The schoolhouse. Across from this home, behind the disposable camera I used for the photo, was the open air, well maintained if not luxuriously equipped school, not the one in Baghdad, in which I disturbingly found a painting of the towers coming down, as well as the poem my mother placed in my highschool yearbook, but the one between the Tigris and Euphrates, the place we called desertnam.
It was green. Desertnam. The opposite of Kuwait where a plague of locusts was weather, here was a man, panicked and not fingering, but sternly upset with us, the invaders.
Some one put a weapon in his face.
It didn’t bother him. He swiped it aside casually, the muzzle meaning nothing and he considered the weapons to be more a burden to use to carry then fierce tools commonly employed. He was upset, about the school. The lack of anything educational, books students or pencils, the only thing a few stray desks and outside? A fire and campsite of someone special, who left that morning and camped the night before.