MY BROTHER, MY FRIEND
The road is long
With many a winding turn
That leads us to who knows where
Who knows when
But I’m strong
Strong enough to carry him
He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.
(”He Ain’t Heavy He’s My Brother” by Rufus Wainwright)
It was in the faces of those Iraqis who voted on Sunday. Emotions that couldn’t be captured by any camera, couldn’t be described by any reporter or pundit who, for hour after hour on Sunday droned on about the historic nature of this moment.
Somehow, I don’t think the Iraqis were thinking very much about history; at least not the way that the talking heads were speaking about it. How could they? After all, the historical perspective of an American living in a country barely 200 years old is laughable compared to an Iraqi whose civilization goes back nearly 10,000 years.
I have no idea what the Iraqis thought of this election as it related to their history. I do know I saw something in the faces of those Iraqis that bridged the chasm of years separating their civilization and mine. It’s something so basic, so elemental to the human condition that it must be something we’re born with, something passed down through the ages by some kind of hardwiring in our brains or perhaps even something in our genes.
It is the desire to be free.
How else can you explain the fact that millions of Iraqis, demonstrating an almost unearthly courage in the face of threats that would have frozen the hearts of just about anybody in the west, went to polling places that they knew all too well were targeted for terrorist attacks?
And to prove that courage knows no gender, age, or economic status, the Iraqis made the occasion of this vote a chance to share the experience with family. Widespread reports of even the poorest Iraqis getting dressed up in their Friday-go-to-Mosque clothes and walking (sometimes up to 13 miles) with the whole family in tow, pushing the elderly and infirm in carts, carrying children too young to vote but old enough so that when it’s their turn to exercise their natural rights as human beings, they’ll remember this day and be able to put into context how far they had come.
Then there were the tears; both mine and the Iraqis. I didn’t expect to be so affected by seeing people engaged in the simple act of voting. But watching them weep, I teared up as well. I was happy for them, yes. But more than that, I felt a vindication. Not a shallow triumphalism that manifested itself amongst some on the right side of the blogsphere in a crowing “I told you so” attitude towards the left (although God knows, they deserved that and worse). But a vindication of my belief that despite the best efforts of the terrorists and their “useful idiot” allies in the press and leftist circles around the world, the sacrifices of those killed and wounded in this war have not been in vain. That here is a direct correlation between the spilling of American blood, the spending of American treasure and the physical manifestation of a selfless idea; the idea that liberty is the birthright of every human on the planet.
It was almost as if for one brief moment, the dead had come to life, the lame had regained use of their broken limbs, the grief stricken had been granted a reprieve in pain, and the all the bickering and backbiting about this endeavor had been silenced. I felt a closeness, a kinship with those men and women that transcended any differences in religion or culture. It was a feeling of brotherhood whose members share common hopes, common dreams, and similar aspirations; the simple, yet powerful belief that the life a parent bequeaths to the next generation will be better than the one lived by the current generation.
Middle east expert Fouad Ajami:
It was almost like we as Americans had grown estranged from the people of Iraq. We came to doubt them. We got used to seeing them in a foul mood. We didn’t see enough gratitude on the ground in Iraq. For a fleeting moment, today, January 31, in the immediate aftermath of the election, it seems as though we’ve closed a circle. We’ve gone back to that dramatic day, April 9, 2003, when that statue of Saddam Hussein was toppled in Firdos Square [in Baghdad]. We now seem to be bonded with the Iraqis because they were doing the most American of things, voting. (Hat Tip: Belgravia Dispatch)
If indeed “the circle is closed” as Ajami points out, there’s no doubt that the cost has been high; higher than anybody would have predicted on that glorious April day in 2003 when most Iraqis joined us in celebrating the downfall of one of the bloodiest tyrants in human history. So the question becomes how to hold that circle together? What can we do to insure that this is a magnificent first step towards self-government instead of something we look back on 5 or 10 years from now with rueful regret at our folly.
I think the answer is pretty clear; we’ve got to stay the course. We’ve got to continue to help the Iraqis with the mundane but vital chores of protecting and nurturing this nascent democracy. Surrounded as they are on all sides by nations that wish them to fail, Iraqis have a hugely difficult time ahead. There will be setbacks. It will appear at times that unity is impossible, that compromise is out of reach. But somehow, Iraqis must find a way to make all the disparate segments of their society coalesce so that the sum of its parts is greater than the whole.
A tall order, that. But an order that Americans and freedom loving people everywhere stand ready to help fill. It won’t be easy and it won’t be pretty. But the Iraqis are family now. And they need our help.
Isn’t that what brothers and friends are for?