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A Boy Who Was 'Like a Flower': By聽 March 31, 2003
A Boy Who Was 'Like a Flower': By聽 March 31, 2003
By 聽 Anthony Shadid
With a cotton swab dipped in water, he ran his hand across Daif's
olive corpse, dead for three hours but still glowing with life. He
blotted the rose-red shrapnel wounds on the soft skin of Daif's right
arm and right ankle with the poise of practice. Then he scrubbed his
face scabbed with blood, left by a cavity torn in the back of Daif's
skull.
The men in the Imam Ali mosque stood somberly waiting to bury a
boy who, in the words of his father, was "like a flower." Haider
Kathim, the caretaker, asked: "What's the sin of the children? What
have they done?"
In the rituals of burial, the men and their families tried, futilely, to
escape the questions that have enveloped so many lives here in fear
and uncertainty. Beyond some neighbors, family, and a visitor, there
were no witnesses; the funeral went unnoticed by a government that
has eagerly escorted journalists to other wartime tragedies. Instead,
Daif and two cousins were buried in the solitude of a dirt-poor, Shiite
Muslim neighborhood near the city limits.
1
The explosion left no crater, and residents of the Rahmaniya
neighborhood struggled to pinpoint the source of the destruction.
Many insisted they saw an airplane. Some suggested Iraqi antiaircraft
fire had detonated a cruise missile in the air. Others suggested rounds
from antiaircraft guns had fallen back to earth and onto their homes.
"This war is evil. It's an unjust war," said Imad Hussein, a driver and
uncle of Hassan. "They have no right to make war against us. Until
now, we were sitting in our homes, comfortable and safe."
At the mosque, hours after the blast, Kadhim and another caretaker
prepared Daif's body for burial -- before sundown, as is Islamic
custom.
Bathed in the soft colors of turquoise tiles, the room was hushed, as
the caretakers finished the washing. They wrapped his head, his gaze
fixed, with red and yellow plastic. They rolled the corpse in plastic
sheeting, fastening it with four pieces of white gauze -- one at each
end, one around his knees and one around his chest.
2
"It's very difficult," said Kadhim, as the men closed the coffin.
"It was awful and ugly," he said. "This is the first time I've ever seen
anything like this."
In an open-air courtyard, the men set the coffin down on the stone
floor of a mosque still under construction. In two rows, they lined up
behind it, their shoes removed before them. Their lips moved in
prayers practiced thousands of times.
For Shiite Muslims, Najaf is among their most sacred cities, housing
the tomb of Ali, the son-in-law of the prophet Muhammad, whom
Shiites regard as his rightful heir. Tradition has it that the dying Ali
asked his followers to place his body on a camel and bury him
wherever it first knelt; Najaf was the site. Millions of pilgrims visit
each year, and devout Shiites will spend their life's savings for the
blessings of being buried in the vast cemeteries that gird the city.
The woman from Rahmaniya never made it. Residents said U.S.
forces attacked three cars, one carrying her body. It was another
3
ignominy visited on the city, the men agreed. They insisted that
infidels would never enter the city by force of arms. The U.S. siege of
the city -- its severity accentuated as rumors circulated -- was an act
of humiliation.
In his words was a fear that strikes deep into the Iraqi psyche. Many
worry that the U.S. invasion is a threat to their culture and traditions.
They wonder if an occupation would obliterate what they hold dear,
imposing an alien culture by force on a society that, in large part,
remains deeply conservative and insulated.
"We don't want the Americans or British here. Our food is better than
their food, our water is better than their water," he said.
With the prayers over, the men hoisted Daif's coffin over their heads.
They left through the mosque's gray, steel gates and ventured into the
desolate, dirt streets awash in trash. Some were barefoot and others
wore sandals.
"There is no god but God," one man chanted. "There is no god but
God," the pallbearers answered. Bombing on the horizon provided a
refrain. The men crossed the street, past concrete and brick hovels,
the Shiite flags of solid black, green, red and white flying overhead.
As they approached Daif's house, its door emblazoned with the names
Muhammad and Ali, they were greeted with wails of women covered
by black chadors. They screamed, waving their hands and shaking
their heads. The cries drowned out the chants, as the coffin
disappeared indoors. The despair poured out of the home, its
windows shattered by the blast that killed Daif.
4
"My son! My son!" his mother, Zeineb Hussein, cried out. "Where are
you now? I want to see your face!"
"If they want to liberate people, they can kick out the government,
not kill innocent civilians," one relative said. "The innocent civilians
are not in business with the government. We're living in our houses."
5
Before dusk, Daif's coffin was carried from his house. It was set on
the back of a white pickup truck headed for the cemetery. As it drove
away, kicking up clouds of dirt, some of the neighbors and relatives
shouted, "God be with you." Other men waved, a gesture so casual
that it suggested the strength of their faith, that they would eventually
be reunited with Daif.
Hattab, the uncle, looked on at the departing coffin. His eyes were red,
and his face was drawn.