This was sent to me by my wife. I think it is relevant. Shalom, Micheal -------- Original Message -------- On 17 Mar 2003 10:31:36 GMT, in alt.mothers you wrote: >Sarah Goodyear is a well-known editor and writer in New York City who's >also a new mother concerned about the looming Iraq war. In response, >she is allowing the free use, reproduction, and publication for all of >the following essay: > >A Mother's Thoughts > >by Sarah Goodyear >(http://homepage.mac.com/sarahgoodyear/Personal1.html) > >My son turns one year old on March 18th. I'm going to bake a carrot >cake, and decorate it with a bunny drawn in icing. > >Somewhere in Baghdad, there is another woman who will be marking her >child's first birthday that day. I doubt that she will be baking a cake, >or wrapping presents, in the days leading up to this milestone. Because >she must know, as do I, that March 18th is likely to have another >meaning this year. It could well be the first day of the American war on >her nation. The first day of a military action the Bush administration >has chosen to call Shock and Awe. It sounds to me like a video game I >would not allow my son to play, when he gets older. > >So my counterpart in Baghdad, whether she supports Saddam Hussein or is >eager for his overthrow, whether she dreams of coming to America or >would gladly see us wiped off the map, will be preparing for March 18th >in another way. I can see her in my mind's eye, going about her business >as calmly as she can. Her son on her hip or clinging to her skirts--at >this age, they still don't want to be out of arms for long--she will be >gathering together what food she can find. She will be buying candles, >or kerosene for lamps. Electricity is spotty in Iraq anyway, and power >plants will be among the first targets. The 1,000-pound Tomahawk >missiles will surely come screaming in at night. They always do. She >knows that from the last time. > >Perhaps this Iraqi mother--let's call her Salma--will be leaving her >home for the countryside and the hope of safety, locking the front door >in what she knows is a futile gesture against the forces that are about >to be unleashed on her city. Wondering if she will ever see the inside >of that place again, ever again return to those familiar objects, cook a >meal in her kitchen, welcome her husband into their bed. She will have >to leave some of the baby's things behind, but she will be careful to >bring the toy he likes best. > >Or perhaps she has nowhere else to go, and she is planning where she >will sit with her child when the bombs start falling in the dark. How >she will comfort him. > >***** > >I am planning my cake. Unlike most of the people in Iraq, I have access >to more food than I need. There is no reason for me to stint on sugar, >except that I don't want Nathaniel to develop too much of a taste for >it. No reason for me to leave nuts out of the recipe, except that I am >worried about an allergic reaction. No reason for me to cut a smaller >slice for myself, except that I, like so many American women, am trying >to lose a little weight. > >In Iraq, for many years women have had to worry about how to get enough >calories, rather than how to cut them. While I was making trips to the >Ben & Jerry's down the street every night of my pregnancy, while I was >joking that my son was being made out of the steak I consumed two or >three times a week at a local restaurant, while I was taking my >expensive prenatal vitamins, I imagine that Salma was trying to find >enough to eat. > >Since the United Nations voted in 2000 to remove the cap on oil sales >for Iraq's oil-for-food program, the government food ration has >increased, from 1,090 calories per day in 1991 to 2,215 calories a day. >And yet for a pregnant woman that is not enough. Salma's husband and >other members of her family likely urged her to take some of their >share, for the baby's sake. It may have been difficult for her to >accept; she knew her husband needed his strength in his search for work. >He has been unemployed now for months, his university degree no good in >a shriveled economy. > >Maybe Salma managed to get enough to eat, so her baby was born healthy, >like mine. I like to think so. It would not be something she would take >for granted. In 1998, 24 percent of Iraqi babies were born underweight; >that was a major contributing factor to an infant mortality rate that >soared in the 1990s. Between 1995 and 1999, 105 of every 1,000 children >in Iraq died before their fifth birthday. > >Things have improved, but hunger is still a reality for the children of >Iraq. In Baghdad, where Salma lives, a child's chances are better than >in rural areas. If she is educated, as I am, her son's hope for decent >nutrition is better still. And yet her education will not be able to >protect her son from her nation's polluted and contaminated water >supply. > >Who is to blame? One could point a finger at the United States and other >western nations that have imposed strict sanctions on Iraq since the >1991 Gulf War. Or one could blame Saddam Hussein, for running the >brutal, war-seeking dictatorship that prompted those sanctions. > >But when you're trying to feed a child, or protect a child from falling >bombs, blame is beside the point. Blame will not help a one-year-old >child understand why there is not bread for his supper. It will not help >him sleep in the middle of a missile attack. It will not give him >parents who are not afraid. > >**** > >I, too, am afraid of the day the bombs start falling, even though I do >not let this stop me from planning my cake. I live in New York City. We >have been told--as if we needed to be told--that we will be on the front >lines of any war against Iraq. That we can expect terrorist attacks. My >situation is the same as Salma's. Whether I like this president or not >(I don't), whether I believe in this war or not (I don't), I will be in >the line of fire. True, terrorists openly target people like me, while >our military says it will do its best to avoid killing people like >Salma. I doubt that offers her much comfort, and it will offer none at >all for her baby. > >The other night, I was out of the house without Nathaniel. My partner >had kindly offered me the opportunity to go eat in a local restaurant >with a book and myself alone, and I took it. I was walking home, a few >doors down from my house, when I heard an explosion. I felt a puff of >air on my face--a percussion wave. I started running to the place where >my baby was. On either side of me, windows flew open and my neighbors >poked their heads into the night. "I think it's OK," I yelled up to >them. "It sounded big but small, if you know what I mean." > >I was right. On the street up ahead, a manhole cover had blown off, a >routine hazard of spring, when underground wiring is corroded by melting >snow and salt. No one was hurt. Big but small. > >My neighbors knew what I meant because so many of us had heard what >big--really big--sounds like. I was sitting at my dining-room table >drinking tea when I heard it. It sounded like a dump truck going over a >big pothole, except that it didn't. I looked at the clock, because I >knew something bad had happened, and for some reason I wanted to know >what time it was. My clock said 9:01. It was the second plane hitting. I >still don't know why I didn't hear the first. > >That day, three months pregnant, I went to the top floor of my house and >stood outside the room that was to be my son's nursery and I saw the >towers burning. I had so much looked forward to showing him those >towers, the promise of them, from his bedroom window. Now, when he is >old enough, I will have to explain their memory instead. > >I have often thought that Nathaniel protected me that day. If I hadn't >been pregnant, I would have rushed down to the promenade on the Brooklyn >waterfront. I would have seen the collapse in person. I am glad I did >not see that. > >Now that he is outside of me, it is I who must protect him. I must >create a safe space for him wherever he is and whatever is happening. >This is something Salma and I are both worrying about how to do, every >day. My chances look better than hers. > >***** > >Long before the government issued us an advisory about plastic sheeting >and duct tape, I was thinking about my basement. It is spacious and dry. >It could be quite comfortable, in a pinch, and easily sealed off. But >every time I think of sitting down there with Nathaniel, I remember >another story I read. > >It was about a Kurdish woman who was in a village gassed by Iraqi troops >in 1988. She went with her two-year-old child into a basement to escape >the poison in the air. She took him to her breast, thinking that he >would be safer if he were nursing. It is an instinct all nursing mothers >can understand. What comes from our breasts is good and nourishing and >meant especially for our babies. They are almost inevitably comforted by >it, and we are comforted too. > >What that nursing Kurdish mother didn't know was that the gas Hussein's >troops were using was heavier than air. It sank. It filled the basement >where she had her baby at her bosom. The child died first; then she >died, still holding him to her, still holding him tight. > >I am wary of basements. Perhaps Salma is, too. > >I wish I could talk to her--the real woman behind my imaginary >construct. I wish our children could sit on a rug fighting over toys >together. I wish I could tell her how terrible I feel in my helplessness >to stop this war. We would understand one another, I am sure of it, even >if not completely. We both live in the world of women. > >I used to not believe in this world. I used to be adamant in my belief >that women and men were essentially the same. That has changed. The >change began when I was pregnant. When I went into labor, it deepened. I >looked around me at all the other people who weren't in labor and I >thought, the only people I am truly connected to at this moment of pain >and fear and animal determination are other women who are trying to >bring their babies into the world safely. > >And right now, as I wait for this war to begin, as I get ready to bake >my son's birthday cake, I feel that perhaps I am only truly connected to >other women who are trying to keep their children in this world safely. >Women like Salma. > >The only problem is, Salma and I cannot live in the world of women >without also living in the world of men. Some would call it the real >world. I'm not so sure. > ------- Austin Mennonite Church, (512) 926-3121 www.mennochurch.org To unsubscribe: use subject "unsubscribe" sent to amc-request@xxxxxxxxxxxxx