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'Baghdad Morning in New York'

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Contributed by: paul batou on 9/9/2007

My village in Iraq was burned in 1961 with an act they called "Ethnic Cleansing." I was 2 years old at that time when both my father and mother witnessed the event.

There will always be that clear picture of us running and hiding to survive etched into our memories. Eventually, my parents sent us to the West to live among Christians in peace and freedom.

As we all know, 9/11 continues to be a huge threat to our freedom. I was watching the news in California that morning with my mother; I told her in Aramaic, "See what the Islamist radicals did to our city!"

She looked at me for a moment and said, "They have followed us to our new home." For her, my reply was a poem called "Baghdad Morning in New York," to honor all those who died in that event, all who sacrificed their lives to save others, and everyone who continues to rebuild our country after that event.

Finally, I wrote that poem to honor all the Iraqi Christians who are dying in Iraq today because of their beliefs as well as all those who escape their homelands searching for peace.

Baghdad Morning in New York

At eyeshot,
Such threads of gloomy fog
in a coal black sky.
They claim to be God's knights
And universe's earthquake
They claim to be ... the message's protector
At eyeshot.
A blast echoes ...
Holes scorched in the sky.
At eyeshot,
There was silence.
And waiting.
Towers fell down from the clouds,
The ground collected
The scattered bodies.
There was ... a storm of crying.
And screaming.
All were hugging the air.
Drizzles of smoke drop,
Fall like a rain shower
Over the heaps.
I looked at my face in the mirror!
When evening came along,
City lights shined
On remains and corpses.
Is this another Baghdad?
One that collects its dead!
And sings a song at the Euphrates.
blue was the sky,
Silent was the ocean.
While embracing the city,
And the Statue of Liberty.
Oh ... New York.
Do they come from there?
Chasing us?
Let them come,
My heart is full of snow,
from winter and wintertime.
My heart is full of anger,
from fighting and killing.
My heart is full of sadness,
from weeping and mourning.
A wound has opened,
A tower has fallen!
My dear,
They do not love flowers,
Or jasmine.
They do not like farmers' songs,
Nor do they like the rain.
They do not like fall whistling,
Or the summer sun rising.
They do not like winter nights.
At eyeshot,
Wherever I look,
I saw light.
I saw old people and children.
I saw orphans and heroes.
All are lifting
A tower
To the sky.
Oh . . . New York.
Oh . . . Baghdad.
Cowards are they,
Who kill from behind.

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