Words from Palestine

The writings which follow were put together to foster awareness of the human cost of injustice in its many forms, but primarily the form it takes as military aggression. A number of the stories contained on this page were written while the author was in Iraq-January through May of 2003. They are about the author’s experiences with real people-average Iraqi citizens, peace activists, and American and Iraqi military personnel. The stories are, more than anything, real. They are about real people. They are about real human interactions.They are about the real emotions which inspired the stories to be written.
Due to the circumstances in Iraq during the first part of 2003, some of the stories written never made it out of Iraq and the original writings are lost. Circumstances also made writing extremely difficult at times. In the case of the former, I have recreated the stories as closely as possible to how they were originally written. This has not been difficult at all. These stories, like the people who enliven them, never leave my thoughts for very long; nothing is forgotten. When things were not written that should have been, and would have been in better circumstances, I have written for the first time here. In both cases, I have noted origins of the writings in the text.
I hope the reader finds some inspiration in these stories, some hope in these stories. But for the people who are these stories, the people of Iraq, I hope the reader experiences a kinship and recognizes the suffering masses of people in distant lands to be, in a sense as real as the stories contained herein, the sufferings of our brothers and sisters.

The first thing to be disrupted by our commitment to nonviolence will not be the system but our own lives.
James W.Douglass

The office is actually an apartment, though no one is sure whose apartment it is. We think it is Kathy Kelly’s. There are few indications that someone lives there. Most of the space has been taken over by office equipment, files etc. In the same way, the lives of the people who enter the apartment have been taken over by the human needs the office strives to address. As a VitW veteran gives us advice for our journey, we stuff vitamins, OTC medicines and medical texts into our luggage. These items are on the list of items which are disallowed into Iraq under the sanctions. As I stuff children’s vitamins into my bags, I fight back the tears which well up when I consider that my government has made it a crime to give vitamins to malnourished children. I am so extremely grateful to have the opportunity to engage in this “criminal” behavior.

O’Hare Airport- A reporter from FoxTV asks me why I would put myself in the middle of a war zone. I tell him I wonder why my government would put Iraqi civilians in the middle of a war zone.
Detroit Airport- We landed in Detroit to take on more passengers. We are told it is a 45 minute stop and we are not to disembark. Several moments later we are all made to leave the plane with our carry on luggage. Customs interviews all passengers, saying they are checking if anyone is leaving the country with more than $10,000. Several people of Middle Eastern descent, including an elderly woman in a wheelchair, were extensively questioned, all their possessions were gone through and they were frisked. They remained patient and helpful, but a fool could recognize the pain in their eyes.

The hotel we are staying in is permeated with an atmosphere of kindness and good will. Neither the rain leaking through the roof and windows nor the insufficient amount of heat coming through the pipes can dissipate the warmth given by the hotel staff. They are as much a part of VitW as we who are on our way to Iraq are. I cannot help but to be reminded of the comforts I enjoy at home such as unlimited warmth in my home and I consider how much my excessive demand for comfort fuels my government’s unjust foreign policies. No matter how much I protest injustice, my lifestyle continues to support it. I hope that my experiences here helps me to live in a manner that promotes justice when I return home.

The newspapers here are filled with talk of war. There are many Palestinian refugees living in Aman. A US led invasion of Iraq will not only cause significant economic stress to Jordan, it may politically destabilize this country. The Jordanian government will be forced between a rock and hard place. If they allow the US to use their land or airspace to launch a military program, they will alienate the vast majority of the population; if they side with Iraq by refusing to cooperate with the US, they risk becoming an enemy of Washington. Jordanians only need look to their eastern neighbors to see what becomes of Washington’s “enemies.”

We were able to get our visas taken care of on Tuesday morning so left then from Amman. It was a long journey to Baghdad- we left Jordan at 11:30 AM and arrived in Baghdad around 2:00AM.

If we would read the secret history of our enemies, we would find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
Longfellow

Today we went to the Amaryah shelter, which at 4:30AM on Feb.13, 1991 the US mistakenly bombed, killing 408 women and children. The shelter was built for a nuclear attack. It consists of 2 floors. The first bomb blew a gaping hole through the top and killed all but 14 people on the first floor. (those 14 were blew out of the shelter and survived, though seriously injured.) The second bomb was a “smart bomb.” It went into the ventilation system and incinerated those remaining alive on the lower level of the shelter.

I talked with a woman at the shelter who knew many of the people killed. She explained that there were no men in the shelter because they, if not in the army, followed the custom of protecting the family home. Only women and children under the age of 16 were permitted in the shelter. Because of what occurred there, few Iraqi people will go to a shelter if there is more bombing.

I felt an emotional numbness in that place. Bombs are so impersonal. The pilots who dropped those bombs didn’t see what they were doing, who they were killing. Their experience were probably that they bombed a target, a faceless object. So I didn’t really feel the emotional impact from the fact that a US bomb was the cause of this suffering.

What kept going through my mind was mothers telling their frightened children that they were safe now, that they could go to sleep and they were safe. And then the screaming that must have taken place between the first bomb and the second bomb. “mommy, mommy, help. hot, mommy, help…mommy…”

So I was speaking with this woman, our conversation ended and she was walking away. I walked back to her, and I told her I was sorry. At that, the emotional numbness disappeared. I am not “guilty” for what happened, but I share in the responsibility for what happened. The gracious woman embraced. me. When I walked outside, a large group of Iraqi children had gathered. They were happy to get their pictures taken with an “Amereeki.” I was grateful to be surrounded by living Iraqi’s.

The hotel we are staying in does not have a large gathering area for meetings, so we use an area in another hotel nearby. We had a large team meeting there the other day-there were about 42 of us from various groups- and we were all brought tea. After the meeting I inquired how much to pay for the 42 cups of tea and the waiter informed me it was a gift from the hotel, so I just tipped the waiter for his service. ( I am the team banker). A while later something came up and we had to meet again. Again the waiter brought 42 cups of tea and again the hotel refused to accept any payment. I noted to the waiter how busy we had kept him through these meetings and how much we appreciated his service to us. He responded:

“We are glad, so happy to have so many of you. You have a good message-a message to go all around the world. Peace. But not just peace for Iraq. Peace for everyone. All people around the world. Because we are all one people. We have one Father and one Mother.”

The media in the United States often portrays people of the Islam faith as radical fundamentalists who are committed to obliterating, freedom, democracy, non-Islamic faiths, and the people who adhere to these faiths, institutions and principles. During my time in Iraq, the overwhelming majority of Muslim people I encountered there expressed a faith similar to the one described in “One Father, One Mother.” To be sure, there are violent extremists within Islam. The same can be said of Christianity and Judaism and Hinduism, etc…. However, these violent extremists are a very small minority of the whole people who call these religions their faith.

The overthrow of Saddam Hussein’s regime left a void which many groups came forward to fill. Large demonstrations were held by Islamic fundamentalist groups- they protested for Islamic rule in Iraq and an end to the American occupation. On several occasions I was present on the street with these demonstrators. I was treated with courtesy and respect. I never felt threatened. From my experience, violent extremists of are a very small minority within Islam. To portray them as more is akin to describing a noble and upright family by relating the bad deeds of one member.

Religious extremists are sensationalized in U.S. media, but that is only because sensationalism is what we, the public, are willing to buy.If we demand responsible journalism, and back up that demand with our pocketbook, i.e., only buy, listen and watch responsible journalism, our media will become responsible to balanced, truthful reporting.

The other night I met with the archbishop of Iraq, Fr. Kasalb. What a wonderful man! Very down to earth. Before sanctions, people had free access to medical care and medications, so the church was not involved in medical assistance. Now, most people cannot purchase even the most basic medicines. Voices in the Wilderness assisted Fr. Kasalb in establishing a small pharmacy-free to any in need-with medicines brought in by VitW delegates willing to break the sanctions. Today it is the largest dispensary of medications in Southern Iraq. Most of the people assisted are Muslim. Fr. Kasalb said a strong bond exists between Muslims and Catholics in Iraq.

When asked what we can share with our communities back in American to strengthen the call for peace, he said, “If someone wants to know the meaning of war, have them come to Basra.” (As you know, the bombing has never stopped in Southern Iraq since the Persian Gulf War and more than 20 million tons of depleted uranium munitions have left the land toxic-cancers and birth defects have skyrocketed.) Fr Kasalb continued: “Mothers used to ask as soon as their child was delivered, ‘Is it a boy or girl?’” He chuckled saying, “We Iraqis want boys, you know.” Then he said, “Now they ask , ‘is my baby OK, is it normal?’ That is the meaning of war.”

Fr. Kasalb was not exaggerating about the query of mothers who have just given birth. At the turn of the century, 90% of persons killed in war were of the military. Today, 90% of war fatalities are civilian. This percentage does not include the indirect fatalities, such as the children who die from congenital birth defects or develop cancer from the exposure they or their parents have had to chemical, biological or nuclear warfare. The hospitals of Iraq are filled with these “uncounted” casualties of war.

Yesterday I went to the Museum of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The building itself is a monument – a MASSIVE monument. It is sort of like a huge open clamshell on a base the size of a football field or two. You walk up into the clamshell then descend down into it to get to the museum. But the museum inside is very small and unremarkable-some uniforms, guns and medals from various eras. What was most interesting was the military personnel who are stationed around the Museum. After looking around inside, I walked around the outside of the monument, then went back to the car to wait for Dana and Mary*. A soldier nearby got a chair for me from the guardhouse, set down his machine gun, hung his hat on the barrel and offered me a cigarette. As a rule we do not smoke out in public, but for the sake of being polite, I accepted. He lit my cigarette and then I showed him the cigarettes I had and he tried one. He really liked it, so I gave him the rest of the pack. He was so touched that I would give him my cigarettes that he insisted I take his. When Mary and Dana came back he offered Mary a cigarette and Dana got a picture of him lighting it. It is amazing how easy it is to make friends with “the enemy” if one takes a moment to be human. If only the people in high places would do the same.

*Dana Visalli and Mary Schoen, IPT members.

More than anyone I have met in Iraq, Amahl reminds me of the Native American elders of home who devote so much of their energy keeping their tribal culture alive. Amahl’s home-al beit al Iraq (The House of Iraq)- which might also be called an antiquities shop, a museum of culture and an historic landmark of architecture, lies between the sleepy Tigris River and a bustling Baghdad street. Though the entryway into her home is indistinguishable from the others on the avenue, it gives visitors passage into the history of Iraqi art and culture.

We are greeted by Amahl and several of her friends, all dressed in modest western attire and fluent in the English language. With the hospitality so much a part of Iraqi life, tea and sweets are shared around as we are given an informal tour of Amahl’s home, then left to chat and browse. Our hostess, a small woman about fifty years of age, is highly educated and speaks four languages fluently. In the United States she could command a high salary as a university professor or an artist. But this is Iraq and since sanctions have destroyed the economy, attaining a just wage is impossible. Luckily for Amahl, a just wage is not her major concern. Like the Native elders who investigate, record, share and teach the culture and languages of their tribe, Amahl is motivated to share the rich Iraqi traditions with the forthcoming generations.

Four rooms make up the front of the house. The first is devoted to tile mosaics, sculpture and small furniture; the next clothing and bedroom furniture; the third jewelry and small silver pieces; and a fourth room is lined with wall art. Then a passageway leads to the main living area: a courtyard alive with native flora and fauna surrounded on three sides by living space and the fourth side by the Tigris River.

As we sit in the courtyard sipping tea, Amahl explains some of the architecture of her home. She comes to a wall that does not quite fit with the rest of her home. She explains that when the bridge in back of her home which spans the Tigris was bombed in 1991, this wall crumbled. The wall was replaced by a temporary structure, the intention being to replicate the original when some amount of assurance came that another bombing campaign would not destroy it as well. That was in 1991. No such assurance has come yet, and in fact the chance that her home and its many cultural treasures will survive the “shock and awe” bombing campaign being threatened is questionable.

About a week after the bombing had begun, Amahl phoned the hotel we were staying in to see if we were all OK. I assured her we were fine, and expressed concern for her-she sounded extremely anxious. She said she was not staying at the al beit al Iraq but had gone to another home for safety. It had been heavily damaged in a bombing raid and she had lost the personal possessions she had there. I told her there were some of us who would to come and visit with her, but she insisted we not as she said the neighborhood was still being bombed sporadically and a visit would be unsafe. I asked her if there were sensitive sites nearby that would explain the bombing of this residential neighborhood. She said there was not-the only building other than residences was the neighborhood mosque. A day or so later Amahl called the hotel again. This time she was calling from a friend’s home. The house she had been in was destroyed in another bombing raid.

After the U.S. military invaded Baghdad and looting became extensive, al beit al Iraq was stripped bare. There was literally nothing left in the building. The Persian carpets which had covered the floors were gone. Furniture and personal items were stolen. The walls were bereft of their artwork. Amahl lost everything. The temporary wall installed after the 1991 bombing now more closely matches the other walls of the home, a reminder of the scourge of war.

Booksellers Row occurs every Friday morning near the suuk, or central market. At first glance an American visiting the Row might think they have happened upon a flea market for book lovers. Indeed, Booksellers Row has every type of book one would expect to find at a book mart in the West. There are inexpensive novels, classics of the East and West, children’s books, the Holy Qu’ran, college texts, medical journals and professional manuals. Some are displayed on rickety tables, but most are carefully laid out on the ground. If one is attentive to detail, one will notice that these books have been well cared for by their owners.

If one gets hungry while browsing the Row, there is the old man selling fresh baked bread from a huge flat basket balanced on his head, and a young boy who sells olives from a large wooden cart he pushes through the streets. If not hungry, one can still give some business to these food-sellers by purchasing something for the hungry children who daily beg for sustenance on the streets of Baghdad. These people live in the run down buildings surrounding Booksellers Row. And like the books being sold on the street, their lives, their presence, their actions, and their words speak volumes to the paradox of life here in these days.

Contrast the children’s beautiful faces with their ragged clothes. Contrast their shining eyes with their dull matted hair. Contrast the fact that they are hungrier than you or I have ever been with their insistence that you share with them the bread they have begged from you. Contrast the smile these beautiful people bring to your own face while yet the knowledge of their suffering is breaking your heart in two.

The children run off to other adventures, as children will do, and one steals a glance at the place these children call home. Architecture ennobled by skilled craftsmen stands in semi-ruin. Lifeless electrical wires hang bare in dark alcoves. Ragged laundry hangs from crumbling balconies. Fouled water seeps from open sewer pipes. By now the reader might think we are visiting the inner city of a third world nation.

But look again at the books for sale. College texts, encyclopedias, the world’s classics in Arab, French, German, English…not the type of books one would expect to find among the uneducated masses of a third world nation. Indeed, we are not visiting a flea market in a third world nation. We are in Baghdad, Iraq, the country that lead all the Arab nations in social and economic growth until war and sanctions decimated it. These books, being sold so that their highly educated owners can feed their families, represent the poverty and hardship inflicted upon the civilian population by unjust international politics.

At the end of Booksellers Row lies the Literary Café. One enters and, despite the run down appearance of the building, one is reminded of a busy expresso shop on a thriving university campus. Every seat is taken with men and women who share tea and engage in conversation. Intellectuals intellectualize and philosophers philosophize while poets share their rhymes. The latest newspapers are passed around and commented on. There is a jovial camaraderie between everyone. They share a common love for education, a common culture, and a common affliction.

A gentleman who loves American movies is anxious to speak about them and engages an American visitor. His English is excellent and his conversation animated. They discuss James Cagney for a bit, then the American asks him how the sanctions have effected his life. His face darkens and he says simply, “they have destroyed my life.” With some prodding he explains that he is professor of literature but cannot find work of any kind. He has lost everything and his family has been torn apart. It is obvious that he would much rather discuss his happy memories of American movies, but the American presses him: “Can you give me an idea of how the sanctions have effected your everyday life?” He loses his lively smile once again and tells the American to look out on the Row, saying, “Look around. It is plain to see. We have become a people who lay their books on the ground. This is what the sanctions have done to us. Books should be placed upon shelves; books should be honored. Our books are laying on the ground.”