Cole called tonight and said that Salee and Abu Ali had made it safely home to Fallujah.  There was a welcoming party with a huge feast and a sacrificial lamb.  All was well, and they were happy.

But happiness must be a pretty relative thing in a city that’s been decimated by siege and sanction.  In a city where nobody doesn’t have somebody that they loved who’s been killed as a result of our invasion.

I want to think of Salee happy.  Her smile lit up every room into which she walked (or wheeled).  Her laugh was infectious.  Her joy was pure.

But instead, I keep thinking of the day that Salee and I were driving aimlessly since I, as usual, was lost.  We drove peacefully, comfortable in each other’s company.  It was shortly after she’d arrived and our conversations at that time were limited.  We drove through a small town past a water tower and she suddenly became animated.  She pointed fiercely at the tower and said, “ANN!  FALLUJAH!  ANN!  FALLUJAH!!!!  Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.”  You couldn’t mistake the sound for anything other than machine gun fire.  I asked, “Guns in Fallujah, Salee?” and she said, “Yes, guns in Fallujah” and made the horrible sounds again, before she fell silent to gaze out the window in thought.

I think of the times she tried to tell me about the day of the missile strike, the day that she lost her legs, her best friend and her brother. She’d always talked more about her Mama and Baba’s reaction; how they cried and screamed at the sight of her leg-less torso, entrenched in blood.  “What is this, Salee?  What is THIS?”, she’d say over and over again, pointing at her stunted limbs.

I think of a time shortly before she left when she pointed to the sky at a passing airplane and said, “Guns in Iraq, Ann” and made her fist into a pistol and started pantomiming shooting.  Then, made her hands and fingers into falling bombs, trailing from the sky.

I want to think of Salee laughing because that’s what she did most.  She laughed.  She was funny.  She made faces.  She tickled and punched and teased.  She made friends and loved them.  I want to think of Salee playing at Gatti-Town, riding her favorite carousel horse and the bumper cars.  I want to think of Salee swinging and sliding at Cleveland Park and the look on her face when she asked, “This big money, Ann?”, and then when I said, “No money, Salee”,  she replied,  “This GOOD no big money!”.

I want to think of Salee with Abu Ali, and how much they loved each other.

But Salee’s home is in Fallujah, and they’ve shared in the welcoming feast.  How long will the happiness of their homecoming last?  How long before our missiles and tanks take it away?

Let’s do whatever we can to end this thing.  Because in a year, Salee will come back.  And, we want her to be smiling when she does.