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Iraq Reports by Kelly
Hayes-Raitt
Child Beggars Are the Hardest
Hit During War
(09/09/03, Baghdad)
Nebras spends her days begging
for money in the souk instead of attending elementary school.
(Photo by Kelly Hayes-Raitt,
2/03)
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The one I wanted to wrap in my arms and bring home was Nebras. I
didn't even know her name when I went to Iraq in July; I was armed
only with a photo of a beggar touching her nose with her tongue.
I had met Nebras in February, when
I traveled to Baghdad just five weeks before the U.S. bombings and
invasion. Unfazed by impending disaster, Nebras begged for handouts
in a popular market. We teased; clearly she wasn't used to an adult
making faces at her and delighting in her company. She followed me
around the souk nearly swallowing her tongue in laughter as
she imitated my nose-touching stunt.
She was cold. The dirty scarf
wrapped loosely around her neck neither protected her from the chill
nor hid her calculating ability to work the shoppers. Without a
translator, the most I gathered from her was a photo of a gleeful
girl with laughing eyes.
In July, translators were reluctant
to take me to the souk where I first met Nebras. The mood was
shifting in Baghdad; gunfire was heard nightly and no one wanted to
be responsible for my harm. The day before I was to leave, I finally
convinced a friendly driver to take me "shopping." I
canvassed the cluttered shops, flashing Nebras' photo.
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I was heartened by the positive responses I
received. "Yes, that's Nebras," shopkeepers agreed. After more than an
hour, one said, "but I haven't seen her in a while." "Not since
before the war," said another.
My breath stopped. I had been lucky in my
return trip to Iraq: Although I could not find everyone I had befriended in
February, I hadn't "lost" anyone, either. I had just learned Nebras'
name. Could she be one of the 8,000 Iraqis who had died?
During our morning in the souk,
insistent gunfire across the river rattled us. As rumors spread, I felt
increasingly uneasy in the crowded narrow alleys. We decided to leave.
I turned toward a commotion behind me to see
several men moving in my direction. This did not look good. As they parted, I
saw the terrified eyes of a sweet, familiar elfish girl wondering why she was
being dragged by the scruff of her T-shirt.
Nebras didn't recognize me at first. Not until
I showed her photos of herself did she smile. Backed against a shop facing
crowds of curious men, Nebras stood shyly studying her photo intently. I shooed
back the men who had treated this beggar only as a nuisance. I asked the
interpreter to tell her I had come from America to see her.
Without warning, the overwhelmed girl lunged
forward and kissed me on the lips.
We bought an ice cream from a passing vendor.
She opened it and held it out to me. My defenses melted. After two weeks of
rigorous attention to all food and water that passed my lips, I licked the sweet
streetfare sacrificing my intestines to this little girl's pleasure at hosting
an American with all that she could offer.
She's an only child who couldn't tell me her
age. It was particularly ironic that we met outside the Al Mustanseria
University, the world's oldest science school built in 1233. This schoolless
girl's only education is learned navigating the streets adjacent to this
university.
U.S. helicopters overhead and rumors that the
Americans had closed bridges and jammed traffic made us all jittery. Nebras
escorted me out of the souk, grabbing my hand and expertly keeping my
skirt from being snagged by the ubiquitous wartime razor wire. I emptied my
purse of dinars; she bought another ice cream to share with me.
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As we passed a
store being repainted, she mentioned it had been hit during the war. She
had spent the war in a nearby mosque.
I hugged her harder than I intended. I
felt her wiry hair against my lips, her grungy T-shirt against my
shoulder, her warm, open heart so willing to accept mine.
I left feeling guilty. Last time, I'd
taught her how to touch her tongue to her nose. This time, the only
thing I could do was accept her ice cream. |
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In July, Nebras shares
her ice cream with Kelly Hayes-Raitt, while gunfire was heard across the
river from the souk. (Photo by Yosuko Robinson) |
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