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 LETTER FROM THE ROAD, IRAQ 
ELIAS AMIDON
BAGHDAD, 9 FEBRUARY 2003

If Only I Had Wings to Fly

I woke up at 5:30 this morning to go out to the U.N. headquarters on the
outskirts of Baghdad with my friend Mohamed, an Iraqi driver and
helper-with-all-things. He and I spent the last few days preparing an
encampment for the Iraq Peace Team across the road from the U.N. We were
expecting Peace Team members to arrive there by 7:30 AM, in time to greet
the U.N. inspectors as they left for their rounds. It's also an ideal time
to receive the attention of the international press who come there every
morning.

We made a 40 foot-long banner to stretch between two palm trees over our
tent, the same tent we had used for a press event for Sean Penn's visit two
months ago. The beautifully lettered banner read, in Arabic and English:
"INSPECTION ­ YES. INVASION ­ NO." Mohamed put one end of the rope tied to
the banner between his teeth and shinnied up the palm trunk. It wasn't easy.
Mohammed is 53 years old and was badly shot up in the war with Iran. Once
the rope had been passed around the the tree, he threw it back to me and I
pulled it to hoist the banner tight.

It was a moment I will not easily forget. Here were two grey-haired men, one
Iraqi and one American, one clinging precariously to the trunk of a tree
while they both pulled with all their might to lift this banner appealing
for peace up into the first rays of sunlight. It was, at the same time,
something both absurd and splendid: splendid because while our two countries
glared at each other menacingly, we were like happy brothers putting up
tents and hanging flags; and absurd because it was such a small, meaningless
moment in the terrifying political storm enveloping us and our people.

Later several TV crews came to interview the Peace Team. I told Reuters we
were there appealing to the community of nations to continue the inspections
process, and that an American-led invasion would murder countless Iraqi
civilians like those whose pictures we had hung throughout our tent. The
camera panned across the photos of their faces ­ children, mothers, old
uncles, working-men ­ just normal people. Each of them has a name. Each of
them breathes in the world as we do, each one a miraculous subjectivity like
ours, unique and worthwhile. Those of us over here on the Peace Team cling
to the belief that if the war-makers could just see the actual nature of the
people who will suffer the atrocities of this war they would simply stop in
their tracks. Or would they?

Yesterday, driving around the city, we were stopped in traffic and I watched
as a young Iraqi soldier stood by a vendor's cart trying to decide if he
should buy a certain pair of socks. He picked them up, pulled at them, put
them down, picked them up again, and listened while the vendor encouraged
him. I watched his face as he tried to decide. He wasn't any older than my
own son, and just as sweet looking. As we drove on I had to wipe tears away.

I have to admit that in between the sadness and love I feel here, I find
myself getting angry. It's not an emotion I feel comfortable confessing to ­
I know anger is a fuel for violence ­ but the enormity of the cruelty about
to land on these people is nearly impossible to bear. Secretary of Defense
Rumsfeld said yesterday to some assembled soldiers that the war may take six
days, or six weeks, but surely not more than six months. Six months! Can you
imagine what six months of bombardment by the U.S. military will do to the
individual lives of the people of this land?

Please, dear friends who read this, this coming Saturday, February 15,
please go out from your homes or from wherever you are, and join one of the
actions planned in cities and towns around the world to say "No" to this
war!  Millions of people will be marching! Join them! Make your voice heard
and your presence felt. If you think, "What difference will one more body
make?" remember, it makes ALL the difference! Give the leaders of the world
courage to resist American manipulation and pressure toward war.

Here in Baghdad we will be holding our vigil each morning this week outside
the U.N. At 11:00 each morning we will leave to go to a different vulnerable
site of civilian infrastructure ­ a water treatment plant, an electrical
generating station, a hospital, a school, a bomb shelter ­ all of which were
targeted here in the '91 war. We will hang a large banner at each place that
reads, "BOMBING THIS SITE IS A WAR CRIME, Geneva Conventions, Article 54."

Team members here are each contacting their home communities with this same
appeal to join demonstrations on February 15. In addition, we are suggesting
that people go this week to similar sites of civilian infrastructure in
their home towns ­ to hospitals, water treatment plants, electrical
stations, schools ­ and hang banners which read: "BOMBING SITES LIKE THIS IN
IRAQ IS A WAR CRIME, Geneva Conventions, Article 54." Our hope is that
actions like these will bring attention to the indiscriminate killing done
in our names. In Iraq during the '91 war, 28 schools were bombed.

A few days ago we met with Amira, an Iraqi-American woman leading a
delegation here. She had just visited her family who lives near Babylon. She
spoke for a while, and then began to cry. In between her sobs she said, "I
may never see my family againS it's going to be a terrible disasterS it's
going to be a terrible disasterS my family, all the people here, they only
talk about how to surviveS how to save their childrenS the only thing that
keeps them going is their faithS what they have in their heartsS as they
face this disaster."

As I typed that last sentence I assumed it would be the end of this letter.
But, as it's Sunday evening, Rabia and I decided to join a few other Peace
Team members who were going to the evening Mass (said in English) at St.
Raphael's Church about a mile from here. We walked. There was a tender light
reflecting off the Tigris River. Father Vincent, the priest, spoke about
fear and faith in his homily. And then he had us sing this song:

O God please listen to my cry and give me an answer. I am afraid of what the
future holds for me. Let me hide in the shadow of your wings. If only I had
wings to fly, I would escape Lord. I'd fly as far as I could go to find some
peace of mind. Let me hide in the shadow of your wings. All of this I can
survive if you are with me. My life is here, my life is now, and I must
carry on. Let me hide in the shadow of your wings.