Search No. 10

We had something to celebrate last week. After a long lull, our house was blessed with routine search NUMBER TEN, by the Iraqi army this time. They said they were clearing the area of terrorists and just wanted to make sure everything was in place, and nobody was trespassing on nobody’s residence.

Mum and I know it before tanks and Humvees blip in our radars. This time I was enjoying the breeze so much that I lost my sense of smelling uniforms and armoured vehicles. Unfortunately, mum had a dream of an Iraqi politician, whom we’re not huge fans. Without having a chance to interpret the nightmare, she jolted me to wake up before somebody breaks in and do it in a more startling way – as if I wasn’t startled anyway. It was 7:00 A.M for Heaven’s sake!

I hate this waiting bit so much. I felt like the urge to go out and ask them to raid our house and get it over with. They didn’t knock until 9:00. With it I had what I call my math-test-symptoms, which I developed since high school – I sucked at maths, I still do actually –heart beats fast, mouth dries, stomach churns, knees wobble, hands shake and face blanches – though I have not looked in the mirror, I just know it.

The soldiers were nice, but I just couldn’t help my fears. Of all ten times, we were abused and humiliated only once, which was the first encounter with people in camouflage. If anyone should be blamed for this phobic attitude, it should be the sadistic commandos who helped instill those fears. Had they been nicer when they broke into our house on that scary April day, I’d reacted differently!

I thought I’d be enraged to see the National guards. The sight of them on every street conjures images of my brother being beaten and tortured and images of young and old men humiliatingly bound and blindfold posing for the ING cameras to glorify the crackdown. This time I saw the fellow humans within, whose eyes beamed at the fresh tea mum offered and shy smiles were drawn at the mention of cold water, which they haven’t tasted in days. I didn’t feel guilty for stereotyping them as the evil robots, who beat the lives out of unarmed civilians without qualms and take away free men’s freedom and sometimes last breaths, but I wished they could give their humanity a chance and treat people like flesh and blood. I also wondered about the insurgents who attack them, if only they both had a chance to talk to each other, the whole country would have been different, so would our wretched Iraqi type of life.



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