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CounterPunch
December
27, 2002
Crossing Borders
Christmas in Iraq
by KATHY KELLY
Nathan Musselman and I boarded the public bus
that travels from Baghdad to Amman on Christmas Eve after an
absurdly hurried packing job. Nathan had discovered, much to
our dismay, that he unwittingly let his visa expire. "Sorry,"
said the Iraqi immigration official. "There is no chance.
You must leave." Nathan's only option for remaining in Iraq
during a time when our team greatly needs his experience is to
petition, from Amman, for a new visa. As for me, Chicago friends
insist that I'm needed at home for a few weeks if we're to form
new "waves" of Iraq Peace Team participants. I'd just
learned that the only flight from Amman to Chicago with an available
seat departs on December 26.
Last night Nathan and I had given way,
emotionally, to hapless uncertainty and near despair. We stood
for hours, shivering helplessly during a seven hour ordeal of
"border-crossing." It was a bone-chilling, damp, cold
night. We cursed our stupidity in not dressing warmly enough
to weather the long hours outdoors and in unheated "reception"
rooms while waiting for officials at the Iraqi and then the Jordanian
border to search luggage and check papers for each of the bus
passengers.
I began shaking visibly, at which point
Rabab, a kindly English teacher from Qut, came up and draped
a warm blanket over my shoulders. Then an elderly fellow stripped
off his long gold colored abaya and insisted that I wear it.
Enfolded in their kindness I could only smile gratefully and
wish that my limping Arabic could tell them how ironic it is
that a US Christian has small chance to identify with the Christmas
narrative of Jesus, Mary and Joseph finding no room at the inns
when surrounded by unfailing Arab hospitality. Nor could I voice
my sorrow over knowing that, bleak as the scene was, and really
it couldn't have been more stark, the Iraqi passengers crossing
out of Iraq are no doubt envied by millions of Iraqis. As a fearful
cold spell of impending war, upheaval and chaos locks in place,
Iraqis dream of bundling their families into buses and taxis
to reach safer terrain in any land other than Iraq.
Like many thousands of people worldwide
who despise the sinister buildup of a killing machine that hides
behind the transparently fanciful excuse of delivering and liberating
Iraqis from the undeniable miseries they've suffered under the
current regime, Nathan and I would give anything to be effective,
compelling antiwar voices. Time is running out as the window
of opportunity to avoid war seems weighted to slam shut. US people
still don't comprehend the complexities Iraqis have faced. If
the antiwar movement could instill deeper understanding, perhaps
ordinary US people might yet feel motivated to have compassion
for ordinary Iraqis. Those who've succumbed to a belief that
the war is wrong but unstoppable might yet be awakened into risk-taking
resistance. Yet I fear there will be no room in the inn of US
hearts for Iraqis bracing themselves for war. I can't imagine
more innocent and more defenseless people. When I return to Iraq
in several weeks, as I hope to do, the psychological burden of
agonizing expectation may well have intensified beyond what seem
to be already unbearable limits.
Just now, it's a gift to remember Rabab's
kindness, to feel the heavy blanket of warmth that she wrapped
around me, and to stand aligned with the forgiveness that brings
to life the Christmas message.
My return to the US is a gamble. Customs
officials could confiscate my US passport upon arrival, making
it difficult for me to return to Iraq. Normally that threat isn't
so worrisome as I have an Irish passport as well. But my Irish
passport was water damaged last spring when I hastily stuffed
a leaky water bottle in my pack while running down a mountain
side in Palestine, hoping to evade Israeli surveillance planes
and snipers. And I've learned that the New York authorities have
bumped me up to fugitive status because I missed court dates
for nonviolently vigiling on the steps to the US Mission to the
UN during a 40 day fast in the summer of 2001. We had offered
lentils, rice and untreated water to officials at the US Mission,
once a week, occasioning five arrests on misdemeanor trespass
charges for calmly remaining on the steps, even after we were
asked to leave. A kindly lawyer thinks that if I'm detained he
might be able to convince a judge that I didn't act in contempt
of court by missing the court dates. But if asked, I'll probably
tell a judge that I don't believe any of my actions have been
criminal and that I've had no time to appear in US courts because
I've been too busy trying to appear before the court of US public
opinion to plead for an end to criminal US warmaking against
innocent and defenseless people in Iraq. I don't expect a judge
to let me off the hook, but I hope the dear and earnest lawyer
will forgive me!
Good friends have urged me to look for
hooks, when I write, with which ordinary people in the US can
identify. Tonight my narrative might best be understood by deportees,
homeless people, and detainees. But perhaps those who lit candles
tonight and remembered the Christ child born in a manger, surrounded
by cave dwellers, soon to be a fugitive, will hearken to a narrative
begging for the light to shine in the darkness... and the darkness
shall not overcome it.
Kathy Kelly
is director of Voices
in the Wilderness.
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