Iraq's police trainers know the huge challenge they face in helping restore the credibility of the force, but the priority is teaching recruits to stay alive, reports Mary Fitzgerald in Jordan.

Jalal feels tears prick at his eyes as the brass band strikes up a rousing rendition of Mawtini, the popular Arab folk tune about homeland and patriotism now adopted as Iraq's new national anthem. It's graduation day for Jalal and some 1,500 fellow Iraqis who have spent the past eight weeks training in the Jordanian desert for one of the most dangerous jobs in the world - policing Iraq.

But amid the pomp and ceremony, the back-slapping, the confetti and the hat-throwing, Jalal admits a creeping fear and uncertainty about what lies ahead when he returns to his hometown of Mosul.

"We will probably never see each other again and who knows how many of us will be alive in six months. Nobody knows what we may face in Iraq," he says.

The statistics are grim. According to the Iraq Index, data compiled by the Brookings Institution in Washington DC, 4,512 Iraqi military and police personnel have been killed since June 2003. Police officers make up the majority of these deaths simply because they make easier targets - on average 120 are killed every month in suicide bombings and shootings, with police stations, recruitment centres and convoys regularly targeted by insurgents. Last February, a suicide bomber drove into a crowd of police and military recruits in Hilla, killing 125 in one of Iraq's deadliest insurgent attacks. Some fledgling officers have been killed less than 48 hours after their return from the Jordan International Police Training Centre.

As one instructor puts it: "One of the main priorities here is teaching them to stay alive."

Despite the threat of violence, salaries of up to $300 a month - far higher than the average in a country with crippling unemployment - encourage a constant flow of new volunteers.

Since the centre's first class graduated in November 2003, more than 30,000 cadets have been trained on this sprawling, heavily fortified 182-hectare site east of Jordan's capital, Amman. Training is also conducted at the Baghdad Police College and several regional academies scattered throughout Iraq.

In Jordan, the programme is supervised by 336 instructors from 15 countries, including the US, Britain and Canada.

Instructors have to start with the basics. Most of the cadets, ranging in age from 18 to 40, are raw recruits; others served as police officers under Saddam Hussein's regime.

Using the model of earlier projects in Kosovo and Bosnia, training includes courses on human rights and Iraqi legislation in addition to more practical instruction in self-defence, riot control, weapons handling and first aid.

Critics charge that the eight-week training - compared with three years under Saddam's regime - is little more than a crash-course, sacrificing quality for speed in the rush to build up Iraq's nascent police force.

"Eight weeks is never long enough, even in normal policing situations. Anywhere else in the world, the period of training would be almost twice that with plenty of operational experience in between," admits Martin Carey, a police officer from Kent who has worked at the centre since last May. "The training is very general and very basic, but hopefully provides enough policing skills to take back to Iraq."

Instructors say much of the training involves reshaping the very definition of policing in Iraq.

"Policing under the Saddam regime was about working for and protecting the government," explains Tessa Adams, a British police officer who teaches recruits about dealing with crime and domestic violence. "Now we're teaching them that they are working for the community. It's democratic policing. It's about protecting the public and working for the sake of Iraq."

Trainers are only too aware of the mammoth challenge they face in helping restore the credibility of Iraq's police. Aside from the damage wrought by the Saddam regime, the new police force has been dogged by claims that it is now largely under the control of Shia militias. Other accusations range from reports of prisoner torture and death of detainees to arbitrary arrest and abuse at the hands of inexperienced police officers.

At the centre, enthusiasm among the cadets appears high. Wearing navy blue uniforms and baseball caps, they drill on asphalt yards while chanting slogans. They make a motley bunch - a few are overweight, others are out of step and the rows they march in are not quite straight.

"We will redeem Iraq with our souls and blood," one group shouts in unison.

Some instructors privately question their commitment. It is estimated that up to 40 per cent of graduates fail to join the Iraqi police force when they return from Jordan.

Some put this down to security fears, others see it as proof that many sign up without ever intending to become police officers.

For unemployed men with few job prospects in Iraq, the substantial paycheque each recruit receives at the end of training is too good to miss, one Iraqi instructor explains.

"Some do it just for the money and then leave," he says. "That kind of money goes a long way in Baghdad."

Abdullah, a father of nine from Falluja, admits as much. "To be honest, what attracted me first was the money," he says. "But I also want to help make my town more secure."

Adams acknowledges that for some money is the sole motivation, but says most of her students feel strongly about doing something for their country. "On the whole, when I ask a class why they are here, the answers are usually about making Iraq a better and more democratic place."

Dergham, from Baghdad, says he signed up out of a sense of duty. "I felt I had the duty to protect my people and my country, because my country gave me so much. I think everyone who feels the same should join the police or army."

The recruits go through a vetting process before they leave Iraq, but some officials and instructors worry that screening is not thorough enough, with insurgents or those with criminal records slipping through the net.

"Sure, sometimes the wrong type of character comes through the system," says Carey. "We have been aware that a number may have done just that to observe what goes on at the centre. So far we've been generally happy with the quality of men sent out, but I'm sure there are one or two here for the wrong reasons."

In the training centre's dorms and canteens, there is constant talk of what may be in store for the recruits when they return home. Everyone keeps up with the latest bombing or attack over the border. Sometimes the threat is all too real and close to home. One cadet received letters at the centre threatening him and his family - when he returned home his wife and children had been killed.

Like most recruits, Dergham's life in Iraq has been turned upside down in the past three years. Yet he remains sanguine about the future. Asked about the chances of surviving as a police officer, he shrugs.

"I am well aware of the danger. To be a policeman in Iraq is probably the most dangerous job in the world but I am here because I believe in my country. If we Iraqis don't protect our country, who will?"