My New Talent
Suffering from a bout of insomnia last night, I found myself in front of the television, channel-surfing. I was looking for the usual- an interesting interview with one of the council, some fresh news, a miracle… Promptly at 2 am, the electricity went off and I was plunged into the pitch black hell better-known as “an August night with no electricity in Iraq”. So I sat there, in the dark, trying to remember where I had left the candle and matches. After 5 minutes of chagrined meditation, I decided I would ‘feel’ my way up the stairs and out onto the roof. Step by hesitant step, I stumbled out into the corridor and up the stairs, stubbing a toe on the last step (which wasn’t supposed to be there).

(For those of you who don’t know, people sleep up on the roof in some of the safer areas because when the electricity goes off, the houses get so hot, it feels like you are cooking gently inside of an oven. The roof isn’t much better, but at least there’s a semblance of wind.)

Out on the roof, the heat was palpitating off of everything in waves. The strange thing is that if you stand in the center, you can feel it emanating from the walls and ground toward you from all directions. I stood there trying to determine whether it was only our area, or the whole city, that had sunk into darkness.

A few moments later, my younger brother (we’ll call him E.) joined me- disheveled, disgruntled and half-asleep. We stood leaning on the low wall enclosing the roof watching the street below. I could see the tip of Abu Maan’s cigarette glowing in the yard next door. I pointed to it with the words, “Abu Maan can’t sleep either…” E. grunted with the words, “It’s probably Maan”. I stood staring at him like he was half-wild- or maybe talking in his sleep. Maan is only 13… how is he smoking? How can he be smoking?

“He’s only 13.” I stated.
“Is anyone only 13 anymore?” he asked.

I mulled the reality of this remark over. No, no one is 13 anymore. No one is 24 anymore… everyone is 85 and I think I might be 105. I was too tired to speak and, in spite of his open eyes, I suspected E. was asleep. The silence was shattered a few moments later by the sound of bullets in the distance. It was just loud enough to get your attention, but too far away to be the source of any real anxiety. I tried to determine where they were coming from…

E: How far do you think that is?
Me: I don’t know… ‘bout a kilometer?
E: Yeah, about.
Me: Not American bullets-
E: No, it’s probably from a…
Me: Klashnikov.
E (impressed): You’re getting good at this.

No- I’m getting great at it. I can tell you if it’s ‘them’ or ‘us’. I can tell you how far away it is. I can tell you if it’s a pistol or machine-gun, tank or armored vehicle, Apache or Chinook… I can determine the distance and maybe even the target. That’s my new talent. It’s something I’ve gotten so good at, I frighten myself. What’s worse is that almost everyone seems to have acquired this new talent… young and old. And it’s not something that anyone will appreciate on a resume…

I keep wondering… will an airplane ever sound the same again?


- posted by river @ 3:15 PM