Baghdad, September, 2002
In a typical, North American fireworks show,
a rocket will climb the night sky and, with a burst of light, explode.
Concussive sound will follow, noticeably delayed.
Here in Iraq, the opposite occurs:
the sound of war before the actual display.
War is the invisible presence when we gather here with friends.
We hear it howl, but who wants to throw a cloak on that specter
and give it form?
This afternoon, we sit on a bare concrete floor in Ahmed’s living room.
We are an odd collection of people,
arranged like furniture along the walls:
Ahmed and his four younger siblings, barefoot and brown-skinned;
his shy and quiet mother, unsure what to do with her hands and eyes;
Mohammad, a soldier in the Iran-Iraq war, now working as a taxi driver;
and three Americans, recently arrived in Iraq and soon to depart.
A thirteen year-old shoeshine boy, Ahmed is the family breadwinner.
A small boy with large responsibilities, he is proud to have us visit.
Such power we have to please.
We give Haider and Jamal, eight-year old twins, a fistful of Iraqi dinars.
They return with soda sold in old Coca-Cola bottles.
Our throats tingle as cold, dark bubbles burst.
We savor the pleasure.
We savor the moments together,
a brief time out of time.
I step outside with Haider
to kick a deflated soccer ball in the rocky yard.
For half an hour we are two boys with a ball,
defying time, celebrating the present moment.
Beyond us, the Saddam City ghetto breaks like a wound,
oozing in every direction.
Somewhere in the Persian Gulf, battleships gather.
I cannot yet see how brightly Haider’s future will flash,
but as I put the ball down and prepare to leave,
I can hear its concussive blast.
Standing There
Anywhere USA
Cindy Sheehan
The Unmistakable Imprint of Love
Bert Sacks
Visiting Ahmed's Family
Every Iraqi Knows
