They are playing a game. They are playing at not playing a game. If I show them I see they are, I shall break the rules and they will punish me. I must play their game, of not seeing I see the game--R.D. Laing
But not today. Today I break the rules of the game.
My name is unimportant, I am an Iraqi man. If I said it aloud you would know I was from the Middle East. You would then treat me differently, be suspicious of me, perhaps even want me arrested. Perhaps, even wish me dead. So, I will write to you in just a voice. I will not yell or threaten you, I will stay with my training and try to teach you.
I was once a respected educated man in my country. I would spend some time each week at a coffee house joking with my friends, playing chess in the open air, eating fruit and discussing the events of the day or things happening in our lives. My job as a university professor allowed me the time to do this. I believe I was quite a good professor. Good enough to have taught in one of your universities for two years in a small town in your western United States. A clean, quiet town where my son tried to learn your game of baseball. We made friends in this kind place where people smiled on the street and complimented my wife on her different clothes and her cooking of Middle East food. I had hoped to return one day. My coffee house friends and I cursed the radicals from Saudi Arabia who blew up your buildings and killed your citizens that September day. But then your bombs and missiles rained down on my neighborhood and changed everything.
I now work in your Green Zone, a little America fortress in my torn apart city of Baghdad. I push a broom and pick up garbage each and every day. I have to respond to the barked orders from your men in uniform many whom are half my age and with less than half my knowledge. I stay quiet and keep sweeping. I sneak peeks at the small television in the corner where I watch how the daily brainwashing happens live on CNN. The killing of my people takes place as if it a video game or a baseball game with your team always ahead. I fight the urge to grab an officer and drag him from the safety of this false world and to my old neighborhood where we now have have electricity for only a hour or two a day and our water smells. I want him to see the pile of rubble that has replaced my favorite corner coffee house where I used to defend America, and share stories of the small town. I want him to see the small meetings we now hold in a dark corner of an apartment building. The laughter and stories have been replaced by whispers of revenge, pity, and worry about friends who had to flee or were killed by your precise, clean bombings. The ones the television people report as successes as if exploding a building in a large city can be done without anyone's leg getting blown off, or without fire burning the flesh off a baby boy's fresh face or killing a soul or two or ten. I no longer trust the distant smiles from the people in the western town.
I wonder about my decision- about my own soul. I don't believe in the false Jihad preachings and could care less about virgins. I just want my wife back and my only son to rise from his grave. I will not tell of the awful day they both were murdered. I don't want your pity. Ha! As if I would receive even that token emotion. A Muslim woman and a teenage Muslim boy dead. Shrug, more sympathy is shown to an old dog. They say a million or more of us have been killed but you Americans are told by the television talking heads that the number is only 30,000. A million or a few thousand, what is the difference? After all you lost 3,000. I can do the math, my specialty, in my head. So, one American life is worth 333 Iraqi deaths. I guess that is a ratio that makes sense. I will meet that ratio in reverse tonight if I have the courage.
I move around sweeping more vigorously, hoping that nobody notices the sweat pouring off me because of my big coat or spots the bulges in my legs where I taped the explosives with such care. This moment of panic subsides, nobody ever notices me an old, bearded man sweeping. I had checked myself in a mirror and a cracked shop window, the concealment had been done well. I glanced at the clock, 58 minutes I have left on this earth. A quote from another evil western man pops into my head: "The loss of a single life is a tragedy, a million is a statistic. From the Russian murderer, Stalin. I see George Bush's face on the small screen of the hanging television smiling and I want to push the button right then. This "Christian" man who has murdered millions and spread such suffering can still smile his evil grin. I want to ask him why he picked us as payback to September 11th, why not bomb Saudi Arabia,? You dim idiot. My friends were right . He wanted our oil and if people had to die, then so be it. What are a few Muslim lives when compared to the American lifestyle of driving big automobiles and racing from place to place? I hope he is smiling when he gets the news of this Green Zone...
"You like him don't you?" a voice from a handsome young American face says to me. He hands me a glass of juice. "You're working too hard, old friend. You need some fluid man," his clear blue eyes are smiling at me.
"Oh, thank you. That is very kind." I say as I take the glass.
"Wow, your English is perfect. How did you learn that? I can't learn this language over here no matter how hard I try. Of course, I'm just a dumb jock, on my fifth tour to this hell-hole."
"You must be a second baseman, maybe a shortstop, no you have the body of a second baseman." I said to him.
"You're right, my friend. You are full of surprises. Second base, had a full ride scholarship to Gonzaga before I got sent here. How do you know about baseball?"
Full of surprises? If you only knew young man. " I worked in a university in the states and a friend got me into baseball. My son even learned to play the game."
"Bring him over, sometime, I have an extra glove in my locker. We'll play catch."
"He passed away, as you say , a year ago today."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry, This place is nothing but death. By the way I hate that asshole, too." and he pointed at the television where Bush was still laughing away. "Do you get the word asshole?"
"I had a Catholic friend that taught me all of the better English words while in the states."
"Really, what town?."
" A little place in Northern Idaho, called Lewiston."
"Hell, I'm from Spokane, Lewiston is a hell of a baseball town. You taught at LSCS? I played down there many times. What a small world. Hey, I've got to go or I'll get my butt chewed. Hey, by the way I'm sort of a Catholic boy myself." he yelled back as he hustled out of the room.
I checked the clock. Thirty minutes to go. I looked around and the place was empty for the time being. The crowd would start to gather in another twenty minutes or so. I had timed it. I took a seat, wiped the sweat off with a small napkin and sipped on the juice. My mind wandered to the baseball town.
*
"You need to come with me to this game tonight," Tommy said to me as he turned off the lights in his office.
"No I don't understand the game." I had answered him.
" Well, I am an expert and I have an extra ticket. My son is playing and you are going. I have one for your son too." A long pause and then:
"Okay, but you could find better more knowledgable company."
We went to the game my ten-year old son and I. We sat with a group of other parents whose cheers were the loudest of the packed in crowd of over 5,000 watching this championship. Tommy explained in great detail the workings of the game. He showed me how the pitcher could make the ball curve and I noticed the speed of the pitches right away. He shared the strategy, the little chess moves of the game. The home team was down 7-5 with two outs and the bases loaded in the ninth inning. Up strolled Tommy's son, Danny, the star second baseman, swinging his bat with vigor and digging his feet into the red dirt around home plate.
Tommy turned to me and said, "Here we go, my friend, one of these great moments in life." He yelled, "Get a good pitch and drive it son!" Danny did just that, he smacked the third pitch down the left field line and the place exploded. One run, two and the throw to the plate, a slide and a third. The place went crazy, people hugged, cushions were thrown in the air, and Tommy's jump knocked my soda all over me. Danny, was picked up by his teammates and they all piled on each other at the pitcher's mound. "I have to warn you it isn't always this exiting," Tommy said to me.
We walked onto the field where Tommy, hugged his son. He introduced us and Danny was so calm and respectful in his response to my son and me. His blue eyes looked squarely at mine. "Thanks, for coming, sir."
Down to fifteen minutes. My memory trip had cost me precious time. I went through the checklist, the fuel I had put in several places which would make the initial explosion spread. I started sweeping and checked the clock. Two guys ran in joking and bumped into me. "Hey, move it carpet rider, " one of the uniforms said to me. I just nodded. Another, grabbed the guy and punched him hard in the stomach .and said ,"Don't ever use that term around me again you racist fucker." He turned to me and said, "Sorry, sir, thanks for keeping this place so clean. My country has no lack of idiots." I nodded again,startled by the clear blue eyes of this young hero.
*
I returned to my one room apartment, I was ashamed and confused. I unwrapped the explosives and fell on my cot. "One of these great moments in life," I kept hearing over and over. In my dreams I could only see blue eyes.