The Escort pt 2: Journal 4/30/06
by Ms. Babble on April 30, 2006
in American Perspective, Culture Shock, Iraq
We try to get as many of the visiting Iraqi’s to the hospital as we can. Unfortunately, the visiting hours for them are very short. 0900-1200 is all they get Monday, Wednesday, & Saturday. With all the processing, driving, and translating, only two groups of ten can get there and back each day.
My memories of the 6 groups I took are scattered. I have a tendency to remember only the smallest of things. But the smallest experiences can be like flashes of realization; sharp sparks of fireworks that shine really bright for only a moment and then are ingrained into something bigger. Here is one of the sparks.
Occasionally a patient that the Iraqi is trying to see will not be there. Sometimes the patients injuries are so bad they are transported to another facility. Sometimes they’re in the operating room. Sometimes they’re just lost in paperwork. In these cases, the visiting Iraqi must wait until the others are finished visiting with their family member. There is a small bench in the hallway that they are told to sit on until its time to leave. Two young Iraqi men were sent to sit on this bench during the first group that I took.
They look to be about 25 years old. They chatter between each other obviously trying to help the time go by a bit faster. (We give each group about 30-40 minutes each.) Next to them is a box of stuffed dolls and toys that the hospital staff gives away to the Iraqi children that come in. They discover the box immediately.
When an Iraqi wants to speak with you or ask something, they usually stare and chatter with each other as if they were telling a secret. They keep doing this until you make the first move and approach them. On this occasion, the two young men wanted to ask me if they could keep a stuffed animal. One of them could speak broken English and all I could understand was “keep for baby”. I said with a smile, “Of course you can take one home with you. But I better not catch you keeping it for yourselves!” I reached into the box and took one out for the other man. I said, “This one is for you to play with. And the other one is for you!” They understood enough to laugh and tried to explain again that it was for a baby.
The ice is broken between us and we didn’t seem as menacing to each other anymore. The one who can speak some English stood up and took out a wallet. It is worn brown leather; a man’s wallet, a wallet that anyone would carry. Inside are a few fresh Iraqi bills and an assortment of small papers. He reaches for an ID. It is his brothers ID. This is the brother that he came to visit but is not in the intensive care unit to be visited. This ID says that his brother is an Iraqi policeman.  It is the second time that someone has shown me an Iraqi police badge. They seem to be very proud of it.
The ID has a noticeable gash in it just below the center. The young man says, “This is my brother. This is the hole where he was hit.” He then hands me a very small piece of chunked metal. It isn’t more than half an inch in diameter. I asked him, “Is this what went through the ID?” The man nods and points to the gash in the plastic. He says, “This was in him”. I nearly drop the jagged piece of metal when he says this. For some reason all I could think of saying is, “You will keep this?”  He nods. And then our communication breaks down. I place the metal back into his hand. I can’t really understand anymore of what’s being said and neither can he.
I feel like his friend doesn’t want to be left out of our banter. He doesn’t appear to have a lick of English in him, but he takes out his wallet too just like his friend. He hands me his ID. He appears to be an Iraqi policeman too. He smiles proudly at me and I give a big smile back too. “Good!” is all I can really muster. I notice that his name is written in English surrounded by a sea of Arabic. I look up at him and say, “Muhammad.” He nods. I shake his hand and say, “Hello Muhammad. My name is Jami.” I realize then that I have spent several minutes with these two and need to return back to my post.
I am back to where I can see several of the other Iraqis visiting their mangled family members. The two young men are sitting on their bench again and I can see them in the corner of my eye. Our conversation together seems to have opened another flurry of chattering between them. I would hear what I thought was my name occasionally. But instead of pronouncing it Jami, they would say “Jemmy” and look in my direction. They would make me smile by playing with the dolls I had given them earlier.  And I would wink and say, “I KNEW you wanted them for yourselves!”
This is the first personal conversation I had with an Iraqi.
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