Lessons from Basra
This
story was originally published in The Sun
by Alison Clement
The kids tell me we are winning. Baghdad is bad, they say.
America is the best.
I work in the library of a low-income, public elementary
school. The kids are interested in war. The boys check out
all the books about World War I, World War II, weapons,
spies, codes, guns, castles, and knights. Boys without
fathers are especially interested in combat. A six-year-old
who has never met his father likes to show me pictures of
his father's castle, his father's armor, his father's
helmet, his father's favorite weapon. He is a sensitive boy
who cries easily and wears army camouflage to school.
Today I read the second-graders a picture book called The
Librarian of Basra by Jeanette Winter. It's the true
account of an Iraqi librarian and the people close to her,
working to keep the library's books safe as their city is
bombed.
When I tell the kids that the story takes place in Iraq,
Joaquin calls out, "We're winning!" And some of the others,
misunderstanding the look on my face and hoping, I think,
to reassure me, agree: "We are winning."
The kids repeat what they hear at home. I don't tell them
that their parents are wrong, that no one in their right
mind can call what is happening in Iraq "winning" - unless
they measure victory by the number of dead. If it's a
killing contest, we're winning 100 to 1.
I don't ask them how "we" got to be so narrowly defined: as
if a nation were a football team. As if the word "we" was
only big enough to include some of the people. As if the
fact that we are Americans were more important than the
fact that we are human.
People liked to go to the library in Basra to discuss
ideas, the book says, but soon they began to talk only
about war: Would it come there? Would their families be
safe? Would bombs drop on them? Who among them would die?
The librarian worried about the books, among them a
seven-hundred-year-old biography of Mohammed. Our own
country is about one third the age of that book. The
children I'm reading to are seven years old.
The library of Basra had thirty thousand books - five books
for every book we have in our school library, I point out -
and the librarian and her friends moved all those books to
keep them safe. The librarian packed her house with them. I
show them the picture. Every space is filled.
Winter's book is about people taking care of the things
they love. It's a story about courage. It's about personal
responsibility, about the love of ideas and stories, about
respect for those who came before us, and concern for those
who will come after. It is a book about America and her
disregard for all these things, I think, but I don't say
that.
When I get to the picture of planes flying over, dropping
bombs, one of the kids calls out excitedly, "That's us!"
I turn the book so I can look again at the picture: three
planes in the blue sky, dropping bombs on the city below.
Usually it's best to let a book speak for itself, but
sometimes I can't stop myself from making editorial
comments. "Is it something to be proud of?" I ask them.
In school we try to teach the kids to use words to solve
problems. We encourage them to talk, to listen to others,
to take personal responsibility, not to blame. We tell them
not to hit, not to fight, not to bully. But the kids do
fight and argue. They blame each other. They bully, tease,
and hit. Sometimes they wait secretly to beat each other up
after school. Our kids live in a culture that says it's
better to be the big guy, to carry the big stick; it's
better to be part of the winning team, to be the one
dropping bombs, instead of the one dodging them.
The wars we fight seem far away, but it's not as simple as
that. War doesn't stay over there. It comes home with the
soldiers, and it comes home to our kids, who learn that
this is what we do, this is how we act, this is how we
treat one another, this is who we are: our soldiers kicking
in doors; our bombs falling on heads; our tanks driving
through neighborhoods. Their dead piled up in the streets.
There is a boy in our school from Korea whom we call Jimmy.
He came here two years ago and is very shy. Every week he
checks out his two books, usually picture books about
Curious George, a monkey. Until recently he had no friends.
He ate lunch alone. He sat with no one, played with no one,
talked to no one. Then he became friends with Carmen, a
seven-year-old with curly black pigtails. Now he and Carmen
are always together.
Yesterday Jimmy and Carmen's class was in the library, and
while the other kids checked out books, Carmen pretended
she was the librarian. The kids like to pretend they are
me. They like to sit behind my desk. I have a pair of phony
glasses that look like my real glasses, and they like to
wear them and pretend to check out books. They like to
mimic adults. They are watching us all the time. They are
watching and figuring out what people do, what's important,
how we treat each other.
Carmen sat in the rocking chair, where I sit to read to the
kids, and she held a book so Jimmy could see the pictures.
It was a science book with big, bright pictures of planets
and stars, but as she pointed to one of the pictures, she
said, "Jimmy, everyone wants friends." She turned the page.
"Jimmy, people die, but then, don't worry, they come back
alive again."
This afternoon Carmen asks me to walk outside with her. She
has left her library book on the far side of the school's
front lawn, and she asks me to watch while she runs across
the lawn to get it. Today is a beautiful day. The sky is a
delicate blue; the sun is shining; the dogwoods are in
bloom. As I stand in the doorway and watch Carmen skip
across the grass, it occurs to me that I am standing here
because, in America, it isn't considered safe for a child
to walk across a field. In America, when a little girl
wants to cross an empty schoolyard, she asks someone to
watch her.
Last week Aaron told me he wants to be a soldier. "I
thought you were going to be a weatherman," I said. Aaron
is a thoughtful little boy who loves to read about
hurricanes, earthquakes, and natural disasters of all
kinds. But lately he's been reading about war.
"We're the good guys," he said.
"And how do you know we're the good guys?" I asked him.
He'd been reading a book about the Mexican-American War. He
found a picture in the book and showed me a group of dead
Mexican soldiers. "Mostly Mexicans died," he said, smiling.
We are a bilingual school. A third of our students are
Mexican immigrants. When Aaron said that the dead were
Mexican and showed me the picture to prove it, he was not
being mean or racist or hateful. He was pleased, I think,
because we like to be distant from the dead. We like to
think there is something about them that is not the same as
us, something that makes their deaths all right, maybe even
good.
Recently I went to a talk sponsored by a group called Iraqi
Veterans Against the War. The speaker came from a military
family, with nothing in his background to make him question
the war. But he was curious, and he liked to read. He
researched the history of Iraq and our relationship with
that country. His curiosity led him to the facts, which led
him to the conclusion that the war was wrong.
As a librarian, I find this hopeful: that even if children
are given the wrong facts, even if they are susceptible to
the ignorance of the adults around them, to the messages on
TV, to the general violence they find themselves in - even
then, if their curiosity is intact, they can find their way
to the truth. I tell the kids that they live in one of the
most powerful countries in the world and that it is their
job to know as much as they can about that world.
We don't raise these kids to kill people. We don't raise
them to have their arms or legs blown off, to drop bombs on
families, to destroy towns, to watch their friends die, or
to die themselves, for nothing, for less than nothing.
"So many people get hurt and killed in wars," I said to
Aaron. "Wars are sad things," I told him.
Aaron's class had left, and he stood by my desk. He is only
seven, but he smiled and shook his head at me. I had missed
the point completely. He put his small hands on my desk,
leaned forward, and said, "We are winning!"