Surviving
the Shock and Awe of Liberation
Paul Kennedy, The
Perils of Empire
Baghdad,
Iraq
April
2003 A.D.
We
are an ancient people, mothered by Summer, our
cradle
kept afloat by the Tigris and the Euphrates,
the
traces of our ancient writings etched
on
the artifacts left in our museums.
We
have survived liberation—
Even
after Hammurabi conjured up his code
and
stamped it on our foreheads—
Even
after the Assyrians heated the circle to 360
degrees
and scorched our backs—
Even
after Nebuchadnezzar hung his hanging
gardens
and watered them with our tears—
Even
after Darius and Xerxes lumbered through with
their
unchangeable laws that could not change us—
Even
after Alexander and his eagles swooped from
the
skies and pooped on our heads—
Even
after Khalid and the Blessed Rulers mingled
our
blood with theirs to form Baghdad—
Even
after Ja'far numbered our days, starting with
zero,
and computed our every move algorithmically—
Even
after Genghis trashed our villages, gutted our
cities,
and left us choking—
Even
after the Ottomans, flanked by Young Turks,
twisted
our necks and spat in our faces—
Even
after Victoria freed us from ourselves
(and we freed ourselves from her)—
Even
after being passed from hand to hand like a
poor
man's whore while the Chosen Ones escaped
the
madness for their own land—
Even
after an assassin crowned himself our true leader,
and
the world declared him odious, and he spewed
his
wrath on us. . .
To
blunt the glancing blow of liberation, we have learned
how
to dance when it strikes at our feet.
Today,
standing in the rubble of this ravaged place,
we
stare into the star-spangled eyes of our latest
liberators,
their faces void of our history as we smile
through
clenched teeth, holding signs that read:
"Welcome!
And thank you for saving us from
__________."
(After
4,000 years, the name is immaterial.)
And
when our arms tire we lower the signs, turn
to
our liberators, and ask:
"Shall we dance?"