Rev. Jerry Zawada, OFM
Voices in The Wilderness
Baghdad

Dear Loved Ones:
Two days now till Christmas. May all good be with you as we celebrate the Birth of Christ. I’m desperate to connect with you and sorry it’s taken this long.

We arrived at our home in Baghdad yesterday afternoon about 1:30 P.M. It took less than 12 hours, quite remarkable for these times. Cynthia Banas suggested that we sing traditional Christmas carols along the way, which lifted our spirits. The four of us, Kathy Kelly, Cynthia Banas, Claudia Lefko and I and our dedicated driver, Sattar, chimed in and helped speed up the journey.

After crossing the border into Iraq there were extremely long lines of cars waiting for gas, more than 500 cars, more than 12 hours wait, in a country with enough petroleum to last 300 years! One of many a new phenomena since the occupation, effecting incredible suffering upon practically all the populace of this beautiful country.

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.

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?

Ehab Lotayef
Baghdad

I spent three days out of Baghdad, or maybe I should say, out of Iraq. Kurdistan, which has enjoyed self-rule for over ten years, is very different from the rest of the country, which remained under Saddam’s rule and was affected by the sanctions, embargo, and lately the war. The instability and danger that are felt in Baghdad, Najaf and Karbalaa (I made short, one-day trips to each of the two latter, south-western Shia’a cities), disappeared as soon as we crossed the Karkuk-Sulaimania border.

Ehab Lotayef
Baghdad

It was late in the evening in Al-Aadamia, just north of downtown Baghdad. There was no electricity, as is usually the case when raids happen. A mother was home with her three daughters, the youngest of whom is twelve. First there was a loud bang (that was the garden door being kicked open), then heavy banging on the house door. The mother screamed, “I’m coming, don’t break it.” But by the time she got to the door she was face to face with the American soldiers who had already smashed the door open.

The house search was quick, while a state of shock took over the four women, who spoke little English. They were then told that they had to go with the soldiers. Where to, and what for, are questions that were never answered. They were barely allowed a few seconds to grab shoes and jackets, but not all of them managed to get what they needed. The mother, for example, ended up leaving without her diabetes and blood pressure medications, which she needs regularly, and one of the girls only had time to grab a pair of sandals she usually wears in the garden.