Gestures and broken speech

January 29, 2005

I doubt a brush had touched her hair in days.

It hung to her shoulders in a snarled mess created out of several days without a bath and Baghdad’s ceaseless dusty wind.

She was 9 and absolutely beautiful.

She didn’t speak much English, but we were able to chat using a combination of her limited English and my very poor Arabic. Hand gestures were essential.

She was out playing on the vacant street with her brother and friends, taking advantage of the curfew on traffic to expand their playground.

Traffic is not allowed on the streets until after the election. As a result, the streets are vacant.

A few people here in the ancient Adhamiya district of Baghdad walk the streets. A Sunni stronghold, Adhamiya is boycotting tomorrow’s vote.

But people on the street seem relatively friendly.

This little girl pointed to my ears, then reached into her pocket with dirty fingers stained orange with henna dye and pulled out a single fake pearl earring.

It was one of her treasures, the kind that any 9-year-old holds dear.

The henna on her fingers told another story. Henna is used here for beautification. It tints hair to a shiny red and is used to paint on body art for special occasions like weddings.

Her tinted fingers were the equivalent of a little American girl with red cheeks from playing in her mother’s makeup case.

As I walked up the street — the same street that was devastated two months ago in a day-long battle that included guns and car bombs — she reached out and held my hand.

We were friends.

A woman fully cloaked in black walked up to me and plunked an old, rusty kerosene heater at my feet. She looked up and smiled a toothless smile.

Then she started talking to me. Fast.

I understood the words kerosene and no. The rest? Who knows.

My new friend tried to translate but didn’t get much further than I did.

The woman was out of kerosene and wanted me to help.

I told her I couldn’t help her.

She smiled.

Next to me, Sgt. Larry Hammerbocker, a member of a psychological operations unit attached to the Arkansas Brigade, tried to get a man to tell him about any threats he knew about for election day.

“No. No problem here,” the man said.

“If there was a problem would you feel comfortable telling me?” Hammerbocker pushed.

“Truthfully? No,” the man answered.

Earlier, a man at a deserted fish market asked Hammerbocker, “Can I be honest with you and you won’t be mad?”

“Be honest,” the Kansas City police officer said.

“I face a bad situation here,” the man told him. “There is no security, no safety in all of Iraq. And the reason for all of that is the U.S.A.”

A few minutes later, a suspicious group of about 15 men crossed the road in front of the humvees carrying a coffin on their shoulders draped in green cloth. There was no crying, there were no women.

It didn’t seem right.

And insurgents are believed to be using coffins to transport weapons.

But they quickly disappeared into Abu Hanifa Mosque, the most powerful Sunni Mosque in Baghdad and a suspected terrorist base.

As Hammerbocker walked in front of the mosque, a woman walked up to him and simply said, “Be careful.”

When he asked her why, she said, “This is a bad city, Adhamiya. I’m scared every time I come here.”

Now, an hour later, the toothless woman with the kerosene crisis stood in front of me and smiled.

She said “Ameriki. Girl. Good.”

Ameriki is America in Arabic, as I’m sure you figured out already.

She then picked up her heater and moved on down the street. I wondered where she was going.

Across the street, a man hollered at soldiers. He had a question.

He said he couldn’t get fuel to heat his house or for his car.

Then he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a can of Everest beer. The maroon can shined in the afternoon sun.

“Fuel is cheaper than beer,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter, there is not enough fuel to buy. But there is beer.”

Then he raised the can to his mouth and kissed it.

Yes, I said kissed it.

It was turning into a very strange day.

Back across the street I joined my little henna-tinted friend and listened to Hammerbocker talk to her little brother.

The brother was missing his front two teeth. I’m guessing he was 7.

The boy had been following Hammerbocker and was now standing in front of him yelling. His sister was standing next to me, holding my hand.

“What does Mr. Attitude say?” Hammerbocker asked his interpreter.

“He says, ‘Ask me about my brothers!’” the interpreter said.

So Hammerbocker asked him.

“My brothers do a good job fighting,” the boy said.

“Who do they fight?” Hammerbocker asked.

“The devil,” the boy said.

“Who’s the devil?” Hammerbocker pushed.

“You,” the boy screamed.

That’s when we all went to the boy’s house.

My little friend walked with me, holding my hand the whole way.

They lived down an alley off a sewage-filled street.

Their house was little more than a hole in a wall, a heavy carpet covering the doorway instead of a door.

As Hammerbocker spoke with the boy and his father, my friend introduced me to her mother. She spoke absolutely no English. We waved and smiled mostly.

I told her she has a beautiful and nice daughter.

She told me she was glad I was there.

Our conversation was cut short as the boy started crying while Hammerbocker talked to him.

He had told a story, and got caught.

Or maybe he was telling the truth, we don’t know.

But there was nothing in the house. No weapon, nothing but a family.

I waved good-bye to my little friend and we walked back to the humvees, explosions booming in the distance every couple of minutes.

Yep, it was an interesting day.

Posted by Amy at January 29, 2005 02:29 PM