The first time I cried in Jordan

2.14.07
(Habby Valentine, by the way)

Al-zahara?
LA! Al-Zaqra2!
Kateer moghatelef!

I had just completely killed my phone card from talking to Trevor. My last phone conversation for at least 4 months, maybe more. We had discussed many things, including, as usual, news and politics. “Kate, you have to be careful. The news there – you can’t trust the news anywhere, but at least in the States you have more access to, you know, the truth.” About five minutes later, my phone card cut him off in the middle of his sentence, and I sat for a while staring at the ceiling. My Arabic sisters were staring at me, talking with their secret boyfriends (more on that later), my hair was wet from my first decent shower in the middle east (turns out their bathroom may not be my favorite room in the house, but the shower faucet actually has water pressure!). The water from my wet hair was starting to soak into my pillow. I sighed, and got up. It must have been around midnight; people were awake, talking, watching TV…instead of going to bed with, “I miss Trevor,” thoughts in my head, I decided to fill it with something else.

So I started watching Al-Zaqra2, the local Iraqi television station. I wasn’t really paying attention, just sitting on the couch. Baba turned to me and said, “This kind of television is illegal in America, no?”

Flashes of Freedom of Speech and “We the People” flying through my head at lightening speed. I didn’t know how to say, “The government doesn’t determine what can or cannot be broadcast on television; it’s the Broadcasting stations themselves that make the rules; if you want something to be broadcast, or published, or said, there is always a way. ‘It’s a Free Country.’ I believe that Freedom of Speech is one of the most important aspects of the Constitution of the United States of America, and I will do whatever I can to uphold my rights, while at the same time recognizing that there are duties I have to perform – governments are here to protect the people as long as people protect the government and there is a specific buzz word for that but I forgot because my mind works with general ideas not rote memorization...”

I was not ready for what happened next.

“This kind of television is illegal in America, no?” he repeated.
“Um…what is it?”
“This is the Iraqi television station. Those are American soldiers that you see – see? The Iraqis are killing them.”

I didn’t really know what to say to that. My eyes were staring at the television screen. It was showing shaky, fuzzy video clips of army tanks driving in the desert and suddenly exploding. The clip would repeat several times. Over and over, the same thing – an American army tank driving along and suddenly bursting into flames. Little arrows added by a computer, pointing at where you should look to better see the explosions. You could see the people inside the tanks being blown to bits. “Those are Americans?”

“Yes, those are Americans.”
“What?” – I didn’t get it.
Ahmed was looking at me funny. He was grinning, “What’s the matter? You’re crying?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Why?”

I didn’t know how to say: “I know people who are in Iraq right now. Wives, children, families – I know them. For nearly six months I worked with someone whose husband was recently deployed. I love my government, I love my flag, I love my state, I love my country – “I’m PROUD to be an American! Where at least I know I’m freeee” “My Country ‘Tis of Thee!” “O’er the land of the free! And the home of the brave!” I visit the cemetery every Memorial Day and Veterans Day to remember to the people who served for my country. I may listen to NPR, but that doesn’t mean that I believe the war in Iraq is completely unjustified. That somebody would glorify the killing of American soldiers in such a way is pure evil. It disgusts me. I feel like I want to throw up. I feel terrified.”

“Why are you crying?”
“Um, those are Americans?????”
“Yes.”

The screen changed to show a room with dozens of books and papers scattered across the floor. On further examination, I could see that they were Korans. In my ‘Islam and the Gospel’ class at BYU, I remember learning that to Muslims, the book of the Koran is actually deemed holy. My friend Mohammad didn’t really participate in religion, but his Koran was in a special place above his desk, without writing inside. Haram!

My Arab family was staring at the screen with the same kind of terror in their eyes, except instead of destroyed people, it was destroyed books.

I don’t want to see the world that way. The Koran is important. American soldiers die everywhere in the world, not just Iraq. I felt disgust at seeing the desecrated Korans, too, but not the same way. I wondered if I am a prejudiced, bigoted American. I wondered if deep inside, I sort of want to stay that way.

Then, the scene changed to close ups of dead bodies. I didn’t really understand what was going on – Baba said something about Iran and Iraq and problems and Americans. I think they were showing the Iraqis killed by American air-bombers. It was disgusting. Bodies lying in the streets, covered by sheets. The camera person would zoom in on the bullet holes in the heads of the children, at the crusted, dried blood. The bodies looked like dolls. They didn’t hide the faces, but some of them were so deformed from explosions that you wouldn’t have been able to recognize them anyway. Genital parts of babies fully exposed, flies. It was horrific. I wanted Aslan to come and breathe life into them, even though I didn’t really understand the circumstances.

“Can you read what that says?”
I slowly sounded out, “Democracy in Iraq,” the caption on the top of the screen.

Trevor was right. I need to be extremely careful to not be bombarded with propaganda here. While I may be here to open my mind, I am certainly not here to become an extremist Islamic terrorist.