ihath

Two weeks ago my mother dreamed that Saddam came into her living room and asked her to make him a cup of Turkish coffee. He looked tired and weary. He told her that he just wants to sit down and have some quiet for few minutes. "I just need to relax" Saddam told my mother in the dream. My mom looked around her kitchen in a frenzy, trying to think of what poison or chemical she could place in the coffee to kill the horrid creature that had entered her living room. Saddam looked straight into her eyes and told her "I know what you are thinking, but you should know that we will drink the coffee together". His voice sounded threatening but then it turned melancholy; with a deep sigh he continued "Anyway I don't have that long to live. I am afraid that my time is up, I just need to relax for a bit that is all and then I will leave." And so my mother decided to make him Turkish coffee without creative additions.

When Baghdad fell to the Americans I had a fantasy. It went something like this

Baghdad, 2010

Saddam Hussein is delivering morning newspapers in Al-Jumhriya district of Baghdad. He has chosen this job to avoid facing people. Very few people are out and about at 5:30 in the morning. There is too much angst directed at him, even though he is not the president anymore. There is a huge bronze statue of Saddam Hussein leftover from the old days. The statue is raising his hand looking sternly at the public. "What a hideous statue, I wish they would take it down already". Saddam thinks to himself. He touches the stack of newspapers in the heavy bag hanging off his shoulder. "I better get back to work. Plenty to do before breakfast".

Goodbye Iraq's butcher;
may you never grow in our dreams.
You were the farce that placed itself
where lives were torn apart.
You called out to our country,
and you tormented those already in pain.
Now you belong to hell,
and in shame we spell out your name.
And it seems to me you lived your life
like a candle in the wind:
fading with the sunset
when the rain set in.
And your footsteps we try to erase,
along Iraq’s bloody path;
your candle's burned out long before
your cowards ever will.
Greatness you've lost;
these empty days without your tyranny.
This torch we'll always carry
for our nation's golden child.
And even though we try,
the truth brings us to tears;
all our words cannot express
the nightmares you brought us through the years.
Goodbye Iraq's butcher,
from a country lost with or without you,
we won't miss your iron fist
not that you ever cared.

There is a way between voice and presence where information flows. In disciplined silence it opens. With wandering talk it closes. .... Rumi