Look, the terrible twos is a phase, puberty is a phase, post-partum depression is a phase, mid-life crisis is a phase. The thing we have in Eye-Rack is an unmitigated disaster that is just going to keep getting worse. Today in the front page of the local Strib, we have a former Iraqi stringer for the newspaper telling us how she is forced to quit her lifelong home:
I left my home Monday.
As my family fled the fighting that's engulfed our neighborhood in Baghdad, I gazed out the car window, thinking that I might never again see the fruit stand off our street, the shops where my sisters and I bought soft drinks, the turquoise-domed mosque where we prayed in the holy month of Ramadan.
And to think I'd spent Sunday in my garden, using the forced free time of a curfew to plant geraniums for spring. Later that night, Shiite militiamen encroached on our Sunni enclave; the reverse had happened in so many other neighborhoods, and now it was our turn. Any thoughts of the future were overshadowed by the need to survive the night.
A year ago, I was a newlywed excited about finally having a place of my own. I filled it with what we call baghdadiyat, the artifacts of a bygone time in Iraq's history: an Ottoman trunk, Persian carpets, copper spoons and silver vases finely etched with designs of birds and flowers. Abstract paintings by young Iraqi artists hung on the wall. My garden outside was ringed with stones and filled with climbing vines and seasonal flowers.
When it became too dangerous to dine at restaurants, my husband and I would sometimes set a table in the garden and eat together under a floodlight -- if there was electricity. This was my sanctuary from war.
With the birth of our daughter last September, I became even more grateful for a safe place where I could play with her and momentarily forget the sad stories I hear all day in my job as a journalist.
But the violence in Baghdad worsened over the summer. Strangers crept into the Jihad district, our middle-class neighborhood of Sunnis and Shiites. Were they there to protect us? Nobody knew for sure.
. . .On Sunday night, I was home watching the evening news when my sister rushed over from next door and said, "There's a lot of shooting outside. Can't you hear it?"
The loud whir of my generator, our only source of electricity that night, had drowned out the gunfire a few blocks away. Within minutes we feared we'd be under attack.
Even though we'd planned for this moment, I panicked. I switched off the generator, but I couldn't find my flashlight. As I fumbled in the darkness, my daughter started crying and grabbing my leg. I scooped her up, wrapped her in a blanket and rushed to my parents through the back passageway.
My family gathered in the living room, terror in their eyes. The women and children moved to a corridor away from the windows. The men made frantic phone calls and readied their weapons.
Men stood watch on the roofs, and some neighbors fired warning shots out their windows.
After a while, it seemed as if everyone was shooting. Then a loud boom sounded, a rocket or a mortar shell, very close.
My daughter woke up crying. When the shooting grew louder, I covered her ears with my hands.
"What am I still doing here?" I asked myself. "What more needs to happen for me to leave?"
I felt angry with myself for being so stubborn, for staying in the neighborhood long after most of my friends had fled. I made a promise to myself: If we made it through the night, I'd leave.
The shooting died down after midnight. We tried to sleep, but we woke up nearly every hour and checked to see if the sun had risen. Somehow, morning seemed safe.
After dawn, the curfew ended, but we didn't want to be the first family on the road. Who knew if there were illegal checkpoints? Car bombs? Gunmen?
Not things, but memories
I stood in my home, remembering how my husband and I had told everyone that we'd never leave. I looked at my paintings, the century-old chest, all the antiques that we'd spent days picking out so carefully in Baghdad's ancient markets. They weren't just things, they were memories.
I had two suitcases. What to take? I stuffed one with my daughter's clothes and diapers, along with all our personal documents. Into the other went my smallest painting, a cherished Indian bedspread and warm sweaters for winter.
As we began loading the car, I realized that there was no space for the second bag. With a broken heart, I left it behind.
I told myself they were just material things. There's nothing we can't buy except our lives. Nothing was as important as my daughter, and I was just grateful that we'd made it to morning.
I took one last look at my living room, locked the door and walked away.