A Ten-Year Old Iraqi And His Dead Mother With No Feet – Part One

Akbar Rabani sat on a rock on the side of the road three miles north of Basra in Southern Iraq. Akbar was ten years old. He wore sandals, white cloth pants and a blue Manchester soccer shirt he was given by a British soldier. He was thinking about his mother. In fact, he was looking at his mother, who was lying on the cracked black pavement six feet in front of him. Akbar’s mother’s name was Suukal. Suukal was dead, lying in the midday Spring sun, wearing a dark grey skirt and black blouse that had a hood attached that was used to cover her head and face. Suukal’s shoes were attached to her feet, which had been blown off her legs and lying a few feet away. The hole where the bomb exploded was under Suukal, her body having flown into the air, plopping down immediately on top of where the device had been placed. The heat of the bomb cauterized the bottom of what remained of Suukal’s legs, which prevented blood from flowing. Indeed, Akbar saw no blood. It was strange, he thought, that his mother could be blown up, and somehow neatly just lose her feet in a bloodless death. Suukal’s head was turned toward Akbar, her eyes closed, with a bit of dust on her cheeks. Suukal had long black hair which was splayed out from the hood that was back off her head. Suukal was thirty-two years old. Akbar had no siblings. He had no father, who was killed last year. And now Akbar had no mother.

An American Marine was standing a few feet from Suukal, looking down at the body, holding a rifle up with his right arm. The Marine’s name was John. He was from Cincinnati, and was thinking of the Cincinnati Reds who were in first place in the Central Division of the National League. The Reds at that very moment had the best record in all Major League Baseball, and it made him feel homesick. John caught himself thinking of the Great American Ballpark, the name of the stadium where the Reds played, as he was gazing at a dead woman with no feet. John’s mind bounced back and forth between the dead woman and the oldest professional baseball team in the major leagues. From dead woman to baseball to the dead woman and back to baseball. John was perplexed at how his brain could contemplate these two disparate thoughts. It was springtime in America, with the sound of bats hitting balls, and it was springtime in Iraq with the sound of roadside bombs. But like America, Iraq was more complicated than that. John then noticed a boy wearing a soccer shirt sitting on a rock.

To Be Continued.

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