Language Lessons

This story was written by my friend, Beth:

"When my own daughter Sara was 7, we went to the pet shop for a filter for the goldfish bowl. While we were there, we encountered a blue-eyed baby Springer Spaniel puppy for sale. Not what we came for. This was a hard time in our family's life. Sara never said a word, but she looked at me in a certain way, you might be able to imagine it. "I know," her eyes seemed to say, "It's too much to hope for." We took the puppy home that day. So many things are said by not saying them. I'm coming to think, more and more, that we give words way too much credit, and sometimes they just get in the way.

I couldn't digest my food Monday night; it sat in my stomach, even though I ordered the lightest of vegan meals from the noodle place menu. It had nothing to do with the food. My spinach pancake was excellent. I loved it. I adored it. I am so glad I ordered it. It was affordable, too. I will get it again next time. My stomach was uncomfortable about something else, and it was letting me know.

During dinner, behind a backdrop of street music and a crying baby, I tried to reach Abu Ali to let him know Ken and I wished to visit that night, but all I could get was voice mail. Ann Cothran, National Community Coordinator for nomorevictims.org, had given me his direct number.

I felt shy and nervous, in spite of the delicious pancake, the sunny Asheville evening, our pretty indoor table. I felt sad and distressed to have learned that Rusul, Abu Ali's daughter, will have her foot amputated (there'd been a little ray of hope they might save it). And I don't speak Arabic; I was pretty sure that Abu Ali and Rusul did not speak English. Could we get along without an interpreter? I had a package for them and I wanted to get to know Rusul and her father, to have a small connection on a quieter level, before everything started happening. I wanted to give Rusul something soft, knowing her upcoming surgery would be so hard. In the back seat of my car I had a brand new light blue blanket made of the plushiest plush for her to wrap around her whole entire little 7-year-old self.

Maybe she already had a plush blanket. That didn't matter. She could have two.

Monday evening was balmy, sunny; a good night for a walk around town, maybe even get to bed early. I couldn't reach Abu Ali on the phone. Ken and I debated our options. A walk? A movie? Was it not meant to be? Should I go anyway? Did Ken still want to go with me? Should I go alone? It was getting late. I dialed Ann Cothran to tell her we weren't coming but she said, "Oh, it's okay, I've let them know you are coming. They'll be watching for you. "

"It won't be too late? " I asked.

"It won't be too late, " Ann replied, her voice kind and happy.

We'd left the GPS at home, no maps in the car, but of course we had some idea how to get to Greenville, so in the end we just went—and in the end, the kind desk clerk at the Ronald McDonald house spent 20 minutes on the phone directing us in. She did a far more excellent (and friendly) job than any GPS could.

I gave Rusul the plush blanket. And some little-girl magnetic paper dolls: she giggled at the underwear beneath their fancy Victorian dresses. Abu Ali and Ken sat together, talking, miming, pausing, trying again, simply regarding each other, two men conversing about their loved ones. Abu Ali says: "Americans are good!" He repeats, he insists: "All American people are good, all the people themselves are good!" Abu Ali is strong, graceful, grateful, with a firm handshake and a ready laugh. Rusul wears a glowing smile; she's all music and energy and open-heartedness.

For just a brief moment, Abu Ali's smile faded; it would be lost on a television screen, but there in the softly lit sitting room, a few feet from one another, I saw, just for a moment, somewhere behind his eyes, packed deep and close: the traumatic, instant loss of a son; two daughters' horrific injuries; running with Salee in his arms, her legs gone; those threatening airplanes still flying overhead keeping him awake night after night; his inconsolable wife. What strength, what faith, what love keeps him going?

Fourteen years later, our Springer Spaniel is now blind and beloved. I can still see my daughter's quietly hopeful face, and I would buy her that puppy all over again. It's such an imperfect analogy, but in Abu Ali's face, I glimpsed the face of war, all wars, and I heard the unspoken, pressing request: Can we not put an end to this nightmare? "I know, " his eyes seemed to say, "It's too much to hope for." I want to purchase peace for him, send it home with him, wrap him and his family in its soft plush folds.

We stand up to go. Heart-felt hugs and handshakes. Abu Ali thanks us for our gifts and our visit, asks us please to come again. Please, please come back soon, Abu Ali says, smiling. Come back. His eyes seem to say: We'll be watching for you. It won't be too late."

TODAY IS THE DAY THAT RUSUL HAS SURGERY. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers. I will update when I know something. No More Victims website may have information too, and if you can make a donation, that would be much appreciated.