What Saddam Hussein’s Evil Son Did To FEMALES is Hard to Stomach!
While Saddam Hussein ruled Iraq with an iron fist, his eldest son, Uday Hussein, ruled with something far darker: cruelty, obsession, and violence. Behind closed doors, Uday’s actions went beyond anything most Iraqis had ever seen, especially toward women. But his evil didn’t last long, and the consequences came in 2003 with the fall of Baghdad.
Uday Saddam Hussein was born on June 18, 1964, in Baghdad. As Saddam Hussein’s firstborn son, Uday was raised in a world where fear kept people quiet and privilege gave him everything he wanted. He attended Baghdad College High School, one of the top private schools in the country, reserved mostly for the sons of wealthy or powerful families.
Reports from former classmates describe Uday as arrogant, impatient, and violent. He often yelled at staff, picked fights over small things, and humiliated students in front of others. By the time he turned 13, his interest in weapons and control began to show. He practiced with pistols, shot animals for sport, and demanded obedience from those around him.
During this period, Saddam was appointed Vice President under Ahmed Hassan al-Bakr, and his influence expanded across Iraq. That influence rubbed off on Uday, who saw himself as untouchable. By 1979, when Saddam officially took over as President, Uday was 15. He was already acting like a man in power.
He attended political meetings with his father, watched secret police operations, and sat in on dinners with foreign dignitaries. People were told to treat him like a future leader, not just a child. In the early 1980s, while Iraq was locked in a bloody war with Iran, life in Baghdad was already divided by class and power.
Young Iraqi men were being conscripted and sent to die at the frontlines, while Uday Hussein was untouched by any danger. At just 16, he was already moving freely through the most exclusive circles in Baghdad, military compounds, private clubs, and high-level Ba’ath Party functions. These events were heavily guarded, alcohol was flown in from Europe, and selected entertainers were brought in to please the elite.
Uday was a regular guest, not just because he was Saddam’s son, but because he was starting to build his own image, a mix of wealth, cruelty, and recklessness. He wore custom-made suits, carried gold-plated pistols, and arrived with large entourages. His behavior quickly became more aggressive.
He began to see these gatherings as a place to spot women for himself, not just for entertainment. By 1982, Uday’s private interests had turned into full-blown operations. With the help of Mukhabarat agents, members of Iraq’s intelligence service, he began selecting young women he found attractive. Most were between 15 and 19 years old, often from educated or well-connected families.
Once identified, agents would visit the family home and use different excuses. Sometimes it was for “national service.” Other times, it was a fake award ceremony. But the girls never had a choice. Security personnel would deliver them to one of Uday’s personal residences, including a heavily guarded estate in the Mansour district of Baghdad.
There, the girls were isolated and given orders not to resist. Threats were made not only against them but also against their parents, siblings, and even extended family. In some cases, military officers were stationed outside their homes to make sure the families stayed silent. Inside the villas, Uday didn’t hide his identity. He didn’t need to.
The power he held meant there would be no investigations, no arrests, and no public records. Several former drivers and guards who later defected to Europe described how Uday had personal files stored in locked cabinets. These included the girls’ photos, their school records, home addresses, and phone numbers of relatives. Everything was cataloged with chilling precision.
One of the first widely reported incidents occurred in 1984. A young student at Baghdad University, in her second year of law school, was invited to what her family thought was an academic award ceremony. The invitation came with an official-looking stamp. She left that morning in a government vehicle and never returned.
When her father tried to follow up, security officers showed up at his workplace and warned him to stop asking questions. Weeks later, he was dismissed from his job. No reports were filed. No investigations were opened. And that silence allowed Uday to keep going, unchecked. By 1985, he was no longer just Saddam’s spoiled son; he held real authority.
He was appointed head of the Iraqi Olympic Committee and also took control of the Iraq Football Association. These roles gave him official power over thousands of athletes, coaches, and staff across the country. While it was supposed to promote national sports, Uday used it as a personal hunting ground. He began reshaping the Olympic Committee’s headquarters in Baghdad, installing surveillance systems and expanding private office areas that were off-limits to most staff. These offices weren’t just for paperwork. Some were fitted with
tinted windows and hidden doors, designed to escort women in and out without being noticed. Young female athletes, especially those in individual sports like swimming, gymnastics, and tennis, were the first targets. Many were invited to what were described as “private evaluations” or “performance reviews.
” These meetings took place in Uday’s private office or in guest rooms at hotels where national teams were staying. Some girls were as young as 15. Coaches were ordered not to question these sessions, and anyone who showed concern risked losing their job or worse. By 1986, several families began pulling their daughters out of national programs. Some cited “health reasons” or “academic pressure,” but the real motive was fear.
Word had started spreading quietly, mostly through women’s circles, about girls returning home deeply traumatized, or not returning at all. The Olympic Committee wasn’t Uday’s only tool. He started to influence Iraqi state media as well. In 1987, diplomatic reports from French and Jordanian embassies noted that several female television presenters had vanished from public view.
Most of them were in their early twenties and had been rising stars on national TV. While official records listed them as having “left the country” or “resigned,” their families had no idea where they were. One presenter from Baghdad’s Channel 9 was last seen entering the Ministry of Information for a scheduled taping. She never came out. That same year, Uday expanded his control by acquiring more properties.
In Baghdad alone, he had at least four secure villas under his name, located in neighborhoods like Karrada, Mansour, and Qadisiyah. Another was located just outside Mosul. These homes were guarded 24/7 and had reinforced gates, hidden cameras, and underground chambers. Some were described by insiders as “silent zones” because no sound could be heard from outside once the doors were shut.
With no legal barriers and no moral boundaries, he had everything he needed to do whatever he wanted. In October 1988, he shocked even his inner circle. At a high-profile party attended by military officers, foreign diplomats, and Ba’ath Party elites, Uday suddenly turned violent.
The victim was Kamel Hana Gegeo, Saddam Hussein’s long-time personal servant, food taster, and one of the few people who had daily access to the president. Kamel had known the Hussein family for years, and Uday saw him as part of their household. But that night, fueled by alcohol and paranoia, Uday accused Kamel of introducing Saddam to Samira Shahbandar, his second wife.
Uday resented this relationship, believing it threatened his mother’s position and his own influence. Without warning, Uday grabbed a club, reportedly a gold-handled cane, and began beating Kamel in front of stunned guests. He struck him repeatedly in the head and chest. Kamel died on the spot, bleeding on the marble floor while bodyguards and officials stood frozen, too afraid to intervene.
The murder was not hidden. News of it spread quickly, even reaching Western embassies within hours. But there were no consequences. Uday was not arrested, not tried, not even punished seriously. Saddam, furious at first, reportedly sent Uday to Switzerland for a short exile, but he returned soon after.
What didn’t make headlines was how this same level of violence was being used against women. Around this time, a 17-year-old girl attempted to file a complaint against Uday for se*ual assault. Her report never made it past the local police station. Hours later, she was detained by military intelligence.
Her father, a schoolteacher in Baghdad, tried to speak with authorities but was warned to stay quiet. The family never heard from her again. Neighbors said armed men later moved into their home. Security staff close to Uday described a pattern during this period: women who resisted him faced threats, beatings, or sudden disappearances.
If a woman refused to stay at his residence, guards would escort her to a Ministry of Interior building, where she would be labeled “uncooperative” or “disloyal to the regime.” That label alone was enough to silence any further questions. Uday didn’t leave any opportunity he got to violate women in all the worst ways.
In August 1990, when Saddam Hussein sent Iraqi forces into Kuwait, sparking international outrage and triggering the Gulf War, within months, coalition forces led by the United States launched a massive military response. Iraq faced relentless bombing, its infrastructure was shattered, and tough sanctions were placed on the country. With most of the country distracted by war and survival, Uday used the chaos to intensify his personal operations.
His private security network, which had already been involved in abducting women, became more structured. Blacked-out Mercedes sedans and Land Cruisers were seen more frequently outside schools, parks, and universities. The targets were usually girls between 14 and 17 years old, some still in school uniforms when they were taken.
They were chosen quickly, often based on appearance alone. If anyone asked questions, they were warned or punished. Many of these girls came from neighborhoods in Baghdad, but others were taken from remote towns like Baqubah, Hilla, or Samawah, places where families had little political influence. Some victims didn’t even know who Uday was until it was too late.
They were told they were being taken to meet a “high official” or for a “national honor.” Once inside one of Uday’s heavily guarded compounds, the truth became clear. There was no ceremony. No escape. By early 1991, sources inside the Presidential Palace revealed that Uday had built a small, covert unit specifically for the purpose of identifying and transporting young women.
This group operated quietly under the cover of government work. It included trusted intelligence officers, security drivers, and even medical staff who were there to handle “clean-up” if injuries occurred. They worked directly under Uday’s personal command and used government resources to stay hidden from public view.
The operations were fast and cruel. Girls would be taken, kept for hours or days, and then either released without explanation or never seen again. Some who returned home were physically injured, emotionally shattered, and too afraid to speak. In several cases, families were forced to sign documents saying their daughters had run away or disappeared due to “personal problems.” Refusal to cooperate could lead to arrests or job losses.
By 1993, Uday wanted more than just control behind closed doors; he wanted to shape how Iraqis saw him publicly. That year, he launched his own media platform, including the newspaper Babil and a satellite television channel under the same name. On the surface, it was marketed as modern and youth-friendly, filled with entertainment programs, celebrity interviews, and music segments. But in reality, it served a different purpose. It became a recruitment ground.
Uday began using his channel to scout female talent. Young singers, dancers, presenters, and models were contacted by producers working under Uday’s team. Some were told they had “won” auditions. Others were promised stardom or contracts. While a few did agree to appear voluntarily, many of them quickly realized the real reason they were being contacted.
Once they appeared on his shows, they were summoned for private meetings, either at media offices or directly at his residences. Refusing meant consequences. One of the most disturbing cases during this period occurred in 1994. A popular singer from the Basra region, known for her appearances on local television, was invited to perform privately at one of Uday’s palaces.
She was accompanied by a small band and told it was a state-sponsored event. But once inside, she was separated from the others. According to later reports, she refused Uday’s demands. Weeks later, her death was announced. Authorities claimed she had taken her own life. Her body was quickly buried by government order, and her family was never given full access to the remains.
While the media gave Uday a cover of legitimacy, it also gave him more influence over Iraq’s entertainment scene. He began holding regular parties at al-Radwaniyah Palace, one of the most heavily fortified residences near Baghdad International Airport.
These events were organized under the pretense of “celebrations” or “cultural nights,” but the real focus was power, excess, and control. The guest list included military commanders, senior Ba’ath officials, and foreign businessmen involved in oil and infrastructure deals. Among them were young girls.
Witnesses who later escaped Iraq described the environment as hostile and tightly controlled. Armed guards stood at the exits. Phones were confiscated. Alcohol and narcotics were served freely. Women who tried to leave were physically stopped. By the late 1990s, Uday’s behavior had moved into a darker and even more disturbing phase. No longer satisfied with the entertainment industry or elite circles, he began focusing directly on Iraq’s most vulnerable, teenage girls in schools and women attending private family events.
In Baghdad and surrounding areas, public high schools received quiet orders from the Ministry of Education. Principals were told to identify and report girls who were not just top students but also “presentable” and “well-mannered.” These were coded terms, understood by staff as a selection process for Uday.
Teachers were often too afraid to question the requests. Some tried to leave students off the lists or warn families in secret, but those caught interfering were reassigned, detained, or threatened by internal security. Once the names were gathered, government officials, usually posing as education representatives, visited the girls’ homes.
They claimed the girls had been chosen for awards, scholarships, or special youth programs run by the Presidential Office. Families were flattered, and in a country where success often came through connections, many agreed. Girls left in state vehicles, dressed for official events, never realizing they were being taken to one of Uday’s private compounds.
Some families received a phone call days later telling them their daughters were “under evaluation” or “serving the nation.” Others heard nothing. When parents tried to contact ministries or police, they were ignored or warned to stay silent. In some cases, brothers or uncles who pushed too hard were arrested.
Girls who eventually returned were visibly traumatized. Some were dropped off at night, without any explanation. Uday’s targeting didn’t stop at schools. By 1998, weddings across Baghdad, Tikrit, and Karbala became high-risk events. Uday would arrive at these ceremonies uninvited, often with dozens of armed bodyguards and luxury vehicles. The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Music would stop. Guests would freeze. Uday would walk in, scan the crowd, and if he took interest in a bride, bridesmaid, or even a guest, she would be ordered to leave with him. At a wedding in Karbala in late 1998, a 19-year-old woman was taken hours after the ceremony began.
Guests were told to remain seated as she was escorted out. Her body was found days later on the outskirts of the city. It showed clear signs of physical abuse and torture. Her father, a civil servant, demanded an investigation. He was arrested the next day and disappeared from public records. These acts became so common that families started scaling back weddings, keeping them private or limiting guests to avoid attracting attention.
Schools began avoiding any type of public recognition for students. Honors programs were quietly shut down. Fear spread beyond Baghdad, reaching towns like Najaf, Fallujah, and Diwaniyah. Meanwhile, defectors who fled Iraq and later spoke to the United Nations revealed the existence of a monthly “disappearance list.
” This list was managed by a small team working under Uday’s personal office. It recorded the names of women taken each month, their origin, age, and whether they had returned. Most names were never crossed off. The list was kept on secure servers, with backup copies stored in safe houses guarded by elite Republican Guard units. By the turn of the millennium, Uday had grown even more dangerous.
Saddam, now in his sixties and facing health issues, was stepping back from daily affairs. This gave Uday more space to act without oversight. To make sure his victims could never speak or escape, Uday began setting up private detention centers, completely outside of Iraq’s legal system. Two main locations were later uncovered: one near Baghdad International Airport, and the other hidden on the outskirts of Mosul.
These facilities were not listed on official maps, nor were they run by the Ministry of Justice. They were built under the supervision of Uday’s personal security division and staffed by men loyal only to him. They operated without trials, paperwork, or public records. Inside the Baghdad site, U.S.
forces in 2003 found a separate wing with female-only holding cells. Some were barely larger than closets. The walls were thick and soundproofed. A series of small rooms were connected by narrow hallways, many with heavy steel doors. One room contained surgical equipment and exam tables. Surveillance cameras were fixed in the corners, and chairs were bolted to the floor. The building had no identifying signs from the outside.
What shocked investigators were the walls. In the women’s section, they found graffiti scratched into the plaster, names, dates, and short messages written in desperation. Some included prayers. Others marked the number of days spent inside. One cell had eight names carved into a wall panel, dated between 2000 and 2001. These were not official prisoners.
These were women who had simply vanished and been locked away out of public view. Some of the women had been held for months, even years, without trial or contact with family. They were fed irregularly and kept in near-total silence.
When they were removed from their cells, it was either for interrogation, medical treatment, or Uday’s personal visits. One survivor, who later fled to Turkey, said she witnessed another prisoner attempt to run during a transport. She was recaptured within hours and never brought back. Guards later told the others that “she had been taken care of.” Baghdad-based doctors who worked in government hospitals during that time also gave reports to foreign journalists after the fall of Saddam’s regime.
Some said they were ordered, usually at night, to treat female patients delivered by military vehicles with no explanation. Many had injuries consistent with beatings, fractured ribs, bruised faces, internal bleeding. But they were not allowed to ask questions. After all of this cruelty, Uday’s downfall was about to begin. On the night of December 12, 1996, Uday Hussein’s carefully protected world was suddenly shattered.
While driving through the upscale Mansour district of Baghdad, Uday’s car was ambushed by a group of armed men in another vehicle. The attackers opened fire at close range, hitting Uday with multiple bullets, at least seven times, in the chest, legs, and lower back. He was rushed to Ibn Sina Hospital, where a team of surgeons worked through the night to save him. Against expectations, he survived.
The assassination attempt was reportedly carried out by members of an Iraqi tribal group that had long-standing tensions with the regime. Though the exact attackers were never officially named, Saddam’s intelligence service quickly arrested dozens of suspects and carried out harsh reprisals. Several people were executed publicly in the following weeks as a warning to others.
Uday’s recovery was slow and painful. The bullets had caused permanent damage to his spine, and he lost control of parts of his left leg. He spent months in a wheelchair and had to rely on a cane afterward. The violent acts he once carried out personally were now handled by his guards and aides. By 2002, Iraq was under increasing pressure from the international community.
The United States and its allies accused Saddam Hussein of hiding weapons of mass destruction, and war appeared more certain by the day. UN inspectors were back in Iraq, sanctions were tightening, and foreign journalists were returning to the country in larger numbers. In March 2003, the U.S.-led invasion began.
Airstrikes hit Baghdad night after night. The city was in chaos, government buildings were bombed, power grids collapsed, and food shortages spread. But Uday did not disappear. Several witnesses claimed he was still seen during this period, moving between residences with heavily armed escorts. When Baghdad finally fell to U.S.
forces in April 2003 and the troops took control of the capital and surrounding cities, attention quickly turned to finding Saddam Hussein’s inner circle. Uday Hussein was at the top of that list. For several months, Uday moved between safe houses across northern Iraq. He relied on loyal tribesmen, former security officers, and family friends to avoid capture.
His movements were fast and calculated, never staying in one location too long. He was reported in Kirkuk, then Tikrit, and finally Mosul. By July, intelligence led U.S. forces to a specific villa in the al-Falah neighborhood of Mosul. On July 22, 2003, Task Force 20, an elite unit made up of U.S.
Special Forces and intelligence teams, surrounded the building. Inside were Uday, his brother Qusay, Qusay’s teenage son Mustapha, and several bodyguards. When U.S. forces called for surrender, they were met with gunfire. A four-hour firefight followed. Heavy weapons were used, including rockets and grenades. By the end, all three men inside were killed.
Uday’s body was badly damaged, but U.S. officials confirmed his identity through dental records and old X-rays. Photos of the corpses were later released to the public, showing the end of two of Iraq’s most feared men. Across Baghdad and other cities, Iraqis gathered around television screens, watching in silence.
For many, it was the first time they believed the nightmare might truly be over. The death of Uday Hussein marked the end of a long chapter of brutality in Iraq. But it didn’t erase the fear he had created or the lives he had destroyed. His legacy, unlike his wealth and power, could not be buried.
For the victims and their families, justice had come, but after years of silence, pain, and permanent scars.
