Overcoming the Impossible

note: Bill's name has been changed to protect the innocent, meaning me.

This morning we left the Edinburgh International at 8 am, our usual time, to head for the Al Rasheed Hotel. Bill, an Englishman with outrageous thigh arms (my thighs = his arms), took us. Bill’s experience in security has led him from one dangerous country to another. He seems to relish in it. Two stories illustrate my point: First, one evening he reminisced over our campfire about the good times in a small ancient city in Afghanistan. What made it so good? Well, in his words, this rural village is “fantastic” because people lived in hovels carved out from a mountain. He spoke about how the people were hard and gritty, waking up at 5 am to shovel snow from their entrances. As he reminisced about the stark barrenness of the place, I couldn’t help but wonder how many would truly share his sentiment. I kept imagining an SNL sketch with old men reminiscing about horrible pasts: “Ahh, the good ol days...we ate dirt for breakfast and we liked it.”

And yesterday, I took a picture of Josh getting his bulletproof vest put on. Josh was a fantastic escort who had helped arrange our stay here. While I took my picture, Bill put his hand out in front of the camera and said, “No pictures. I’m still a wanted man in Nigeria.” I laughed nervously. Obviously kidding, right?

Well, let’s move on.

So off to the Al Rasheed we go. In the armored van we go through a total of five checkpoints in about three quarters of a mile. Tedious. Dreadfully tedious. But with Bill, we don’t have to exit the van and get frisked like we ordinarily do. He flashes the checkpoint guards a badge and they nod knowingly. Apparently, this badge is some sort of golden ticket that allows a lot more movement within the international zone. We like going with Bill. It’s like having your own personal Arnold Schwarzenegger.

T-walls (big giant slabs of concrete) about 10 feet high accompany us on both sides of the street through most of this trip. Here’s a rundown: From the main thoroughfare, we turn left at the Four Soldier’s Monument. The 14th of July Bridge is immediately behind us. We then proceed through the aforementioned checkpoint and toward the Al Rasheed, passing the Crossing Swords Monument and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier on the left. Ministry buildings are to the right. Just at the end of the green zone sits the Al Rasheed, which has its own security checkpoints. Each passenger raises his or her passport to the guards assigned to peer through the window. The guards themselves are part of a larger security team, Triple Canopy, and they consist of Chilean, Peruvian, and Ugandan mercenaries. They seemed austere at first, but they are beginning to recognize us. This time, one manages a smile of recognition.

So now we’re in the hotel and after a time of preparation and our daily warm up, I’m ready to teach. Today I am teaching about large classrooms. I know it is a point of complaint for our teachers, who often teach upwards of 60 students. So I decide to use the phrase, “how do you eat an elephant?” Then I have students guess to what I am referring. It works well--Iraqis are adept at metaphor--and they tell me all kinds of pertinent answers.

“You eat an elephant just like anything else: with your mouth,” says one.

“You divide it into pieces,” says another.

“It is like a language classroom, it is a big problem, but you simply must find a way.” My point exactly.

We discuss how we may be given impossible tasks, but they are ours to solve. We then proceed to look at 8 lesser “impossible” situations that stem from having a large class, and I have them look for solutions. They give fantastic answers, and I like using their knowledge so that we have a well-rounded perspective. I provide my own answers and end with a challenge to continue finding ways to make the impossible situations more bearable. They respond with ridiculous amounts of enthusiasm. They are quite easy to teach. They seem starved for it. After class, students approach me to give final thoughts or ask questions. Today three students wish to speak to me. Two students give me their final thoughts, and the last, a teacher from Kurdistan, asks if I would edit a newspaper piece he is doing about his whole experience in Baghdad. I tell him I’d be honored.

And today, especially, I’m given rather royal treatment. Several students have given me gifts: CD’s, keychains, and so forth. But today a student has given me a clock that has my face on it. I find it comical and touching. The minute hand spins around my smile and I’m reminded of the Cheshire cat.

At lunchtime, an older student named Salim (who bears a resemblance to Gandhi), has asked for me to review some tips for his daughter. She is taking the TOEFL test, and I have promised to tell him what she might expect on it.

After a brief discussion about the test, we begin to discuss Prime Minister Iyad Allawi’s visit to the Al Rasheed today. Security is way up, and throughout the hotel are dozens of Iraqi soldiers in green camoflauge with red berets. They stand in colorful contrast to the drab beige of the Triple Canopy guards.

Today, I am told, is Martyr’s Day, which probably explains Allawi’s visit to the famous hotel. This is the day that Iraqis mourn because of the murder of a beloved thinker and pacifist. They begin to describe the similarities between this pacifist and Martin Luther King, Jr. They talk of the horror of his death, and that of others, all at the hands of Saddam. In one particularly graphic detail, they describe how his sister is burned in acid; her hair the only thing found of her.

They speak with anger about Saddam, and they call him crazed, deluded by his own power.
“This is a man that made one palace to eat breakfast, another for lunch, and another for dinner.” Their lifted eyebrows make clear that I don’t misinterpret their sincerity. They speak of his belief that he was the only thing good for Iraq (“for Saddam, even the air we breathe was Saddam”), but gave money to other countries so that his world popularity would increase. They speak of his similarity to Hitler, and one well-read teacher compares him to the pig in George Orwell’s Animal Farm.

I am stunned by their openness, and touched by their willingness to commemorate a man who represented peace.

So I am doubly moved when, just hours later, my director conducts a reading of Martin Luther King, Jr. He invites the Iraqi teachers to sing to the tune that they hear in a short video clip.

“We shall overcome
We shall overcome
We shall overcome some day
Deep in my heart, I do believe
That we shall overcome some day."

Yes, it is a little comical to imagine a group of Iraqi’s halfway around the world singing black spirituals. I get that. Boy, do I get that. But their voices sound so plaintive. I think of how much they have suffered, and how impossible a task it must appear to rebuild an entire country.
As they sing the final line (it seems to hang in the air), I think of how appropriate Martin Luther King, Jr.’s words might be when applied to this group.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith…the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

It is now late at night, I’m staring at my computer screen, and I can still hear their voices singing.