A Study in Contrasts

My students are wonderful. They are a colorful cast of personalities, ranging from young Iraqi teachers (they dress like casino owners with smooth slacks and colorful shirts buttoned down to the chest) to the older women (who dress in shawls of bright colors and have twinkling eyes). One such woman asked for me to be in a picture with her. I knew that some arabic women do not wish to be photographed, but I figured since she had asked me, it would be alright. As the picture was being taken she said aloud, “If my husband sees this picture of me with you, he’ll come kill you.” My expression turned sour, the camera flashed, and she faced me and laughed. Of course, she explained, her husband would do nothing of the sort. Thus concludes my first practical joke in Iraq. I admit my heart dropped.

And there are other colorful characters. Students from the northern country who are not Arabic, but Kurdish. One received a Fulbright scholarship and we spoke in some detail about Faulkner and modern poetry. Another follows me somewhat like a puppy, and he seems so eager to learn. I liked him immediately.

And there are older teachers of Arabic descent that introduce me to their names and full titles, making it clear that they have impressive posts. One woman named Fatin is a supervisor for a hundred schools. She sat down with me at lunch and told me all the impossibilities facing English teachers. She kept asking me, “What do I do? What do I do?” She wasn’t satisfied until I told her that her situation was indeed the most impossible of situations. It seemed to me that she needed validation more than advice. When I finally commiserated with her she smiled, satisfied.

Many of the teachers want to share the meanings of their names with me.

“It means 'new moon.'”

“It means ‘secrets.'”

“It means ‘harvest.’”

I smile and express surprise each time.

One such teacher came up to me and shook my hand, and refused to let it go until he had finished speaking with me. I had just shown pictures of my family in a recent activity lauding the principles of “contextualizing language” and he appeared touched. He wanted me to know how thankful he was that I was here. I have learned quickly that an Iraqi man in earnest speaks to me from about 6 inches away. Even with my Venezuelan background, I find it a touch too close.

And the list goes on. There are 45 teachers in total, and each with wonderful personalities and remarkable storylines. Mark mentioned to me that he feels like we are on an episode of Lost, because we have a huge cast of characters with such interesting back stories. I would love to learn each one.

The students have responded very warmly to my instruction. I have been very happy to see how involved and ready they are to participate.

But this very happy, ideal moment (yes, let’s all sing Kumbaya together!) with teachers learning and enjoying learning is tinged with the fact that on this very same day, Easter Sunday, there were a reported 11 different bombings. One came close enough to the hotel for us to hear. I paused in the middle of my second class as I heard the noise. Later I learned that a woman had strapped herself to a bomb. Embassies had been targeted, but gratefully, even though this particular bomb was close, the green zone remained unharmed. Still, our debriefing back in the hotel reminded me of how dangerous and sad these Iraqi teachers’ lives are. The point was triply made when I learned that two teachers the next day would fail to return. Cousins had been killed in the heated violence of the day before.

In total, at least 35 have been killed, and over 200 injured. It was a bittersweet day.

The next day of teaching was more of the same. I was able to teach about music, drama, and games in the ESL classroom. I sang songs, juggled oranges, and laughed with students. We discussed how ESL teachers might seem crazed because of our interactive natures. We discussed how part of our job description includes that of “actor.”

Logistically, I teach three 90-minute classes, with two classes before lunch and one immediately after. The buffet at the Al Rasheed Hotel is impressive.

And in stark contrast to our conference room, is a room that used to house all kinds of disreputable presidential parties. Saddam Hussein’s cabaret, “One Thousand and One Nights,” is just down the hall from us, and reminds me of how truly despicable that man was. I don’t like to imagine what went on in that room.

And just so that it is terribly clear how contrasts play a major part in my stay in Iraq, last evening we were invited to the embassy and walked into a facility that, on the outside, has all of the markings of the international zone: t-walls, security teams, armored vehicles, camouflage. But once inside the building I felt like I could have been in the United States. The bathroom walls are tiled to the ceiling, the air filtration whirs comfortably, removing any sense of the dust I feel outside. The mess hall was filled with American chatter. Pictures of our current presidency marked the walls.

Bev Hall, our escort, showed us her office, a cubicle that reminded me of my Arizona Office Technology days. The embassy itself spans many buildings and is larger than the Vatican. You can see the amount of spending that went into the Iraq War just by looking around the complex. It impresses. The helicopters buzzing overhead do the same for me.

As we walked back to the armored van that would take us home, the sound of another bomb went off. Because we were outside, this one felt remarkably clear. We all stopped talking, and I fell into a more somber mood. I noticed that Bev seemed relatively unphased, and she joked that the sound came from her stomach. I, on the other hand, so new to this kind of experience, was very much phased indeed.

How in the world can anyone live in such a remarkable land of contrasts? I have smiled enough so that my face hurts. But in the next moment I have needed to sit down; the shattered sound of a bomb still ringing in my ears.