An unfortunate episode

She was too good for any man in the world. I secretly wanted her to never get married so she can stay at our house. But when she got married and had children, her beautiful daughters were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Something happened, I don't recall it nor do I know the details. But it happened too sudden, like there was a gap in the story. Someone rubbed out a few lines from the pages intentionally, and I found myself abruptly at the end of the book, waving goodbye to my big sister. I never saw her again.

I find that nobody sympathizes with how I feel about today's Iraq. People laugh at the way I am accustomed to the 'privileged world' I'm used to, as they recall stories of survival. Of bombs that went off a few meters away from where they were. How they glued themselves to the tiled floors in their homes, in hope of cooling off the heat of the fierce sun. No electricity. No water. It sounds like something we just read and dismiss as an unfortunate episode that only happens to war-stricken countries. Of course, we live far away from them.

We all survive something everyday. We all have our hardships. But some hardships are forcibly, illegally, ruthlessly inflicted - by whomever responsible - on certain humans, and quite widely witnessed. Yet, the world still sees it as an unfortunate episode that only happens to war-stricken countries. The bodies - buried or unburied - are collateral damage, for a better, safer, new Iraq. But am I the only one that visualized a pupil's rucksack, a mother's shopping bag, a grandfather's newspaper, flying into the air, then resting on the ground, far from where their bodies had landed after an explosion? Why does their blood splatter on my clothes? Why do I smell it? Why do I hear their last breaths? Why do their open eyes linger in my memory?

I saw a little girl at Baghdad Airport, smiling, waving her little hand at me. She was an exact image of the little girl I pictured to be Marwa - one of my novel's characters. She ran free from her mother's arms and attacked my laptop. She started typing words in her personal language. I smiled back at her and asked her questions she didn't care to answer. My heart pounded of fear for her safety. For her innocence. For her future. For her children. For her smile.

I came believing that a few words I could write, would give people hope. But I found a nation accustomed to their unfortunate episode that only happens to war-stricken countries. It's daily life. Mundane. Their reality. The answers to my questions remain implicit.