"It Don't Mean a Thing..."

"I am incapable of telling you not to feel. Feel, feel, I say-feel for all you're worth, and even if it half kills you, for that is the only way to live, especially to live at this terrible pressure, and the only way to honor and celebrate these admirable beings who are our pride and our inspiration. "

I remember the first time I heard a bomb here in Iraq. I had to sit down and I almost cried. I thought of children wailing at the scene of the incident. I imagined women huddled over bodies. I thought of sirens, gurneys, body bags, shouting, looking amidst rubble, and I thought of all of the unspeakable realities that were associated with this sound. This sound seemed to reverberate clear through the walls and shake me. I had never heard a sound quite like it.

Now, almost five weeks from that event, I wonder if I haven't become callous. I am, in fact, still seeing and hearing incredible events that you would think I might blog about. For example, I spoke to a man just yesterday who tells how his security team was caravanning across a bridge in armored vehicles. Just then a bomb went off underneath the last car, an armored Hyundai, lifting it several feet in the air. Upon touching the ground again (the man telling me the story smiled as he said this part) there was nothing for the pasengers to do but keep on driving. The team in front of them simply laughed and laughed as those in the Hyundai cursed their luck with a series of expletives, gestures, and facial expressions.

And among my own students there have been incidents, though I am happy to report that they are all safe. Here are two of the latest excuses my students have had for being late to our workshop (all verified, by the way, in case you thought we might have students come up with creative excuses):
1. A bomb blew out the windows of my home
2. The checkpoint in front of us was bombed, so we had to find an alternate route

So, yeah, I guess having your home nearly bombed is a pretty good excuse.

And here is the thing that you may have noticed if you have followed my blog ... I haven't even thought of writing these experiences down lately. And it makes me wonder why. You'll notice the quote that I put up above. It's by Henry James, an American novelist who spent much of his life writing fiction until the last days of his life. As World War I rolled into his life, he took a drastic turn from writing fiction to trying to help in the war effort. He visited soldiers, hospitals, wrote pamphlets, and above all, he tried to praise those who were doing what he thought was a noble work. The quote I selected, in particular, speaks to the absolute human necessity of not losing yourself in the midst of so much chaos.

Andy, a recent patron of our security compound / hotel, told us to take pictures the first two weeks. He said, "after two weeks" and he paused when he said this, "everything will just start appearing so normal." And today I had a similar conversation with a US embassy worker, Steve, who stated that it was impossible to spend a lot of time here without becoming somewhat, well, crazed. When it starts to appear normal, we decided, that is when we realize that we have become abnormal.

And what HAS become abnormal about me? I wondered this evening as I spoke to Kim. Kim is the new teacher who is soaking in this experience with fervor. She is taking pictures to the point of reckless abandon, even asking for pictures of the soldiers at the security checkpoint - um, probably not the BEST idea, Kim:). As we spoke she told me that she wrote in some detail about the students' experience at the bombed checkpoint, and I realized it hadn't even occurred to me to write about it. She told me (and I'm paraphrasing), "It's like it didn't even faze the students. They just found another route. Like it was normal ... "

And that is when I realized that it struck me as normal as well. It was another bomb. It was another incident. It was an inconvenience for my students to get around. I didn't imagine the death. I didn't think of the implications of a bomb or a shooting. It was just something that happens.

And the thing is, I SHOULD feel. I need to desperately feel this. It is wrong for it to be just some event that happens every day. It is, in a portion of Scott's words (you can guess the rest), "messed up."

Yes it is. And to not feel it, to shut it away, to pretend that it is normal, in my view, is one of the biggest mistakes I could make. I have learned to love so many of the people here. There is so much goodness throughout all of Iraq. By the way, I'm not trying to claim a political stance one way or the other, and I'm not preaching pacifism; I'm just talking about human life. The whole point I'm trying to make is something that goes way beyond politics. If you think I'm making a statement about war or American involvement or anything remotely like that, let me suggest you re-read what I'm saying. There are BAD dudes here, let's make no mistake. And that is why I am so afraid, because you see, there is Wafaa, too.

Wafaa is the teacher trainer who called me yesterday with excitement in her voice she could barely contain. She said that she was so excited to be training, and that the training was working. "Now I know why you were always smiling," she says. We discuss my own enthusiasm for teacher training and why I love it. Then she continues.

"I trained 13 teachers these last two weeks and I'll be teaching more." Then she speaks of the stories that I used in my own training. "I'm using your cake story," she says, "and I tell them about elephants."

Today I opened an email today and saw 10 pictures that Wafaa sent me from Basra with all 13 of her teachers. They stare out at me eager, young, and wide-eyed. And so forgive me for being a little nervous if I hear a report this week that a bomb in the city center of Basra killed more than a dozen people.

You see, I just HAVE to feel.