The young man ringing up my
purchases at the GNC store is outgoing and friendly. So am I. We talk about the
protein powder I have bought, then I ask him, “Where are you from?”
“I’m from Iraq,” he says.
“ I’ve never met anyone else from
Iraq,” I say. “How long have you lived here?”
“Three years.”
“Did you learn English in Iraq?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know a word of Iraqi,” I
say, “maybe Saddam Hussein. What was it like living there?”
He holds up one hand. I suddenly
notice the tips of several fingers are missing. “What happened?” I ask.
“I was kidnapped for money when I
was 16. The guys who did it would call my parents and cut off part of a finger
so my mother and father could hear me screaming. My parents did not have the
money.”
“They cut off your fingers while
they talked to your parents? What did your parents do?”
“They borrowed money from everyone
they knew and even people they didn’t know. Finally the men let me free. As
soon as they could, my parents sent me to the U.S.”
“So you live here now?”
“Yes, but I can not make a living. I
am going back to Iraq.”
“What?”
“I will translate for the
Americans.”
“How could you go back?” I ask.
He shrugged. “I do what I have to
do. I appreciate your concern.”
“Don’t go back,” I say.
He reaches across the counter with
the hand with stubby fingers. It is his right. He shakes hands. “Thank you,” he
says. “Thank you, but most people don’t care.”
I leave the store a moment later. I
think of the uneven fingers on his hand. They are proof of the absurdity in his
life. Without them, would I have understood his being kidnapped? He is a
testament to cruelty, for what it’s worth.
Copyright 2012 All Rights Reserved (No part of this work may be reproduced in any way, except to quote for blogs or reviews, without the express permission of the author) James P. White
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