Rev. Jerry Zawada, OFM
Voices in The Wilderness
Baghdad

Dear Loved Ones - Merry Christmas!

My five companions, Kathy, Cynthia, Claudia, Michael and Sean all dreaming of sugar plums. As I struggle to sing an English version of a Polish carol, a tank rolls by a half-block away. Cold, bitter cold here in Baghdad, no heat, electricity generally 2 hours a day, no hot water to bathe. I stink from a week of dirty clothes and smelly body. I heat up some water for coffee, munch on a few dates covered with peanut butter. What pleasure! I gaze out the big picture window over onto the street below and the hovels in the empty lot across the street, awful looking shacks, made up with bits and pieces of any material found on the streets, cardboard, tin, some bricks here and there, garbage strewn about (no decent place to put it) and then for me a revelation: I have absolutely no reason to feel sorry for myself. This coldness will not last. I do have layers of clothing to keep me relatively warm. I will be leaving for home in two weeks, back to comfort and surplus; friends, loved ones in both places. How can I possibly complain? My neighbors across the street and elsewhere, in Baghdad and throughout Iraq, Middle East and in so many other places - barely surviving on far less. How do I walk with these folks? How do we build hope for each other, for the scarred world in zillons of corners throughout the earth?

Kathy Kelly
Voices in The Wilderness
Baghdad

When I was in high school, I participated in a public speaking contest and was asked to present a humorous reading. I chose a passage from the book, The Joyous Season in which a young boy describes how his father dreads the Christmas season with the attendant demands to shop and socialize. I still remember the opening line: “Daddy always said that the best place to spend Christmas is in a Moslem country.”

Now, having spent several Christmases in Iraq, I’m amazed at how easily one can step into the drama of a light shining in the darkness which the darkness shall not overcome. Several days ago, next door to our home in Baghdad’s Karrada neighborhood, baby Noor was born. Her dark, damp, chilly home resembles a stable. Baby Noor’s grandmother begged us for a blanket in which to wrap the newborn. Her aunt, ten year old Eman, has no socks and no coat. She smiles as she shivers. Yet Abu Noor and Umm Noor, the proud young parents, are beaming with gratitude and pride as they hold up their newborn. Leaving their home, I realize that they are slightly better off than the family across the street. At least they have a roof overhead.