Her open, easy face and quick smile came to represent the face of this war - the girl who pays for every gallon of gasoline I use, the girl who pays for every vote not cast or counted, the girl who pays for every moment I spend on the busyness of my life that keeps me from paying attention in my life.  Such was the deep meaning I had given this soura.

On my return to Iraq in July to find Sura, I snapped out of the romance of my snapshot:  How had her family fared during the relentless "shock and awe" bombings?  How would her parents feel about a strange American showing up at their door asking for their daughter?  Was she alive?  Was she safe?… Would she remember me?

My translator disappeared behind a gate and up a staircase, while I stood on the dusty sidewalk attracting a crowd of laughing children.  ("Hello mister!  Where are you from?"   they sang, undoubtedly echoing an English class.) 

Moments later, Sura exploded through the gate and leapt into my arms, throwing multiple kisses to my left cheek, then to my right, then to my left again, laughing and chatting and kissing in one excited, jumbled moment.

I swept away my tears, overjoyed that she was not one of the nearly 8,000 casualties of the war and - selfishly - that she remembered me.

She grabbed my hand and pulled me upstairs to show me off to her family.

I was led to the living room, given the chair of honor and profusely apologized to for the stifling heat.  Frustrated gestures to the silent ceiling fan reminded me that my country helped kill their power, leaving them without electricity for cooling and cooking.

"It's time for the Americans to go," Sura's father says through my interpreter, echoing a sentiment I've heard throughout the country.  "We have no electricity, no water.  We are glad Saddam is gone, but now the Americans need to go, too."

Sura watches her father solemnly and glances toward him for confirmation before answering any of my questions.  I try to explain through the interpreter how I've shown her picture to many Americans, how so many people have come to care about her and her family, how we all send our love and our wish for peace.  I see her bewildered look and I lose my ability to articulate. 

"Thank you for your feeling," she says awkwardly, after coaching from her father.  "We wish you a happy life."

I hand her the photos I took of her in February, including one of the two of us that she touches to her heart.  She leaps up - every movement matches her delightful, delighted exuberance - and disappears to get a small album of photos showing off her dazzling smile.

I ask her if she wants to be a model.  "No," she answers, eyes flashing, glancing at her father.  "A dentist.  But, I like being an actress."   I am surprised by this practical answer from a youngster in a country where few children receive dental care.

Sura's mother died years ago, and her photo is framed and hung in a place of honor in the bedroom she shares with some of her six sisters.  I meet three of her sisters, all with the same sparkling eyes and full, rich smiles.  Her family - along with two brothers - fled Baghdad during the war to take refuge with relatives.

The younger children - Sura's nieces - still have nightmares, but no one wants to talk about the war;  my visit is a celebration.  They pour me a tepid 7-UP, take turns fanning me with a hand-woven fan and clown for my camera.  I think about the time I am taking from their chores, their children and their day.  I am reminded again of my complicated, consumptive lifestyle that makes just simple visiting with friends a major logistics task.

Our conversation ultimately turns political again:  I ask Sura why she thinks the war occurred.  Unhesitatingly, without a thought of her father, she answers simply:  "Oil."

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