Chanting at the Halls of Empire

Do Something!

Remembering the Dead, Memorial Day 2009

May 22nd, 2009, Wounded Knee, SD

Detouring south, i pass through the Pine Ridge Reservation stopping briefly in Wounded Knee. i park and leaving my dogs in the car, i walk to the dusty graveyard and the monument of the three hundred and fifty souls- men, women, and children who perished on that bitter winter day in 1890, gunned down by soldiers while attempting to flee the carnage all around them.

Another car arrives, maneuvering along the rutted dirt road, and three middle-aged tourists get out and walk quickly up to the monument. “Here it is!” “Yes, I found it, we did turn the right way!” We exchange hellos as we pass between the narrow rows of graves to look at the stone monument, i do not ask them what drew them to this place. They do a quick walk around the graveyard, saying little, before they climb back in their car and head back down the rutted track to the little souvenir stand at the junction of the main road.

It is getting late and the wind is blowing the prayer ribbons and tobacco pouches tied to the chain link fence. As i stand among the graves, i can hear the Hotchkiss guns singing their deadly song and the soldiers crying out “Remember the Little Bighorn” as they gun down children running away. i can feel the hatred coursing through the soldiers minds as they murder women with babies clinging to their breast. i can hear the peoples death songs whistling through the grass. i can hear the moaning of those left to die on the frozen earth as the soldiers turn and return to camp.

Congress awarded 20 Medals of Honor to soldiers that participated in the slaughter.

In October, 1990 the United State Congress passed a resolution to recognize Wounded Knee as a massacre and issued a statement of deep regret.

As i stand amidst the graves, i too feel deep regret from Wounded Knee to My Lai to Haditha, and all the massacres forgotten (a convenience only of the vanquisher) or left unsaid. i feel deep sadness for the ignorance that feeds them and anger at the lies our government uses to justify them.

i turn and walk back to my car. i, too, stop at the junction and two little girls run to my window and invite me to the jewelry stand. As we walk, the little one says, “You only have two dogs?” “Yes”, i reply, how many do you have”? “I have three!” The older girl says, “One boy and one girl nice.” Puzzled, i ask her, “How could you tell?” She says, matter of factly, “The girls have fluffy ears.” With a twinkle in her eye, she turns and runs.

The descendants of those murdered here continue on, mostly forgotten. Justice has yet to visit them, “change and hope” merely catch phrases relegated to dreams.

At the table, i look at the dozen offerings of jewelry for sale. i notice one piece has fallen to the ground and had been trampled in the dust. i pick it up- a necklace with a pouch for sage and cedar. Another car pulls up and the girls run off, shouting, “There’s another tourist!” i take a minute to buy the necklace before getting back on the road.

“Never forget” is a phrase oft repeated, but rarely embodied. So often, i never even take a moment to realize the truth. i mythologize war and ignore the inconvenient truths in the fabrication of our national story. “Never forget” becomes just another slogan to justify more war. This Memorial Day i will commemorate those living and dead who have been marginalized, victimized, and sacrificed at the alter of American power, including the soldiers who return from war damaged, isolated, and forgotten, suffering unbearable anguish for what they did in service of our nation.

i place the necklace around my neck, i wear it as a talisman against ignorance and forgetting.

Meditation in Orange #70

The sun is shining. i am late again, quickly donning the jumpsuit and grabbing a hood as the others are circled up and listening as Carmen reads excerpts from prisoners at Guantanamo. Even the birds fall silent as the cruelties are revealed.

Seventy days of the new administration and men are still being held at Guantanamo, irregardless of innocence or guilt. Men on hunger strike are still being force fed. TV pundits joke about the excellent conditions the prisoners have, and feign worry about the “ticking bombs” who may be “set free”. Seventeen Uighars, an ethnic Muslim minority in China, are still being held trapped in a catch-22. Cleared of all charges 2 years ago, China bars their return. No other country will accept them. They wait, with no end in site.

We bow our heads in silence. We form a straight line and slowly walk toward the White House fence. Mindful of the suffering men impose upon men, i walk. Mindful of self-righteousness and hypocrisy, i breathe. Recognizing i am not separate from the torturers or the tortured, my feet touch the earth. Passerby step aside as we walk solemnly in single file down the Pennsylvania Avenue sidewalk. Walking just beyond the “postcard zone” in front of the Whitehouse, we stop and turn.

It is a spring like day and the tourists and students stream by. Two sons stop in front of us. Their father grumbles, “Let’s go.” The younger son asks, “What are they doing dad?” He replies, “They’re pacifists.” The son asks, “What does that mean?” The father answers, “That means they would rather do this than do something constructive. Now come on, let’s go!”

We stand, silent. i’m curious about the constructive work the father has pursued to bring justice to the prisoners in Guantanamo. The family moves quickly away, the young boy looking back at us as he goes.

A large school group gathers around Carmen, peppering him with questions. The teacher asks questions as well, and allows her students freedom to ask whatever comes to mind. After ten minutes, the teacher reigns in her charges, says, “Thank you” and moves away.

An oblivious man and woman are nearly past us when the man sees us for the first time. Obliquely turning away from his wife and toward us, in a nearly inaudible voice but a voice filled with enough venom and hate to fill all the realms of hell, the tourist in a midwestern snarl, mutters, “Fuuuck Yooou!” Obviously pleased with himself, he turns toward his wife and smiles as they continue on their way.

We stand silent, bearing witness to hatred. It seems polarization is deepening in this country. Elements in the media fuel the hatred in our society. Discourse has become more difficult as we cling to concepts and beliefs that drive us apart. We stand, silent, reminding those who pass by of crimes committed in our name. No matter your point of view, conservative or liberal, Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, how can torture ever be acceptable? Us versus them has come home to America, with right wing elements in the media playing a dangerous game. Just last week, Glenn Beck of Fox News, in a disgusting act of incitement, doused a “guest” in “gasoline”, as he stated, "President Obama don't light us on fire”. “You are either with us or against us” has taken an ominous tone indeed.

A retiree and his wife pass us with a look of disgust on their faces. He circles back and stands silently in front of us and slowly moves down the line. His wife asks Carmen, “Just answer this. Where do you suppose we should send the terrorists?” Her husband, unable to contain himself, says, “Why don’t you all join the military? Do something useful to protect your country.” He circles around, unsure why we stand silent. He repeats himself, this time a little louder, a little more anger in his voice, “Join the military. Do something useful!” Still, he is met with silence. He joins his wife, gesticulating, raising his scornful voice, “Join the military, be a hero!” as he walks away. Carmen follows, and their voices drift away, though the man continues to shake his head in disgust.

i recognize disgust as a mechanism to shield oneself from the painful truth. America tortures. Those responsible must be held accountable.

We fold our signs and solemnly walk to the shade of Lafayette Park. We remove our hoods and jumpsuits and stand in silence, with heads bowed, holding hands. Our little drama completed for the day. We remember those who are less fortunate, whose dramas continue.

The 100 day vigil to close Guantanamo continues Monday thru Friday 11am to 1 pm in front of the Whitehouse. http://www.witnesstorture.org/100days

Meditation in Orange #65

I’m the last to arrive. A drizzle falls, enveloping the morning in drab grays as I don the orange jumpsuit. The magnolia tree over head is in full bloom, its soft pink/white petals heralding a new spring, a new beginning. I place a black hood over my head. Everything is muted; a veil over what is real. Quietly, Carmen says, “It’s time.” Our small group of “detainees” forms a circle. Pedestrians with umbrellas and their collars turned up hurry by as we bow our heads and grasp each others hands in silence. I wonder if our tableau reminds those who rush past of prisoners, broken and defeated, or priests huddled in prayer, I wonder if our circle evokes anything at all.

Carmen picks up a sign, red lettering on a white poster board, “Shut Down Guantanamo” and we fall into line behind him. Our hands behind our backs, we move slowly, deliberately through the park.

As I walk, I imagine the shackles binding my legs and hands. I am grateful my hood has not been pissed on by angry soldiers, my wrists are not cut from handcuffs that bound me to the cage, I have not been beaten with a bat, I have not been tasered, or struck with a cattle prod, my genitals have not been wired to a car battery. I have not been dragged around on a leash, made to bark like a dog. I have not been forced to masturbate, or masturbate someone else, as gleeful soldiers laugh and pose. Woman soldiers have not smeared me with what they claim is menstrual blood. I have not been humiliated, shamed, beaten or broken.

I am glad that my ears are not covered and I can hear the birds sing.

As I walk silently, I remember in this moment innocent men are suffering at the hands of Americans.

Kinhin is the art of walking meditation practiced by Zen monks over milennia. It is simply a continuation of sitting meditation. When walking you just walk. Coordinating your breath with the movement of your feet, you slowly step, one foot after the other. In deep meditation I move with the group toward the Whitehouse.

A young man approaches us from behind. As he passes, I see his shiny black shoes wet from the rain, his tailored black pants, his pinstriped suit jacket. He slows and says, “I know you are not supposed to respond, but I want to tell you, that I am thankful that you are here.” He hurries on.

We approach the sidewalk in front of the Whitehouse and turn to face the street, each of us holding a piece of a banner. In silence I stand, head bowed, noticing my breath, watching as children stop to stare, asking “Why?” and “What?” and parents grab their hands and say, “Let’s go, come on! We need to see the West Wing.” Some stop and calmly explain the torture of prisoners. One pre-adolescent girl shouts to her mom, “I want to help them!”. Like the magnolia tree, she heralds a new beginning, another possibility.

Many people increase their pace and pass quickly, averting their eyes, as they rush about their midday business. Some walk by stiffly, imagining we don’t exist. Some teenagers laugh as they pose with a thumbs-up in front of us, and I wonder if they connect to the sadistic soldiers who got off on abusing detainees, or if they are conscious of the abuses taking place at all. I watch as anger rises. My body begins to stiffen both from the emotions that arise and standing in the cold drizzle. I return to my breath.

I recognize my feeling of separateness, as a wide swath of empty sidewalk opens up in front of us and crowds congregate fifty feet away laughing and shouting, squeezing together as mom takes a photo for the family album.

As the vigil comes to a close for the day, our signs are put away and we slowly turn. In single file we walk away, leaving the Whitehouse vista clear. Passerby will no longer need to avert their eyes.

The 100 day vigil to close Guantanamo continues Monday thru Friday 11am to 1 pm in front of the Whitehouse. http://www.witnesstorture.org/100days

Look Back in Anger

“Do not excuse evil with reference to intent.
The thought does not count,
and your actions have consequences.
You have choice now and now again;
the responsibility for what you do is yours alone.”

“Can you find me a lawyer in the United States?” Aswad, an uneducated, poor farmer from a remote region of the Syrian countryside believes that in America, justice can be served. Aswad believes that in America no one is above the law.

I met Aswad in a Damascus café in the fall of 2008 after learning of his story from a humanitarian aid worker. He confided in me the hell he had endured as a pawn in the “War on Terror” and convinced me of the necessity of holding those responsible accountable for their actions.

Aswad, a Syrian national, was abducted November 2003 in Mosul, Iraq by US military forces. Aswad claims he suffered physical, mental, and emotional cruelty at the hands of American interrogators in Iraq. Forced to stand hooded, naked, and shackled, he was beaten mercilessly for eight days. When he passed out from exhaustion and pain, he was doused with freezing water, and the “interrogation” resumed. When he provided answers that were unsatisfactory, he was tasered by his interrogators. Incarcerated for five years without charges, Aswad was released in the summer of 2008.

Try explaining to Aswad that we need not dwell on the mistakes of the past. Try telling Aswad’s nine children who suffered from his absence that their suffering has no recourse. Physically incapacitated and with permanent eye damage due to his beatings, Aswad cannot return to the strenuous work that provided for his family and they continue to suffer.

Although the horrors of Saddam Hussein’s torture chambers were overwhelming and undoubtedly the Iraqi Sunni population would have preferred a forward-looking approach to the end of the regime, the Bush administration consistently pointed to the fact that Saddam’s torture chambers were silenced by our invasion of Iraq. If, in fact, human rights abuses are one pillar in our justification for war, we must demand accountability from our leaders when our government’s human rights abuses are exposed.

The election of Barack Obama has generated a pervasive feeling of a new day dawning. How do we begin to heal, not only here but throughout the world? As a nation we are currently faced with many challenges that demand our immediate attention. But as any victim of abuse can tell you, turning the page is easier said than done, especially when the perpetrators of the abuse walk free, convinced they are above the law. President Obama has proclaimed, “We are ready to lead once again.” He must begin by looking back. There can be no renewal without rehabilitation and reconciliation.

During President Obama’s speech to Congress he emphatically stated, “We do not torture!” and Congress replied with thunderous cheering. President Bush made the same claim, even though documents continue to come to light that our recent past was filled with torture. Bush, in a final act of hubris, implicated himself in authorizing torture. In discussing the interrogation of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed on Fox News on Jan 11, 2009, Bush claimed, “...the techniques were necessary and are necessary to be used on a rare occasion to get information necessary to protect the American people... So I ask what tools are available for us to find information from him, and they give me a list of tools. And I said, ‘are these tools deemed to be legal?’ And so we got legal opinions before the decision was made.” We know from previous admissions from the Pentagon that Khalid Sheikh Mohammed was water-boarded.

Some Americans feel quite comfortable with these illegal policies. Those of us weaned on American exceptionalism are simply convinced that America always acts in the name of goodness, always acts in the name of “democracy and freedom” and therefore, our nation and leaders are above the law. This blind faith demands we never look back lest the façade of exceptionalism begins to crumble.

This moral blindness may be diminishing. As information continues to trickle out, Americans are appalled by the blatant disregard for the law exhibited by the members of the former Bush administration. A USA Today/ Gallop poll released on February 12th suggests that upwards of sixty percent of the American citizenry are now supportive of inquiries into Bush administration torture policies. Sen. Leahy (D-VT) and Sen. Whitehouse (D-RI) are advocating a “Truth Commission” to investigate abuses and Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi is advocating support for John Conyers (D-MI) convening a panel into potential lawbreaking in the Bush administration. Now is the time for citizens to pressure lawmakers to act decisively.

In order for justice to be served investigations into torture and human rights abuses must begin and those responsible prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Officials at every level must be held accountable for crimes they committed.

The Chasm that Separates Us

On Sunday Jan 4th i attended a demonstration in Miami in support of the Palestinian people in Gaza. On one side of the street stood Palestinians and their supporters, on the other side of the street, Israelis and supporters of Israel. The cars passing between them ran a gauntlet. Many people looked dumbstruck as they passed between the demonstrators screaming at each other. Others quickly chose a side and either gave a thumbs up or the finger to the side they supported/ denied, with the side getting support cheering wildly and those denied support jeering. Skirmishes flared as one side grabbed the flag of the other and stomped on it, spit on it, or wiped their ass with it. Taunts flew, invectives flew, spit and fists flew. Anger and hatred disfigured the faces of women, children and men, Israeli, Palestinian, and American, Jews, Muslims, Christians, and Atheists alike. Besides the traffic streaming by and the policeman lining each curb, the gap between each side was filled with a lack of recognition. A lack of perception that made a three lane street a chasm as deep as the chasms of hell. Hell on earth- not an afterlife destination, but rather a hell here and now, a hell we human beings have created and continue to create on a daily basis. A hell we are living because of our lack of recognition. And it was a microcosm of the hell of Gaza/Israel.

What was the missing ingredient? The ingredient that has the possibility of transforming the hells we have created? What is the recognition that i am talking about? It is simply this- we are not separate. That is all. The recognition of this fact transforms our relationship to everything, but particularly our relationship to our ill-perceived enemies. It transforms our self-righteousness and it transforms our insistence that our position is the correct position. My anger is transformed from a creator of hell realms to an energy that deconstructs the hells of our creation. The road becomes a bridge over the chasm, and we can walk together, toward peace and toward justice, which are merely reflections of each other. Once we recognize that we are not separate, we can begin to work constructively, together, for just solutions. The issue becomes how can we fulfill each other instead of how can we oppress each other. Rather than seeking power and dominance we seek equality. Rather than a boot to the neck of those we have differences with, we embrace them and work for a mutually beneficial experience.

Of course, there is incredible opposition to this perspective, because incredible pain and suffering has been created by our ignorance, and in our ignorance those who are interested in power, not peace, have exploited our fear. As individuals we begin this journey alone. We must persevere. This recognition leads away from passivity and acceptance of injustice and leads directly towards action because our lives become intertwined with each and every being facing injustice, and each and every being perpetrating injustice. Our work is to fill the gap. Peace is the natural outcome of this shift in perspective. Then we can face each other and say Shalom, Salaam, Peace be upon you.

There are many histories at work here, and individuals rely on what they have been taught to justify their positions. i, too, have been taught that, “if you don’t learn from history, it is bound to repeat itself.” That would explain why on one side of the street Israeli supporters held signs reflecting their darkest historical moment, the holocaust, repeating a common refrain, “Never again”. It also explains why Palestinians on the other side of the street held signs equating current Israeli policies in Gaza to Nazism. Neither side held signs reflecting the resistance to the policies of Hitler’s Germany. Neither side held signs reflecting the possibilities of a citizenry participating in subversive activities that were diametrically opposed to the regimes grab for power and dominance. Neither side held signs calling for peaceful co-existence. Neither side could see how history bound them to a limited view of the present moment. This history is a limitation that continually pushes us apart until we consider violence upon the other (not only violence to subdue, but violence to eliminate the other) as the only viable option.

Facts may be pointers, but misconstrued they lead to devastation. The facts never reveal what is in a person’s heart. The facts never reveal a persons true source of power. The history of facts ignore the individual and paint a broad picture that bends reality to fit a framework that benefits those seeking power. The history of facts is used to distort the present moment in ways that create fear, distrust, and anger. This history kills the individual. It creates a chasm in Miami that allows people to shout “terrorist” and “baby killer” at each other.

But let us put this history aside for a moment and delve into another history- the one left behind in the face of “the facts”. This history is not constrained by time or place but rather holds these parameters. This history is the very mystery of our lives. The sacred history of our place on this planet is never revealed by the facts. Stories of real power, and dare i say, stories of love, are dismissed as weak, or fantasy, or naiveté. To examine this history reveals where each of us has gone wrong, where each of us has condoned the atrocities that have taken place today and throughout space and time. To realize this history reveals our individual flaws and causes us to look at ourselves in a new light. And because of the huge responsibility this places on each of us, we turn away from it. We do what we can to ignore it. It is the written facts that take precedence, whether they are true or not. These facts are then manipulated, debated and spun depending on where one imagines one stands. This is the true meaning of history repeating itself. Ignoring the sacred history of our planet and our humanity and relying on the “facts” demands a fight or flight response and puts us squarely in this moment of suffering and pain. Those deemed “other” or “enemy” are condemned. They are not given room to breathe. Innocent children die, and it is acceptable, because they are "other" and have been stripped of their humanity. We do not see our own child torn apart. We do not feel our own heart torn open. Our fear and ignorance based on “facts” allow us to commit atrocities without reservation or reflection. In “victory”, it makes us small and ultimately inconsequential. We claim, “Never forget” but we never take the time to remember that our story is not different nor is it exclusive- that we, in fact, are not “a chosen people” but just people in this time and this place. The people on the other side of the street share the same story- in fact there is no other side of the street, just our false conception of a reality left unexamined. One story. Our story. This recognition leads us away from the abyss.

Israel Sends Season Greetings to Palestine

It is amazing that Israel can deny people the most basic human rights -- that is, the right to food, water, shelter, security and dignity, blame it on the very people they are oppressing, and act surprised and victimized when people, sorry, i mean terrorists, strike back. It is the malevolent policies of Israel that result in rockets raining down on Sderot.

The propaganda we hear is typical of a belligerent regional power bent on destruction and oppression, and reminds me of the propaganda our departing administration has spewed about fighting terrorism in Iraq. The two regimes go hand in glove, though it is difficult to tell which is the hand and which the glove. Of course, like Saddam and the non-existent weapons of mass destruction, the situation is all the fault of Hamas. All talk is about how a truce must be implemented- Hamas must stop what it is doing immediately while Israel bombs entire apartment blocks, a mosque (or two), a university, and ambulances rushing the injured to hospitals. And the argument goes like this: Israel is the most tolerant nation of all, they desperately want peace, but they are surrounded by enemies. Israel has shown tremendous restraint. What other nation would allow a terrorist group to send rockets into their territory without responding with force? No mention of the fact that the rockets are inaccurate and largely ineffective. No mention that the rocket attacks are often in retaliation for the state sponsored terrorism of Israel. No mention that Israel broke the most recent truce. It is Hama’s desire to kill that must be stopped- rather than Israel’s actual killing. It is Hama’s refusal to passively accept Israeli oppression that must be deterred. Forget autonomy, forget self-determination, forget justice, it is obedience that counts. For all the talk of peace and a peace process, Israel, like all colonial powers, only considers peace if the opposition comes to heel.

There is no mention of the fact that Israel has been systematically starving the civilian population of Gaza for two years, with Dov Weinglas actually saying in February 2006, "The idea is to put the Palestinians on a diet, but not make them die of hunger." The hospitals of Gaza have been deprived of medicines and equipment for so long that the hospitals can no longer meet the minimum daily needs of the Palestinian civilian population, never mind a population under a bombing attack. People are dying for the lack of medical care. Children, not terrorists, are malnourished, and now dying under American supplied bombs. There is never a questioning of this “tolerant” Israeli position of collective punishment. To hear Condoleeza Rice explain it, you’d think it was Israel under the bombs. It’s a lot like blaming a murder victim for standing in front of the gun. At least she’s not calling it the “birth pangs of a new Middle East.” Perhaps she recognizes it’s the same old death throes of the past 60 years.

Talk of peace is cheap. Providing real security for your citizens requires more than the ability to drop bombs. Shock and Awe does not deter. The war on terror ensures terror for years to come, and the ignorant cry, “Why do they hate us so?”

An Imperative Security Threat and the Declaration of Human Rights

Today, recognizing the 60th anniversary of the Declaration of Human Rights, is a day to share a story i was able to document in Syria this past month. It is a difficult story, one many Americans would like to deny, and unable to do that, many will simply chose to turn their backs. There is ample opportunity for this. One could point at the outgoing administration, brand them as criminals, say their actions are a thing of the past, and leave it at that. Others could point to the new administration only weeks away, thinking our problems are solved, that change is on the way. But this also would be a mistake. Our complicity in these matters runs deeper then these simplistic deflections of responsibility. If we are to address the fundamental, systemic issues facing our nation and the world, reflection followed by action is necessary. As you read the story of Aswad and his family, recognize his story is one of thousands and his perception of America as purveyors of terrorism is based solely on his personal experience.

Aswad was fast asleep in the early morning hours of November 6th, 2003 when a commotion in the house woke him up. He looked up to see a room full of American soldiers pointing automatic weapons at his head.

He had arrived in the village of Al-Yarmouk on the outskirts of Mosul just the evening before, breaking the Ramadan fast with his friends and going to bed early. He had been following the same routine since early 2000, every couple of months purchasing about $300 worth of galibayas and other articles of clothing to sell on the streets of Mosul. This was to supplement his meager income as a farmer. Farming was backbreaking work and at 48 years old, he was hoping to find another way to support his wife and 9 children.

Now, people were shouting at him in a language he didn’t understand, binding his hands behind his back and blindfolding his eyes. Someone speaking Arabic asked him his name, and demanded, “From where?” He told them he was from Syria. They emptied his pockets, taking his passport and $400 in cash. Then they dragged him to his feet and took him out into the night. He knew that at least two of his friends were taken with him; he could feel one in front and one behind him as they were dragged across the courtyard.

The prisoners were taken by helicopter to an unknown destination and isolated. When he arrived he was placed between an idling steamroller and a barrier. As the ground shook from the heavy equipment he was certain he was going to die. He was told he would never see his family again. He recalls, “I thought they were just going to make me a part of the road.” At times over the next 8 days, Aswad thought that would have been a preferable outcome. His clothes were taken and he was forced to stand naked, except for the blindfold covering his eyes. His arms were shackled behind his back and legs shackled at the ankles. He was beaten with a club. He was hit so hard across the abdomen that he fell unconscious 3 times. Each time he was doused with freezing water until he regained consciousness, he was stood up, and beaten again. They shackled his wrists in front of him and made him hold two heavy cartons. Each time he dropped a carton, the beatings resumed. He was not permitted to sleep. Aswad recalled the only warmth he felt was the hot blood flowing from his forehead and broken nose down over his face and chest.

Near the end of his beatings he was confronted by a man dressed in civilian clothes who claimed to be Egyptian officer, but Aswad is certain he was not who he pretended to be. His Arabic accent was not Egyptian, nor was he American. Aswad thinks he may have been an Israeli, but he is not certain. He was questioned at length about attacks on Americans, each time he denied any knowledge about the attacks. Prior to his arrest he had been sleeping. He didn’t hear any shooting. No weapons were kept in his friends house. After each denial he was tasered. His body had been so severely battered by the beatings he endured that he didn’t feel the pain as he fell to the floor.

Throughout his ordeal, Aswad thought about death and hoped it would come quickly. He recognized his captors were merciless. When he asked for water, his tormentors poured it over his head while they laughed. At one point, he felt two naked bodies pressed up against him. His captors shouted at him, but he didn’t understand their taunts as they were shouting in English. He tells me that he was blindfolded and couldn’t see anything. Looking away, embarrassed and ashamed, Aswad repeats this to me four times.

On the eighth day of his detention, Aswad was transferred to Abu Ghraib prison in Baghdad. Once the site of some of Saddam’s most heinous interrogations, it was now run by the Americans and they followed suit with their own brand of sadistic, blatant and wanton criminal abuses of detainees. It was November 14th, 2003, months before any hint of wrongdoing would seep from under the cages of Abu Ghraib. Aswad arrived at the prison disfigured from his beatings. Doctors examined him, asking him where he felt pain, but never questioning what had happened to him. As he was recuperating from his beatings he was a witness to some of the abuses that would later be reported by mainstream news media in the United States. In the hallway outside his cell he saw a naked prisoner terrorized by an attack dog. He witnessed the “naked pyramid” later to become an infamous photograph American guards gloating in the background. And he witnessed 4 soldiers strip an Iraqi woman in the cellblock, but he turned his back to her because he felt ashamed. Eventually, the commotion died down. He does not know what became of her.


When he was sufficiently healed from his wounds, he was transferred to the Abu Ghraib camp. He remained there for a month before he was transferred to Camp Bucca, a “Coalition Theater Internment Facility” or TIF. Located in the desert southwest of Basra, within a few miles of the Kuwati border, Bucca is a desolate place housing up to 10,000 prisoners many of whom are held as “security detainees”. The ability of US forces to continue these detentions has been left vague in the new Status of Forces Agreement. The definition of an “imperative security threat” is someone who may not have committed a crime, but is imprisoned anyway because he may commit a crime in the future. Even the US military estimates that 70% of those incarcerated are not insurgents. Aswad remained in Bucca for 9 months- through the remaining winter months and the following grueling summer. The conditions were calamitous. Thirty men shared a 12 meter by 6 meter canvas tent. They slept on thin mattresses on the ground and were given only two thin blankets to ward of the cold. In the summer, temperatures reached 140 degrees, and there was no escape from the heat. In the spring, flies and ants inundated the camp. The toilet consisted of a barrel cut in half. When it was full, the prisoners were required to dump it. The food rations were inconsistent and often inedible. Throughout this period, the International Committee of the Red Cross visited Aswad regularly. It was through the efforts of the ICRC that Aswad’s family learned of his incarceration many months after his disappearance.

After one year in prison, Aswad was transferred back to Abu Ghraib. He traded his orange jumpsuit for a blue one and was paraded in front of TV cameras along with several other detainees. The announcers said they were Arab terrorists just captured in battle at Al Fallujah. Years later, Aswad’s neighbors would comment on this news piece- asking the obvious question- “How could you be an Arab terrorist in Al-Fallujah when you were imprisoned?” Apparently moved just for the TV charade, after fifty days in Abu Ghraib, Aswad was returned to Camp Bucca.

During this time period Camp Bucca was growing and prefab huts were replacing the canvas tents. The prison was beginning to take on the look of a permanent structure. The prison population was exploding as well due to the increase in military operations. The prison's two-mile perimeter contains 12 compounds, six on each side of a dirt and gravel road. At the corner of each compound, guards with automatic rifles stand watch from three-story wooden towers. The quality of the food was also beginning to improve, three meals a day are served -- bread, cheese, jam and tea for breakfast and dinner, rice and stew for lunch.

Shortly after his return, in January 2005 a riot broke out at the prison. The riot began during a search for contraband when soldiers desecrated a Koran. The riot quickly spread to three additional compounds, with detainees throwing rocks, chunks of concrete and dirt clods at the soldiers who retreated to outside the wire. From there they fired tear gas and shotgun rounds at the prisoners. The riot ended when 2 soldiers opened fire with M-16’s on the prisoners in Compound 5. Four prisoners were killed and six were wounded.

Another riot broke out in April when guards ordered the transfer of prisoners including 4 Shiite clerics to a new unit. Again, prisoners threw stones, chunks of concrete and dirt clods. . Some prisoners fashioned slingshots to hurl pieces of cinderblock at the heavily armed soldiers outside the prison wire. The soldiers responded with pepper spray, tear gas, and shotgun volleys. A video taken by a soldier captures soldiers calling for more shotgun ammo and laughing after particularly accurate shots of tear gas into the crowd. Twelve prisoners and four guards were injured in the melee.

After two years of incarceration, Aswad was again transferred to Abu Ghraib. On January 7, 2006 he went before an Iraqi court. The judge asked the American officer why he was being held. The officer replied that Aswad had entered Iraq illegally. This was the first time since his arrest that Aswad had heard any charges against him. He denied the charges, telling the judge his passport was in the possession of the Americans. The American officer was asked about the passport and admitted it was in his possession. He claimed that in fact Aswad has crossed the Syrian border legally but failed to get an Iraqi stamp. This was easily determined to be a fabrication when the judge reviewed the passport and saw the Iraqi stamp right next to the Syrian stamp. Everything was legal. The judge ordered Aswad freed. As he was returned to Abu Ghraib the military lawyer told him he would be released soon. The interpreter asked him if he would agree to a release from Camp Cropper another detention facility at Baghdad Airport. Aswad said, “i don’t mind where you release me, just let me go!” He was returned to Camp Bucca. Two days later, he was loaded onto the “Happy Bus” (the designation for the bus that transferred prisoners due to be released) and he was transferred back north to Camp Cropper. Eleven days later, without explanation, he was again returned to Camp Bucca. This happened 2 or 3 times over the next several months. Each time he boarded the bus, his spirits soared. Each time he returned he felt as if his spirit had been murdered, again. He was never told that military commanders could overrule the Iraqi court and continue holding “security threats”, nor was he told why he was transferred back and forth so many times.

In the summer of 2007 the Multi-National Force Review Committee (MNFRC) was created. Every detainee is able to speak to a panel regarding their detention once every six months, and the board reviews their files to determine not whether they are guilty or innocent, but whether they are still a security threat to coalition forces, the Iraqi government or Iraqi citizens.

On September 2007 Aswad was brought before the Multinational Force Review Committee Board, a board he characterized as the “Lying Committee”. He was asked about his illegal entry into Iraq and a new accusation was presented- he was asked why he participated in an attack against Americans. Aswad explained that he entered Iraq legally, his passport proved it, and that an Iraqi court ordered him freed. He was arrested while he slept and no weapons were present. He asked the panel, “When a death sentence comes down from an Iraqi court, it seems you can’t hang the prisoner quick enough; yet it was determined in January of 2006 that I am innocent and I remain imprisoned. Why is that?” He was returned to prison.

Six months later, in February of 2008 he was again brought before the review board. The actors were different but the questions and Aswad’s answers remained the same. On March 17th 2008 Aswad received his release papers. On July 18th, 2008 Aswad boarded the Happy Bus for the last time. Only after confirming his release was immanent with the International Committee of the Red Cross did Aswad allow himself to believe his ordeal was coming to an end. On July 26th Aswad boarded a Red Cross flight to Damascus. Finally, he was free.

As we sit sipping coffee in Damascus, Aswad, reflecting on his interment, says, “It is an inhuman prison system run by criminals.” When I ask him what he believes finally caused the review board to release him, Aswad doesn’t know. “They do as they like. There is no reason to it. Their life is OK, their children are well, and they don’t care. We have a saying, ‘Who is full doesn’t know hunger’. You are full.”

For five years Aswad’s only contact with his family was through messages relayed by the Red Cross. On his release, he didn’t know his family. His oldest daughter sat him down and told him about his children, whom he could barely recognize. His family had suffered throughout his imprisonment. When I asked him what his children said about the time he was gone, Aswad said, “On my first phone call, my youngest son, now eight years old, said, ‘My dad, my dad, come here! Come here! We don’t have anyone!” His oldest son, who left school when he was 15 to provide for the family, confessed that he cried for the first two years because he couldn’t provide enough bread for the family. His boy carries cotton, barley and wheat from the fields- 88 lbs. of cotton translates to about $1 US dollar. “You see this situation has destroyed my family. This is what American democracy did for me!” he says with a smile and a tear in his eye.The United States played a major role if formulating the Declaration of Human Rights document in 1948. Eleanor Roosevelt, in endorsing the Declaration said, “This declaration is based upon the spiritual fact that man must have freedom in which to develop his full stature and through common effort to raise the level of human dignity. We have much to do to fully achieve and to assure the rights set forth in this declaration. But having them put before us with the moral backing of 58 nations will be a great step forward."

Discussing the abstention of the USSR during the vote at the UN, Roosevelt went on to say, “We must not be confused about what freedom is. Basic human rights are simple and easily understood: freedom of speech and a free press; freedom of religion and worship; freedom of assembly and the right of petition; the right of men to be secure in their homes and free from unreasonable search and seizure and from arbitrary arrest and punishment.

We must not be deluded by the efforts of the forces of reaction to prostitute the great words of our free tradition and thereby to confuse the struggle. Democracy, freedom, human rights have come to have a definite meaning to the people of the world which we must not allow any nation to so change that they are made synonymous with suppression and dictatorship.” It would be wise for us to reflect on these words and the policies of our own government, especially the ill-conceived “War on Terror” over these many years.

Sixty years on, we must reflect on our failure as a nation to uphold the principles set forth in this document. It is our individual responsibility to safeguard the principles that we take for granted so that others may share in them. It is our collective failure that fuels the terrorism so rampant in the world today.

One Visa for Iraq

Outside the Iraqi embassy in Damascus, several dozen Iraqi refugees are milling around. Some stand patiently on the sidewalk across the street, some look anxiously at the posted notices on a sign by the door. Others crowd around the door attempting to gain entrance past the Syrian policeman acting as a security guard. Most of the people waiting are attempting to upgrade their passports to the new “G” passport, the only passport now considered “valid” by many Western countries. As i move through the crowd to the door, the security man asks a question i don’t understand, but also gestures with his up turned hands- a gesture i know and recognize- roughly translated as “What? What do you want?’ or “What? What do you think you’re doing?” I tell him i would like to speak with someone regarding a visa to enter Iraq. Clearly he doesn’t know what i am asking anymore than i understand him- but after repeating myself several times he manages to understand one word- “visa”, and signals to someone inside, who joins him in the doorway. I repeat my request and i am gestured inside. The hall is crowded with many Iraqis sitting and talking among themselves, most holding papers, documents and passports in their hands. There are 2 long lines at the windows. The man who waved me inside points to a door behind the windows and says, “Go in”. I enter the little room where 2 men are responding to the people lined up at the windows.

One turns from the person he is speaking with and asks me, “What do you want?” I tell him i would like to get a visa to enter Iraq. His eyebrows arch in surprise.
“A visa to enter Iraq?” he repeats.
“Yes”, i say, “i would like to visit Baghdad.”
“But it is not possible”
“Why not?” i ask.
“Do you have an invitation?” Now it is my turn to be surprised.
“An invitation? From who? Do i need an invitation to receive a visa?”
“Yes, you need an invitation.”
“I’m not going to a party, i want to go to Baghdad”, i reply.
“It is very dangerous” he answers.
“But i just saw an Iraqi general on TV last night speaking about how safe it is to return. I would like to see for myself.”
“You can not get a visa. What you need to do is go to the American embassy and ask them to provide us with a letter saying it is OK for you to go to Iraq.”
“i need a letter from the Americans to enter your country?
“Yes”. He turns back to the window, where a very patient Iraqi man waits.

I walk outside into the brilliant noon day sun. A near perfect day. I walk about 30 yards down the street to where i can see the US embassy. I stop and stand in front of a grade school where kindergartners run around the concrete yard screaming at each other, having a grand old time. Across the street, the embassy looks like a fortress, an outpost in some Mad max future world. Walls 16 feet high, topped with pikes and razor wire. Concrete pillars line the sidewalk to deter cars and trucks. Fortified steel gates block the driveway. The building itself is a tan stucco building with razor wire curled around every balcony. The roof of the building also has razor wire all around it. Above it flies the American flag. “So this is what democracy looks like”, i say out loud to no one in particular.

A man with an instrument that looks like a metal detector is passing it under all the parked cars on my side of the street. I realize he is not looking for lost jewelry, but is scanning the undersides of the vehicles for bombs. For a moment i allow myself the image of a car bomb detonating outside the grade school, but my thoughts are interrupted by two men, one in plainclothes and the other with a flak jacket and Kalashnikov. The plainclothes man asks, “Hello, may I help you?”
I reply, “No, thanks.”
“Are you looking for something?”
“No, no, i am just looking at the embassy.” (Wrong answer.)
“Are you American?”
“Yes.” (Wrong answer again, but the truth.)
“Do you need something?”
“I need to go to the embassy, but i am not certain i’ll go today.”
“Ok, but you can’t stand here.”
I look up and down the street where several groups of men are standing. For all i know, they are all cops. I don’t argue, but ask, “Where can i stand?”
“Not here.”
“I don’t suppose i could get a picture of my embassy? You know, to share with the folks back home?” I look him in the eye, “America spreading freedom through the Middle East and all, you know?”
He shows no emotion, he simply says “No pictures are allowed.”
I decide to skip the trip inside the embassy, and turn to walk down the street. I hear the plainclothes cop laughing with his friend- i get the feeling they are not laughing with me.

One week later i find myself walking past the school as i cross the street and approach the American embassy. As I step on the sidewalk a guard stops me. He asks me what i want. I tell him i need to get a visa to enter Iraq. He points me at a speaker system by the door. A man looks out of a glass panel as i press the button and a buzzer sounds.
“Yes.”
“I would like a visa to enter Iraq.” He responds but i can’t hear a thing, as the traffic on the street is heavy, and loud.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” He repeats himself as a large truck barrels past.
“Sorry, I can’t hear you, the traffic.”
“You need to go to the Iraqi embassy for a visa to enter Iraq”, he shouts.
“They told me to come here.” I hear a radio call come in to the man next to me- they guy at the window tells him something. He apparently can't hear him either. I watch as the man behind the window shouts into his radio angrily. The man beside me calmly directs me around to the back of the building. I walk up and around the block to a narrow tree lined street. There is a line of about 6 people in front of a closed door. The girl at the front of the line is crying softly and arguing with the security man. I walk up to the security man and ask to go in. I am directed to the back of the line.

After a half hour wait, i am at the front of the line where the young woman is still crying, her voice getting louder as the security man ignores her. I am signaled to open my backpack and the security man checks it quickly. He has me empty my pockets and hold may hands out to the sides, then he scans me with a wand. I gather my belongings and i’m ushered inside. I place my backpack, belt, cell phone, change etc… into the x-ray machine and walk through the metal detector. After collecting my things, i step up to the first empty window and tell the man i need a piece of paper from the embassy to give me permission to enter Iraq. He tells me he doesn’t have a piece of paper to give me permission, that no such paper exists. I merely need to apply at the Iraqi embassy for a visa and they either accept it or reject it. I tell him what i was told by the Iraqi embassy. He excuses himself, then returns shortly and repeats himself. No such paper exists. I ask if he would please check again as i really don’t want to have to return again. He confirms it- and gives me a policy printout that says in part that the US embassy does not interfere in visa matters.

I return to the Iraqi embassy that has a repeat of the week before- crowds of Iraqi refugees trying to update their papers and passports. I walk up to the policeman at the door and ask to fill out a visa application. “No visas here”, he says.
“What?”
“No visas here.”
“I’d really like to confirm that with some one who actually works at the embassy”, i respond. He raise his hands in the gesture that’s says “What?” “Are you kidding me?” And “Tough luck, buddy!” all at once. I don’t move and repeat my request to speak to someone with the embassy. The line behind me is getting longer. A man who speaks English asks me what i want. I tell him i want to get a visa form from inside. He repeats my request to the security guard. “No visas here”, the guard replies as a man in a tie approaches him from inside the embassy. They speak and the man in the tie ushers me inside, past all the waiting Iraqis and through the door behind the windows. I enter and am ushered to chair by the same man i spoke with the prior week. “What do you like?” he asks.
“I would like a visa to go to Iraq. Last week you directed me to the American embassy to get a letter. There are no letters. I would like to get a visa.”
“It is very dangerous” he explains.
“I know it is very dangerous, i would like to be responsible for myself and get a visa.”
“Do you have an invitation?”
“Yes, i have been invited by a family to visit them in Baghdad.”
“You will need a written invitation. Then we will forward your request to Baghdad to get the proper approval. Then we will give you a visa.”
“How long will that take”?”
“Two months, maybe less.”
“Is there another way to do this? If i come back with an invitation are you going to tell me another procedure?”
“It might be quicker if you go to Washington D.C. and apply there, that usually doesn’t take 2 months.”
“So, i should fly to Washington D.C., go to the Iraqi embassy and apply for a visa and then return to the Middle East?”
“That would be the best”, he says, “That may only take 2 weeks.” I laugh and he smiles.
“All right, I understand. It’s not so easy for Iraqis to visit our country either.” He shakes my hand as i get up to go.

Amal's Journey

Outside the UNHCR compound a crowd is forming. Two hundred people gather in the dusty street, choking off the traffic lanes so that only one car can pass in each direction. Car horns are constantly blaring, dust is kicked up, taxi drivers are shouting out the routes they cover and each time a door to the walled-in compound opens, a scrum forms as people crowd around trying to get information. UNHCR workers, identified by their blue uniforms, ties, and badges shout out numbers or try to move people back off the road all the while slowed by people trying to ask questions. A few Syrian police men sit in broken plastic chairs drinking tea and smoking. On the street, businesses have sprung up in the form of snack carts, falafel stands, and the always present tea and coffee vendors. Several new service (shared taxi) routes have been established to shuttle Iraqi refugees from various Damascus neighborhoods to this out of the way registration center. And there is a stream of people arriving and departing.

There are three groups of people here, new and renewing registrants, people with an appointment, and people receiving their food allowance. Once you arrive, you get a number and wait. The only place to sit is on the curb. The only cover from the sun or the rain is a narrow covered sidewalk that runs the length of the wall.

Once inside the compound, things are better. Chairs are provided. It’s quieter. The staff seems less harried and kinder as they direct people and answer questions. Currently about 3000 people per month are being processed here. Sixty percent of them are people renewing their papers (originally, refugees were required to come and renew their status on a yearly basis, this has been changed to two years as of April 2008). Forty percent or 1200 people are registering for the first time. However this does not reflect the number of people currently leaving Iraq as many of the refugees do not go to the UNHCR for assistance until many months after their arrival.

The people with an appointment for an interview are divided into groups for processing. The UNHCR tries to prioritize the refugees based on vulnerability, single woman with children being considered the most vulnerable population. When people’s numbers are called they are led down a long hallway to one of 30 curtained off enclosures where their information is recorded into the UNHCR database. Amal gets up and taking her 3 year old daughter Shams by the hand and cradling 15 day old Kamar in her arms she follows the representative down the hall to enclosure number 17. Noor, the UNHCR representative, has them take a seat and closes the curtain behind them. Amal produces passports and documents. Amal and her family even look vulnerable. She is a small woman dressed in a black hijab and she sits at one end of the long bench, very quietly answering questions as Noor types them into the computer.

As they get to the special needs section, Amal begins to explain her situation in more detail. She arrived in Damascus 3 months ago with her daughter. She hasn’t renewed her visa, so she is technically in the country illegally. She left Iraq because she received death by the Jaish Al-Mehdi. She was a Sunni woman married to a Shia man. It was her husband who threatened her.

Amal was married four years ago at age 21 after a one month courtship with a 27 year old man. Her parents disowned her because she was marrying a Shia. Headstrong and in love, she married anyway. At the time, her husband told her he didn’t care about Sunni or Shia and Amal believed him. In 2005 after the birth of her daughter, things began to change. The militias were gaining strength in neighborhoods throughout Baghdad and consolidating their power bases. Her husband began demanding she convert to Shia. Amal refused. He became violent. As their problems grew it became apparent that he was abusing drugs. As his demands changed into threats, he told her he belonged to the Badr brigades as well as the Jaish Al-Mehdi. He became physically violent as well, trying to throw his young daughter out a window. He told her he would give her to the militia. Seven months pregnant, she packed a bag, took her daughter and fled to Damascus. Her husband told her she will be killed if she returns.

Alone, with no friends in Damascus, Amal lives in the Saida Zainab neighborhood. Amal has turned to the UNHCR because she seeking monetary support, food aid and resettlement. The UNHCR representative identifies her as a highly vulnerable individual and schedules her to meet with a protective services agent as well as a community services representative before she leaves for the day. The UNHCR will also have lawyers work with her to divorce her husband as well as straighten out her visa issues so she is not at risk for deportation back to Iraq. When i leave the UNHCR, i see Amal cradling her tiny baby in the reception area waiting for her next appointment.

I catch up with Amal a few days later. She is not wearing a hijab, but is stylishly dressed in a matching tan corduroy skirt and top and a tiger print hat and a small purse. I smile as i come face to face with another one of my uninformed assumptions regarding Iraqi women. Her neighbor is watching the kids, so she only has a short time to talk. We meet at a restaurant in the Jaramana neighborhood as Amal feels it would be to dangerous for her to meet a foreign man in Saida Zainab. We order coffee and i ask her why she is staying in Saida Zainab as there is a strong concentration of Shia refugees there, and there is even a Sadr political office. She replies that her rent is very cheap, about $85 per month for a small unfurnished room. But she feels targeted in the neighborhood because she is a young woman alone with two small children. She explains that she is eligible for UNHCR food aid and assistance, but that she needs to wait until the next distribution at the beginning of January. She will be able to receive blankets at that time as well. The nights are getting very cold and Amal needs blankets tonight. She says she will manage. She also needs to arrange a trip to the main UNHCR building to meet with lawyers for her visa issues.

Sipping her coffee she seems very tentative, but there is more to this young woman. I tell her she must be strong or stubborn to go against her parent’s wishes, and then her husband’s. She laughs and says “Yes, but I’m paying the price for my mistakes.” I continue by saying she must be courageous to leave Baghdad and come to a strange city, pregnant and with a young daughter. She says, “Many Iraqis are facing similar circumstances, my case is not special.” Hoping to be resettled to the United States, she just found out from friends that she would only receive three months support. Now she is confused. Unable to speak English and with small children, how can she begin work in three months time?

Finishing her coffee, Amal takes her leave. We’ve talked enough. Words won’t keep the baby fed or her daughter warm at night. My questions will wait for another day. Her baby waits for her now.

Native Without a Nation

My friend Firas has a project for Iraqi refugee kids here in Syria. It’s called “Native without a Nation”. It is a web blog that uses digital technology and web cams to connect Iraqi kids directly with kids from other countries. As part of the program he teaches kids how to use the computer and access the internet. He also photographs the kids and adds a brief biography of each student to his website. We revisited Ali’s family (see Ali and Sadha) yesterday to get the biographies of his two younger children, Haseen age 14 and his sister Asmaa age 11. Asmaa’s brief biography says it all!

Asmaa Ali
Age 11

"My idea of life is a very simple life. Not complicated.
First, I want to study.
Second, I want to draw.
Third, I like to make beaded jewelry.
Fourth, I want to be successful in my life for me and my family, exactly like a normal family.

We are without a nation. When will we not live in a strange country? When will we have a home? I am without safety. I am unable to study. My wish is to be successful despite the difficult situation now. We are refugees. If that is OK with you, don’t even ask me about it."

Please take a look at the work Firas is doing with the young people here in Damascus. It will inspire you. If you know of a local school that would like to arrange a digital interview, contact Firas, his website is NativeWithoutANation.blogspot.com.

Salwan and Danny

Danny sits on the end of the couch on the opposite side of the room and looks on as his older brother Salwan revisits the day their father was killed. His father Husqail and other family members were going to visit relatives in Northern Iraq. I ask which family members were present . “My mother, my sister, and Danny were there.” Salwan says as he looks up at his young brother. I ask Danny if he can recount what happened next. “Three men were walking toward us near the barricades that the Americans had set up to keep terrorists out of the neighborhood. They signaled the car to stop. Two of the men approached the car from the front, one came from behind. One of the men was looking at a photograph in his hand. He tells my father to get out of the car and come get his picture”. Danny says this was the signal to the gunman that they had the right man. “The next thing I remember is my father on the ground.” Husqail was executed by a shot to the head. The gunmen fled in different directions, leaving the shocked family sitting in their car.

Danny's father was a mechanic for the municipal sewer department. The crime for which he was executed in cold blood was working in the Green zone in Baghdad. He left a wife and five children.

Salwan asked a friend who worked in the Al Dora police department if he should mention the fact that his father worked in the Green zone- the motive for his murder. The friend counseled against it. There were many Sunni and Shia factions in the department and it would not be wise to advertise where his father worked. That very day the family abandoned their home and went to stay with friends in the Zeiuna district. His neighbors called to tell him that someone had taken over his home. Salwan naively went back to the Al Dora police department and filled out forms stating that unknown persons had occupied his home. He was told to report back to the police station the next day and they would go to his house. His friend called him later that night and warned him if he returned he would be killed. Salwan never went back.

The Al Dora neighborhood is very close to the green zone and people are closely watched. In 2006 Shia and Sunni militia groups began to grow more prominent in the neighborhood. Many residents of Al Dora have been killed, either executed in the streets, or killed in crossfire between the militias and the US army. Salwan says that in the twenty three years his family lived in Al Dora they had never had a problem. The neighborhood was a mixed neighborhood with Sunni, Shia and Assyrian Christians all living together.

It took the family one year to raise the necessary money for passports and papers so they could escape Iraq. They arrived in Damascus in November of 2007. One brother remains in northern Iraq. Having recently fled the militia violence in Mosul targeting Christians, he is trying to raise the money to get passports for his family so he too, can flee. Seven family members currently live in a small furnished apartment in the Jeramana district. All the relevant papers were provided to the UNHCR regarding their father’s death- the family hoped they would be resettled quickly due to the circumstances of their father’s death. The family has had no interviews since the refugee application was completed. Danny is not attending school. He stopped attending in 2006 after his father was killed. Now 16 years old, he is too old to attend the 8th grade in public school and would need to pay for classes. Since their arrival in Damascus he has also been diagnosed with blood sugar issues and needs medication. The family needed to make a choice between his education, medicine, and the rent. No one is currently working in the family. The family receives food aid from the UNHCR but no monetary assistance. When the family registered, Salwan was told he would need to separate his case from his families in order for the family to receive monetary assistance, since he was an adult male who could work. But because Syria does not officially recognize the UNHCR designation of refugee status, all Iraqi refugees have tourist visas stamped in their passports and are not permitted to work. Those that do work are subject to arrest and deportation. Those who take the risk are rarely paid more than five dollars per day.

Salwan’s family rarely leaves the apartment, visiting the church in the afternoons, occasionally visiting friends or spending time at the internet café. Mostly, they sit around the apartment with nothing to do but watch TV. “We need to work, to occupy our time, to help us forget.” Salwan says. As they spend their days idly, it is hard to forget. It is especially hard for Danny. He tells me he is angry and confused. Two years since he witnessed his father’ killing and he has not received help. Like many of the young people who have been exposed to horrific violence, he has no outlet, no way to come to terms with his situation. “What can I do?” he asks quietly. On Christmas day Danny will be 17 years old. He tells me, “One day I would like to continue my studies and work in a pharmacy. But right now, I’d work at anything.”

Salwan is confused about staying. Because their father worked in the Green zone and because the family is Assyrian, Salwan believes that the family can’t return to Baghdad. “We can’t return. All Iraq is partitioned and we don’t have a place in Iraq. We need a new life.” In the next moment Salwan says, “I haven’t seen anything in my life but war, sanctions and more war. I’m 30 years old and I don’t have anything, yet I am now responsible for my family. Everything in this apartment belongs to somebody else. I don’t know the future- if we will go back, stay or be resettled. I don’t know anything.”

The Optimist

Walking down a dirt road strewn with rubble and refuse, past new concrete block apartment buildings, we pass some kids playing soccer and kicking up mounds of dust, a work crew mixing cement, and a tall skinny man leaning back on a stoop reading a book. He looks so relaxed, he could be sitting in a park listening to the birds. We stop and say hello he gives us a quick glance, closes the book and invites us in. I ask what he was reading and he says a psychology book. He is a retired psychologist from Baghdad who came to Damascus two years ago.

He introduces himself as Hadi, and explains it means “quiet man”. “I love quietness” he says with a smile. As the cement mixer grinds and the kids shout, Hadi is an island of gentleness and calm amidst the turbulence. He left his wife and children and came to Damascus because the intense violence frightened him. His family has moved to his mother-in-laws house. His wife continues working and the children are in school. “My oldest is at the top of her class in all Iraq” Hadi says with pride. He doesn’t answer when i ask how he came to be the only family member who left Baghdad. When he first arrived he applied at the UNHCR for refugee status, but when it was time to renew, his friends told him it could take 6 months. “I disliked this idea, and I decided not to bother”. He says he speaks with his family often, and while they say the situation is better in Baghdad, it is not yet safe to return. Hadi says he may return in 3 or 4 months, as his life is lonely and it is expensive to live as a refugee.

I ask how he thinks Iraqi children will fare over time. He is optimistic. He believes Iraq will be very nice in 10 to 12 years. “We have the first culture in the world. I think we can renew everything” Hadi exclaims confidently. “Iraq just needs time.” Hadi doesn’t have an explanation for the cataclysmic violence that has shaken Iraq since 2003. “Iraqi people have a very nice culture and good abilities. It is a very wealthy country and we can use its wealth to renew us. I love my country as you love yours”, he says.

“Iraqis have no value in any other country in the world. It is a terrible fate. It leaves me very sad. But it will get better!” he exclaims. I ask him what it will take. “First people must change their souls. Then people need to understand life better. We need to dismiss violence in order to develop conditions for peace. There is nothing better than peace and love!” I wonder if all this can be accomplished within Hadi’s timeline, but he is the first person in a month to be optimistic about the fate of Iraq. He invites me back another time to enjoy a cup of tea.

Ali and Sadha

Ali and Sadha became friends when both worked for the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) in Baghdad. Strong ties remained over the years. When both families ended up in Damascus they renewed their friendship. “We have never considered religion before, why should we now? Before the war religion never mattered.” Sadha says emphatically.

During the Iraq-Iran war Ali was a soldier in Saddam’s army. He lost his left arm below the elbow and suffered many shrapnel wounds from an explosion, yet factions in his country now call him a traitor because of his work with the Red Cross. Ali worked as a security guard at the Red Cross for 11 years. “When Saddam was in power, working with foreigners was not a crime. I worked for a humanitarian organization. Now if you worked with foreigners you are persecuted.” After the war Ali’s family was living in Baghdad when Sunni militias became a threat in his neighborhood. He moved with his wife and 3 children to a Shia area in Diyala. When the Shia militias found out he worked for the ICRC, they threatened by them.
One night the entire family living next door was executed in their home. Ali fled with his family the next morning. They were so panicked they didn’t take anything with them, not even Ali’s prosthetic hand. They arrived in Syria with only the clothes on their backs.

Ali cannot find work. “Just yesterday I went to the Islamic Red Crescent to ask about work, I can do many things. When I told them I was Iraqi, they said, ‘Just go. Get out. We have nothing for you. Get out, go. Go!’" His 18 year old son Ahmed, who married his girlfriend from Iraq just last month, has left school in order to provide for the family. He earns $3 to $4 per day in a woodworking shop. The family receives $110 per month assistance from the UNHCR which just covers the rent. This month’s payment has been delayed and the rent hasn’t been paid. They are still waiting to hear from the UNHCR regarding their situation. They haven’t heard anything since they registered. “Nobody listens. You can’t even get past the door at the UNHCR or any embassy. Just say Iraqi and the answer is no.”

“It is difficult, but not just for me. It is difficult for all Iraqis. I can’t return back. I can’t even think about it. I don’t ever want to return back. I am only looking for a future for my children. Anywhere but Iraq.”
Sadha began work at the ICRC as a cook and housekeeper until a job in the accounting office was available. She and her husband had studied Tourism and Hotel Management at the university. In the 80’s she spent time in the United States as a student. “But I returned back to Iraq” she says with regret. Tourism was not a lucrative field in the 90’s in Iraq so Sadha concentrated on accounting.

During the war she stayed close to home. After the war, even home was not safe as Islamic groups became more prominent in the neighborhood. As Christians, the family tried to quietly go about their business. In 2005 the ICRC was bombed and in an effort to protect employees the staff was drastically reduced. Sadha left the ICRC and began work with an American contractor. Shortly thereafter her home was attacked. A neighbor called her and warned her not to return home. Her name appeared on a death list of one of the militias. Her family never returned to their home and the house was occupied by strangers. Shortly thereafter, her son Fadi narrowly escaped a kidnapping attempt on his way to school, and the family fled to Syria in June of 2007.

“We left everything. We lost everything. After twenty six years of marriage we put our remaining belongings in four bags and fled Iraq”, Sadha says.

“We are barely surviving, we sold some gold”, her husband Faed interjects, pointing to his ring finger which is missing his wedding band. “We are waiting, but nobody cares.”

Sadha continues, “When we registered at the UNHCR the person was so rude. I told him he should care about everyone he is working for a humanitarian organization. He told me if I kept talking like that he would call security to push us out. I asked to see his boss, any boss, someone who cared about us. He said no.” After a moment, she adds, “We are just looking for a peaceful place to begin again. A shelter for us. We try to find anyone who may offer a little light to give us hope.”
“It is one of my dreams- of all Iraqi’s dreams, -they call us from the UN department of resettlement” says Faed. “No one calls”, Sadha interupts. “No one calls”, continues Faed,“And we are waiting. It is our last chance. We cannot stay here and we cannot return back. We need a little light.”

A New Arrival

Saad came to Damascus with his family 6 days ago to escape threats on his family. For two years he moved around Iraq trying to escape the violence. When a threatening letter appeared on his doorstep along with a bullet he decided it was time to leave. At a time when Iraqi generals are on Syrian TV encouraging people to return to Iraq, Saad’s departure is a warning. In Iraq, fear still greets you when you open your door.
I met Saad at the UNHCR offices as they were closing late Sunday afternoon. We were speaking with a young Sabian man who was waiting for his cousin to renew his papers. He had been waiting since 7:00 am that morning.

As one can tell from these many dispatches, waiting is a theme. For the Iraqi in Damascus waiting is a many layered task. It would drive an American insane. If you are used to instant gratification, the life of a refugee would be intolerable. You must wait for the power to return. Damascus has been experiencing rolling blackouts since the huge influx of people here. You must wait for the water to return- our tap has been dry for 2 days. You must wait for an internet connection, then wait for the page to load (no DSL here). You must wait for cash to pay the bills, wait for phone calls, appointments, visa renewals, resettlement and most of all, answers. Answers require the most patience. “The patience of a saint” as my mother used to say. Many Iraqis have become saints before they received an answer. Waiting is often a denouement as well.

Forgive me, I digress. A friend who has read this blog says my entries are long winded- a failing i am slowly recognizing, but even slower to correct. Changes will come, but you must wait. I hope you have the patience of an Iraqi.

As Saad passed us he stopped and looked up. Perhaps he heard me speaking English. He asked if I worked for the UNHCR. I told him no. He asked if i could help him. I told him no. He said he had been in Damascus for 4 days. His second oldest daughter was enrolled in school, but his oldest daughter was denied- her class was full. He had managed to rent an apartment for his family but it only had 2 beds (and his family was 6, himself, his wife and 4 children) and he needed blankets and winter clothes for his kids as well. The UNHCR gave him an appointment. He needs to return in January.

You know the feeling when you’ve made a life altering decision affecting your whole family, and the very first instant you second guess yourself? The feeling you get on a roller coaster just before you plummet toward the earth? Saad had that look as he turned and walked slowly down the street. I was reminded of the comment another father had made to me, “The children know nothing, the parents carry everything.” And it is a heavy burden.

Saad used to work as a driver in Baghdad. He was afraid because it was known in his neighborhood that his brother was an American citizen. In Iraq, this is enough to get you klled. He was kidnapped and held for 5 days in 2006. He was beaten and abused. He gained his freedom when US forces entered the neighborhood to confront the militias. He moved his family to Al Fallujah, seeking anonymity and safety. One night someone chased him and shot at his car. He moved the family to Al Ramadi. He began receiving phone threats. Then came the threat and bullets on the doorstep. A long bus ride to Damascus was next. Two years of hiding from unknown assailants and moving from one unknown to another has left the family exhausted.

Now the waiting begins.

Ibrahim's Story

Passing through an iron gate and up the stairs we leave the narrow, busy streets of Yarmouk behind.I follow Ibrahim into his apartment. We enter a living area that is sparsely furnished with a cabinet, a TV, a single plastic chair and a clock on the wall. Currently there are 5 adults and 4 children living here- Ibrahim’s mother, wife, two college aged sons, twin 3 year old daughters, and a 6 year old grandson. Several small cushions are brought for us to sit on. Water and soft drinks are brought in. Ibrahim’s mother sits in the chair and his wife and children sit to our side. They have no cushions to sit on. Ibrahim apologizes for the small offerings. Even when strangers visit, Iraqi hospitality calls for soft drinks, tea and cakes, coffee, fruit juice and fruit. “In Baghdad, it was different”, says Ibrahim.

As we get comfortable Ibrahim begins his story. His troubles began in April of 2003 just 3 days before the end of the invasion. An American airstrike hit his home and 3 of his children were killed, 20 year old Brah, 8 year old Haneen and 5 year old Mohammad, his 1 year old grandson was left without a mother.

Two months later, after the burial of his children, he received death certificates from the Iraqi Red Crescent saying his children’s deaths were the result of an American airstrike. He took the papers to the American Embassy, “it was then in Saddam’s castle”, Ibrahim says disdainfully. He made three trips to the “castle” before he was able to speak with an American general who told him it would be necessary to wait until an Iraqi government was formed. He would then be compensated through the government by the US forces. Once the Iraqi government was formed he still had no answers and no compensation. He hired a lawyer, but the lawyer was told by the fledgling Iraqi government that there was nothing for him; he needed to contact the American authorities. He returned to the embassy with his documents but was turned away.

In 2004, Ibrahim fled with his family to Jordan because he feared for his sons lives. He filed for refugee status with the UNHCR and again brought up the unresolved case of his children’s deaths. He was told that he needed papers from the American forces in Iraq to authorize compensation. Ibrahim didn’t have an order; he just had three death certificates. In Jordan, Ibrahim’s family struggled. The children could not attend school, he couldn’t work, and the lifestyle was different. It was difficult for his family to adjust. In April 2005 two daughters were born, one named Amal (Hope) and one named Haneen (Yearning or Longing). He returned to Baghdad later in 2005 out of desperation. He felt he simply had no options in Jordan.

In spite of a serious upturn in militia violence Ibrahim just tried to hang on in Baghdad. But conditions on the street were deteriorating on a daily basis. Then, his brother was kidnapped from the stationary store he owned. The kidnappers demanded and were paid a $20,000 ransom. His brother was found dead shortly afterward. After his brother was killed, Ibrahim received a written threat that said he and all his children would be killed. He fled again, this time to Al Nasiryah where the family hid for 3 months, then on to Damascus.

He registered at the UNHCR in 2007 for refugee status. He was told because he has 2 grown sons and they can work, he is not eligible for monetary assistance (even though it is illegal for refugees to work in Syria). Some people are currently working nonetheless, earning about $4.00 per 10 -12 hr day. Ibrahim has tried to work but is told he is too old. One son remains in school, the other has not been able to find work. He was told he could receive food aid, which he receives once every 4 months comprising rice, grits, pasta, tea, and sugar. In order to get by, Ibrahim sells part of his food rations each month. “In Iraq, with Saddam, we had a nice house, and work and food. Now we can’t even buy fuel for the heater and the children are hungry” says Awatif, Ibrahim’s wife.

“We cannot return to Iraq. Our home has been taken over by thieves. My business is lost. What are we to do? What will become of us?” Ibrahim asks. “We have no hope except the hope of our God.”

Ibrahim wrote a letter to the UNHCR outlining his case. Each week he goes to the UNHCR hoping that his persistence will get someone, anyone, to listen to the case of a man whose children were killed by Americans, who has received no compensation for his loss, has faced repeated death threats to his remaining children and now has no home. The security people do not allow him to enter, telling him he will be called when his appointment is set. He has visited the American embassy, trying to deliver the death certificates of his children, but they told him they cannot help him, that he needs to go to the UNHCR. At the UNHCR he was told he needed to go to the Red Cross. To date, the Red Cross has not been able to get any compensation from the United States for the family. They say the request has come to late and it is impossible to verify the details. Nonetheless, Ibrahim speaks highly of his encounter with the Red Cross. ”They are the only ones who cared” he says.

Ibrahim has visited over 20 embassies in Damascus trying to get someone to listen and help him resettle- anywhere. He has been turned away by the embassies of Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Bahrain, and many embassies in Europe and Canada. “We are not wanted anywhere, no one accepts us”, says Awatif. His mother says, “I’ve lost five of my family, one in the Iraq-Iran war and four now. It is very difficult. We are sad we are not wanted”.

Ibrahim’s friends who have been resettled to the United States call and ask him, “Why are you still there? Why is there no resettlement for you?” He has no answers.

Just yesterday Ibrahim returned to UNHCR undeterred. He tried to give the security people his letter, they told him, “Why do you bring your story? We won’t read it”. “That’s the problem, no one will read it” Ibrahim says. Six years of effort, six years of persistence, six years of desperation. What will it take for Ibrahim’s story to be heard?

For Fatma

A child is born in a country flooded with tears
where rivers of blood have overflowed their banks.
A country that knows its share of shock
but little of the awe that was promised it.
A child is born amidst the rubble
delivered by nations a world away.
Where ignorant men smirk and say shit happens
as thugs and madmen crush beauty
and ancient mysteries are lost forever.
A child is born as an occupying army
watches hell takes its place on earth
and drills and hammers and batteries
and water, glorious water, become the tools
of the devil among men.
A child is born amidst the screams of the tortured
and the sadistic glee of their torturers.
A child is born in a country flooded with the bodies of the dead
discarded in soccer fields, markets, on roadsides or trash heaps.
A child is born and half a world away
she cries out, "I am Iraqi!"
My people, my culture, live on in me.
A child is born in a country on fire,
her mother cradles her close to her breast
and hope is resurrected from the ashes.

Art as Life #2

Salem was first accosted in his home in 2003. One evening at 8 pm he heard a light knocking on the door. He answered thinking it was a friend. ِA large man in a white dishdasha and a red kaffieh said, “Assalamu Alaikum”. It was a curious greeting given the circumstances. He responded, “Alaikum Assalam", the courteous response. He was shocked to see his garden full of men. He tried to count them but was abruptly shoved aside by the man in a white dishdasha. He was grabbed by two others and they entered his house. He was immediately beaten to the ground as they shouted obscenities at him. Other men entered and grabbed his mother, who was reading in her bedroom, and his sister. He started to ask what they wanted, but he was shut up by a punch to the face. As they pulled his mother from the bedroom she was hit by the butt of a kalisnakov. Salem covered his mother to protect her. He whispered to her to keep quiet so she would stay alive, because he knew the men attacking them had lost their humanity and had no mercy. The kalisnakov found his shoulder, then his back. He was beaten for four hours, until he could not stand, until he could not see because he was bleeding so profusely from his face and head. He heard his sister pleading with the men, “We will give you everything, just leave my brother.”

At one am the beating stopped. “Perhaps they were tired, I don’t know”, says Salem with a sad smile and a look of agony in his eyes as he recounts the episode. “There is one thing you must understand about me; I never hurt an ant, a fly, a cat, a person. I am an artist perhaps that is why they attacked me.” As he lay on the floor in a pool of his own blood, the men loaded two trucks with the family’s possessions. The trucks left, then returned for a second load. When the house was stripped of everything of value, the men began to leave. They dragged him by the hair to his sister’s side pulling clumps out by the roots in the process. They grabbed his sister saying they would bring her back when he came up with some more money. He said to them, “We have no more money, you have everything we own, but you should leave my sister, we have a very big family and they will come after you.” Whether they believed his weak threat or they were just tired, the men left, leaving his sister behind.

The family abandoned their home and moved in with another sister and her family. Salem spent months in bed recovering from his injuries.

“By 2007 my sister and I had returned to my family home. My mother had died and I lost another sister as well, a lot happens over such a period of time.” The violence never stopped, I was kidnapped many times. One day my sister came home distraught. A neighbor had told her, “We like you a lot, we love your family. For your own good, you need to get outside. Just go.” She told my sister that my name had appeared on a death list of one of the militias." Salem had just directed a short play at his college about war and occupation. He thought that just the creation of a play was enough of a reason to be targeted by a militia. “I don’t know why, it is illogical to destroy a human life just for making something. They kill doctors, lawyers, teachers. For what I ask? It is illogical.” At first, Salem refused to go, but his sister arranged everything then spent an entire night convincing him he had to leave. He left but still regrets that he allowed the only person who cared for him behind.

Salem now lives in a squalid 2 room flat with a shared toilet down the hall in a very poor Palestinian neighborhood. Piece by piece he has sold his furniture to buy material. He has an idea for a fashion show and is busy sewing the outfits. He complains that there is no money to rent a proper hall, with the correct lighting and sound. He carries on, planning a new play, “About war of course”. As we leave, he escorts us out of the neighborhood. We draw the attention of some young men who follow us for a while. I am not sure if it is because a foreigner is in the group, or because Salem looks just a bit flamboyant with his dinner jacket with a hankie in the breast pocket, a black kaffieh wrapped around his neck, a French beret on his head and his orange tinted glasses. Later, my friend tells me that he heard the boys talking about Salem as they followed us. He encouraged him to leave the neighborhood, that he was not safe. Salem balked. He will stay. He has nowhere else to go.

One Tent Please

My friend has been in Damascus for 4 years. Unable to work legally he makes ends meet, but just barely, working dead end jobs for very little pay - as little as $3 per day for a 12 hour day, and occasionally as a translator for foreigners like myself. He recently got fed up with his inability to pay rent, pay bills, and feed himself. He went to the UNHCR which is the main organization providing aid to Iraqi refugees. As a single man, he is not considered a highly vulnerable case, or even a vulnerable case...he is not even in a classification- basically he is at the bottom of a 1.5 million person heap.

So he went to the UNHCR office. His first two visits were to no avail. He couldn't get past the security desk. There were no available appointments. On his third visit the security guard must have felt sorry for him and let him pass. When he got to the reception desk, the receptionist looked up and asked how she could help him. He said, "Yes, thank you. I would like a tent." Taken aback the receptionist ask him to repeat himself, "Yes, thank you, I would like a tent. I have no money, I am an Iraqi refugee and I am homeless. If I have a tent, I will be ok." The receptionist had no idea how to respond to this well dressed, apparently sincere man. All she could stammer was, "I'm sorry but we don't have any tents." He pointed to a picture behind her of a refugee in front of a tent that very clearly said on it "UNHCR". "One of those", he said. She looked at him closely and said, "We can not give you a tent. If we gave you a tent we would have to give everybody a tent and Damascus would be a giant tent city. I'm sorry." My friend thanked her for her concern and turned and walked out the door.

Welcome Home to Iraq

The current Iraqi government is enticing people to return home with free bus tickets, airline flights and one time cash payments. Behind the scenes, they are pressuring other nations to not offer visas or resettlement options for Iraqi refugees. The UNHCR is trying to convince NGO's to return to Baghdad. In the American media the Iraq security situation is portrayed as "vastly improved" and as "life returning to normal".

What exactly is considered "normal" for a country occupied by a foreign army for five years (resulting in hundreds of thousands of deaths), suffering from economic sanctions for 12 years prior to that (resulting in 500,000 deaths of children under 5 years old) while run by a dictator that suppressed his opposition with extreme violence (resulting in untold numbers of deaths), prior to sanctions attacked by the same army that now occupies the country (resulting in upwards of 200,000 deaths) and prior to that attack, a ten year war (supported and armed by the country that now occupies it) with its neighbor Iran (resulting in hundreds of thousands dead)?

There is no mention of the ghettoization of Baghdad, with blast walls slicing up neighborhoods based on religious beliefs or political leanings, only one way in and out. Even the Green Zone is a huge ghetto for the affluent and political elite, with government officials unable to travel outside its walls without armed convoys to escort them. As the media portrays Iraqi children dressed in school uniforms playing soccer, kidnapping for profit continues to be a growing sector of the Iraqi economy. As the media portrays families daring to venture outside after dark as a huge security victory, there is no mention that even the water supply has become a killer. Cholera has spread throughout the south and now reaches into Baghdad neighborhoods. It has been determined that 33% of the piped water in Baghdad is not fit for human consumption. The militias are still well armed and manned. They may be quiet now, but they are in the neighborhoods and still killing innocent citizens. You may be killed because you don't wear a headscarf or you belong to a different religion or you haoppen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like the water in Baghdad, walking outside your immediate nighborhood is not fit for human consumption.

So why is the Iraqi government pushing for its citizens to return without a promise of safety and security? Perhaps in the run up to elections in the USA and in Iraq it is to prove that hundreds of billions of taxpayer dollars spent on 5 years of death and destruction was somehow warranted. Perhaps it was so Americans can rest easy now that we have brought democracy to another country.

In fact we have reduced a first world country to a third world country and its citizens, at least those outside of politics, are all rapidly approaching destitution.

Iraqi refugees will have none of it. Very few are buying into the promises and returning home. Safety is the major concern, though they tend to put it more bluntly. One family member smiled and said, "They wish for us to return so they can kill us." Another said, "Return home? Our beautiful home was stolen by a militia, I have nothing to return to." Others are deadly serious, "If I return home, I will be killed." In Jordan and Syria even families of modest means have been driven into destitution.

They wait for many things, they wait to renew their visas, they wait for their assistance funds to pay the rent, the wait to eat because the food aid is not enough, they wait for blankets, winter is coming and will not wait. They wait for a phone call, just a phone call to tell them what is next. Some have been waiting for years, just for a phone call. A phone call to renew their hope, a phone call to leave open a possibility of tomorrow.

Only when the last option is extinguished and out of sheer desperation will they dare return to Iraq. Once "home" they find there is no exit.

It is Bad Everywhere

Iman and her son are new to Damascus, having arrived in October of 2008. She begins by saying she wasn’t planning on coming to Syria as she understood it was a hard life, but she is determined to save her 14 year old son Barath, who she affectionately calls Tootie. Tootie is a bit shy but he is quick to laugh and teases his mom relentlessly. He sits with us, distractedly playing a game on his mom’s cell phone.

As we sit down and i am brought tea, Iman begins to tell her story. "I am the mother of 3 sons and 3 daughters. My oldest, Riadh, 33 years old, was kidnapped in January of 2007. My second, Hamad was kidnapped and killed 4 months later." she tells me, with a calm even voice.

At the time he was taken, Riadh was working with a private American security contractor in the Oil Protection Services unit. Imam immediately began searching for him, visiting hospitals, morgues, jails and prisons throughout Baghdad and beyond- travelling as far as Camp Bucca to determine if he had been arrested by American forces. Hamad, her 2nd son, returned to the spot Riadh was last seen and overheard people talking about the kidnapping. He made a list of several names of perpetrators, all members of Jaish al Mehdi. They took the names to the American base hoping for help. The Americans required six witnesses to come forward, but they only had four and it was too dangerous for any of them to go to the American base. A friend from Riadh's work helped in the search for one day, otherwise the family was left on their own to find there son and brother. Hamad travelled to the Moqtada Sadr offices in Najaf because the local authorities did nothing to help. The only thing he could do was confront the group who took his brother. The police would find his body 4 hours later. Before they shot him, his killers had drilled holes throughout his body and beat him. Iman found his name on a list in the hospital morgue six days later. She offers me a packet that contains the ID badges of her son Riadh and photographs of Hamad’s body when she identified him at the morgue, as proof of her stories validity. The look in her eyes is validation enough. As i force myself to look through the photographs, i am numb, and i carefully put the photos back in the envelope, folding it quietly and placing it on the table. I have nothing to offer this woman in her pain. We sit silently looking at each other.

Iman took the list of names her son had gathered to the police department. She didn’t know that the police had been infiltrated by militia members. She escaped her own death only because another police officer helped her eluded the militia and get home safely. He warned her that she shouldn’t return to the Police department because it was not safe. Three days after recovering Hamad’s body she began receiving taunting phone calls, she turned her phone off. When she turned it back on she had received 50 messages.

The family fled their home and thought they were safe until Iman was spotted by one of her assailants in the new neighborhood. She began receiving messages again. One warned, “We took care of two, Barath is next.” Iman and Tootie left for Syria shortly afterwards. Her husband and daughters all remain in Iraq. They have moved back into their old home which now is in a neighborhood that is closed off by blast walls. The family feels a little more secure, but if the walls come down, the family will run.

Tootie is adjusting to his new life in Damascus. He misses his sisters and his friends back home but has already begun making new friends. He is currently in school but he must produce his school documents from Baghdad within thirty days to stay. There is a glitch. Baghdad authorities will not send his papers out of the country, refusing to acknowledge why the family has become refugees. Imam says she has no plan other than move. She says she only knows they must leave the Middle East, and she is willing to go anywhere that offers an opportunity for her youngest son. As i pack up my notebooks and tape recorder , Iman says, “I hope everyone outside comes inside and sees the crisis our life has become. Iraqi people feel besieged from all sides. It is bad everywhere.”

Abu Adnan and Abu Selmed

Abu Adnan recalls the trouble began getting worse in late 2004. As a Christian family in Baghdad they had taken care and kept a low profile during the aftermath of the invasion and continued with their lives. The first sign of real trouble came when their daughters were accosted outside of school and told to cover their hair when they were in public. The second episode was more threatening. Gunmen tried to grab one of the girls, as they ran away the assailants yelled after them that they would kill them if they saw them uncovered again.

Then in July of 2005 their son Adnan was working in a market. Three masked gunmen entered the store, blindfolded him and bound his hands. They robbed him of cash and his more valuable merchandise. They destroyed what remained. They warned him about the consequences of speaking to anyone about the incident and hit him over the head before leaving. When he returned home he told his father he had to get out. The young man left Baghdad for Damascus with his two sisters in September 2005.

Remaining behind, Adnan’s parents began staying inside only venturing out when necessary. A family friend reported to them that he had begun receiving threats because of his work with an American defense contractor. He ignored the threats because he needed the work to provide for his wife and three year old son, Selmed.

On December 14th 2005, while Abu Selmed was at work, there was a knock at the door. When Um Selmed answered she was gunned down in the doorway. The only witness was little Selmed. When they left the gunmen took the boy with them. At the memorial service the distraught father received a phone call. The son would be released when a $25,000 ransom was paid. Abu Selmed sold all his possessions, family and church members contributed money as well. Abu Selmed moved in with the family of Abu Adnan. The ransom was paid and later that evening Selmed was found wandering in the neighborhood unharmed. Abu Selmed left for the safety of Syria. Abu Adnan, his wife and his mother moved from their house but steadfastly remained in Baghdad. After 2 months they too fled to Syria.

After waiting seven months since they applied for resettlement to Australia , Abu Selmed was in rejected in October 2008 as a candidate for resettlement to that country. No reason was given. He is now waiting to hear about resettlement to the United States. Um Adnan cries quietly and says she doesn’t know what she’ll do if she is resettled to a different country than Selmed as she has helped raise him in the 3 years since his mother’s death. But their cases are separate and there is no consideration given to relationships outside of family. Abu Adnan says, “We cannot continue to live like this. We will move anywhere, just not back to Iraq. Adnan is afraid to work. Medicines for three family members are very expensive. It’s getting cold.” Um Adnan says quietly, “Everything we had is gone.”

A Regime Story

A woman I met was trained as a medical technician and was a top student in her class. She began working in a lab during the sanctions in the 90’s. She earned $1.00 per day for 7 years. She was obligated to work as a health professional she was not given an option. At the time, doctors were fleeing Iraq in droves. On their passports they all listed their occupation as “worker” so they would not be arrested at the border, as it was also illegal for health professionals to leave the country. One day on the bus to the border, someone had a heart attack. When the police arrived they looked around the bus and asked, “Can any of the workers help this man?”

Kassem's Escape

In May of 2007 Kassem's life took an unexpected turn. While waiting on line at the UNHCR offices in Amman he met an Iraqi woman and her mom. She was single, having given up the opportunity to marry in order to care for her mother who was suffering from cancer. After several meetings it became apparent to Kassem that he was falling in love. At 42 and in exile in Amman for 12 years he had given up the hope of marriage. After all, he was working as a house painter, laborer, and occasionally as a tutor. How could he possibly marry when he couldn't provide a stable life for a family? But on meeting Lubna this all changed. Over time he told Lubna of his feelings and how he thought they could work together to see that her mother received all she needed. He called Lubna's brothers in Switzerland and England for permission to marry and they agreed.

Kassem takes out a file folder filled with photos, passports, documents, applications and paperwork. He shares the photos of his bride-to-be as well as photos of their wedding party, which consisted of Lubna, Kassem, her mother and a family friend. They look radiant. He smiles at me. Before they could officially marry, Lubna and her mother received the call that they were going to be resettled to the United States. Kassem insisted they go while the opportunity presented itself and he would follow as soon as possible. They departed for California on April 22, 2008. "Exactly 6 months and 10 days ago", says Kassem. Now, he eagerly looks to the future, marking off the days in his planner with poems and stories for his beloved. His mother, who remains in Baghdad, told him he must wait for this woman, because any woman who has given up her own happiness to care for her mother is a woman worth waiting for. Kassem says, "I will wait, and I will only accept relocation to California, it is the only place for me."

Kassem has learned to accept waiting. He has been waiting since he escaped from Iraq in the fall of 1996. As a graduate in Chemical Engineering in 1986 and in Nuclear Engineering in 1989, Kassem had hope of teaching at the university level, but the regime told him differently. He began his career working with nuclear waste treatment and disposal. Within a year he was told he was being transferred to the nuclear program and would be working uranium separation and enrichment. The first thing he learned was that the technicians handling the nuclear material were not protected in any way; they didn't even wear masks or gloves. Kassem began teaching the technicians of the dangers of what they were doing and he had his first run in with Saddam's regime. Seven months after beginning his career in nuclear energy he found himself in prison. He was placed in isolation and beaten for seven days. At the end of this time he signed papers specifying that he would only concern himself with his job and not interfere with other people's responsibilities. After the Gulf War in 1991, all the scientists were instructed to hide all papers regarding the program from the UNISCOM inspectors. If they failed to do so, their entire families would be at risk. By this time Kassem was disillusioned and afraid. He went to the ministry and told them he wanted to complete his masters in Chemistry and leave the nuclear program. His request was rejected.

Eventually he walked away from his job. In 1994 he was arrested again, but released. He told his managers that he was sick and simply couldn't continue in his work, and began teaching again. In May of 1995 he was jailed again, beaten for seven days and released. At this point he knew he had to get out. "I live with one thing. I insist on self respect. I can not harm anyone. I can not compromise on this issue." Kassem explains to me. He paid for a fake passport and identity papers and escaped across the border.

Even in Jordan he was not safe as Iraq's secret police were in Jordan at the time. He could tell no one of his past, or even that he was an engineer. He lived in fear. His family in Baghdad were regularly visited by the police and threatened. Kassem didn't dare call his family for the next 7 years. In order to survive he began working as a laborer painting houses earning 4 JD's a day (about $5 US dollars).

He kept quiet and hid. "I lost my degree", he says, "but I gained my humanity". It was not an easy loss. Kassem's father worked sixteen hours a day as a fisherman. He could neither read nor write, but he insisted that his son would become an engineer. His father died while Kassem was in Jordan. His family did not tell him until 2003, four years after he died, because they knew Kassem would return home and certainly be killed. Since the fall of the regime masked men carrying guns have visited the remaining family in Baghdad, asking of the whereabouts of Kassem. Two of his friends, fellow engineers, were killed in Baghdad in 2004. He has been unable to return home to see his mother. But now his heart is in America. Throughout his life he has looked for one thing, the love that would make him feel whole. Now he has found it but it is half a world away. Sitting in his humble home, Kassem tells me, "To reflect real feelings is the greatest thing we can do as human beings. I insisted that I find this feeling, this love in my life." So Kassem waits. He escapes from the daily grind of living in Jordan, alone and far from those he loves, by jotting another poem in his planner and crossing another day off the calendar.

A Thought

i thought, just now,
i want to go home.
How lucky, i cried,
to have a choice.

Art as Life

I was first introduced to Mohamed Ghani's work when i was in Baghdad before the invasion. A new piece was being completed in the plaza on Abu Nuwas street by the Palestine Hotel. It was cast in bronze and was called "Magic Carpet". After years of sanctions and the threat of a new war looming on the horizon, the piece evoked different possibilities for the people of Iraq. Taking the theme from the stories of One Thousand and One Nights, it depicted Aladdin and Jasmine soaring skyward. The sculpture has survived the shock and awe campaign and the years of occupation. It remains a beacon of possibilities not yet realized for the children of Iraq.

As we wander through Mohamed Ghani's small studio he talks of the bronze pieces representing the losses felt since the invasion in 2003. He speaks of his son who was in Sweden for eleven months trying to secure passports for his wife and children, in the end to no avail. He speaks of the pain of Iraqi families who are now separated with family members in Iraq, Jordan, Syria and others resettled around the world. This alone is deeply traumatic for a culture that treasures family and where many extended families live in the same home.

As we talk he gently kneads a small ball of clay between his fingers. He stands next to a piece carved in stone and says he has a dream to create it one day in Baghdad. The piece depicts a column, cracked and falling and a man with five arms struggling to hold it upright. Mohamed explains that the column represents the culture of Iraq. The column is falling and if it does, all will be destroyed. The man with the five arms represents the Iraqi people who are protecting the culture. The five arms each represent one of the arts: theater, plastic arts (sculpture), poetry & literature, painting and film. The piece is a symbol for people to remember what happened during occupation.

As the occupation forces entered Baghdad after days of intense bombing, they permitted the looting of priceless pieces of Iraqi history and culture. Mohamed Ghani lost 150 pieces at the Museum of Modern Art. The sculptures that were too heavy to steal were smashed to bits on the museum floor. When he confronted an American soldier and asked how this was allowed to happen, he was told by the young soldier that "it isn't my job". Mohamed Ghani looks at me with disbelief in his eyes, and with deep sadness says, "This is what he said to me, it isn't my job."

"I have many dreams", he says, "I want to do a testimony of all that has happened in Iraq. I dream of doing many pieces. One will be a man with a kaffieh sprawled on the ground with a US soldier's foot holding his head to the ground. Offending him in front of his whole family, his wife, his children. I saw this with my own eyes. Another would be an Iraqi woman searched by a male US soldier. His hands were all over her. In our culture unfamiliar men do not touch women. It simply is not done. Couldn't a female soldier search her? Why humiliate her in front of her husband? She was crying, she couldn't do anything. I want to document this. Create symbols for people to remember. Yes I have many dreams." As with any great artist, Mohamed Ghani's art transcends the personal and speaks of an entire cultures suffering.

Sitting opposite us, Mohamed speaks animatedly, waving his arms to emphasize his points. "I don't like politics. I don't like to be a politic man. Never in my life have I been a politic man. You have to be a big, big liar. And what about your President? He says God told him to go to war. In this age? Is this possible? Which God? The God I worship loves, he does not hate. Can it be God told him this? How?"

Asked what he would say to an American audience, he said he would ask a simple question, "Why did you destroy our country? You could have had everything. You could take the petrol. You could have taken Saddam- you put him there, why couldn't you just take him away and put someone else there? Without all the killing, without all the bombs. Why the bombs, bombs, bombs? Why? I lost a daughter after the bombing. The doctors couldn't identify her illness, they said they had not seen it before."

"I am not a politic man. I am an Iraqi man and I feel what has happened and I say what I feel. An American general knows nothing about Iraq. We love to sing and dance and make music. This is true throughout our history. We have a culture. Iraq can not be destroyed. Like the grass, the more you cut it down, the stronger it grows. As he says this Mohamed Ghani looks tired. We have taken enough of his time- he has dreams to realize.

Ghosts

As i write this it is late afternoon at a small art foundation in Amman. I sit in the garden with a small fountain in the center and the last of the jasmine cascading down a wall. A butterfly stands immobile on a flower. I look closer to see if it is alive it opens its wings once, and then remains still. I sit at a small stone table directly outside a building that houses and art installation by Jane Frere called "Return of the Soul". Ms. Frere was moved to examine the Palestinian Nakba after visiting Nazi concentration camps. The "Return of the Soul" focuses on the act of remembering. As part of the installation Ms. Frere recorded interviews with Palestinians who were recalling their exodus from Palestine in 1948. Their voices echo throughout the room and escape out into the garden where i sit. As the sun sinks to the horizon a cool breeze stirs. Sitting in the peaceful garden i am slowly surrounded by ghosts of other peoples uprooted from their home and forced into exile.

I reflect for a moment on all the technological advances over the last two dozen years, the tracing of the human genome, computer technology, cell phones, satellite technology and the internet. The huge advances we have made in medicine and science and the backwards steps we have taken in warfare. Smart bombs, drones, depleted uranium munitions.

Then the Palestinian ghosts remind me, "I fled barefoot with my three year old sister on my shoulders." "We ran from the house with nothing, I thought we would return home in a matter of days." "They rounded up my brother and uncles, we never saw them again." "We walked for eighteen hours, until we dropped from exhaustion." They are joined by the ghosts of Vietnam. "My daughter was covered in napalm, she died an agonizing death." "The helicopters circled the village, killing anything that moved." "Our village was burned to the ground, nothing survived." "We fled barefoot, through the night." The ghosts of World War II chimed in. Talking of the cattle cars and suffocation, the round ups, woman pulled from their children, the mass graves, the hissing gas filling the chamber as woman cried out in anguish. Then the voices of millions of Africans joined in. Until today they are on the move, searching for food and security and an end to violence. Voices from "good" wars and "bad" wars all cried out, a chorus of pain and fear.

But their song was not empty or hopeless. Their song was a song of remembrance, dedicated to those who remain and strive to end war as a tool of governments. A song of remembrance dedicated to those who strive to end the production of more powerful weapons of destruction and dislocation. A song of remembrance sung to those who would shift their minds from living lives in fear of scarcity and selling this delusion to the world along with our bombs, bullets, and guns.

Then i thought i was dreaming because i imagined for a moment that we immediately and unconditionally ended our cold hearted occupation of Iraq and spent the 1.3 billion dollars (or whatever this weeks absurd tally amounts to) per week on peace- On clean water, food, electricity, education and rebuilding all we have destroyed. What then? Forgive me, for now i am delving into fantasy. But perhaps for a moment we could allow the ghosts of war a moment of peace. And what if this crazy idea took hold around the world and human beings could focus just for one moment on providing instead of destroying? The one thing life affords us free of charge and in abundance is love. All the sages speak of it, honor it, and develop a capacity to nurture it. It is not necessary to deprive one single sentient being in order to obtain it. Love's supply is limitless and not a single being needs to change in order for you to express it. It's benefits are immediately apparent to anyone who is willing to share it.

I hear a child laugh out loud. Startled, I look up. The voices are silenced. A breeze rustles through the jasmine as night falls. A man gestures to me that it is time to go. I step out into the busy street as a gentle rain begins to fall.

Youth Trapped in Jordan

Of all the refugees in Jordan, perhaps the most forgotten are the young men aged 18-35 who are here without family. As teenagers and young men they left home to escape the madness that had overtaken their neighborhoods. Many have had family members attacked, many have been threatened. There entire lives have been of conflict and war. They lived in Iraq as children growing up during sanctions and young adults through the invasion and occupation of their country. They watched as the social fabric of their communities collapsed and militias took over their neighborhoods. Many entered Jordan illegally and have no passport, no papers, no documents whatsoever. Since they arrived they have been targeted by police and taken advantage of by unscrupulous employers.

They are last in consideration for resettlement as they are not considered an “at risk” population like single women or families with children. They are not the face of “refugees” that we in the West feel personal gratification for helping. Rather, in the eye of many westerners they are associated with those we call “terrorist”. They are trapped between a rock and a very hard place.

Many had been here for several years before the UNHCR would grant them the paper declaring they are asylum seekers. This gives them some protections against being deported back to Iraq. When I asked them what they did while waiting, they said they have been hiding. When I asked how they survived, they said they can occasionally find part time work, but being in the country illegally they were paid minimally when they were paid at all. Several recounted scenes where after working, the manager merely told them to leave. If they wanted payment they could report him to the authorities. Having worked with immigrant populations in the US, this was a familiar story to me.

Now work is very hard to find and many of these young men haven't worked in weeks. It is illegal for Iraqis to work in Jordan without residency papaers. People in Jordan tend to look at young single men as dangerous, perhaps even more so if they are from Iraq. This poses a huge problem for Jordan, yet it is a problem that no one is willing to look at. A self fulfilling prophecy is being created. There is a breaking point for any human being, when self respect has been destroyed, when one is not allowed to work in order to feed oneself and no aid or support is forthcoming from the community. What possibility remains?

I had an opportunity to sit with 9 of these young men and listen to their stories. Several requested that we not record their personal circumstances. The situation has become so hopeless that one young man said they have been considering turning themselves in to the police so that they would be deported back to Iraq (they can’t afford the return trip on their own), where, invariably, they have been targeted for death. Another young man who did not want his story told said that they all held many things inside that they could not or would not share, that life was very difficult. As with young men the world over, no one said they were afraid.

Hitham, 26 yrs old
Entered Jordan illegally in May 2004 when he was 22 yrs old without any family. His mother and brother tried to enter Jordan at a later date but were denied. His family is in a very difficult situation in Iraq. Grandfather and father were arrested under Saddam’s regime, both have since passed away. His uncle and brother joined the Baath party under duress. When the regime fell militias targeted his family. His home was destroyed, his mother was shot, and his brother was beaten so severely that he can no longer walk. His mother and brother are now with family friends in a different village. The people responsible for bombing his house are now part of the government and if he returns he will be targeted for death. Applied in 2007 to the UNHCR, no specific interview was scheduled to date. Not receiving any allowance. Lives with 5 other single men in very difficult situation. Refugee status still pending.

Atheer, 22 yrs old
Entered Jordan in May 2004 when he was 18 years old without any family. His family remains in Iraq. Father was working in Baath party and once the regime fell his family was targeted by militias. He arrived without passport but with ID from American forces. He received the UNHCR paper seeking refugee status in Sep 2007. He has not received an interview and cannot get through on the phone to speak with anyone. He is receiving an allowance of 40 JDs (about $53) per month as of September. He lives with 5 other young men in very difficult circumstances.

Sabah, 28 yrs old
Entered Jordan in April 2004 when he was 24 years old without any family. His father, mother, 1 brother and 2 sisters remain in Iraq. He received the UNHCR paper seeking refugee status in May 2007. He has not received an interview. Protection unit promised resettlement at that time but they have not contacted him since. He came to escape the violence that had overtaken his neighborhood. He saw many people who had participated in the Baath party killed by militias. He is not receiving an allowance at this time. He lives in a house with 5 others in difficult circumstances.

Saad, 21 years old
Entered Jordan in July 2004 when he was 17 without any family. His mother and 2 sisters remain in Iraq. His father was a member of the army and was shot by the militia. Saad was targeted and threatened as well. His father was refused entry into Jordan and is now in Syria. The family has lost contact with him. Saad received the UNHCR paper seeking refugee status in Oct 2008. He has not received an interview. He can not return to Jordan as his life is threatened. He is not receiving an allowance at this time. He lives in a house with 5 others in difficult circumstances.

As we prepared to leave, one of the young men said with a smile, “Please tell the UNHCR that if they do not help us, we will kill ourselves.” Several of the other young men laughed. I grimaced and hoped against hope that the last laugh was not on them. It seems these young men are only seeking an opportunity to support themselves and their families. They are searching for an opportunity to live with dignity and respect in a world that seen through young Iraqi eyes has a huge deficit in both.

Abu Ra'ad and family

Abu Ra’ads luck was changing. After two and a half years his families bags were packed, his furniture sold, his lease broken. He was scheduled for a September 9th flight to Salt Lake City where his cousin had rented him a home, enrolled his children in school and found him a job translating for other Iraqis resettled in the city. Quietly he was saying goodbye to friends and family. On September 4th he received a phone call. It was from the IOM (International Organization for Migration). The caller did not identify themselves. He informed Abu Ra’ad that their departure was cancelled. They gave no explanation or time frame for rescheduling and abruptly hung up.

Abu Ra’ad nearly had a heart attack. He called the IOM back and finally was told the cancellation was due to the fact his security clearance had expired. Again, the person on the phone didn’t identify himself. He didn't tell him how long the clearance would take; he told him they would call back. Um Ra’ad, Abu Ra’ads wife, became ill. His daughter was taken to the hospital for anxiety, the stress too much to bear for the young woman.

Abu Ra’ad was working as a translator for the UN and a subcontractor with the coalition forces when he was kidnapped at gunpoint from a street in Baghdad. He was asked if he was the "UN Man". His captors beat him viciously, they degraded and humiliated him. They taunted him, saying, "You are a Christian, you don't need anymore children." He was being held for $50,000 and a list of all the people he worked with at the UN and with the coalition forces.

Abu Ra’ad negotiated with his captors, explaining that his wife would not be able to get all of the money and he needed to access his computer to get the list of names. His wife sold family jewelry and other precious items and $10,000 was delivered to the kidnappers. After 4 days Abu Ra’ad was released and told to get the rest of the money. Two days later gunmen arrived at his home. He stalled and the gunmen said if they returned and he could not pay, they would execute his son 8 year old son in front of him and his wife. Early the next morning Abu Ra’ad, his wife and three children packed and fled to his sister-in-laws home near the airport. They escaped to Jordan in February 2006.

Once in Jordan he immediately applied to the UNHCR seeking refugee status. He seemed a likely candidate for quick approval. He had worked for the coalition forces and the UN. He had been kidnapped, tortured, and his son's life was threatened. After one year, the UNHCR recognized him and his family as refugees and transferred his file to the IOM (International Organization for Migration) in May of 2007. He and his family attended all meetings and interviews and the medical testing was completed. Yet when he received the reply to his application in October of 2007, the decision was marked "Deferred". He understood that the sticking point was the ransom that his family paid for his release. And on that point he seemed luckier than most. In his last interview his inquisitor had questioned why a ransom was paid. Why had the family supported terrorism? This is a standard question asked of anyone who had paid a ransom to have a loved one released. Many Iraqis are denied their applications for "Credibility Issues" due to the answer given to these 2 questions. Why did you pay a ransom? Why? Why did you support terrorism? Why? Can you imagine? Kafka at his best couldn't come up with this scenario. Abu Ra’ad laughs when he sees the astonishment on my face. His wife cries. "It's true!" he exclaims, and I laugh too.

It is guessed that his application was not denied outright because of his many years of service to the UN, the very organization who deferred his application. It is a guess because no one at the agency will tell give him an explanation.

Finally, in July 2008 the IOM notified him that his family was granted refugee status in the U.S.A. and his file was reactivated with IOM where additional interviews and meetings were necessary. He was told in August of 2008 that a new medical clearance was necessary as the old clearance expired. He asked about the security clearance and was assured it was in order. As Abu Ra’ad and his family completed the final meetings with IOM their excitement was building. For the first time in years they allowed their imaginations to take flight. Finally, they could get on with there lives. Finally, he could return to work and provide for his family. Finally an opportunity was only weeks away.

As Abu Ra’ad retold his story we sat on the furniture he had to buy back at a premium. He negotiated a new lease with the landlord, paying an additional $50.00 per month once he convinced the landlord to allow him to stay. The stress and frustration are palpable. He says, "Everything has returned to the zero point, I have no hope." He can no longer obtain his blood pressure medication. A new highly touted program claims Iraqi refugees can get the same health coverage as any uninsured Jordanian. The only glitch is the clinic insists you go to the local police station to receive a stamp that proves you live in the neighborhood. Few Iraqis will do this because most have overstayed their visas and they "will be dumped at the border" if they go to the police station. So now he rations his remaining medicines.

The last time he called IOM asking for additional information, Abu Ra’ad was told not to call anymore. He was told to just shut up and wait. So he waits. He says, "This is not for me. I am fifty. I only want to get back to work to provide a chance for my children. Who will give me back these last two years?"

What are you doing here?

The night before last i was introduced to the regional director of a large international NGO in the region tasked to assist Iraqi refugees. She was dedicated, smart, to the point, and just cynical enough (forgive me, i assume) to protect her heart from breaking.

She challenged what i was doing here in Amman. Not in a negative way, but as an opportunity for discussion. Her approach in her work is a pragmatic one. She removes emotion and explains the benefits and positive outcomes that can be obtained by a specific course of action and she gets results. She felt what i was doing was the opposite of this. She felt that somehow i was sentimentalizing people's stories to make my audience feel guilty. She didn’t think positive change results from guilt, and I readily agreed.

She asked me how hearing people's stories would help. She was concerned with the Iraqis themselves. She wanted the Iraqi people she was working with to find the strength to move forward and felt that repeating their stories inhibited this. She felt that people repeating their stories would ingrain a sense of victimhood not only individually but collectively on the Iraqi psyche. Of course, as i continue to question the value of the work i am doing, this gave me pause. I explained i wanted the numbers and percentages we read about in the United States transformed into human beings. I think that statistics and pragmatism will not connect with everyday people who have had little contact with the refugee situation. If people don’t feel a connection, they don’t care.

As i slept on this it occurred to me that this is really an aside to what i am doing here. What i am experiencing here is really about one thing, relationship. I can sit at home and my relationship with the occupation of Iraq and Iraqi refugees is one thing. When i come here and actually sit with refugees and share tea with them and listen to their stories i am in a completely different relationship. As people tell their stories, they reveal themselves. i listen, a conduit for their expression. Whether they are expressing sadness, joy, guilt or hatred, it is pure. You can count on it. We don't always agree, but i can drop my opinion altogether, something usually very difficult for me. Being together in this way means something. Rather than seeing enemies or divisions, rifts and misunderstandings can be clarified. We see each other differently. We recognize our humanity. As i write, i try to convey this to a wider population. If i am lucky, people connect. Hopefully, rather than indulging victimhood in some small way these meetings encourage reconciliation.

Rada and her friends

Rada arrived in Amman along with two sisters, and her brother and his wife shortly after the regime fell. Her mother was killed from shrapnel from a bomb during the invasion. She left behind her father, a second brother and her eldest sister. Though they continue to be threatened they refuse to leave Baghdad. Since her arrival in Amman her two sisters have been resettled to the United States and her brother has returned to Iraq with his wife. She remains alone in Jordan.



Single woman are a particularly vulnerable population in the refugee community here. Rada left Amman and rented an apartment in a small village in the south where she felt safer in a quiet, less hectic neighborhood. She met Wafa and her daughter Eiman shortly afterwards. Wafa’s husband had returned to Mosul because of family members left behind, including his mother and two daughters from a prior marriage. They had fled Mosul four years ago. The family felt more and more threatened as various factions raided their home and fighting in the streets intensified. Their home had been bombed when Islamic militias attacked a liquor store in the neighborhood. Wafa said she could never return as long as the threat of violence remained. She couldn’t bear to see any more death and she couldn’t risk harm coming to her daughter.

One and a half years ago Rada began the process for resettlement. She has been approved for resettlement to the United States, though she has not received word regarding her security clearance. She yearns to be reunited with her sisters. Wafa has discontinued the resettlement process until she is reunited with her husband. He promised to return to Jordan, though it remains to be seen whether he can get back in.

The women are not receiving any aid. Because they are not in Amman it is very difficult to visit the UNHCR to find out what has happened to their assistance. They had been meeting with a representative near where they are living, but every time he sees them, he promises payment but nothing ever happens. Calls to the UNHCR go unanswered. The women have exhausted their savings and are uncertain how they will continue. Currently they help support themselves with a little sewing business they created. Recognizing they are alone, the community has also looked out for them by providing some food staples such as rice and sugar. They have done work to make the apartment livable and now the landlord comes by saying he would like to have it back. They are certain the rent will be increasing shortly. As winter approaches they do not know how they can afford oil for the small space heater they share.

“Our lives have stopped.” Rada explains, “Since the invasion, everything has just stopped. I was twenty-five then. Now i am thirty and alone. Everything stopped, even love between a man and a woman, because nothing is certain. Since then we eat and sleep and survive that is all.” “You don’t understand. Iraq is finished. Baghdad is dead. My home is finished. Even if i go back one day, it is not to what I knew. Baghdad can never be the same. “I can’t believe it still”, says Wafa. “I remember the minister of information, Mohammad Said Sahaf was on TV saying we have repelled the Americans, Baghdad is secure- even as the American tanks were arriving in the streets behind him. Now he lives in luxury somewhere, and what about us?”

Abu Diah and family

I find myself sitting in an internet café trying to get down some thoughts on a beautiful Iraqi family i met last night, all the while trying to tune out Fifty Cent singing about niggers and whores and what he needs to be satisfied. It can be disconcerting in the Middle East. The things I find most depressing about American culture are readily available here and do little to encourage understanding, co-existence and love. The rap music, the violent TV shows, the advocates of a consumer culture. It's all here. Yet people still have an image of America as a land of possibilities. And for people with nothing, America still holds hope, something the exiles from Iraq are in desperate need of.


Abu Diah, his wife and 6 children live in a 3 room flat in a poor section of Amman. They spend their days waiting. They have been approved for resettlement to the United States in March 2008. As spring has changed to summer and summer to fall, no final word has come as to when they will be told to leave, or where exactly they are going. Abu Diah has heard mention of Kentucky, Oregon or perhaps Miami. As far as the family knows, the delays are due to security issues, though they have no definitive information. Um Diah is concerned about the move, she asks, can her youngest boy play and make noise? She has been told that children in the US must be quiet. Abu Diah asks if we think they will be all right in America. I want to reassure them, but i don’t know what to say. i try to imagine what it must be like to be going to such an unfathomable place. Cathy, who i am working with in Amman, speaks of Abu Diah’s internal strength and tells them the love of their family will sustain them. i say that so much is dependant on where they go. They will face many challenges.

i imagine them dropped in Kentucky without a network of family and neighbors they can count on. You see, Abu Diah lost the sight in both eyes during the Iran Iraq war twenty years ago. His oldest son, seventeen year old Diah (i am told Diah means "light" in Arabic and the beauty and poetry of a man blinded by war naming his oldest child "light" does not escape me), has a 3rd grade education. The family is a traditional family- the women all wear the hijab. No one in the family is fluent in English. Imagine yourself for a moment in their circumstances. They were forced to flee Baghdad with little or no possessions. When they are finally notified, they will leave Jordan quietly and quickly with only 2 suitcases each and be relocated somewhere in the US with no family, no connections. What awaits them? Rumors and misinformation abounds. Imagine the uncertainty, the daily stress of not knowing when or where they are going, or how they will manage when they arrive. Every aspect of their living is tenuous. They have lost all control over their lives. How would you cope if you and your family were uprooted and dropped with nothing in a completely alien environment? As i photographed them i was moved to see their smiles, their joy, and their love for each other.

Um Diah tells us her elderly mother is not well. She has lost two sons to the violence and misses her daughter. Um Diah's only wish is to see her mother before she leaves, yet this simple wish will not come to pass. She cannot go back to visit her ailing mother before they leave. If she were to go back to Baghdad the Jordanian authorities would not allow her to return to Amman even though her family has been approved for resettlement.

When asked about the possibility of remaining in Jordan, where there is at least the common culture and the common language, Abu Diah is firm in his response. They must leave. They are not welcome in Jordan. As Iraqis, they are not permitted to work, they depend on monthly cash disbursements from the UNHRC that barely cover their expenses. The children, especially the boys, face discrimination from the administration and harassment from the other students at school. The present is full of uncertainty and the future in Jordan holds no possibilities. The United States, though alien, rekindles dreams and the hope of a brighter future. As i take my leave, i give them my phone number- perhaps when they land i can at least get them in contact with someone they could call "friend". i have an uneasy sleep considering the possibilities.

Bailout Bewilderment

The bailout plan has me bewildered. Do you remember back to last January there was a big debate about adding poor children to State Children's Health Insurance Program. Though it passed the House and Senate (don't forget, Democratically controlled), they couldn't muster enough votes to overcome George Bush's veto--- $12 billion dollars over 5 years was just too dang expensive to insure that kids could get to a doctor. (Never mind that "our representatives” and their families get full, free health coverage for their entire lives.) For years our public school teachers have paid out of their own pockets to provide supplies for their classrooms. Have you noticed- the poorer the neighborhoods, the more decrepit the schoolroom? i wonder why that is? Single mothers are told to "get a job" or go hungry- get off the dole we can’t afford to feed you. Old folks can't afford their medicine. Bridges are collapsing into the rivers of this country. Katrina refugees are placed in toxic trailers and left to fend for themselves. Yet when Wall Street banks face collapse due to their own greed, collusion, and immorality, hundreds of billions of dollars become available over night to shore up the financial system. Some decide to change the words- it’s not a bailout, it’s a rescue, but the actions remain the same. The bankers come to Capitol Hill in their limos and their thousand dollar suits, hand out and demanding the government act...do you remember when that kid (Graeme Frost) testified on the hill regarding the health insurance plan and our disgraceful leaders and members of the media claimed the kid wasn't poor at all- and his family was taking advantage of the system? Remind me- was he wearing a thousand dollar suit?

Why not rescue hungry kids, or rescue the homeless or keep people in their homes.... Over the last years we have created many first time homebuyers. Granted, the mortgages that were sold to them were faulty. Many were designed to fail. Millions of dollars of equity has been squeezed out of poor and middle class neighborhoods throughout America- another Katrina for certain- and the very folks we are now bailing out are the ones who benefited from this theft. But why not rescue the homeowners? After all, they believed in the American dream- were they merely rubes for the bankers and lenders?

And now the Presidential candidates are proclaiming they are going to "balance the budget" and "hard times are ahead"- code words to inform you and i that there will be even less money for your most urgent needs. i got news for them, hard times have been here for the majority of people in this country.... i'm just wondering when hard times will come to the Pentagon and the Defense Department- if the streets of NYC looked like Somalia do you think "our representatives” would feed us, or would they continue building bombs to protect the "American way of life"? When does freedom and the pursuit of happiness include all Americans- better yet, when does freedom and the pursuit of happiness include all beings? And why does the ”Love it or leave it crowd” so readily defend the swindlers and liars? And the major party candidates go on and on about who has your best interests in mind, desperately trying to convey they give a damn when all their actions prove otherwise.

So what to do? How does one confront the mendacity of our leaders and participate in our community in meaningful ways? It is quite easy to point out the hypocrisy of others because i divert my mind from the fact that we are partners in this dance. So i see the trap, i call it out, i fall in it anyway. It's like this- Each of us needs to stand up. Fear manifests in uncertainty and doubt. i stop. i acquiesce to the status quo- because it seems easier, and i like comfort, and spending beyond my means seems almost a necessity... Can i really drop out of the system that perpetuates the inequalities- or can i only talk about it? Standing up shifts everything- when i say "i can't do that"....where does it stop? i see it- but can i live it? Have i got the courage? i'm reminded of Mary Oliver's poem called "The Journey":

"One day you finally knew
what you had to do,
and began though
the voices around you
kept shouting their bad advice..."

These voices are my voices, and still they stop me. There is a zen koan, “How will you step forward from the top of a hundred foot pole?” i haven't yet stepped forward, though it beckons, no- it cries out, and i turn and fall back in the trap. Pressure builds as dissonance is swallowed. In this season, where the talk of hope and change is all the rage, let’s not forget that change only comes from within. And it begins with that first step.

Letter to Friends

Oct 1, 2008

Dear Friends,

As some of you know, i will be returning to the Middle East from Oct 18th- Nov 25th. i will be based in Jordan and will work with displaced Iraqi populations in both Jordan and Syria. i am hoping to do a documentary project, photographing families who have been displaced because of the violence in their country. As the economic crisis has widened in our country and presidential politics have become the daily staple of our news, we receive very little information about Iraq. The debate swirls around whether the surge has worked or not, and whether we can “win the war”. The candidates talk of American soldiers returning home with dignity, but there is no mention of the millions of Iraqi refugees forced from their homes and left destitute in camps throughout the Middle East. i hope to be a conduit for information so people may have a broader understanding of the results of our actions on the lives of the Iraqi people.

My friend Cathy, who has been working with the Iraqi people since before the invasion began, has been in Amman now for several months. Before she departed she asked friends, family, and supporters to raise money for the individual families she would visit in order to help them pay rent, buy food and basic necessities and in some small way, directly help the people she was involved with. Along with any contributions, she asked that they write a short note that she could deliver to the families so they would recognize the gift not as charity but an act of solidarity. i wish to continue this practice. It is my understanding that many refugee families have completely exhausted their finances. They are denied the opportunity to work by their host countries and have become increasing desperate to feed their families. Many are returning to Iraq not because the security situation has improved but because they have run out of options.

As always, i am also traveling on a very low budget. If you would be interested in supporting my work, that would also be graciously accepted.

Many of you have received similar requests from me in previous years, when our own economic situation may have seemed brighter. You have been generous in both words and action. Your gifts and prayers have been a huge support and allowed me to continue this work. I am grateful. In these difficult and uncertain times i hope this request can be viewed as an opportunity and not an imposition.


Thanks and peace, Johnny

Johnny Barber
PO Box 880043
Boca Raton, FL 33488-0043

30 hours in a DC jail

(This reflection was offered as part of the "messages of hope, wisdom, and worship" at the Palm Beach County meeting of the Spiritual Progressive Network Jan 19,08)

I hesitated when asked to participate in this service because time is precious and mine is not a message of hope or peace- i am here this morning to challenge you. As a zen student, my practice generally does not include prayer, but confrontation. This may seem a contradiction to those of you who know a bit about Buddhism, but it is not. Peace is not passivity and Peace is not necessarily calm. As a zen practitioner, i spend time in silence, left with only 2 questions -Who am i? What am i doing here? For one minute, i would like to sit with you in silence with this question. Who am i?

If you’ve come up with an answer, you’ll need to sit a bit longer!!!

I was asked to reflect on the environment, but last weekend i spent 15 minutes in the Supreme Court protesting the Guantanamo Bay prison camp and 30 hours in a DC jail, i’d like to reflect on that experience. 30 hrs in a DC jail is not very long, but it was long enough to know that places like Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo are not aberrations but are the very fruit of our immorality. It was long enough to recognize the unequivocal failing of our criminal justice system. It was long enough to reaffirm my inaction is complicity.

On Sunday, after i was released from jail i passed a homeless woman on the street. She said her kids were hungry, could i help her? I mumbled “No” and i turned away, instinctively clutching the few dollars in my pocket. Again i failed to recognize who i am. Again i was face to face with the prison of my mind.

More and more often this message infuses my day-to-day living. Who am i? What am i doing? I drink tea with those called “terrorist”, and call them brother. i walk with those called “illegal” and call them sister. I sit on this earth and call it “mother”. I act or i don’t act, and this, in the end, is who i am. I may have many cherished ideas, but if my actions do not mirror these ideas, then they are just hollow, meaningless concepts. I am not talking ‘bout sacrifice here, i’m talking about revolution. i’m talking about dropping the self-serving myths of our lives, shredding our concepts, and returning to our brothers, our sisters, our mother and reclaiming our souls. This turning begins here and now in conversation. But conversation is not enough. Clarification is not enough. Recognition is simply not enough. We must act- and we must act wholeheartedly and in community. This revolution, this turning, this returning, is my responsibility, and mine alone. This revolution is your responsibility, and yours alone. No one can do it for you, but we can do it together.

Hakuin in his poem “Song of Zazen”, tells us:
And if we turn inward and prove our True Nature, that
True Self is no-self, our own self is no-self, we go beyond ego and past clever words.
Then the gate to the oneness of cause-and-effect is thrown open.
Not two and not three, straight ahead runs the Way…
How vast is the heaven of boundless Samadhi!
How bright and transparent the moonlight of wisdom!
What is there outside us? What is there we lack?
This earth where we stand is the pure lotus land!
And this very body, the body of Buddha.

In everything you do, may you know peace.

Refugee

Many people are aware of the refugee crisis stemming from the war in Iraq- 2.5 million refugees have inundated Jordan and Syria and an additional 2 million people are internally displaced within Iraq. In response to these crises, we are often moved to donate to organizations that try to mitigate these disasters, but seldom do we have an opportunity to see refugees as a reflection of ourselves. What are missing are the personal stories for us to connect more deeply with this issue.

Americans have grown increasingly troubled by the news of the unending war on terror and are tired of the litany of fear that envelopes our leaders’ rhetoric regarding the world at large. There is a deep longing for compassionate action in this country, a deep yearning to reach out in a way to encourage understanding, respect, and love. I search for a way to bridge the divide cleaved between us as human beings. As a people we need to recognize our shared suffering and delve deeper into the repercussions of war.

After all, we are all refugees, moving across this landscape in the brief time allotted to us, exiled from our true self, searching for understanding, meaning, purpose and love. Our time here is uncertain, our circumstances tenuous. Here in the West we do everything we can to insulate ourselves from this truth. In doing so, we have become alienated from the natural world and from each other; we are convinced of our separateness. Because of this deep-seated dissonance we turn away from physical manifestations of exile, denying our responsibility in their creation, and refusing to consider the consequences of our perceived separation.

In a sense it is absurd to consider myself a refugee. Born into middle class “privilege”, American, white, well fed, educated, and housed. In saying this i am not comparing myself with people who are desperately trying to survive their dispossession. And yet, and yet, please hear me out, i am alien to this culture, i feel like an outsider, i feel other. i recognize something has been neglected and yet i don’t know how to return home. Lost. Disconnected. Caught in a culture of consumption that swallows everything whole this is an anguish that many Americans can relate to. This culture worships the individual, as if the entire world revolves around ourselves, and in doing so severs connections at home, in the workplace, and in the community. We have lost the connection to each other, and to the place we live. It is this very self-interest that is at the center of all divisiveness and the origin of conflict. Our minds have enormous capacity, our misguided self-interest greatly diminishes this capacity. We’ve lost touch, the very sensation that connects us to the world through our bodies. Losing touch we have lost perspective, and most of life is missed, though it is right in front of us. How do we regain this broader perspective, how do we reclaim that which we cannot even imagine we are missing?

Our belief systems have simply not left any room for not knowing, for mystery, or for people that do not think exactly like us. Yet, this is not the only possibility. i reflect back on my recent visits to the Middle East, speaking with a Lebanese father who with his bare hands dug his dead children from the rubble of a destroyed home; in Palestine tending a young boy, terror and pain etched on his face, who was shot by soldiers in the West Bank; and in Israel i listened as a father told the story of his soldier son killed in Lebanon in 2000. As i sat with these ordinary people caught in extraordinary circumstances, the power of their stories transformed me. i recognized the power of our willingness to hear each other and a bond was created. We welcomed each other into our stories, into the world we were creating in the moment.

As we delve into this matter of “refugee”, we will come to a deeper understanding of who we are, our hearts will welcome us home, and we will step forward to address these challenges with love. There is power in recognizing who we really are and the inherent possibilities of creating a world without suffering.

The Balm of a Peace Process Infuses The War on Terror/ The Terror of War

(A Lament)

Can we win the war on terror with the terror of war? Each time we declare we will win the war on terror, we dig ourselves a deeper hole. Each time we kill an innocent child on a city street and call it collateral damage, each time we torture and lie that we don’t- we add to the anger and hatred directed against us. Might as well be pointing the gun at our own temple. Way back when, we routed the Taliban in Afghanistan, the war lords regained control and heroin production shot through the roof…soon we’ll be needin’ another, bigger and better war on drugs- this war will have to be fought in the homeland… the collateral damage will be our very own kids. Not to worry, Blackwater is growing, and looking to diversify. And now the Taliban are resurgent and vowing a new fight. Hamid Karzai (our puppet from Unocal), bunkered down in Kabul, offers them a place in the government if only they refrain from killing. A Taliban spokesperson refused the offer- as long as America interferes in their homeland, they will not negotiate, though i am sure they were tempted by a Ministry of Agriculture position.

In Iraq we routed the Republican guard, shocked and awed ‘em to kingdom come, along with thousands of innocents- tens times the innocents lost on Sept 11th (at least), and still, we’re counting the multitudes of dead, (apparently they can’t build coffins quick enough), and hey, one had absolutely nothing to do with the other, c’est la vie, or better yet, Macht Nichts, it doesn’t matter, we kill ‘em there so we don’t need to kill ‘em here- we certainly don’t like the stench of death on our city streets, unless it’s self inflicted, oh Katrina!

We haven’t won the peace and democracy is impossible- carnage reigns in the cradle of civilization and our leaders continually parrot “Progress…Progress…Progress”. But progress is elusive- we still haven’t gotten the Iraqi’s to sign away their oil. Now even the Democratic frontrunners for President refuse to say they will bring the troops home.

And what rough beast slouches toward Babylon revisited.

...Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity...

...And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
(Yeats; The Second Coming)

War, War, War- talk of endless war- has there ever been anything else? Cluster bombs litter Afghanistan, Iraq, and Lebanon. Depleted uranium litters Yugoslavia, Afghanistan, and Iraq (and the lungs and bodies of men, women, and children- “ours” as well as “theirs”). Now onto Iran! Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is the new Saddam Hussein is the new Osama bin Laden is the new Hitler is that old devil incarnate. But who are the children of Iran? Who are the children of Iraq? Who are the children of Afghanistan? Our smart bombs have pin point accuracy, yet always the children die. Have you seen the pictures? Oh, Smart Bombs!

(Aside: While we denounce Iran’s attempt to develop nuclear power, we sign a new contract with India promising delivery of nuclear material regardless of their efforts to further develop their nuclear arsenal. Oh, Hypocrisy! Oh, Mushroom Clouds on the Horizon!)

Ironically, the term “war on terror” was first coined in 1947 by newspapers describing efforts by the British colonial government to reign in terrorist attacks by Israeli gangs against Palestinians. The reign of terror continues. While the attacks against Israeli citizens get the media coverage, the Israeli military rains humiliation, violence, and terror on the Palestinian civilian population with impunity. And Ahmadinejad is the new Nasrallah is the new Arafat is the new Hitler, you get the picture. Over 20 children dead since June in the prison camp that is Gaza. And Israel threatens to cut off the water and electricity next.

(Aside: Did you know that Hitler originally planned to put the Jews on reservations in the Lubin area where their numbers would be reduced by starvation and disease? He got the idea from reading American history. In 1910 the US Department of Indian Affairs Superintendent wrote about "The Final Solution to our Indian Problem". Apparently Hitler appreciated how efficiently we dispatched our "problem".)

So Gaza is the West Bank is South Lebanon is Kabul is Baghdad is the new Warsaw Ghetto is the new Wounded Knee. It has been one endless Trail of Tears. Blast walls, check points, night raids and assassination. When will state terror = terror?

Yesterday our President denied a holocaust (for political expediency). Yet he implies the President of Iran is an international threat because he denies a holocaust (for political expediency?). Our democratic Congress, so concerned with a genocide from 1915 in Armenia, will perhaps one day have the courage to recognize the genocide that occurred right here, from sea to shining sea. In September the United States was one of four countries that voted no on the Declaration of Rights of Indigenous Peoples at the UN (which has been debated for over 20 years). Why? Because it went too far in giving indigenous peoples ownership of their traditional lands. Representative Sherman, a Democrat of California and a sponsor of the Armenian Genocide resolution said, "For if we hope to stop future genocides we need to admit to those horrific acts of the past." Forget about stopping future genocides, what about the one were are executing right now? (Please recall: the year was 1996, the program 60 Minutes, Lesley Stahl (on U.S. sanctions against Iraq): We have heard that a half million children have died. I mean, that's more children than died in Hiroshima. And, you know, is the price worth it? Secretary of State Madeleine Albright: I think this is a very hard choice, but the price--we think the price is worth it.) Five hundred thousand Iraqi children are dead due to sanctions. One million Iraqis are dead, and there are four million displaced people due to our illegal invasion. Perhaps we should examine the blood on our own hands, before we pick up historical stones. Oh, Repentance! Oh, Truth!

But hold on, here it comes, what we've all been waiting for: Yes, our President has called for a Peace Summit to resolve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. What foresight, what compassion. Usually when our president talks of peace, more bombs fall. You know, to insure the peace. Not this time. Our very own self described “war president” deems it necessary that the Israelis and our puppet of the PA, “Abu Mazen” sit and talk peace, along with other undisclosed middle-east puppets. After all, haven’t the Palestinians been pushed about as far as they can go? What’s next, starvation? Oh, Hunger! After all, isn’t Abu Mazen prepared to sell the Palestinian people down the river, or in this case across the river? Oh, Treachery!

Did you see in the NY Times, (All the news that’s fit to print) Israeli Vice Prime Minister Haim Ramon has asserted that his government will support a partition of Jerusalem? (oh, and yes 2 Palestinians were killed in Nablus today). Maybe so, but the NY Times didn’t see it fit to print that on the same day they quoted Ramon, the Israeli Army authorized the confiscation of 1100 additional dunams (nearly 300 acres) of Palestinian land- you guessed it- in East Jerusalem, and yes, you guessed it, to expand a settlement. Up is down, freedom is occupation, war is peace. Oh, Mendacity!

Back in the summer, when President Bush originally called for this summit, former White House Press Secretary Tony Snow said, "I think a lot of people are inclined to try to treat this as a big peace conference. It's not." Of course it’s not. If people are not yet clear on the matter, President Bush is not at all concerned with Peace, nor are the Israelis. Peace would require justice, would require de-colonizing the West Bank, would require returning stolen resources, would require self-determination for the Palestinian people, peace would require an equitable solution to the refugee question. None of this is forthcoming, none of this is “on the table”. President Bush is only interested in acquiesce to American power. Israel is only interested in acquiesce to Israeli power.

(Aside: And where is the next Mandela who is the new M.L.King who is the new Gandhi who is the new Jesus who is the new Buddha? And what of the women, why are their names forgotten or left unsaid? The smart bombs do not neglect them...and Hillary, i know you have the cojones to be king, and that is exactly why you will never win my vote. Where is the Mother’s embrace this world so desperately needs? Blessed are the peacemakers. Oh, Love!)

So where do we go, and what do we do? Go where you can and do what you must for justice. We must do what we can and not waiver. The townspeople of Bi'lin are a model- they have had over one thousand non-violent demonstrations to save their land and have been met by ongoing Israeli army violence, yet they reject violence and persevere. The monks and the student dissidents in Burma provide a model as well. Though brought down by violence they have not surrendered.
i read there is a document circulating inside Burma that reads as follows:
Afflicted by military dictator and lackeys
Shootings and beatings
My head is bloody
But unbowed.
(Burma's Struggle: The Avowed Against the "Atheists"
By Cynthia Boaz; Truthout.com Perspective Oct 12th, 2007)

Oh, Justice!
Oh, Peace!
Oh, Revolution!

For Seven Generations.

Die-in at the Capital

i returned to Washington DC yet again for the Sept. 15th march organized by ANSWER and the Iraq Veterans Against the War. After marching from the White House to the Capital, i participated in the die-in at the Capital. Once again, i was arrested crossing a police line as i followed IVAW members, numerous Veterans For Peace members and 165 or so concerned citizens (190 people were eventually arrested), who were intent on delivering a petition to Congress to end the war. Very little mention was made of this march in the mainstream media, and when it was mentioned at all, the facts were widely distorted. Sitting in jail, i had the opportunity to reconnect with several IVAW members as well as Vietnam Vets who i accompanied on the March to New Orleans in early 2006 (to connect the events in the aftermath of hurricane Katrina to the illegal occupation of Iraq). As our government continues to beat the drum for war, one can only hope that more citizens "die-in" to take a stand for peace.

9-11 Forgotten

The sixth anniversary of Sept 11th has come and gone, and Americans have forgotten the lessons of that fateful day. As the U.S. continues to lash out blindly in the Middle East, causing death and destruction everywhere it turns, we at home continue to wave our little flags, put metallic ribbons on our cars and call for support of the troops. That Americans are now responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths of innocent peoples- exponentially higher numbers than those killed in the towers- is a fact. Few people here recognize the level of carnage unleashed on the civilian populations of Afghanistan and Iraq. Few people seem concerned with the anguish of others as they try to survive the US military occupation of their countries. Few people recognize in the anguished eyes of the Iraqi people the very same fear, desperation, determination and heroism of the people who suffered on September 11th at the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and in a flight over Pennsylvania.

In the days after September 11th we as Americans stood together, and reached out to each other. Much of the world reached out to us as well. In our grief and disbelief there was a moment to recognize community- not just the community of New York City, or even the community of our nation, but the community of humankind. For a moment, however brief, it seems we understood, we were clear, we recognized our commonality and we recognized our dependence on one another- on the streets of New York even perfect strangers could embrace each other and hold on for dear life. In the immediacy of the blasts, love and support came to the fore, not anger, nor hatred. But how quickly that was lost! Our so-called leaders immediately called for revenge. It had little to do with justice and even less with understanding. A shocked populace was easily caught in a destructive, unholy nationalism. Quickly we, and the world, were divided into two camps, those who were “with us” and those who were “against us”.

Six years down the road and our perceived enemies, including women, children, the aged and the infirm, continue to pay an incredible price. And this price will increase for years to come as the expense of using depleted uranium munitions, chemicals like white phosphorous, and cluster bombs is paid for with children’s lives. The war in Iraq is an abomination. An illegal and unjust war based on the lies and deceptions of our government. Now, we are told by General Petraeus that a premature withdrawal will have devastating consequences. What could be more devastating than the destruction we have already meted out?

Meanwhile, the ringleader responsible for planning the attacks on September 11th is alive and well, apparently in Pakistan. Bin Laden continues to use the ineptitude of the Bush administration as a recruiting tool. And the US is now threatening Iran. Greater disaster, greater death, greater destruction is promised on the road to "Peace". For all those who claim that America is safer today, that we are “fighting them over there so we don’t fight them here”, I return to General Petraeus’ dog and pony show on Capital Hill yesterday. When asked if our strategy in Iraq made us safer, the General uttered perhaps his only truth of the hearings, ”I don’t know, actually.”

On the anniversary of September 11th we are called to remember the innocent people who died and the heroes who answered the call to help, including the myriad cleanup crews who are now suffering lung disease and illness due to their efforts, and are largely forgotten. We are also called on to remember all the innocents that have died as a consequence of our retribution. One million Iraqis are dead- when will the killing be enough? In remembering, we are called to act. Stop for a moment, look into the eyes of an Iraqi, and recognize yourself. Their terror is our terror.

Then do something, anything, to stop this war.

The Sound of the Bell

Talk on Chapter 11; from "No Beginning, No End" by Kwong Roshi

"During the more intensive practice periods one of the things you will feel in the sangha is a kind of intimate bonding and communication. This communication is not based on our sitting around telling one another about our lives. It takes place almost without speaking, without touching, even without looking at one another. This intimacy manifests itself because of the awareness we bring to our activities. This presence is the manifestation of our Buddha nature. The communication expressed is pervasive, it includes everything."

On Wednesday evenings, we come together for discussions that may seem to be the opposite of this. We are asked to share experiences and aspects of our lives to communicate something, to give something. But these evenings are meant to be a part of the intimate communication- in spite of our talking. These meetings are not meant to be ‘off the cuff’ chats. Particularly during council practice, but also each evening, we want to create a sense of deep intimacy, transparency, and protection- nothing less than that which is created during intensive practice periods. It is a practice of the heart not the mind. Speaking from the heart we seek to use the stories of our lives to deepen our understanding. It is an opportunity to cultivate deep truth and deep listening. When we arrive, we should sit in silence for a few moments and use this silence as a border crossing from our busy lives to the intimacy of council, the intimacy of this space. Do not fear the silences or gaps that will present themselves. It is not necessary to ask someone to speak. The gaps need not be interrupted, they need not be filled. When these gaps arise, rest in them. This moment is Buddha birthing. Recognize the silence as nothing less than the communication of the mountains, the rivers, the butterflies and the stones in the garden.

The Sandokai “Each thing has its own intrinsic value.” Our translation says, “Each thing has its own being which is not different from its place and function.” It is in this very spirit that we approach our life. We realize the self within each activity because the self becomes the activity. We surrender the self to the activity. If our activity is listening, by listening with devotion to non judging and absolute tolerance we can listen with and in the speaker. No listener, just listening. If our activity is speaking, speaking from the heart and being lean of expression- delving to the very marrow of the matter- intimacy is created. No speaker, just transmission, water pouring over rocks. Another way of bearing witness, we reflect back to the speaker her own heart. This practice dissolves the false barrier between observer and observed, the barrier between you and me.

Kwong Roshi:
"The whole world is a single flower is just another way of saying san do kai.
“San” means "many."
"Do" means "same" or "together",“as one”.
“Kai” is a word that means "intimacy."
There is an intimacy that is beyond measure, between the one and the many. This is the big theme in Zen. "The whole world is a single flower" is the same conclusion: it is one. But how do you get to one? We must remember that the river within us longs to return to the ocean. And not just once, but many hundreds, thousands, even millions of times. When you arrive, the whole world is a single flower. San do kai."

In speaking of prostrations and the need to do them completely, Roshi states: Surrender with the body- the mind and breath are in accord. It is not meaningless ritual, it is a body teaching that orients you toward the path of the dharma, of giving birth to the Buddha. Surrender yourself completely to the task at hand- this is the complete spirit, attitude and understanding of zen. i do not know the reason behind each ritual we do in the zendo, i only recognize that each one is necessary and devote myself to doing them fully- with my body, with my heart. For example,when the speaker is finished we bow to each other. In this gassho is everything, our gratitude and respect fully offered. So when it is our turn to speak, we don't need to thank or compliment the speaker, we allow the gassho to be everything.

Young Morita’s father communicated to him that the spirit and attitude and understanding of zen is to give yourself completely to every activity. And as he rang the bell, it sounded with the inspiration and compassion of his father. The sounding of inspiration and compassion arose naturally, of itself. A manifestation of heartfelt practice. It was not preconceived, nor hoped for, nor decided upon.

The world comes to us “As it is” can we accept it without condition? Can we hear it, see it, smell, taste, and touch it as it is, without our judgments and demands? This possibility is the gift of our life and practice--To receive each moment as new, fresh, unencumbered by the past or expectations of the future. The world in its entirety presents itself over and over and over again. It never tires of my rejection, every moment it offers itself and asks nothing of me. Why do I wrap myself in Buddhas robes?

This is from a Transmission Speech of Zen Master Dae Gak (Guiding Teacher Furnace Mountain Zen Center)
a koan from Zen Master Man Gong:

"All Zen Masters say that in the sound of the bell they attain enlightenment, and at the sound of the drum they fall down. Anyone who understands the meaning of this, please give me an answer."

A student named Song Wol stood up and said, "If the rabbit's horn is correct, the sheep's horn is false." Man Gong smiled.

Zen Master Seung Sahn's comment: "If you cannot hear the bell or drum, you are free. If you hear both sounds you are already in hell."

This thinking mind, always comparing- how could you possibly know God? Intimacy breaks this habit of “one thing is better than another”. It is possible for us to be free from our conceptualization and our suffering. Surrender.

Master Seung Sahn's comment: "If you don't hear either sound, you are free; but if you hear either sound, you fall into hell."

Master Dae Gak: But what if you make the great mistake of falling into hell? What can you do? Of all the animals on earth, humans don't know what they are supposed to be doing. We have technological advancements that exceed our wildest expectations. We can walk on the moon. But, in the history of man there has never been a period without war. We live in conflict. We are attached to our opinions and ideas, the result being that our fellow beings are in a constant state of suffering. So if you fall into hell and are confronted by demons every day, what can you do?

This whole world is turning, turning, turning.
Before this world existed, there was only silence.
After this world disappears, only silence.

Silence before, silence after,
Then where does sound come from?

The sound the bell gives birth to the Buddha. Wakeup- this Buddha is you! What on earth are you waiting for?

(the bell sounds)

Listen, listen,
this wonderful sound brings me back to
my true home.

The sound of the bell is the voice of the Buddha calling us home, calling us back. Each of us has the capacity of the Buddha. When we hear the sound of the bell, we touch our true nature, the peace, love and joy within us.

(the bell sounds)

Body, speech, and mind held in perfect oneness,
I send my heart along with the sound of the bell.
May the hearers awaken from forgetfulness
and transcend all anxiety and sorrow.

(the bell sounds)

May the sound of this bell penetrate deeply
into the cosmos
so that beings, even those in dark places,
may hear it and be free from birth and death.
May all beings realize awakening and find
their way home.
Namo Shakyamunaye Buddhaya

(the bell sounds)

This Monday past marks the 62nd anniversary of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima by our nation. Tomorrow marks the anniversary of the bombing of Nagasaki. It is not the last time we have used nuclear weapons. What can you do?

(the bell sounds)