Can Baghdad’s Booksellers Survive the Selfie Era?

With foot traffic rising but book sales falling, Baghdad’s booksellers are adapting to a country and a culture in flux

These days, shops on Al Mutanabbi Street stay open late, catering to a new crowd in Baghdad’s famous book market. As darkness falls, the atmosphere shifts—people come to snap photos, munch on street food, and soak in the buzz.

The historic street has long been a rare constant in a city defined by upheaval—a sanctuary for intellectuals, academics, and book lovers. But in recent years, regulars have found themselves rubbing shoulders with tourists and Instagrammers. New attractions have drawn a different crowd, bringing both challenges and opportunities for the booksellers who’ve called this place home for decades.

“It’s become a hotspot for influencers and trend-chasers, leading to overcrowding by people uninterested in culture or reading,” says Safaa Dhiab, who owns Shahriyar Publishing and once ran a bookstore on Al Mutanabbi Street. “As a result, many genuine readers have been driven away.”

Named after the 10th-century classical Arab poet Al-Mutanabbi, the street has long been Baghdad’s literary heart and a symbol of intellectual freedom, drawing students, writers, and scholars alike.

Veteran booksellers, many of whom have run family publishing houses for over 30 years, remember the street in its prime, when Baghdad was known as the city that reads. As the old saying went: “Cairo writes, Beirut publishes, Baghdad reads.”

Today, some worry that identity is slipping away. A broader decline in book sales has affected sellers across Iraq, and renovations completed in 2021 brought a surge of juice and food vendors, forcing book stalls out of prime space and driving up rents. “The street today has become more of a place for selling food than for selling books,” Dhiab says.

Others have adapted, seeing the influx of visitors as a new kind of opportunity. Ayam Rasheed opened her bookstore, Dar-Ayam, five years ago, fulfilling a dream. She welcomes the crowds, especially during the sweltering summer months when book sales typically slump.

“The renovation efforts have helped attract new visitors to the street,” she says. “Naturally, this has led to an increase in sales, both of books and other items.”

Bookselling has never been easy in Iraq, but a small uptick offers reason for cautious optimism. Revenue in Iraq’s book market is projected to hit $36.99 million in 2025, with a modest annual growth rate of 0.67%.

Changing reading habits, driven by smartphones and the internet, have forced many bookstores to evolve. Some now offer home delivery and online orders. Others have broadened their stock to include stationery and other materials to stay afloat.

Still, many report a steep drop in sales, particularly since the COVID-19 pandemic. “Reader preferences across the Arab world shifted, and publishers could no longer predict what books would sell,” says Dhiab.

Piracy, which is widespread across the region, has exacerbated the situation. “They take a book that a publisher invested thousands of dollars to produce and print unauthorized copies, selling them for less than two dollars,” Dhiab laments. “They care only about profit, not rights.”

Dhiab founded Shahriyar Publishing House and Shahriyar Bookstore in 2017 to publish works in literature, philosophy, sociology, and critical thought. “I was never concerned with profits as much as I was with producing books that mattered to me and building a reading community.”

Iraq’s literary scene has seen a modest revival in recent years, buoyed by a relative sense of calm. But any talk of a cultural renaissance is tempered by the looming threat of regional war, as Iraq finds itself caught between Israel and Iran.

Instability is nothing new. In the 1990s, Saddam Hussein’s regime imposed harsh censorship laws, banning books and punishing anyone who dared sell, distribute, or display materials deemed politically or morally unacceptable.

“Only books that served the dictatorship were allowed,” says Bilal Mohsen, who runs Dar Sutoor, a bookstore and publishing house in Erbil, the capital of Iraq’s Kurdish region.

With sanctions curbing book imports and consumer spending power, second-hand book stalls flourished. Writers and intellectuals laid out their own collections along Al Mutanabbi Street, transforming it into an open-air library of sorts.

“People became thirsty for new knowledge,” says Mohsen, whose shop became a hub for literary life after the fall of Saddam’s regime.

After the U.S.-led invasion in 2003, censorship laws eased—but new threats emerged. In 2007, a devastating car bomb tore through Al Mutanabbi Street, killing 30 people and injuring hundreds more.

The attack on Baghdad’s literary landmark sent shockwaves around the world. Writers and artists responded with solidarity campaigns, exhibitions, and works dedicated to the street’s legacy.

Then, in 2012, disaster struck again. Iraqi troops bulldozed vendor stalls in a crackdown on street book-selling. Soldiers arrived in the dead of night, smashing the wooden stands that lined the street.

The raid came just as book sales were rebounding. But the literary community wasn’t deterred. Within weeks, young Iraqis organized the annual “I am an Iraqi, I Read” festival to celebrate books and culture.

The event, still going strong, distributes thousands of free books each year on topics ranging from politics and history to poetry and science. It has become a symbol of youth-led literary revival in the digital age.

“We focus on providing books to those who need them but can’t afford them,” says Amer Muayad Muhi, who heads the organization. “Freedom of expression at the festival is guaranteed. Opposing ideas can often be found side by side—perhaps even on the same table.”

But that kind of openness is increasingly rare at Iraqi book fairs. While no books are officially banned, vague laws allow authorities to quietly police what’s allowed. Inspections have become commonplace, and vendors face pressure to self-censor.

Nashwa Naim Naser, who opened Ishtar Bookshop four years ago in the conservative province of Al-Muthanna, has been subject to multiple inspections. “If my collection included books classified as promoting atheism, covering the Baath era, or deemed ‘morally inappropriate,’ I’d be questioned,” she says. “Once, I was asked to shut down my exhibit and sign a pledge not to display those books again.”

She signed the pledge. Now, she double-checks her stock before heading to fairs. “I was very scared,” she admits.

This kind of self-censorship is spreading. Publishers and sellers are wary of scrutiny. Writers, too, struggle to find publishers willing to take a chance on risky work.

Novelist Muna Al Jabri opened her bookstore, Avitoria, on Al Mutanabbi Street five years ago, with a mission to support authors who challenge the status quo. “There are a lot of books you can’t publish in Iraq,” she said at the time, particularly those on politics, religion, or powerful institutions.

“This is not healthy. As a writer, you have to be free to write everything you want—to solve problems in society and speak the truth about what happens in Iraq.”

But eventually, Al Jabri had to shutter her store and move online. As one of the few female booksellers on the street, she says she faced hostility from male peers. “It’s a man’s world,” she says, describing efforts by some to push her out.

Now she’s focused on advancing women’s rights in Iraq and raising awareness about gender equality. “I encourage women to take the initiative and fight for their rights,” she says. “I promise to come back stronger than ever—and to open a publishing house on Al Mutanabbi Street.”

Al Mutanabbi Street has survived war, censorship, and economic collapse, not by remaining unchanged, but by adapting in ways both hopeful and fraught. Today, its future lies in the tension between what it was and what it’s becoming—a marketplace of ideas squeezed between commerce and control. Whether it can remain a space for free thought and genuine literary exchange will depend not just on the resilience of its booksellers, but on the willingness of Iraq’s next generation to keep reading, and to insist that the freedom to do so still matters.

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