Our translator on this trip is a 44-year-old Iraqi woman who is married to a Japanese man, lives in Dallas and has four children and two sushi restaurants.  Amira has arranged for us to visit her mother, brothers and sisters in Babylon.  She has 9 remaining siblings;  a brother is still missing from the mid '80s war with Iran and another brother died during the Gulf War. 

Her family, like all Iraqis we have met, are warm and welcoming.  I find it remarkable that we have encountered no anti-American sentiment.  In what I consider an extraordinary show of tolerance, people automatically separate us from our government;  perhaps it's because they feel their own government does not reflect them.

The hardest part of this trip is looking people in the eye, accepting their hospitality, allowing their easy friendship, knowing that my country may be bombing their country within weeks.  How can I continually allow myself to get close to these people knowing my heart will break when I'm home in my cozy living room watching CNN's coverage of Air Raids on Iraq:  Day 3? 

Immediately, we are embraced by Amira's family and ushered into the dining room that is decked out with a meal lavish enough to feed twice our group.  I feel honored and guilty:  16 of the 26 million Iraqis rely solely on monthly government rations.  Even the richest of families spend three-quarters of their income on food.  In spite of these hardships, the Iraqis I meet are generous, resilient and joyous.

Some rituals transcend language:  Eating.  Flirting.  Falling in love.  Getting married.  Complaining about the size of the stone.

Ascertaining that I am the only single woman in our group, Amira's sisters immediately set about setting me up as the bride to their older, widowed brother with hilariously assertive gestures and enthusiastic, high-pitched "la-la-la-la-las."   As is common in war-time, we transcend the flirting and falling in love and move straight to the marriage ceremony.  War-time or not, I refuse to forgo a wedding ring;  Amira's sister produces wedding earrings, straight from a J.C. Penney box.  My make-shift wedding takes place in the dining room;  fake roses adorned with birthday candles complete my trousseau.

He speaks only Arabic;  I speak only English.  He pantomimes a proposal;  I order him to peel my wedding apple.  With only Amira to translate through hysterical laughs, the entire family gets in on the act, clapping and clowning, laughing so hard we cry.

Now connected to this fun-loving family by our side-splitting antics, I realize on the road back to Baghdad what they surely know:  Initial war scenarios involve isolating Baghdad, which also serves to cut off outlying areas - like Babylon - from Baghdad's stockpiles of food and medical supplies.  In the early stages of a new war, an estimated 500,000 people will need trauma care, overwhelming the already overburdened medical system.  How many of them will be people I've met?

Leaving Babylon, I cry so hard, I laugh.

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