Archive for the ‘home’ Category

As promised.

I have attached pictures of the house: receiving room, bedroom, kitchen. I spend most of my time outdoors since I cannot bear the emptiness inside these walls.  

As promised, if you visit you will always have a place to rest your head.  Although there is difficulty in such a proposition:  the flight in, the check points, the intermittent house raids. You are much too sensitive for this military state.

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Every time I visit Iraq in pictures, I die another little death.  

Yesterday I was in Sadr City.  I insisted that I would stay — even while I watched families leaving the city ahead of the rumored air raids.  I sat eating a nervous breakfast when I heard a whirr and a violent crash; I went deaf a split second before the US mortar round killed me.  I was a thirty-five year old woman; how had I survived that long?


I’ve edited my face into the circumstances;  see below.

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Click on the pictures below to find what doesn’t belong.

herhousework.jpg    herbovines.jpg    herdog.jpg

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I live between two shoulders.


Nestled between two shoulders, I fall asleep on a woolen mat too narrow for my girth and too short for my length. The mat is old and moth-eaten, in danger of completely revealing the stained cushion it houses.

I wake up some time later, my fist clenching a key that doesn’t fit the front or back doors, nor the gate outside. And the window sills are rife with moth carcasses.










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This neighborhood was one child’s universe: the home, the friend’s house, the grade school, the paths traversed in-between.
I still find it difficult to grasp that I see my old house again only thanks to satelite technology honing in on a warzone. The picture presents a future unimagined; you can’t see it here but the neighborhood was under development as I busily explored unbuilt houses and kicked up dust from the road in my wooden-heeled boots (a fashion for young girls) — so much yet to be.
But “yet to be” would translate to decade after decade of counter-development, the sacrificing of regional alliances, the depletion of dignity, so-called brain drain, and the ire of the world.
On a very personal level, this is where the creative impulse was initiated. I was on and off the grid, making believe with bits of detritis, testing the extent of my imagination with bricks and rocks from the various construction zones. Language got me around the neighborhood, smells and sights were subtitled in my head.











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