Monday, June 17, 2013

"What Will We Talk About Today, You and I?"

A Comment: Long time readers know there is zero tolerance for racism and bigotry here. This article contains the vile "N" word, which you will never see here again, expressed repeatedly by the articles author. In their book "Cobra II," Michael R. Gordon and Gen. Bernard E. Trainor offer this ugly comment from a senior officer of the US Army's 4th Infantry Division: "The only thing these sand niggers understand is force and I'm about to introduce them to it." While not admitted publicly, that term is widely used within the American military, along with "ragheads", "jihadis" and other derogatory terms. Try to understand this article from the author's perspective, living under American occupation, and with the horrors of a Shiite-Sunni civil war raging around him. This is what we have done, and continue to do, to our disgrace, all of us... 
- CP
"What Will We Talk About Today, You and I?"
By Mohammed Ibn Laith

"When I heard the bomb explode last Saturday the first thing I did was telephone my father. But there was no reply. Again and again and again I tried to phone him. My fingers hurt I stabbed them onto the buttons on my phone so hard. I fell onto the floor and prayed please let him not be dead. Please let it be that he died quick if he is dead. And my heart was sick inside me.

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

My father is one of the organizers for the men who protect the people in our neighborhood who have fled here from the death squads. When they go to get food we go to the market with them my father, my brother, myself, some of the men in our neighborhood. They do the same for us. Does “peace” mean that your aunt does not weep as she talks of how the young couples she serves ask her after the X-Ray? "Well is it a child or is it a monster?" And how she curses the Americans who littered our land with Uranium munitions and then denied us the cancer drugs. Because we needed to be, contained.

We sand niggers who had been abandoned to the tyrant you had supported for years needed to be, contained. And though it was hard for you, though compassion swelled in your noble and peaceful heart we sand niggers needed to be, contained. For my own good I needed to be, contained. The new world order and the peace dividend required that the sand niggers be contained, and you assured the world, that I was indeed, contained, you told me that though it was hard for you: "We think the price is worth it."

Shall we talk about peace, you and I? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Will we talk about how the Americans urged our people to rise against the tyrant? Will we talk about that you and I? Will we talk about what happened to the men who believed the American lies and rose?

What shall we talk about, you and I? Will we talk about how the Americans urged our people to rise against the tyrant? Will we talk about that you and I? Will we talk about what happened to families of the men who believed the American lies and rose? There is one who helps me with my English who does not know where his wife and young children are buried. He does not even know if they were buried. But he knows that they were killed, and he knows how they were killed, and that they died screaming, the Mukhbarat saw to it that he was told. You were quick enough to sell to the Mukhbarat, but you would not sell the chemotherapy drugs to save our children’s lives.

You were quick to hold up a small bottle for the cameras of the world lying as you swore that it was full of death. Spewing your predatory American lies to the world of how you must use force to make sure that the sand niggers continued to be contained.

Shall we talk about peace, you and I? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

After the war you said, adding one monstrous lie to another, a new Iraq would be born. A peaceful child of the west aping your ways and repaying you with control of its oil, of its soil, and of its soul. The operation would be brief, the birth pangs almost painless.

"We think the price is worth it."

"The only thing these sand niggers understand is force and I’m about to introduce them to it."

"Birthpangs of a new Middle East."

"Well is it a child or is it a monster?"

Shall we talk about monsters, you and I? No perhaps we should not talk of monsters. People do not talk to monsters. Perhaps instead we should talk of peace. I would like that. “Peace” I love the word. Can you tell me what it means? No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Does “peace” mean not quickly putting on my shoes and jacket picking up the necessary things when you hear a bomb and running to Abu Hussein’s house? Running sweating and praying. Pounding on Abu Hussein’s door: Bomb! bomb! bomb! Running with Abu Hussein and his sons stumbling as I run towards the smoke. Knowing where to run to automatically. Knowing that today it was my fathers turn to go with the others to the market. How will I tell my mother that my father too is dead?

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Screaming our father’s name my brother and myself. Pushing screaming fleeing bloodied people out of the way as we run to where the bomb went off. Doing as our trainers have shown us. Doing whatever it is that must be done to get there in the first few minutes.

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Pushing the palm of my hand into the face of one too slow to get out of our way. Running to where the flames are, screaming my father’s name. An old man lies dead in a pool of blood and broken eggs caught in a whirlwind with fire. I ignore him.

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Shall we talk of age and of memory and of family instead, you and I? Shall we talk of a good old man who had lived long and seen much and loved his grandchildren? Shall we talk of that you and I? Shall we talk of how on days when he was tired he would be a little confused and it was as though 50 years ago was yesterday and yesterday was yet to come. Or will we talk of the weight bearing down on your shoulder and of the brush of lips on your forehead and a smile as you rose from helping grandfather stand?

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Or shall we talk of the days of age? Shall we talk of the warmth of the weight of age on your shoulder as you guide your aged progenitor as you would a child without letting him know that he is being guided? Shall we talk of guidance across the ages you and I? Or shall we instead speak of the armed foreigner who signals “hello” when he should signal “stop” and of how a confused old man who did not stop quickly enough and who could not lie down died in a whirlwind of fire unleashed by the foreigner? Shall we talk of that you and I? Or shall we talk of a daughter’s screams when she saw her son covered with her father’s blood? Or would you prefer to talk about peace?

"The only thing these sand niggers understand is force and I’m about to introduce them to it."

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Moving with my brother to a pile of rubble. Doing as our trainers have shown us. Throwing hot chunks of metal and concrete to the side.

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Everywhere inside there are pieces of flesh and blood and rubble. Pulling the living flesh from the rubble. Separating the living from the dead. Climbing over rubble to reach bloodied living flesh. She is so small she cannot be older than 5. The cars and the trucks and the vans begin to arrive. A man takes my bloodied burden from me and others run in to help. I run to the next shop.

Where is my brother? There is nothing to be done here. Where is my brother? The others of my team are here. Doing as our trainers have shown us. Doing the things that must be done in the first few minutes. All 5 of us are here now. We do as our trainers have shown us. Doing the things that must be done in the first few minutes. Where is my brother?

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Moving round the market with my team. Taking wounded people to the waiting cars. Where are the ambulances? Where are the police? Will the Americans stop the cars and buses and vans carrying the wounded and the dying to the hospitals as they have done so often before? Where is my brother? We move from stall to stall and shop to shop. Checking for survivors. I hear my brother’s voice screaming over the noise: “Play the tape asking for men to go and give blood! Play the tape asking for men to go and give blood!” It must be that he has phoned his contact person in the radio station.

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

We let our eyes and our hands instruct our brain as our trainers taught us to do. Even if means abandoning them to their fate you do not do go in alone. Wait for your watcher. Many of the piles of rubble are too big. We move on. When the bulding has collapsed completely or when you see concrete floors hanging and ready to fall you must move on. Do not risk triggering the collapse of the building until there are two teams with the proper equipment. We move on to do as our trainers have taught us to do.

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

It must be that my brother’s team has arrived I see him standing surrounded by people and pointing and giving orders. I look my question and he shrugs despairingly. We move on to do as our trainers have taught us to do. Others of us arrive, we organise ourselves and the people who were there and who want to help, showing them, how to clear rubble, and pull the wounded and dead people out. I and the two other experienced ones move back to the stalls. Where are the ambulances? Where are the police? Will the Americans stop the cars and buses and vans carrying the wounded and the dieing to the hospitals as they have done so often before?

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

The “police” and their American masters arrive. They “secure” the scene. Perhaps they are happy now that their work has been done for them. We cannot leave until they live as we want them live each of their tribes and nations must be separated to their own reservations and no longer know one another. It’s a stubborn baby this one but these birthpangs will take just another 6 months.

"The price is worth it."

"The only thing these sand niggers understand is force and I’m about to introduce them to it."

A bombing during a “crack down” follows a set procedure. It is a stepped process that works like this:

Step Zero: Prevent people Sunni, Shia, Christian, Jew, Arab, Kurd, Shabak, Turkman, or Yezhidi – it does not matter which from searching for bombs. This is the preliminary and most important step.

Subsequent Steps:

Get report of a really big and worthwhile bombing. (Wait …….)
Wait some more.
Arrive too late to be of any use to the most badly wounded.
Look busy and important and “secure” the area.
Make sure your American masters see how busy and important and loyal you are.
Make sure you stop the ambulances from getting into the area. As always make the excuse that this is to stop follow on bombings. (Make sure your American masters see how busy and important you are.)
Search the Ambulances very very slowly. (Make sure your American masters see how thoroughly you search.)
Make sure you stop the cars and buses and taxis belonging to the people who live there bringing the wounded out. (Make sure your American masters see how busy and important you are.)
Search the cars and buses and taxis belonging to the people who live there bringing the wounded out very very slowly. (Make sure your American masters see how thoroughly you search.)
Introduce to force any sand nigger who does not leap to obey your American master.

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

There are enough of us now to start to attend to the dead. An interpreter like a dog in a mask walking on its hind legs speaks to me as I pass him and his American masters. I recognize his accent and politely express the hope that his family is well and are enjoying life in [ the name of the village he is from ]. I do not think that particular dog will sleep well in its kennel tonight.

Showing the helpers how to pick up the pieces of human flesh. Put your hand inside one plastic bag pick it up. Drop it into the plastic sack. Move on to the next piece. One of them has not done this before his hand is shaking so much that he drops a piece of dead human flesh to the ground. But before I can get to him another whose face I recognise from before moves to him and shows him how to do it properly. They stay together the experienced helping the new. The first time is hardest. The new one’s shoulders are moving up and done as he works. He stands up and runs to a stall his helper running after him. He stands his shoulders moving up and down. His helper’s hand upon his shoulder. My brother calls out: "O God! Pardon our living and our dead, the present and the absent, the young and the old, the males and the females."

They go back to work.

"O God! Pardon our living and our dead, the present and the absent, the young and the old, the males and the females."

Lips moving with each piece that they pick up and put into their plastic sacks.

"O God! Pardon our living and our dead, the present and the absent, the young and the old, the males and the females."

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Too many are flooding into the market. Some to help, some to look, most are calling the names of others who were there. Many curse the police. Some start to throw stones: American agents, Traitors, Useless. There will be another massacre if this is not stopped. Most of the teams stop what we are doing and run over doing as our trainers have taught us pushing back shouting and pushing shouting and pushing:

Go back! Go back! Only those with kin may enter! Go back! We haven’t checked for more bombs yet! Go back! Go back, go back! We haven’t checked for more bombs yet! Only those with kin may enter! Go back! We haven’t checked for more bombs yet! Go back!

The police and their American masters do nothing.

Go back! Go back! Only those with kin may enter! Go back! We haven’t checked for more bombs yet! Go back! Go back, go back! We haven’t checked for more bombs yet! Only those with kin may enter! Go back! We haven’t checked for more bombs yet! Go back!

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Pushing and sweating against the cursing crowd letting through only those who say they have kin or who we recognize.

The police and their American masters do nothing.

Go back! Go back! Only those with kin may enter! Go back! We haven’t checked for more bombs yet! Go back! Go back, go back! We haven’t checked for more bombs yet! Only those with kin may enter! Go back! We haven’t checked for more bombs yet! Go back!

The police and their American masters do nothing.

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

One of Abu Hussein’s sons pulls me from the crowd to tell me that his father wants to speak to my brother and myself. Be hopeful. Nobody has seen your father on any of the transports or at any of the morgues… We will need good people to go to with us the hospitals and then the morgues. You have done this with your father are you able to do it without him? Hussein and Khalil will go with each of you.

We hug another tightly a fierce despairing grip. Gripping as the drowning must have gripped Othman Abdul Hafez not wanting to let go of life clutching the living and the loved. I go to one truck my brother to another. Getting into to back with the bodys and driving to Imam Ali hospital. We drive behind a police truck also full of bodies. The smell of death is a mix of the smell of the sort of excrement you pass when you have drunk bad water and the meat market on a hot day. It rises to surround me. It is in my hair and my clothes and my throat. I will smell of death when I go into the hospitals. Khalil Ibn Hussein and I pray. I do not know what Khalil is asking of God, he is probably doing as I am and asking God for help not to vomit.

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Climbing out of the van the morgue attendants tell us to put the dead bodies on the ground. I hear a woman scream. Stepping over body after body after body as we walk to the emergency room. The guards do not try to stop up us from entering. We are many and they are few. Bloodied moaning people on the floor, bloodied moaning people on the floors of the corridors. Two old men on the floor against a wall faces grey with pain trying not cry out. More and more people being carried in. Many will die on the floor here as they have before each time that the American predators and their Iraqi underlings open the gates for the jackals to flood through and do their work for them. The people on the floor over whom we step will die of bleeding, and of pain and of not enough doctors, not enough, not enough equipment to take the blood from those who arrive to donate, not enough space.

Going through to the wards. No sign of our father. I look at my brother – phone? Nothing. He says. “Nothing.” We speak again to the guards and to the people who try to keep the records. Nobody has seen a man answering to our father’s description living or dead. Back through the corridors. One of the two old men has died.

"O God! Pardon our living and our dead, the present and the absent, the young and the old, the males and the females."

We step over him as we leave. Stepping over more of the dead who have been left outside asking Khalil Ibn Hussein if he recognises any of the new arrived dead. Some, none of your family. We have the names.

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

A telephone rings on one of the dead bodies. The same tone as on the phone we gave our father. Running my hands through the pockets of the dead boy to find the phone. A woman’s voice screams when she hears mine. Khalil speaks Kurdish. Gesturing to Khalil, “come here, come here,” handing him the phone. Khalil is to stay. We to go.

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

The smell of death in no less strong in the car that drives us back. Or perhaps it is our presence that magnifies it. At Al-Sadriya the scale of the destruction is clear. The crater is five metres in diameter and almost two metres deep. Wherever you step there is blood blackening and thickened on the ground. Shops and homes alike are destroyed and work goes on to take out those buried in the rubble of their homes.

The police and their American masters do nothing.

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Abu Hussein tells us to separate our search. I to Al Kindi, my brother to Ibn Al Nafees. Getting into the back with the bodys and driving to Al Kindi hospital. The smell of death is a mix of the smell of the sort of excrement you pass when you have drunk bad water and the meat market on a hot day. It rises to surround me. It is in my hair and my clothes and my throat. I will smell of death when I go into the hospital.

I found my father that night outside the morgue. He had been lightly wounded, his clothes were soaked in dried blood, and he was praying over the body of our friend and colleague Abbas. I, my brother, and Abu Hussein and his sons, have bought him a new telephone.

"We think the price is worth it."

"The only thing these sand niggers understand is force and I’m about to introduce them to it."

"Birthpangs of a new Middle East."

"Well is it a child or is it a monster?"

What will we talk about today, you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

The only thing a predator understands is force.

We have nothing to talk about, you and I."

Mohammed Ibn Laith, Al-Sadriya, Baghdad, Iraq
- http://gorillasguides.com/

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