As my mom and I discussed our short but successful shopping spree on the way back, an older man stepped onto the train and sat opposite my mom. We continued to talk, oblivious to our surroundings, until the man, seeing our headscarves, exclaimed “Assalamualaikum” (Peace be upon you), the Islamic greeting of well being. We muttered replies under our breaths, wishing him peace but not wanting to communicate with a stranger.
I could see his reflection clearly in the glass window next to me. He stared at the empty seat beside him and began to talk. “You are all my brothers and sisters. I am Iraqi, I am the son of Baghdad.” His voice rose with patriotism and his tone became passionate. “I am the son of Baghdad! Baghdad was a city of scientists and geniuses, now look what it has become. I love Baghdad, but I am here. You are all my sisters.” And then, a realization dawned upon him. “I am 58 and I am about to die,” he said in a soft voice, “and I haven’t seen my sister in 27 years.” He repeated this last sentence painfully, over and over, reminiscing about the last time he had seen her. And then, with his voice filled with anger and hatred, “Bush is the enemy of God and humanity. Harper…”
“Excuse me sir, we understand you. Now please take a seat or leave the train, yalla,” the driver intervened in a soft voice, practicing the little Arabic he knew. The man quieted down and stood in a corner, offering his spot to a woman who had entered the train with a stroller. I could see in the reflection how sad he looked. His gaze was glued to the floor, a bereaved expression on his face.
These are the real spoils of war. From what I gathered, he only witnessed it secondhand, but it affected him deeply. If the impact on a secondary victim of exaggerated political egos and unreasonable drives to power is so great, I do not want to imagine the mental state of the innocent children exposed to the inhumane conditions of war.
I wondered if the people of Hiroshima and Nagasaki still bore hatred deep within their hearts. And then I thought closer to home. Every few days, a fallen Canadian is brought back from Afghanistan from a war that is not ours to fight. We salute the soldier for his bravery and move on. But what of the thousands of men still fighting an endless and meaningless battle, and what about their hopeful families’ mental and emotional states? Those of the poor families living in war-torn districts? Children who must accept gunfire as their morning alarm and rocket launchers as fireworks, who have learned to live with missing family members and amputated limbs? Sadly, this isn’t unique to Afghanistan. What about Darfur? Zimbabwe? Northwestern Pakistan?
As I sat there and wondered how many more deaths and how many more familial and proprietal expropriations it would take to quench the political greed of a select few, I could do no more than share the dismal expression on the stranger’s face.
