Justin C. Cliburn: Tears in Baghdad

[unhappycamper]

Tears in Baghdad
by Justin C. Cliburn | Mon, 07/09/2007 - 12:27pm

It never ends.

Ali was trying to tell me something about Achmed with a seriousness I had yet to see from him, and I took it to mean that Achmed had somehow been injured in an explosion, but I wasn't sure. With the language barrier, it was difficult to understand what was being said all the time, even with the seemingly obvious body language. One time, I thought that Achmed was telling me Ali had been hurt in a blast, but it turned out he was saying that Ali was working on his home, so it could have been anything. I told myself it was probably nothing and tried to forget about it; ignorance is bliss.

I thought about what it was that Ali was trying to tell me all weekend. Ali and Achmed were my saving grace in Iraq: those boys had been what had kept me sane for the last nine months. They couldn't have been more than fourteen years old, but they had seen more than I ever will. Their sense of humor and positive attitudes were infectious, however, and I and the rest of my squad had unofficially adopted them months before. Baghdad seemed a lot more like home with those kids around.

I wish I was right about it being nothing; I wish that Achmed was simply working on his house. After a few days of walking around in denial, I again saw Ali and this time I had our linguist mediate the conversation. According to Ali, Achmed and his mother had gone to the fuel station to buy fuel for their home. As they were leaving, a suicide bomber appeared and Achmed, who was holding the can of fuel, and his mother were engulfed in a ball of fire. Achmed's mother had died instantly. Achmed was burned terribly from head to toe. As he sat in an Iraqi hospital, his father was out doing anything he could to come up with the money for his treatment, as there is no insurance and hospitals there expect payment up front. I felt like I had just lost a lifelong friend, if not a family member. For all I had done for those two young men, I felt so helpless that no matter what I did in our trivial hours together at that police station, I would never be able to protect them from the horrors of everyday life in Baghdad. When I left them each day, I returned to the heavily fortified base complex that allowed me to sleep easy at night. Of course, it was hard to rest easily when you know that your friend is in horrific pain in a sub-standard hospital, and the bags under my eyes could attest to how worried and tired I had become. Myself and two other guys did what any self-respecting man would do: we gave what little cash we had to help pay for our friend's hospital bill. Together, though, we were only able to give him roughly $30. If there had been an ATM nearby, I would have contributed my daily limit to that poor boy's hospital care, but life in Baghdad limits you in ways that you never know until they appear.

What upset me was the general indifference the rest of the squad treated the news. Some gave an unconvincing exclamation of their sorrow, but all said they had no money . . . something that I know was untrue. Some cited their inability to believe Ali 100% for their reluctance to help, but I found that to be nothing more than a cop out. Say, for example, that Ali made it all up and he and Achmed were splitting the proceeds behind our backs; what are you out? $5? $10? Weigh the risk/reward of that scenario in your head: if you are right, you have thus gained a whole $10; if you are wrong, an innocent little boy waits in pain as his father searches for a way to pay for his treatment. Take into account the risk of infection and the prompt treatment of his injuries becomes imperative. What further blew their argument out of the water was that these were not exactly fiscal conservatives we are talking about. They blew money on two or three DVDs a week (at almost $20 a pop), ate Pizza Hut, Popeye's, Burger King, and Hardee's at least four times a week; paid crazy amounts of money for fancy coffee in the morning from Green Beans Coffee (usually $5 a cup); and the list goes on.

~snip~

That day has come and gone, and I still think of my Iraqi friends and those tears in Baghdad. Not a day goes by that I don't wonder how Ali is doing or how Achmed's father is coping with the loss of his wife and son. I just cannot shake the notion that, if it wasn't for this war, Achmed and his father would be alive today, and I struggle with it everyday. I left Baghdad eight months ago, but Baghdad has yet to leave me. I don't think it ever will . . . and I don't ever want it to.

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