February 9th - Reflections
The drain at Sha'ala is coming along well, but a little boy living at the camp has terrible burns and there's no medical care available; a few thoughts about the last three months as I head for 11 days off in Jordan.
The reed hut used to stand at the edge of the water, its wendy house shape reflected in the sludge at the edges of the pool. Now there is but a puddle, several metres away. The drain at the Sha’ala camp isn’t completely finished yet but already there’s an enormous improvement. Huge tanks from me and them to everyone who helped build it.
Still not everything is well. Abbas is four, his legs a bloody, pus-oozing mess, the breeze block and canvas home stinking of his infected flesh. He burnt his legs three weeks ago on the paraffin flame from the stove and hasn’t been seen by a doctor or a hospital yet. He lies under a blanket, eyes huge and glazed, unresponsive except when they crease and spill tears. We went to take medicine today, antiseptic and antibiotic creams, but it’s worse than yesterday. Raed and Peat are bringing a doctor first thing in the morning.
I’m going to Jordan for 12 days. I’m tired and burnt out. It’s been three months now, just over. Tommo’s coming to meet me in Jordan. It’s been over three months since we last held each other’s hands. Mama and Damia gave me some beads for Tommo and a cardboard package.
“You must not open it until you are with him, but I think maybe you will need this.” It says ‘lingerie’ on the box. Iraqi women mostly dress extremely conservatively on the outside, in the same way that their homes often have very plain exteriors. What’s inside, or underneath, is much more elaborate. Mama says I’m to tell Tommo about my Iraqi mum and family, to tell him he’s welcome any time, he’s one of the family already.
The circus is sorted, working out better than I dared to dream and well able to go on without me for a few days. Luis, with his didgeridoo, gave a deaf and dumb teenager his first ever music, feeling the vibrations when he held it to his ear. They’ll keep working with the boys from the Kurdish House, keep rehearsing and doing shows with Happy Family, go and play in the camps a few times. After I come back, if all goes to plan, we’re going to the north, to Suleimania, with the boys from the Kurdish House and Happy Family.
A young French photographer came with us to a show the other day. Safa said when he saw her, his heart jumped a beat. We all started teasing, as you do, till he explained why. Her face reminded him of Wafaa, his girlfriend, the woman he thought he would marry. She was killed in the war.
There’s still an incredible volume of sadness, of trauma, of suffering. The circus, the people we’ve met and the places we’ve been with it has made me realise that rehabilitation of Iraq is a matter of much more than rebuilding a physical infrastructure, as vital as that is and as badly as it’s being handled.
And I love this place and its people, in all their bewilderment, their anger, their fierce hope and depression. I love the kids on the roof opposite and on our street, Fatih on his balcony like an anchor, the bright lights of Karrada Dakhil and the flames of the barbecues when all the other lights go out, the gossip in the women’s rooms. I’ll be back, fresh, in a couple of weeks, to carry on. Speak to you then. Take care.
Still not everything is well. Abbas is four, his legs a bloody, pus-oozing mess, the breeze block and canvas home stinking of his infected flesh. He burnt his legs three weeks ago on the paraffin flame from the stove and hasn’t been seen by a doctor or a hospital yet. He lies under a blanket, eyes huge and glazed, unresponsive except when they crease and spill tears. We went to take medicine today, antiseptic and antibiotic creams, but it’s worse than yesterday. Raed and Peat are bringing a doctor first thing in the morning.
I’m going to Jordan for 12 days. I’m tired and burnt out. It’s been three months now, just over. Tommo’s coming to meet me in Jordan. It’s been over three months since we last held each other’s hands. Mama and Damia gave me some beads for Tommo and a cardboard package.
“You must not open it until you are with him, but I think maybe you will need this.” It says ‘lingerie’ on the box. Iraqi women mostly dress extremely conservatively on the outside, in the same way that their homes often have very plain exteriors. What’s inside, or underneath, is much more elaborate. Mama says I’m to tell Tommo about my Iraqi mum and family, to tell him he’s welcome any time, he’s one of the family already.
The circus is sorted, working out better than I dared to dream and well able to go on without me for a few days. Luis, with his didgeridoo, gave a deaf and dumb teenager his first ever music, feeling the vibrations when he held it to his ear. They’ll keep working with the boys from the Kurdish House, keep rehearsing and doing shows with Happy Family, go and play in the camps a few times. After I come back, if all goes to plan, we’re going to the north, to Suleimania, with the boys from the Kurdish House and Happy Family.
A young French photographer came with us to a show the other day. Safa said when he saw her, his heart jumped a beat. We all started teasing, as you do, till he explained why. Her face reminded him of Wafaa, his girlfriend, the woman he thought he would marry. She was killed in the war.
There’s still an incredible volume of sadness, of trauma, of suffering. The circus, the people we’ve met and the places we’ve been with it has made me realise that rehabilitation of Iraq is a matter of much more than rebuilding a physical infrastructure, as vital as that is and as badly as it’s being handled.
And I love this place and its people, in all their bewilderment, their anger, their fierce hope and depression. I love the kids on the roof opposite and on our street, Fatih on his balcony like an anchor, the bright lights of Karrada Dakhil and the flames of the barbecues when all the other lights go out, the gossip in the women’s rooms. I’ll be back, fresh, in a couple of weeks, to carry on. Speak to you then. Take care.