From Spiritual Care to Political Representation
When the Iraqi state collapsed after 2003 and its security and social institutions disintegrated, the Assyrian “Christian” community found itself facing an existential dilemma: how to protect itself on the one hand, and how to be represented on the other.
At first, the role of the Church—particularly the Chaldean Catholic Church—appeared traditional: spiritual protection, social support, and a moral umbrella. However, this role gradually took on a new dimension during the tenure of Patriarch Emmanuel III Delly and later his successor Louis Raphael Sako, becoming more explicit and organized.
The discourse of “citizenship” adopted by the Patriarch, his extensive presence in international forums, and his repeated statements on public affairs were no longer confined to defending rights; they entered directly into redefining Christian politics. On more than one occasion, the Patriarchate announced explicit political positions, criticized specific Christian political forces, and supported certain political trajectories and alliances, placing the Church in the position of a political actor rather than merely a spiritual authority.
The clearest and most significant transformation came with the establishment of the Chaldean League in 2015, which was explicitly presented as a civil framework but remained organically linked to the Chaldean Patriarchate in discourse, leadership, and objectives. In practice, the League represented an attempt to create a political and social arm of the Church—speaking in the name of the “Chaldeans,” but according to an ecclesiastical vision rather than the logic of political plurality or democratic circulation of power.
In this sense, the Church was no longer merely supportive of representation but rather became its producer and regulator.
In previous statements by Sako concerning the situation of Christians in Iraq—where he described them as a “scapegoat” in identity and power struggles—he emphasized that demographic change in Christian areas is not a natural phenomenon but the result of a struggle over land and authority. He warned against internal divisions and presented his vision of a civil Iraqi state where citizens enjoy equal rights and duties.
This discourse appeared, on the surface, to be defensive on behalf of a threatened community. Yet at its core it was profoundly political, as it went beyond the Church’s spiritual role to attempt to shape Christian politics in Iraq—thus blurring the traditional boundary between religious authority and civil power.
The transformation of the Chaldean Church into an active political actor went beyond rhetoric and extended into electoral politics and alliances. This was accompanied by the strengthening of a discourse calling for Christian unity under a unified religious umbrella, rather than leaving representation to nationalist or civil movements that had emerged during the Ba‘ath era, including armed movements such as the Assyrian Democratic Movement (Zowaa) or parties established after 2003.
How Did It Begin? The Era of the Iraqi Ba‘ath
This transformation cannot be understood outside the structural context of the Iraqi state itself. From the monarchy and the Simel Massacre of 1933 to the Ba‘athist regime, Christians—like other communities—were subjected to the logic of a unitary nationalist state in which non-Arab national identities were marginalized and replaced with general and politically emptied designations.
During that period, the Church adapted to the ruling authority in order to preserve the community’s existence, which strengthened its social position while weakening any independent political representation. This legacy resurfaced strongly after 2003, when the state collapsed and the Church emerged as the most cohesive institution amid chaos.
In this context, figures such as Tariq Aziz, the prominent Ba‘ath Party leader born in the town of Tel Keppe, played a role in shaping this trajectory. Aziz—an ardent Arab nationalist and one of Saddam Hussein’s most loyal supporters—helped redirect both the state’s and the Church’s narrative toward describing this people as “Arab Christians.”
At the same time, linguistic transformations occurred: the common designation used by Assyrians in their native language, “Suraya – ܐܣܘܪܝܐ,” meaning Assyrian, was reinterpreted to mean “Christian,” and the language known colloquially as “Surath – ܣܘܪܬܼ” was referred to simply as a “Christian language.” This was part of the Arabization policy adopted by the Ba‘athist regime, which the Church deepened under the justification of avoiding conflict with the state and the ruling system.
The consequences were catastrophic for the community: a loss of self-identity and, eventually, the erosion of language among large segments of the population—particularly among Catholic and Orthodox Assyrians in Baghdad, Basra, and Mosul.
At the heart of this project lay the question of naming as an instrument of power. The push to adopt “Christians” as a collective designation—at the expense of Assyrian and Syriac national identities—was not a mere linguistic detail but a structural choice that reduced the community to the status of a sect rather than a people.
As scholars of minority affairs in Iraq—most notably Saad Salloum—have argued, transforming a community into a political sect renders it more fragile, easier to manage, and more dependent on systems of protection rather than on citizenship.
This trajectory coincided with complex relationships with influential political forces, particularly in northern Iraq. The Church saw these relationships as a network of protection in the absence of a strong state, but the cost was a deepening division within the Christian community itself and the emptying of representation of its independent substance.
Instead of a unified front demanding the safe return to the Nineveh Plains, the restoration of confiscated lands, and the establishment of fair local administration, Christians found themselves divided among overlapping religious and political authorities competing for legitimacy rather than complementing each other.
What is happening today is therefore not simply a conflict between religion and politics, but a struggle over monopolizing the public sphere within a fragile community. The Church, which began as a last refuge in a moment of collapse, gradually transformed into a representative authority seeking to regulate politics in the name of protection. Meanwhile, civil and nationalist organizations saw their capacity for action diminish—not only because of their internal weaknesses but also because of the weight of the religious institution and its alliances.
Without a clear redefinition of the boundaries between spiritual authority and political decision-making, the Christian community will remain trapped in a fatal equation: protection without citizenship, and representation without accountability. Such a condition threatens what remains of its collective agency in an Iraq that has yet to resolve its relationship with its minorities.
Post-2003 Internal Alliances: The Discourse of Coexistence and the Land Disputes File
What makes the situation even more complex is not merely the Church’s intervention in politics but the nature of the alliances formed in this context.
In the Kurdish-led region, a close relationship emerged between certain Christian political forces and local parties, particularly the Kurdish Democratic Party (KDP). The KDP became a platform attracting numerous Christian political or representative groups, including several parties within what is known as the Christian Alliance, led by Ano Abdoka—a political coalition established to represent “Christians in the Kurdish Region and Iraq in general.”
This alliance, which includes parties such as the Chaldean Democratic Party and other components, was presented as a collective political force. However, it became widely known for its proximity to the KDP Party, raising fundamental questions among Christians regarding the independence of such representation compared with reliance on regional political support.
These alliances did not remain at the level of theoretical politics; they were accompanied by tangible social inequalities in the daily lives of Christians in areas such as Erbil and Ankawa.
These areas witnessed a transformation in economic and social life, including the emergence of entertainment venues and bars, leading some observers to argue that economic and social pressure is gradually pushing landowners to sell their properties due to slow attrition, in the absence of effective governmental protection.
Although no official statistical studies have been published on this transformation, the reality in Ankawa raises serious questions about the viability of economic protection for Christians amid the rise of unconventional commercial activities and the neglect of property rights.
This contradiction between the Church’s discourse of coexistence and alliance, on the one hand, and the reality of social and economic violations in Christian areas, on the other, reveals a paradox: the adoption of a grand narrative of symbolic protection while ignoring issues of land and livelihood.
At another level, land encroachments on Christian property in the Kurdish-led region have been the subject of several protests. One notable case involved preventing Christians from demonstrating against land seizures in areas such as Nahla Valley, where encroachments included the expansion of buildings onto Christian land despite the owners possessing legal property deeds.
This reflects a painful reality: while the Church is drawn into high-level politics and regional alliances, ordinary Christians are often left to confront their land and social problems on their own or through political entities tied to alliances that fail to represent them effectively.
Between the Past and the Future
All of the above converges on a central point: the redefinition of Assyrians through the concept of a “Christian identity” in Iraq.
Naming is not merely a word; it is a political instrument that determines who possesses a voice in decision-making, who speaks on behalf of the community, and who defines the nature of conflict or hope for the future.
The push for the Church to become the primary actor in representation, combined with regional alliances such as the Christian Alliance close to the KDP Party, weakens the ability of Assyrian civil and nationalist organizations to formulate independent democratic alternatives.
These alliances—often presented as protective arrangements—place the Christian community in increasing dependence on regional powers, raising concerns about the possibility of independent negotiation in Baghdad or in historically Christian regions such as the Nineveh Plains.
Within this framework, calls for unity within a religious-political structure have not yet translated into a genuine representative force capable of protecting land or amplifying the voice of Assyrian “Christians” in the capital, in parliament, or in the broader civic sphere.
The absence of a clear political program independent of traditional alliance networks has allowed the community’s voice to recede before actors more skilled in navigating the rules of regional political competition.
While some religious and political leaders continue to speak of citizenship and coexistence, the question remains: can these discourses truly materialize if they are not translated into concrete measures that protect land, rights, and dignity?
Experiences of property protests, transformations in the local economy of Ankawa, and ongoing land encroachments all indicate that this community requires stronger and less dependent representation—along with a civil political discourse capable of balancing religious identity with civil rights.
