By Kathy Kelly

Six years ago, in February 1998, I traveled to Iraq with a British Voices in the Wilderness team. The US was threatening another massive bombardment. We decided to go to Fallujah in hopes of better understanding the perspective of people whose marketplace had been bombed, in 1991, by a smart bomb that went astray. The blast instantly killed 150 people and wounded hundreds. By the time of our visit, many more had suffered and died during nearly eight years of brutally punitive economic sanctions.

At Fallujah’s main market, we began distributing a leaflet about why we were violating the economic sanctions. Throngs of people pressed toward each of us, eager for leaflets. Separated from my companions and surrounded by people shouting at me as they grabbed leaflets, I began to wonder if this could turn into an ugly scene. One man who spoke English stood in front of me, his eyes blazing. “You Americans! You Europeans!” he shouted. “You come to my home. I show you water you not even give your animals to drink and this is all what we have. And now you want again to kill our children. You cannot kill my son. My son, he was killed in al harb Bush (the first Bush war).”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, “I’m so very sorry.” Then his demeanor suddenly changed. “Ah, Madame,” he said, his tone softening, “You are too tired. You come with me, I get you tea.” He helped me maneuver through the crowd until we reached a falafel stand where he served me tea, insisting that I find my friends and bring them to his home for a meal. Since 1996, gracious hospitality characterized nearly every encounter I and other Voices travelers to Iraq experienced.

In 1999, I returned to the Fallujah marketplace, this time with our friend Ahmed, a US citizen, born in the Sinai, who translated for us as we encountered a very similar scene. I spotted a child staring at me. He seemed about 11 years of age, quite poor, extremely intense. “Ahmed, please,” I asked, “ask this young man what he is thinking.” The young boy squared his shoulders and said, “I am a scholar of the faith.” Ahmed posed my question again. This time the answer was direct. “Tell her that I am thinking about how I will become a fighter pilot when I grow up,” said the boy, whose gaze never swerved from mine, “so that I can bomb the United States.” Then Ahmed said, “Kathy, look, pay attention to this man,” pointing to an elderly, balding fellow with huge jowls and white whiskers who had observed my encounter with the youngster. Large tears rolled down his cheeks.