This one time, in Iraq, I was covering a Civil Affairs mission to provide basic health care for people who would otherwise never get to see a doctor. The civil affairs guys provided the medics, some infantry guys provided the security, and I wandered around with a video camera. We turned a school into a clinic for the day, and hundreds Iraqi men, women, and children lined up for free medical attention. This was our second trip to this location; the first time we got shot at as we unloaded the humvees. One of the infantry security guys was hit, and we retreated to a local community center for the day. Today we were back at the school and no one even tried to shoot us.
Like most places in Iraq, the school didn't actually seem to be in working order. I would've sworn it had been abandoned for years, but it was apparently a functioning schoolhouse. The small dark classroms had nothing in them but a few chairs and maybe a map or chalkboard at the front of the class. There was no electricity. All of the rooms opened up into a large courtyard in the center, which baked in the sun.
The army medics and doctors each set up in a classroom, and the rest of the soldiers attempted to keep some semblance of organization in the bustling throng of sick or injured people outside. I flitted from room to room gathering b-roll as the medics prescribed drugs based on their 5 minute inspections of these people who struggled to tell them what was wrong with them. Concerned mothers stood by their children, desperately ranting at the few interpreters on hand (less than one per doctor or medic) about what their children suffered from. No one objected to me sticking my video camera in their faces as they underwent what would've been a private examination in the US.
I went on several of these Civil Affairs missions, as US Soldiers (I just caught myself automatically capitalizing "Soldiers," as we were instructed to in written articles) helping Iraqis made good video, but I'm thinking about this one today because for some reason as we were setting up, a little Iraqi boy started following me around. He had to be less than 10 years old. He was bony and brown, covered in a layer of sand and dirt just like everything else in Baghdad. Most kids had learned a few words of English from soldiers: "Football" because they might get a free soccer ball from their encounter, and "Fuck you" because the soldiers thought it was funny to teach to them. This kid didn't bother with the usual phrases. He didn't talk much at all, just followed me around. After awhile, he grabbed my hand. I just stood there awkwardly, holding this little brown boy's dirty hand.
I guess I was among the least imposing figures there that day: like the other soldiers, I sweated under my heavy body armor and helmet, which I desperately yearned for permission to remove. Unlike the others, my M4 assault carbine dangled from my shoulders by a padded Dell laptop bag strap. My helmet didn't fit quite right, and I wore the dorky looking clear standard issue eyewear rather than the $300 Oakleys most soldiers splurged for. I stood awkwardly to the side, clutching my video camera, which was a magnet for the children. On several missions during my time in Iraq, I found myself playing back video of the kids for them on the little LCD screen, much to their delight.
This was the only time one boy latched onto me so fiercely. He was excited to see himself on video just as they all were, but remained by my side afterward. There was no getting rid of him after he had hold of my hand. I didn't really try to. Eventually I sat down on an old crumbling stone wall. He sat down next to me, still holding my hand. Whenever I decided to go get more invasive footage of checkups, he'd be waiting for me in the sun as soon as I stepped out of a classroom. Every time, he again latched onto my hand.
Today I drove to my parent's house to do my laundry, and heard about 48 people killed in a car bomb in Baghdad. They were attending a funeral. I could picture the seen perfectly. I've seen funeral processions in Baghdad. I've seen the aftermath of bombings. I remembered that day I held the boy's hand in Baghdad. I started to calculate how old he'd be now, but I realized the odds of him still being alive aren't that great. 48 people died in an explosion yesterday, attending a funeral. Men, women, and children just like those I'd met during my time over there. Some of them could have been those I'd met over there. If they'd even lived that long.
I don't know what I've learned. It's not like I had a meaningful revelation as I remembered the boy who held my hand. I cried a little for him, and the 48 who were murdered yesterday. Just a few tears as I pulled up to my parent's house. If he was 10 then, he'd be about 16 now. If he's still alive. I'm sorry, kid. I'm sorry you've got it so bad. Thanks for holding my hand.
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