Mixed feelings.

There are some beautiful children here. There is one, Hassan, who has his portable business just in front of the hotel. He shines shoes. Heıs very good at it . I canıt stand to see it and I donıt quite understand why. Heıs working and supporting his family. And very proud of it too.

Thereıs a another boy I love in the neighbourhood. This one has dimples and stole my heart without even trying, I often think to myself that if worst comes to worst, heıll know how to get around.

I canıt hand out money to begging children. If you go to booksellers row there are many little girls, dragging littler brothers and sisters with them, holding out cartons containing two sweets or this one boy that wants to sell tissue paper. I canıt do it. I canıt accept to do it sometimes and not others, so I donıt do it at all. I know itıs a living and I donıt understand myself. But I canıt do it.

The children are very beautiful. Very, very beautiful. All the shades of brown. Beautiful eyes.

Yesterday we met the archbishop of southern Iraq (He lives and works in Basra, the city in the south where so much of the bombing has been taking place, where much of the depleted uranium can be found, where health and sanitation conditions today are very difficult). The archbishop told us that expecting families used to ask to know the sex of the child in the past. They used to be partial to little boys. The number of birth defects (malformations a la naissance) is so high now that all people want to know today is if the child has hands or feet. From a feminist perspective this breaks my heart. As a woman in childbearing years my tummy cramps in desolation.

We went to visit the children at the St Raphael orphanage. There are several orphanages here. This one takes care of disabled children. None of the children there can walk or talk properly. I was afraid to enter their home. I was afraid to see, and smell, and hear horrible things. I was afraid to see neglect and misery. And instead I went over for lunchtime and got nothing but smiles and strokes of welcome. The children are very well taken care of, every single day. It was so easy to plop down on the mat for lunch time and wipe some noses and feed some rice and chicken into smiling hungry mouths. But I kept thinking that for it to be easy for me to drop by for lunch, somebody had to keep the place up and running every day. To give and give and give. Gracefully.

I donıt know if I will ever be a parent. Iım so afraid, so greedy. I donıt know that I could stand to love and fear as the parents here in Bagdad do, or the ones back home, my own, and all the others. Possibilities are endless: accidents, learning difficulties, health problems, loss, harrassement, substance abuse, depression , unemployment, homelessness.

War means bombs dropping from the sky, milicia in the streets shooting and throwing grenades. It means killing, raping, maiming. It means food and water getting scarcer and scarcer as time goes by, and garbage and sewage and disease getting out of control. War means people killing and dying and breaking under pressure, settling old scores because nobody is watching right then and they can get away with it. War means humanitarian agencies, and relief programs and people fleeing, trying to get out, it means refugee camps and sub-human status, it means people giving up.

Here in Iraq, forty percent or so of the population is under 16 years of age. Iıve decided to stay on here on the peace team. Because I donıt want to be afraid anymore. I need to hope and keep going. Iım learning that here. Iım still holding out for no war. I even say letıs lift the sanctions and stop the choke hold on these people. When I left Montreal I said Canada should not participate in this war. Today I go much further. I think in times like these itıs not about taking sides for one or the other, but to look out for one another, stand up for one another and not be afraid.

Love Lisa