Jordan, day 12 (Sunday)
This morning I sent emails to Congressman Sylvester Reyes [serving in the U.S. House of Representatives for the 16th District of Texas, including El Paso], the El Paso Times and several other people and publications with intentions of spreading the word of how things really are here. I am unable to access my default Roadrunner mail and there seems to be a delay with my Yahoo address, the one I use most often. It's hard to say, at this point, if silence is indifference or mail trouble or both.
Late in the afternoon Carla and I took Peggy and four new Iraqi friends to lunch. Eman is the schoolteacher who does housecleaning work when she can get it. Carla is going to write a letter for her promising to employ her if she gets a visa. Zahra was one of our translators and she is on her way to the States at the invitation of several NGOs. She brought her two teenage daughters. We went back to the "restored" fish place that was too busy to accept us last week. Several groups of men came in after us and were served first. After Zahra made some inquires and let them know we noticed this we were finally served. It was a really large fish sliced onto three platters from which we all ate from, picking the little bones out as we went. Zahra said this is an Iraqi restaurant and this is Iraqi food.
Several of us exchanged gifts, pulling off jewelry or other personal items. We kissed good-bye and made our final trip to ACOR.
Here are a few words I scratched out this morning:
Jordan has swollen my feet.
My legs are lead
yet I move
and am moved.
Iraqi refugees tell me
their hopelessness
and I will bear witness.
They are illegal everywhere.
Their homes are destroyed.
Overwhelmingly
they are women and children
with their husbands and fathers
dead or vanished.
They have the clothes on their backs
and whatever they can find
or what is given to them by charities.
From truck drivers to teachers
and engineers
they have no decent way to live
and nobody wants them.
Yet they gave me coffee, tea,
shared their humble dwellings
and were able to separate the individual
from the war machine.
Today I bought a pillow
with an Arabic inscription,
(and today hundreds of Iraqis died
not only from bomb blasts and machine gun fire
but from starvation, disease
and lack of medical treatment).
The inscription translated:
"The garden cannot help but bloom
as we cannot help but love."
I think that's why I'm here.
Belinda Subraman is a Registered Nurse living in El Paso. In print, she is the editor of Gypsy Magazine and the owner of Vergin' Press. On the Web, she runs Gypsy Art Show and BelindaSubraman.com. She has published her poetry extensively both on the page and in audio recording, and her papers are archived at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque.
Comments (closed)
Jennifer Rardin
2008-06-13 15:22:56
Thanks, Belinda. This was really interesting and eye-opening. You're a brave one! Me, I'll probably never visit the Middle East. Shoot, I'll be lucky if I ever make it outside of America's borders. But if I can make a difference in my writing, I'll try to find a way. Take care!
Jen
Charlie Jackson
2008-06-23 22:55:06
Belinda,
Great read!
Charlie, in Austin