I talked with Nora and Rusul on the phone today! Cole called and put them on the line. Nora said, “Hello, Ann,” and then began rattling off in Arabic. I don’t know what she said, but she sounded happy! Rusul said, “Hello, Ann! I MISS YOU, ANN!” In caps because Rusul’s voice literally sang through the phone – it hit my heart because it sounded so much like her big sister, Salee’s. I couldn’t help feeling a sadness and longing for Salee hearing Rusul’s voice. But there was definitely no sadness on Rusul’s part. Her voice shone with the pure joy and exuberance that is also her sister’s. If you’ve met Salee, you’ll know what I mean.

My conversations with the girls were, of course, quite short, because we’d both exhausted our command of each other’s language (I have literally none of theirs) within seconds. But, those brief seconds were long enough to make me even more anxious to meet these precious little ones who’ve been so damaged by what’s happened to their country.

I spoke with Abu Ali, Rusul’s father, and Afif, Nora’s father, briefly too. Of course, I know Abu Ali well from his time here with Salee. He was his usual exuberant self, saying, “I love you, my Sister. And, I miss EVERYONE there!” Afif sounded kind and courteous, a quiet man searching for the right words in English to express himself. He said that he looked forward to meeting me and that he’d see me soon.

I couldn’t help but wonder how my voice would sound in their situation. Or, if my child’s life had been damaged the way that their children’s lives had. I think I’d sound melancholy, and my child, in return, would reflect the voice of a victim. The voice of years of suffering. The voice of one who’d encountered unspeakable terror. For not only had Rusul’s life been forever altered the day that the US missile dropped from the sky as she was playing hopscotch with her friends; for not only had Nora’s life been forever changed the day that a bullet pierced her skull while riding in her family car; but they’d been living for 5 years in a country occupied by another. They’d been living for five years not knowing if they’d have enough food to eat each day, if they’d have clean water to drink, or electricity in their homes. They’d been living for five years not knowing if they’d be allowed to go outside to play that day, or would ever be able to go to school again. They’d been living for five years not knowing if the day would come when another missile, or another bullet, would silence their joy forever.

But, their voices didn’t reflect suffering, or fear, hatred or vengeance. Their voices reflected joy, love, and compassion.

I continue to learn so much from these few Iraqi people whom I’ve been blessed to meet, and I am so grateful. I pray that we’ll one day bring them the Peace they so deserve. Because there are so many, many more Rusuls and Noras there.