Monday, Feb. 07, 2005 12:21 A.M.

We Americans Have No Idea

The following is a true story. It was told to my son by a co-worker who is a friend of this marine. I knew I had to write about it as soon as I heard it.

I am a marine serving with the Armed Forces in Iraq.

In the period just prior to the Iraqi national elections, I was in a convoy with my squadron on a routine patrol of one of the Iraqi neighborhoods to which we were assigned.

As we drove up one street and down another in our mapped out grid, we turned a corner and started down a familiar battle-scarred street. It was lined on both sides with rough-hewn homes all crowded together. We were positioned facing all directions in our vehicles and alert for anything which might seem unusual.

We saw nothing out of the ordinary, and we were proceeding slowly when one of our men shouted, �I think I see a little girl in the middle of the road.�

This was a very unusual occurrence, and we were unsure of what to do. We immediately contacted our Commanding Officer and asked permission to stop to investigate. He gave direct orders: �Do not stop. Proceed ahead without stopping.�

With some difficulty, we began to maneuver the convoy to the side of the road to avoid the area where she sat, sprawled out on the ground. We were within a dozen feet or so of where she was seated, when one of the men cried out �II recognize her! She is one of the kids from the group last week.�

We drove a short distance past the child and stopped. Our Commander was again contacted, and we said; �Sir, we have to go back. We know her. She is one of the kids from last week. We have to go back!�

Only a few days before, we had distributed a load of Teddy Bears as a gift from America, to a small group of excited, bright-eyed local kids. We remembered this small girl, about five years old, from the group.

Reluctantly, our Officer affirmed the request but instructed us to proceed with extreme caution.

We dismounted our vehicles, turned back and slowly approached the tiny figure sitting in a disheveled heap. Then we noticed something. She was sitting with her legs spread-eagle in front of her. Trying not to startle her, we gently circled around to her side and saw that she was clutching the little Teddy Bear under one arm, and the other arm was stretched out in from of her. Her index finger was pointing to something. What was it?

The first Marine to reach her side suddenly threw up his hand, signaling us to a halt. Our eyes moved to the spot where she was pointing. On the ground, between her widespread legs, almost hidden in the rocks and gravel, lay a live land mine. A hush fell, as we stood frozen in place.

Had she not been there, in that position, the first vehicle to drive over that piece of roadway would have been blown apart.

We had given her a Teddy Bear.

She had given us life.

Maybe I am becoming a soft-touch in my old age. I have never been much of a �cryer�. But lately, it seems to take very little to bring tears to my eyes. I don�t feel sad or depressed, quite the contrary. I just seem to be moved easily to tears. I feel things very deeply and when I do, I may get very excited, or choke back a sob, depending on the emotion of the moment.

Several times lately I have been so impressed to write about something that I feel I will burst if I don�t get to my computer and start typing. It flows almost effortlessly onto the �paper� and after a few edits, I copy and paste it into my electronic reader and listen as it is read back to me. Startled by how deeply I feel what I have written, I find myself biting my lip to hold back the tears. They are not tears of sadness, but just tears of deep emotion.

I wrote one such piece this week about my increasing understanding of the Christian support of Israel.* The first time I heard it read back to me, I bent over and tears rolled down my face. It meant that much to me.

The pathetic thing is that I am sure that these essays, or articles, or whatever people sometimes call them, do not seem that big of a deal to anyone else. I know for a fact, that some folk wonder just what I am trying to communicate, or how to respond�if at all. Of course, there is no expected response. (Although it is appreciated.)

A while back, I prayed for the awareness to really see and take note of the stories, which are all around me. You may remember, that very early in the first months of this journal, I wrote one entry entitled �Everybody Has A Story.� People are telling us their stories all the time, and we listen briefly, sympathize with them, or not, - and then move on to something else in the conversation. It�s my desire to �catch� their story. And perhaps to write about it.

Here is one such story.

I recently attended a luncheon at the home of a friend. The hostess wanted to introduce a group of us to her beautiful new granddaughter, a several month old baby girl, adopted from Russia.

We heard the heartbreaking details of a million Russian babies lying in sterile cribs with almost no personal attention, except for the necessities of life. The reason is simple. Too many babies. Too few workers.

They have food and clothing. But the clothing is not their own. It is passed around and shared by all. Their beds are clean, but at nine months of age this baby had not yet learned to sit or pull herself up. She simply lay in her crib all day. She entertained herself by learning to suck on the back of her little hand. When she was first adopted, she was unresponsive to the human smile. She had seen very few smiling faces in her short lifetime. When her new parents held and cuddled her, they found that she was not used to tactile stimuli, and it was almost too much for her to experience.

She never cried. Why should she cry? Babies in these orphanages in Russia learn very early in life, that crying produces no results. So they soon learn to remain silent.

But this story did not bring tears to my eyes�not yet anyway. Because now �Graceie� is becoming a happy, responsive baby, and that day she was showered with her very own clothing and toys.

The story that pierced my heart that day, was related to me by one of three sisters and their mother. All four had emigrated from Iran as Armenian Christians fleeing their home to avoid religious persecution in that nation.

It seems that when the historic Armenian genocide took place in that country in the early twentieth century, that many Armenian Christians fled to other countries, thousands settling in Iran. There they found asylum for several decades until the overthrow of the Shaw, and the establishment of a new government by radical Muslem insurgents.

Christian families had to begin to worship secretly. Underground churches provided the only opportunity for them to practice their faith.

I asked what things might happen to them�what were the things that were fearful.

The oldest daughter seemed to be the �main� spokesperson for the family. She was highly educated and spoke three languages. Farsi, Arabian, and English. I asked why the Arabian? (The national language spoken in Iran is Farsi.) She replied that everyone was required to learn Arabian in order to read the Koran properly.

She said that if you were known to be Christian, you were constantly observed, and the slightest infraction of any custom or�God forbid�law, would bring the authorities to your home to immediately arrest the individual or whole family, resulting in imprisonment. They were not free to do many of the very ordinary things in life. Fear and hiding became the conditions under which they lived from day to day.

Through a series of circumstances, they began to have a growing desire to move to America. They had distant relatives in this country.

Normally, if applications to emigrate are considered and approved at all, it takes many months and even years, to receive this approval.

The daughters had some difficulty convincing their mother that they needed to take this incredible leap of faith. Finally she agreed, and they set out to begin the complicated process of the paperwork.

During one such session, an English speaking Immigration officer was asking the mother several complicated questions about her reasons for leaving Iran. As the elder daughter listened, she observed that entirely incorrect answers were being recorded. It was a total lack of communication. The reasons written on the papers would never have granted them passage out of their country.

�Pardon me. That is not what my mother is saying. Let me explain.� She spoke in perfect English, which she had learned at the University.

The clerk was startled. �You speak English?� she asked. And she quickly handed the papers over to the daughter for her to complete properly. Before they left that day, the clerk took the daughter aside and asked, �Would you consider coming to work for us?�

Then the unbelievable happened. Only thirteen days had passed. One daughter heard the telephone ringing, and when she answered it�a startled look of disbelief came over her face. She put the receiver down on the phone and ran to her mother.

�The papers have been approved. They said we are to be ready to go. Immediately!�

�No, it can�t be!�

�Yes. They just called and said we should be ready to go.�

The older daughter called to confirm the information and indeed it was so.

(All of this was being related to me by that sister who spoke broken, but fluent English.)

�We hurriedly packed only a few of our things and left behind almost all our worldly possessions. More papers, and more papers were completed, and we were each finally handed a large sealed envelope. We were told never to let this envelope out of our sight or possession, or we would immediately be sent right back to where we started. We were not to open the envelope under any circumstances, and it must remain sealed. This was emphasized over and over.

We clutched the large envelopes to our chests and guarded them with our lives. Our greatest fear was that we would be sent right back again.

As soon as we were safely on the plane, we removed the burqas, which we always wore over our regular clothing whenever in public. An Iranian woman can be severely punished or executed for being seen without this covering.

We had not been in the air for long when we began to descend into another middle-eastern city in order to take on passengers. My mother panicked. She scrambled to get into her burqa again. I asked her what she was doing, and she said that we could be seen through the windows of the plane, and �they� would come and take us off the plane. She was terrified.

We assured her that she was safe now. It was okay. The plane took off without incident and we were on our way to a freedom we had no knowledge of, clutching our sealed envelopes as though our lives depended on them. And indeed they did.

When we arrived in America, the processing through Immigration began all over again. Only, the large envelopes were abruptly taken out of our hands. We protested.

�No, No. We cannot let go of these.� Fear gripped our hearts again. We were four women, alone and terrified in a foreign land.

The American Immigration Officer firmly took charge of the situation, opened the sealed envelopes, took out each paper and examined it carefully, one at a time. We could scarcely breathe, as they slowly looked them over. We had given up our precious envelopes. We could be sent back to where we came from.

They did not give them back to us. A small white card was removed from the papers.

The Immigration Officer laid all the other papers aside, handed each of us that small white card, and said, with a smile, �Welcome to America. This shows that you are free to go anywhere in America. This card makes you as free to be here as an American citizen. But do not lose this card or let it out of your personal possession. This is very important. Do you understand? Welcome to America.�

The luncheon came to an end and we were saying our goodbyes. When I approached this young woman who had told their story, I could hardly speak. I held her in my arms for a moment, and with tear-filled eyes, I said �Thank you. I will not be the same after having been here today.�

I choked back a sob and managed, �Americans have no idea. We just don�t know. We are so blessed. Thank you.�

Text � copyright 2003 - 2008 The Homespun Philosopher

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