Iraq War Grief Daily Witness (photo) Day 28

image – Two Iraqi men wait outside a morgue with an empty coffin.

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support the troops and the Iraqi people
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read Dahr Jamail’s Iraq Dispatches
witness every day

image and poem below the fold

Apprehensions
by Sylvia Plath

There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself —
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.

A grey wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only sourness.

This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two grey, papery bags —
This is what i am made of, this, and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.

On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immorality among these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.

Iraq War Grief Daily Witness (photo) Day 27

image – Ahmad Sharif, age 7, from Sadr City in Baghdad, Iraq, smiles after receiving his new prosthetic eyes by Ocularist Annette Kirszrot in her New York office. Sharif was brought to the United States with the help of the Global Medical Relief Fund to receive new eyes and a right arm after he was injured by a bomb near his home in Iraq. (AFP/Timothy A. Clary)

image and journal entry by Dahr Jamail below the fold

entry for may 20, 2005

Coming Home
An Iraq Correspondent Living in Two Worlds
by Dahr Jamail

It isn’t an accident that, after 11 weeks, only as I’m leaving again, do I find myself able to write about what it was like to come home — back to the United States after my latest several month stint in Iraq. Only now, with the U.S. growing ever smaller in my rearview mirror, with the strange distance that closeness to Iraq brings, do I find the needed space in which the words begin to flow.

For these last three months, I’ve been bound up inside, living two lives — my body walking the streets of my home country; my heart and mind so often still wandering war-ravaged Iraq.

Even now, on a train from Philadelphia to New York on my way to catch a plane overseas, my urge is to call Iraq; to call, to be exact, my interpreter and friend, Abu Talat in Baghdad. The papers this morning reported at least four car bombs detonating in the capital; so, to say I was concerned for him would be something of an understatement.

The connection wasn’t perfect. But when he heard my voice, still so far away, he shouted with his usual mirth, “How are you my friend?” I might as well be in another universe — the faultless irreconcilability of my world and his; everything, in fact, tied into this phone call, this friendship, our backgrounds… across these thousands of miles.

I breathe deeply before saying a bit too softly, “I just wanted to know that you’re all right, habibi.”

The direct translation for “habibi” in Arabic is “my dear.” It is used among close friends to express affection and deep trust.

It’s no fun having a beloved friend in a war zone. I’m all too aware now of what it must be like for loved ones and family members to have those close to them far away and in constant danger… It’s no way to live. Having spent so many months in Iraq myself, I finally have a taste of what my own loved ones have been living with.

While bloody Iraq stories are just part of the news salad here for most Americans — along with living and dead Popes, Michael Jackson, missing wives-to-be, and the various doings of our President — I remained glued to the horrifying tales streaming out of Baghdad and environs. I emailed Abu Talat and other friends constantly to check on their safety in that chaotic, dangerous land I’d stopped being any part of.

Trying to live life here with some of my heart and most of my mind in Iraq, which is endlessly in flames, has felt distinctly schizophrenic. It’s often seemed as if I were looking at my country through the wrong end of a telescope even as I walked down the streets of its well functioning cities, padded through a coffee shop where everyone was laughing, relaxed, or calmly computing away, or sat for hours in a room that possessed that miracle of all miracles — uninterrupted electricity.

I ask Abu Talat if the most recent car bombs were close to his home. “There have been 10 car bombs in Baghdad today, habibi, at least 30 people killed with over 70 wounded. Iraqis are suffering so much nowadays. It’s becoming unbearable, even for those of us who have known so much suffering for so long.”

This time I find, to my amazement, that I’m wiping back the tears and forcing back the crazy desire I’ve been unable to dodge all these months to return to Baghdad. Right now. This second. That old pull to plunge back into the fire, despite the obvious risk. To be with my close friend, in solidarity, in a place that, absurdly enough, seems more real to me now that this one somehow doesn’t. To be there on the front lines of empire, able to see, without blinking, without all the trimmings, the true face my country shows the world.

“Please stay safe habibi, and I will see you soon,” I tell him as my train approaches New York where I am to catch my flight.

“Insh’Allah — God willing — I will stay safe and will see you soon, habibi. Insh’Allah,” he replies.

Then he quickly tells me there’s gunfire nearby. He has to go. I wait for him to hang up first. It’s a kind of ritual. Only then do I push the button on my phone, set it down, and leave Iraq once again for this country of mine where I’ve never quite landed.

Just beyond the train window, trees and houses race past as we speed along. I watch the peaceful American countryside zip by, knowing Abu Talat, having just dropped his wife and children off at her father’s for safety, is trying to make his way home through streets filled with fighting and criminal gangs, the constant threat of more car bombs in the night, and a military cordon around his neighborhood. He is concerned that his home will be looted if he isn’t there, and feels it’s worth the risk to return to his neighborhood to guard his belongings, even though the area has been sealed off by American soldiers.

I’ll check in with him again later…obsessively… to see if he’s in one piece at the other end of the invisible phone line that still seems to connect us, along with all my other friends there. Of course, it’s just a regular day for him in Baghdad, and another irregular, out-of-body experience back here, where, with every long-distance chat, the duality in me seems to grow more extreme.

support the Iraqi people
support the Campaign for Innocent Victims in Conflict (CIVIC)
support CARE
support the victims of torture
support the fallen
support the troops
support the troops and the Iraqi people
read `This is what John Kerry did today,’ the diary by lawnorder that prompted this series
read Riverbend’s blog – `Bagdhad Burning’
read Dahr Jamail’s Iraq Dispatches
witness every day

Iraq War Grief Daily Witness (photo) Day 26

image – Ayad Ali Dayeer, a soldier in the Iraqi Army’s Reconnaissance Unit, smokes a cigarette in a house that his unit is searching with supervision from U.S. Marines in Haditha, 220 kilometers northwest of Baghdad, Saturday, May 28, 2005. (AP Photo/Jacob Silberberg)

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support CARE
support the victims of torture
support the fallen
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support the troops and the Iraqi people
read `This is what John Kerry did today,’ the diary by lawnorder that prompted this series
read Riverbend’s blog – `Bagdhad Burning’
witness every day

image and poem below the fold

On Turning Ten
by Billy Collins

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I’m coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light–
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

A comment – I’ve tried to stay away from seeming clever or ironic or otherwise cool in these diaries. I’ve also tried to convey to you, and to convince myself, that these diaries are not “about me” at all.

Ha! Who am I trying to kid? Of course they’re about me. And I think that today’s image and poem makes it clear, so why try to hide it?

These diaries are all about me  – me trying to make sense of events that make no sense; me trying to find pictures and poems that somehow say “something;” me trying to elicit from you a comment, a recommendation, anything that somehow tells me that I’m doing something, anything, that has some value or makes some impression or otherwise goes out from my head and heart and into yours.

This Iraqi soldier looks just like Keith Richards to me, but I don’t know who that is on the TV. I don’t know if Keith Richards would wear combat gear or carry a gun – I kinda doubt it. But I know he’d wear the headband.

So this is where I am today. This is what I’ve come to – searching through poetry archives and wire service photos and posting self-referential/pop culture gibberish, while people I’ve never met are being terrorized and blown up every day, with no end in sight. It makes no sense, but I’m so glad you’re here.

Iraq War Grief Daily Witness (photo) Day 25

image: A boy stands next to his older brother laying in a hospital bed at the Yarmuk hospital in Baghdad, following last night’s car bomb in Mahmudiyah. Eleven people were killed, many of them children, when a car bomb struck a Shiite prayer room in Mahmudiyah, a lawless ethnically-mixed town in an area just south of Baghdad dubbed the Triangle of Death.(AFP/Karim Sahib)

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support the troops and the Iraqi people
read `This is what John Kerry did today,’ the 12/02/2004 diary by lawnorder that prompted this series
witness every day

image and a poem by a dKos member below the fold

From the Living to the Dead
by deepintheheartoftx

I see you in my sons’ eyes
reflected there, your mothers’ grief
transposed on my own image

Last night we went roller skating
I hadn’t been on skates in 25 years
“Just do your best, mom,” my six-year-old said.
When I fell, he helped me up

Am I doing my best?
Little by little parts of me grow cold
Sons, daughters, husbands, wives, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and strangers
are dying

I cannot help you up
I do not know you, or even of you
As I make breakfast
drive to little league
and tuck my boys into their bunks at night

Your names are not posted on a list
Pinned to bulletin boards in the hall
Like the ones my mother looked at anxiously
on her way to class every day when she was in high school

Your passing is not noted in the
Halls of power
Your aborted lives unknown to us
As we work, and spend and
tend to living

Dark stains spread over my soul
like the soldier who covered herself
in black tattoos
Cover my good intentions with sticky tar

Yet
I see you in my sons’ eyes

Iraq War Grief Daily Witness (photo) Day 24

image: an injured boy at a hospital in Iraq is attended by his family

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images and words below the fold

In Harbor
by Constantine Cavafy

A young man, twenty eight years old, on a vessel from Tenos,
Emes arrived at this Syrian harbor
with the intention of learning the perfume trade.
But during the voyage he was taken ill. And as soon
as he disembarked, he died. His burial, the poorest,
took place here. A few hours before he died,
he whispered something about “home,” about “very old parents.”
But who these were nobody knew,
nor which his homeland in the vast panhellenic world.
Better so. For thus, although
he lies dead in this harbor,
his parents will always hope he is alive.

Iraq War Grief Daily Witness (photo) Day 23

image: a man and a body at a morgue in Iraq

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support the troops and the Iraqi people
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images and words below the fold

Couplets
by Thomas Lynch

Two girls found dead. My sons go to the morgue.
Two cots, thick rubber gloves, two body bags.

Too long stuffed in a culvert, raped and stabbed,
too decomposed to recognize. Too sad.

Two local ne’er-do-wells no doubt abused
too much as children themselves, stand mute.

Two caskets in a room, two families undone.
Two ministers. Two homilies. My sons

too busy with flowers and townspeople
to contemplate the problem of evil,

to shake their fists at God, regard instead
two funerals – the living and the dead

to be transported in their separate griefs –
two hearses to be washed, two limousines.

Today the wakes and paperwork details.
Tomorrow a burning and a burial.

Two girls found dead of known brutalities
together forever, precious memories

too sweet, too savage, too beautiful and bad
to keep at bay by ritual or words.

Two boys about their father’s business learn
to number, comfort, witness and keep track.

Learn more about Thomas Lynch, an undertaker/poet living and working in Milford, Michigan -from a book review at Amazon.com.

Iraq War Grief Daily Witness (photo) Day 22

image: An Iraqi policeman passes in front of Iraqi women mourning outside the general morgue in Baghdad. The bodies of 46 Iraqis killed execution-style were discovered in different parts of Iraq, the bulk from Shiite Muslim neighborhoods in and around Sadr City in northern Baghdad.  (AFP/SABAH ARAR)

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read the 12/02/2004 diary by lawnorder that prompted this series – `This is what John Kerry did today’

witness every day

images and words below the fold

Silence
by Thomas Hood

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave–under the deep, deep, sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hushed–no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

Iraq War Grief Daily Witness (photo) Day 21

image:A man cries out over his brother’s body at Yarmouk hospital, after Maj. Gen. Wael al-Rubaei, director of the National Security Ministry’s operations room, and his driver were assassinated by two carloads of gunmen in a drive-by shooting on their way to work, in Baghdad’s Mansour district in Iraq Monday, May 23, 2005. (AP Photo/Mohammed Uraibi)

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images and words below the fold

On Passing the New Menin Gate

by Siegfried Sassoon

Who will remember, passing through this Gate,
The unheroic Dead who fed the guns?
Who shall absolve the foulness of their fate,
Those doomed, conscripted, unvictorious ones?
Crudely renewed, the Salient holds its own.
Paid are its dim defenders by this pomp;
Paid, with a pile of peace-complacent stone,
The armies who endured that sullen swamp.

Here was the world’s worst wound. And here with pride
‘Their name liveth for evermore’ the Gateway claims.
Was ever an immolation so belied
As these intolerably nameless names?
Well might the Dead who struggled in the slime
Rise and deride this sepulchre of crime.

Iraq War Grief Daily Witness (photo) Day 20

A photo of a guard and five cell doors taken (surreptitiously?) inside Abu Ghraib prison.

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images and words below the fold

Requiem (excerpt)
by Anna Akhmatova

In the fearful years of the Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months in prison queues in Leningrad. One day somebody ‘identified’ me. Beside me, in the queue, there was a woman with blue lips. She had, of course, never heard of me; but she suddenly came out of that trance so common to us all and whispered in my ear (everybody spoke in whispers there): “Can you describe this?” And I said: “Yes, I can.” And then something like the shadow of a smile crossed what had once been her face.

1 April, 1957, Leningrad
Epilogue

II

Again the hands of the clock are nearing
The unforgettable hour. I see, hear, touch

All of you: the cripple they had to support
Painfully to the end of the line; the moribund;

And the girl who would shake her beautiful head and
Say: “I come here as if it were home.”

I should like to call you all by name,
But they have lost the lists….

I have woven for them a great shroud
Out of the poor words I overheard them speak.

I remember them always and everywhere,
And if they shut my tormented mouth,

Through which a hundred million of my people cry,
Let them remember me also….

And if in this country they should want
To build me a monument

I consent to that honour,
But only on condition that they

Erect it not on the sea-shore where I was born:
My last links there were broken long ago,

Nor by the stump in the Royal Gardens,
Where an inconsolable young shade is seeking me,

But here, where I stood for three hundred hours
And where they never, never opened the doors for me

Lest in blessed death I should forget
The grinding scream of the Black Marias,

The hideous clanging gate, the old
Woman wailing like a wounded beast.

And may the melting snow drop like tears
From my motionless bronze eyelids,

And the prison pigeons coo above me
And the ships sail slowly down the Neva

about the poet

A note from the site where I obtained this poem: This is an unbearably moving poem. It comes at the end of Akhmatova’s great Requiem sequence, which she wrote during the oppression of the Stalin years. During those years she was harassed a great deal, and her son was taken away by the police. It was for him that she stood in the lines outside the prison gates. But any comments are irrelevant with such a poem.

War Grief Daily Witness (photo) Day 19

CARE International statement on unconfirmed reports of the death of Clementina Cantoni

KABUL, Afghanistan (May 20, 2005) – At approximately 4:00 p.m. local time in Kabul, kidnappers claimed to have killed Clementina Cantoni. CARE International has no way of verifying this information. We are in contact with the Cantoni family, and the appropriate government authorities in Afghanistan and Italy. We continue to hope for the best.

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Continued on the flip…
Clementina, 32 years old, has spent the last 10 years dedicated to humanitarian work in Afghanistan and elsewhere. Since September 2003, she has managed the “Humanitarian Assistance for the Women of Afghanistan” project, providing food assistance and income-generating activities for 10,000 widows and 50,000 children.

Until the reports can be officially confirmed or denied, we urge all parties to maintain consideration for Clementina’s safety and the sensitivity of the situation.

This undated photo provided by CARE International shows Italian humanitarian worker Clementina Cantoni, 32, who was abducted in Kabul, Afghanistan Monday, May 16, 2005 around 8:30 p.m. local time. Four armed men dragged Cantoni from her car in the center of Afghanistan’s capital on Monday in a bold kidnapping that reinforced fears that militants or criminals are copying tactics used in Iraq. (AP Photo/Courtesy CARE International)

Musee des Beaux Arts
by W. H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully
along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the plowman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.