Our little Rusul has a new foot! She’s happily walking away on her new prosthetic and will be starting twice-a-day therapy as of tomorrow. At last Thursday’s appointment Rusul hopped on the examination table, pulled on her new prosthesis, jumped down and started walking! (Apparently, this isn’t the norm for someone just getting a prosthetic, but if you’ve met Rusul, you’d have guessed it’d be what she’d do!) She even entertained a bit with some mini-skips and hops, just to show us she could do it! I’ve even had to actually STOP her from taking off running as Ed Skewes (her prostheticist) said that this isn’t the “final” foot and it’ll break if she runs. She could do it if she tried though; and she’s aching to try!

I just got back from a weekend in Asheville with Rusul, staying at the beautiful mountain home of Paul Turner and visiting with him and Ymani Simmons (both of Asheville’s core group).  The Unitarian Church in Asheville was donating Sunday’s collection to Rusul and NMV, and we wanted to be there for that. A big thanks to Lew Patrie of the UU church, and Susan Oehler of the Asheville Core group for setting this up!

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Could it be only a little over a week since Rusul entered our lives? Hard to believe. In that short amount of time, she’s made some new and dear friends, learned some English, had her foot amputated, been discharged from the hospital, and is now walking with a walker! And our dear friend, Abu Ali, her father, feels comfortable and welcome again in his “home away from home”.

But so much more has happened in the short time since Rusul’s been here. She’s taught me so much; not only a few more words in Arabic and that she loves french fries and ketchup to an alarming degree, but she’s reminded me to be more appreciative.

She’s taught me that the focus should be on the positive ending, not the struggle along the way. Having “your foot chopped off” can be a GOOD thing because it means walking better and getting to go to school!

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When my own daughter Sara was 7, we went to the pet shop for a filter for the goldfish bowl.  While we were there, we encountered a blue-eyed baby Springer Spaniel puppy for sale.  Not what we came for.   This was a hard time in our family’s life.  Sara never said a word, but she looked at me in a certain way, you might be able to imagine it.  “I know,” her eyes seemed to say, “It’s too much to hope for.”  We took the puppy home that day.  So many things are said by not saying them.  I’m coming to think, more and more, that we give words way too much credit, and sometimes they just get in the way.

I couldn’t digest my food Monday night; it sat in my stomach, even though I ordered the lightest of vegan meals from the noodle place menu.  It had nothing to do with the food.  My spinach pancake was excellent.  I loved it.  I adored it.   I am so glad I ordered it.  It was affordable, too.  I will get it again next time.  My stomach was uncomfortable about something else, and it was letting me know.

During dinner, behind a backdrop of street music and a crying baby, I tried to reach Abu Ali to let him know Ken and I wished to visit that night, but all I could get was voice mail.  Ann Cothran, National Community Coordinator for No More Victims, had given me his direct number.

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She danced.

Her dress billowed, circling her like a flower’s petals as she spun in the sun.  She laughed and sang, then broke into giggles of pure joy.

Suddenly stopping, she turned to me.  Her gorgeous dark eyes with the long, curling lashes became moist with sorrow as she began to walk away in her proud and independent way that almost hides the struggle.

“Good-bye, Ann.  I love and miss you, Ann,” she called over her shoulder as she reached the sidewalk.  She turned and sadly waved one last time, then lifted her right arm high and in a firm, clear voice, called “TAXI!  TAXI!”

I ran to the sidewalk and scooped her up and she became a rag doll, overcome with giggles.

This was Rusul, the drama queen, the child of joy and laughter, yesterday in front of her temporary new home at the Ronald McDonald House.  Play-acting, having fun, being silly.  Being a child.

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In November, 2007 I joined a group from Global Exchange to visit the Middle East to learn more about the Iraqi refugee crisis. I learned about the incredible suffering that these people were enduring. There were a hundred heartbreaking stories and a hundred causes that deserved (and still deserve) attention and action. There were also stories of hope and kindness.

One story that stuck with me was the story of Abdul Hakeem and his family.  We were invited to meet with a group of people who had witnessed the air strikes in Falluja. Below is an excerpt from my travel journal that day.

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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.

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I wanted to help an injured war child because I could never think of my little brother being hurt in such a way. These injures don’t just hurt the child physically but emotionally also. I believe that children should be able to have choices and be able to have dreams but when they are injured in such a way their dreams are gone. I help because I want to give those children their dreams back.

Alyssa is a middle school student and the lead organizer for the No More Victims – Casper chapter at her school.

In the 5th grade, I remember having a picture of Saddam Hussein on the door of my room. It was covered in pen marks, made during my moments of anger and frustration. Alongside the picture was an article on an atrocity, one of many, committed by his brutal regime. It was my way of showing the hatred I felt towards the monsters wielding power in Iraq. I did not quite understand the dynamics of Iraqi politics, let alone Middle East politics, but I knew the lives of Iraqis to be one of no political openness and no freedom of speech. A constant fear emanated from Iraqis who knew the consequences of relating their opinions of the government.

The frequent visits to my grandparent’s house in Laguna often included me spending the night, asking my grandmother to “goolee qusa haqiqia,” tell me a true story! I would always ask to hear about the country I was originally from, but never had the chance to see for myself. She would always tell me of her childhood in Iraq, how hot it would get at night and, on those particularly hot days, how she and her sisters would sleep on the roof. She told me happy stories, as well as an equal amount of disturbing ones. One that really kept me up at night was the story of a little girl who was in preschool. Saddam Hussein was visiting the school and, when he approached the little girl, she told him that her dad spat on his face whenever it appeared on TV. The following day, Saddam’s secret police were at the door of this little girl’s house; they shot her father in front of both her and her mother.

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Wow! I’m still walking on air after this morning’s phone call. Dr. John Davids, Chief of Staff at Shriners Hospital in Greenville, called today to let me know that Salee’s little sister, Rusul, has been accepted for treatment! What a dream come true. I was on pins and needles worrying that, after helping to get the care for Salee to be able to walk again, her little sister would be left sitting at home, forever maimed. But, there is now hope for Rusul, too! What a blessing!

Rusul’s right leg was horribly mangled in the same US air strike of November 2006, that took the lives of her little brother and friend, and both legs of her big sister as they were outside of their homes, playing. To imagine children, innocently at play, being hit by missiles paid for by our tax dollars, is heart-wrenching. Can we even imagine how we’d feel (and react) if another nation’s bombs dropped from the sky onto our children? If we ran outside to find them scattered on the ground, blood-soaked and broken? No, we can’t imagine it, yet we’re inflicting this horror on the families of Iraq on a daily basis. The feeling that I, as an American, am somehow responsible for the loss of Salee’s legs, the death of her brother, and the maiming of precious little Rusul brings me such sorrow.
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We first learned about No More Victims in late 2007 while watching Democracy Now! with Amy Goodman (our hero!). Amy was interviewing Cole and Salee and her father.

In 2002, we had traveled to San Francisco to march against the war, saw Market Street filled with people as far as the eye could see: nuns, businessmen, sports fans, all kinds of folks, and believed that the war surely could not begin in the face of such wide public resistance. We attended more marches, wrote to Congress, participated in organizing a demonstration right here on the border of Yosemite National Park. At that rally of about 25 El Portal/Mariposa locals, we were cheered on by virtually every car passing by. (One passenger did flip us off - kept us laughing all day!)

After all that effort, and all these years, watching friends, neighbors and relatives go to war, wondering what will happen to our own son in a few years when he is of “registration” age, it has felt as though all that’s left to do is to pray. The best thing we can do is pray. Then an opportunity comes, and prayer catalyzes action. (more…)