Power itself is not the issue. The question is how, in some societies, it ceases to be a public function and becomes a centre of psychological and social attraction, drawing people into its orbit and reshaping their relationships, standards, and judgements. What invites reflection is that this phenomenon appears more deeply entrenched in certain Arab contexts. Its manifestations in Iraq since 2003 may warrant particular examination through political sociology and social psychology, with the aim of understanding rather than moral condemnation.
Here, I shall confine myself to the world I know intimately: the world of poetry and culture, the sanctuary in which I was born and where, despite everything, I remain crucified by my devotion.
A familiar scene recurs at almost every cultural occasion: a poet assumes a senior position in the state, or a writer becomes a government official, and the very people who scarcely acknowledged them yesterday now compete to draw near. They surround the newly appointed official with lavish praise, invitations, commemorative photographs, and compliments that exceed the bounds of legitimate appreciation, creating an aura of personal reverence.
This is not confined to poetry festivals or literary events. It extends to the opening of an art exhibition, a cultural salon, or a social gathering that may have little to do with the official’s field of expertise. It is as though office, rather than achievement, has become the source of value.
This raises a philosophical and sociological question: why are people more attracted to power than to knowledge? Why does public office become a measure of cultural standing?
I cannot answer these questions through abstract theorising alone. I can, however, set them alongside my experiences in other societies.
In Germany, where I worked for many years within state institutions and civil society organisations, I did not encounter this immense distance between public officials and citizens. I still remember meeting the philosopher Professor Julian Nida-Rümelin, then Germany’s Minister of State for Culture, on the occasion of the inauguration of the East–West Diwan Foundation, to whose board I had been elected chair in 2000.
His office was small, situated in an ordinary government building, with no display of grandeur. A flask of coffee and another of tea stood on a side table, and the minister himself served his visitors. Within German institutional culture, this was an ordinary scene, not an exceptional one. During our conversation, he asked me:
“Which party do you belong to?”
I replied with a smile:
“I belong to the party of poetry.”
He smiled in return and said:
“Then it is the most dangerous party of all.”
The exchange was more than a pleasant joke. It expressed a culture in which knowledge and dialogue take precedence over office, and in which a public official serves society rather than standing above it.
In Yemen, despite the complexities of its political circumstances, I encountered another example that I have never forgotten: the distinguished poet Dr Abdulaziz al-Maqaleh. He held several senior positions, serving as President of Sana’a University, Director of the Yemen Centre for Studies and Research, and Cultural Adviser to the President of the Republic.
Al-Maqaleh was also known for his unassuming way of life, his humility, and his refusal to parade the trappings of power. He was not surrounded by motorcades, security details, or the rituals that separate officials from the public. He remained a poet before he was an official, and his humanity remained greater than his office.
In Iraq, particularly after 2003, power acquired a different dimension. The public image of the official grew so inflated that office came to appear as a personal privilege rather than a public responsibility. Regrettably, the cultural sphere was not immune to this phenomenon. Many who moved from poetry or literature into positions within the state accepted, whether tacitly or willingly, privileges that they knew, in their innermost judgement, exceeded any reasonable bounds.
My concern here is not with particular individuals, but with the culture that has made such privileges appear normal, even desirable. Meanwhile, creative figures who have devoted their lives to the service of knowledge cannot afford the medicine they need.
How can we accept that a researcher spends a lifetime preserving cultural heritage, only for a cultural institution to decline to publish their work on the grounds of insufficient funds, while hundreds of millions are spent in the same year on celebrations and ceremonial displays? I recall here the example of the researcher Dr Khairallah Saeed, who devoted his life to documenting Iraqi folk literature. At a time when the Ministry of Culture declared itself unable to finance the publication of his encyclopaedia, the former Deputy Minister, Judge Muhannad al-Dulaimi, stated that the budget for the Baghdad Capital of Culture celebrations had amounted to approximately US$600 million.
The problem is not the holding of celebrations: culture, too, needs spaces for celebration. It lies in a distorted hierarchy of priorities, in which image is valued more highly than knowledge, and media spectacle matters more than scholarly endeavour.
From a sociological perspective, this phenomenon is more than an individual propensity for flattery. It reflects a social structure that continues to regard power as the primary source of livelihood, protection, prestige, and opportunity. As institutions weaken, the personalisation of power intensifies. Where opportunities are not distributed fairly, proximity to decision-makers becomes a substitute for competence.
From the perspective of social psychology, fear of marginalisation, the desire for recognition, and a sense of insecurity about one’s standing can all drive individuals to seek shelter in the shadow of power, even at the cost of their ethical independence.
What is most painful, however, is to see this behaviour extend to intellectuals.
The intellectual’s vocation does not require perpetual opposition to power, nor hostility for its own sake. Yet independence of judgement is the intellectual’s true capital. Once intellectuals surrender their inner freedom and become seekers of official approval, they lose the most important source of legitimacy for their role.
Life has taught me that public officials deserve respect not because of the offices they hold, but because of the extent to which they respect the limits of those offices. It has also taught me that a true intellectual is measured not by proximity to power, but by the space of freedom they preserve between themselves and it.
Perhaps the question we should ask ourselves is not: why do people change when someone attains power?
There is a deeper, more unsettling question:
Why, in our own consciousness, do we assign greater value to power than to the human being?
When office becomes more important than knowledge, privilege more important than service, and proximity to an official more important than proximity to truth, we have moved from a society governed by institutions to one governed by auras of prestige. Politics is not the only casualty; culture suffers too. Culture can flourish only in a climate that safeguards the dignity of those who create it and makes achievement the measure of worth, rather than the chair its author occupies.