It was April when my brigade crossed the border into Iraq. For an American, the temperatures were already like summer. Little did we know at that time what hot weather in the Middle East was like. The trip up north took us through the Shia south and some of the most pitiful-looking people I had ever seen. In an effort to punish them, Saddam had cut off the water to the south. He left them without water in the feared desert sun. Some 9 months later, our mission took us back down south.
In Iraq, the seasons are different. In August, “the gates to hell open.” In October, it begins to cool down. In November and December, the winter begins. It is never cold in Iraq. But, the 60 degree drop in temperature (from highs of 130 in the summer to 70 in the winter) feels like winter. But most importantly, the winter season brings the rain. From November through January, the rains come.
What happens when it rains is miraculous. It truly is. The desert lakes all fill with water. Shallow as they are, they are magnificent to see. The morning sun dances across them magically. The grasses and flowers bloom, and the desert becomes a panorama. The animals, recognizing the opportunity to flourish, give birth to their young in the midst of winter. The miracle of life is wonderful everywhere, but all the more miraculous in this place.
As we made our way back down south, it seemed the entire country had undergone a rebirth. As we passed through the villages, the children ran to greet our convoys once again.
But this time, they were smiling. Their clothes looked new, and some of them even looked fat.
Vendors on the side of the road tried to sell us things. Some wanted to make us kabobs to eat. Everywhere there was optimism. Like the spring itself, the Shia south had exploded with life. It was wonderful to see. We were witnessing a miracle.
The sight of this transformation filled my heart with joy. I believed prosperity for the people of Iraq was possible. I was sure our sacrifices had not been in vain.
SHIA COUNTRY
The countryside is green again
Irrigation ditches spread the life-giving Euphrates
across the quondam fields
And, once again, tomatoes ripen under thin plastic covers
Saddam is gone
Bedouin tents follow the grass
as herds of sheep and camels indulge
Small children play among the sheep
in their long robes and bare feet
They smile, wave, and run to the roads as we pass
Their little arms exhorting us to throw food
Vendors – new merchants – have shops along the road
They wish to sell old money, Bathe memorabilia, rugs, knives
and anything our culture might desire
The former regime is gone
As the sun sets
rays of sparkling, magical light
invent a rainbow of shades and colors
across the desert plane
The small children huddle in the field
squatting side by side, as if in their Bedouin tent
The sheep graze peacefully all around them
Their mothers wave from their twilight chores
by the entrance to their itinerant dwelling
A large fury dog of eclectic pedigree
barks proudly at the ambivalent sheep
while an old man in dirty robes and stained head dress
stands hunched over, watching from the road
He smiles a broad prescient smile
at our passing gun trucks –
Saddam is gone