The Human Cost of War and American Indifference
Mohamed had a wide brow, knotted eyebrows and intense eyes. He always looked worried, but when you engaged him in conversation, he was the calmest individual you could have interacted with. We used to car pool to Baghdad International School in the summer. He would pull the seat back for me in his coupe, as I climbed into the back seat because our next stop would be at Ms. Suhaila’s the history teacher, and she would be filling the passenger seat with her slim figure, dimpled smile, and endless light chatter. He drove silently always, commenting only with the sharpest of wit when it was appropriate.
I recall Nadia too. The last image in my withering memory was of her carrying rolls of posters into the Business Office to have them laminated, the next theme for a future art lesson perhaps? She taught art. He ran the Business office at the same school. That’s how they met.
Three days ago, my mother called to tell me that Mohamed, Nadia and their two children had been abducted by the so called "Al-Qaida in Iraq". My first thought was, “What were they still doing in Baghdad?” Visiting family I later learned. Nadia was released, along with the two children shortly after to collect the ransom of 15,000.00 U.S. dollars. She delivered the money and waited. For two months there was no word. When they gave up, and decided to turn to the police, the officer at the police station in the Hai Al-Jamia district told them that they were no longer keeping the bodies in the morgue. They were arriving in hundreds each day, so the decision was made to take photos of the faces and then amass the bodies into mass graves –sometimes in remote areas. Nadia recognized Mohamed’s face among the first batch of pictures.
For two nights, I couldn’t sleep. His eyes would wake me up so often. “What did they do to you my friend?” my inner mind would scream, “How did you die?” The question to this day will remain unanswered.
I called Aabir a few days later. We went to school together. “There are no men left in the street where we live. They have all fled, including my brothers. Those, who did not, have been abducted. Remember the incident at the Ministry of Education? Well, one of the 55 kidnapped was Lejla’s brother, next door. He was working on this PhD. in Physics. He was never seen again!”
“How do you survive every day my friend?”
“I dodge bullets to work, Z. There is no one left in our office, except myself and another senior architect. He gets requests over the phone. I drive to the sites where the workers are carrying out the construction, give my directions and leave. The other day, I was caught in the cross-fire with Meriam, my eldest. We ran for shelter in the garage of a nearby house. The family let us in, and offered us food and tea. We waited until the shooting stopped; my car was bullet ridden when I next climbed into it, but it was still working. Meriam was still trembling even after we got home, and she was safe in her grandmother’s lap. We see bodies lying in the street, Z. We realize it’s ‘haram’ to just leave them there, and that as Muslims, they deserve a speedy and proper burial, but no one will approach them. They put explosives in them nowadays.”
I cannot fathom how my friend is surviving. I called my uncle. In his old age, he suffers from Parkinson, and has little access to medical assistance because of the security situation. He broke down crying over the phone. “I want to see you before I die…before they slaughter us!”
“Please don’t cry, I begged and have faith.” But the truth of the matter is…I do not anymore. I have faith in nothing and no one.
At work, I turn to a co-worker. “I lost a co-worker in Baghdad.” I confess. “We used to commute to work together; …” She turns an indifferent eye in my direction and asks about the storm outside the window. At the gym, I share with a ‘friend’, “my uncle in Baghdad broke down over the phone”. “Did you want a hair band?” she asks, “your hair will get in the way if you don’t wear one”.
I am amazed and hurt at this indifference. I wonder what it is that renders Americans in denial. Maybe it’s the fact that they do not want to be reminded? But why should they care. It is not their family; it is not their childhood friend.
I pick up a copy of Newsweek, the photos of 7 US army officers shot down in a Black Hawk stare back at me. The title reads, “The Human Cost of War”…I ask myself, “What about the 600,000 (Lancet, 2006) civilians who have perished as a result of flawed US foreign policy and military mismanagement. Were they not a human cost? Why is that fact constantly under-played in the media?”
Someone at work is sympathetic, “You know, we live in such a safe haven, not knowing what is going on in other parts of the world…It’s so sad.” I looked at her and said, “if you remove any security force after creating a huge power vacuum, the most civil of people will riot and break the law…even kill if pressed. The US military disbanded an entire army after the fall of the regime, but secured nothing. Remember what happened in Katrina when there was no police force to control anything anymore?” She looks away, and I wonder if she is making sense of what I am saying, if she is making sense of the fact that the American mistakes in Iraq are now completely irreversible, that the damage done will take generations to repair…if at all? I realize, I am asking for too much. If I push my argument, she will turn into another frigid co-worker with a listless gaze, wondering “Why the f___ is she talking to me about politics when she sure as h___ knows I don’t have a clue…!”
Mohamed had a wide brow, knotted eyebrows and intense eyes. He always looked worried, but when you engaged him in conversation, he was the calmest individual you could have interacted with. We used to car pool to Baghdad International School in the summer. He would pull the seat back for me in his coupe, as I climbed into the back seat because our next stop would be at Ms. Suhaila’s the history teacher, and she would be filling the passenger seat with her slim figure, dimpled smile, and endless light chatter. He drove silently always, commenting only with the sharpest of wit when it was appropriate.
I recall Nadia too. The last image in my withering memory was of her carrying rolls of posters into the Business Office to have them laminated, the next theme for a future art lesson perhaps? She taught art. He ran the Business office at the same school. That’s how they met.
Three days ago, my mother called to tell me that Mohamed, Nadia and their two children had been abducted by the so called "Al-Qaida in Iraq". My first thought was, “What were they still doing in Baghdad?” Visiting family I later learned. Nadia was released, along with the two children shortly after to collect the ransom of 15,000.00 U.S. dollars. She delivered the money and waited. For two months there was no word. When they gave up, and decided to turn to the police, the officer at the police station in the Hai Al-Jamia district told them that they were no longer keeping the bodies in the morgue. They were arriving in hundreds each day, so the decision was made to take photos of the faces and then amass the bodies into mass graves –sometimes in remote areas. Nadia recognized Mohamed’s face among the first batch of pictures.
For two nights, I couldn’t sleep. His eyes would wake me up so often. “What did they do to you my friend?” my inner mind would scream, “How did you die?” The question to this day will remain unanswered.
I called Aabir a few days later. We went to school together. “There are no men left in the street where we live. They have all fled, including my brothers. Those, who did not, have been abducted. Remember the incident at the Ministry of Education? Well, one of the 55 kidnapped was Lejla’s brother, next door. He was working on this PhD. in Physics. He was never seen again!”
“How do you survive every day my friend?”
“I dodge bullets to work, Z. There is no one left in our office, except myself and another senior architect. He gets requests over the phone. I drive to the sites where the workers are carrying out the construction, give my directions and leave. The other day, I was caught in the cross-fire with Meriam, my eldest. We ran for shelter in the garage of a nearby house. The family let us in, and offered us food and tea. We waited until the shooting stopped; my car was bullet ridden when I next climbed into it, but it was still working. Meriam was still trembling even after we got home, and she was safe in her grandmother’s lap. We see bodies lying in the street, Z. We realize it’s ‘haram’ to just leave them there, and that as Muslims, they deserve a speedy and proper burial, but no one will approach them. They put explosives in them nowadays.”
I cannot fathom how my friend is surviving. I called my uncle. In his old age, he suffers from Parkinson, and has little access to medical assistance because of the security situation. He broke down crying over the phone. “I want to see you before I die…before they slaughter us!”
“Please don’t cry, I begged and have faith.” But the truth of the matter is…I do not anymore. I have faith in nothing and no one.
At work, I turn to a co-worker. “I lost a co-worker in Baghdad.” I confess. “We used to commute to work together; …” She turns an indifferent eye in my direction and asks about the storm outside the window. At the gym, I share with a ‘friend’, “my uncle in Baghdad broke down over the phone”. “Did you want a hair band?” she asks, “your hair will get in the way if you don’t wear one”.
I am amazed and hurt at this indifference. I wonder what it is that renders Americans in denial. Maybe it’s the fact that they do not want to be reminded? But why should they care. It is not their family; it is not their childhood friend.
I pick up a copy of Newsweek, the photos of 7 US army officers shot down in a Black Hawk stare back at me. The title reads, “The Human Cost of War”…I ask myself, “What about the 600,000 (Lancet, 2006) civilians who have perished as a result of flawed US foreign policy and military mismanagement. Were they not a human cost? Why is that fact constantly under-played in the media?”
Someone at work is sympathetic, “You know, we live in such a safe haven, not knowing what is going on in other parts of the world…It’s so sad.” I looked at her and said, “if you remove any security force after creating a huge power vacuum, the most civil of people will riot and break the law…even kill if pressed. The US military disbanded an entire army after the fall of the regime, but secured nothing. Remember what happened in Katrina when there was no police force to control anything anymore?” She looks away, and I wonder if she is making sense of what I am saying, if she is making sense of the fact that the American mistakes in Iraq are now completely irreversible, that the damage done will take generations to repair…if at all? I realize, I am asking for too much. If I push my argument, she will turn into another frigid co-worker with a listless gaze, wondering “Why the f___ is she talking to me about politics when she sure as h___ knows I don’t have a clue…!”