half-formed thoughts and ambitions began to solidify in our minds.

Inspired by the name of the movie, I decided to form an Iraqi Dead Poets' Society - so named because all of us had spent the past 35 years like dead men walking. I contacted all the poets I knew. It wasn't easy; all the phone lines were down. I sent letters and taxis and messengers across Baghdad, hunting down the pens that I knew could help beat the sword. And the reaction was overwhelmingly positive.

I would find a suitable venue, a 'Poetry HQ', and we would meet weekly for readings of our work. All the poems and poets banned or suppressed under Saddam would have a chance to live and breathe again. We would issue a monthly magazine in both Arabic and English. We would invite poets from the West to come and share their inspirations with us, to bypass the artificially imposed barriers that had been in place for far too long.

We would also form a poetry club for the youth of Iraq, who had been starved of all beauty under the Baathist regime. I remember how three years ago I had this passion - I felt it almost as a mission - to rehumanise our thoroughly brutalised society.

I also wanted to override the images of concrete blast barriers, barbed wire, suicide bombs and mortar shells that were threatening to take hold of our imaginations after the first few months of liberation. I believed all that had been destroyed could be recreated again, in verse, by us poets. Any destruction of any thing means the death of part of a poet's soul.

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