Motherhood Gives War Reporter A Child To Help
Having children is a fundamental change for any person, but for some, it's swapping one heart-pounding existence for another. NPR's Jamie Tarabay has lived in and reported from Baghdad and other war zones in recent years. Now, she's back in the United States, and she's just come back to work after maternity leave.
There are things you witness as a war correspondent: the tragic scenes, the grieving relatives, the smoke, the ruin, the blood. More often than not, those things stay in your stories. It affects you for a moment, then you move on — you have to, or you'll never do your job and people will never know what's going on.
Then there are the things that don't make it into your reporting: the people on the sidelines, those whose voices aren't as loud as everyone else's. They're usually children.
They were always my favorite people. Wherever I went, I took photos of little kids. They love posing for pictures, and I loved showing them how they looked. But I didn't think I was such a softie. I wasn't really, until my son was born. And then, everything made me cry.
I wasn't prepared for this. Life as a war correspondent is rather solitary. You don't have to consider anyone but yourself. You can agree at a moment's notice to jet off to yet another conflict, for an undetermined period of time, with an expected degree of danger. It's a way of life. Motherhood is the total opposite. I've gone from the no-responsibility zone to one in which a tiny person wants, nay, demands, my attention, my time, my love and my care. It's the perfect antidote to selfishness.
And now I see my old world everywhere in this new one. I stay in the waiting room while my husband holds Jake as the doctor gives him his shots. I listen to his screams and try not to let anyone see me cry. I cling to my husband's words: that if we'd been in some Third World country where there weren't vaccines, or there was a horrible outbreak of meningitis, that we'd be so happy to see him get his shots. How many children had I seen who weren't this lucky?
Sometimes, when he's playing with a new toy, he looks up at me and smiles. We have laughing marathons. Then I think of other children who never had anyone smile back at them. I can't help it. I remember all the children I ever saw in tattered clothes, who didn't have homes, let alone toys, but looked up and smiled at me anyway. I think of how little I could do for them, as I promise my son I'm going to do everything I can for him.
I remember children standing on the sides of streets in Baghdad, their faces smeared with grease as they hawked black-market gasoline. I remember the young girls and boys crisscrossing traffic jams in Jakarta, selling boxes of Kleenex and chewing gum to motorists. I remember meeting a little Iraqi girl on the verge of prostitution. I could see it in the glitter on her chipped fingernails and the smeared rouge on her cheeks. I think of the countless funerals for dead children I've witnessed — all victims of war. All these children who never had a childhood, who had to grow up too soon. I think about them when I look at my little boy.
He's thriving before my eyes, and soon, words will replace his grunts and coos. Those legs that constantly kick will hoist him upward and forward. I want him to take his first steps laughingly, with next to no fear about what will come next. I want him to know I'll be watching, ready to catch him. That his little milestones are more heart-stopping than any war zone could ever be. But I also know that as he explores this world with happy wonder, I'll be thinking of those countless other innocents who never had that chance.
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GUY RAZ, host:
Jamie Tarabay spent much of the last decade as a foreign correspondent, including three years as NPR's Baghdad bureau chief. Now, she's back in the U.S. and she's just returned to work after maternity leave.
JAMIE TARABAY: There are things you witness as a war correspondent: the tragic scenes, the grieving relatives, the smoke, the ruin, the blood. More often than not, those things stay in your stories. It affects you for a moment then you move on. You have to, or you'll never do your job and people will never know what's going on.
Then there are the things that don't make it into your reporting: the people on the sidelines, those whose voices aren't as loud as everyone else's. They're usually children. They were always my favorite people.
Wherever I went, I took photos of little kids. They'd love posing for pictures, and I loved showing them how they looked. But I didn't think I was such a softie. I wasn't really, until my son was born. And then, everything made me cry. I wasn't prepared for this.
Life as a war correspondent is rather solitary. You don't have to consider anyone but yourself. Motherhood is the total opposite. I've gone from the no-responsibility zone to one in which a tiny person demands my attention, my time, my love and my care. It's the perfect antidote to selfishness.
And now I see my old world everywhere in this new one. Sometimes, when he's playing with a new toy, he looks up at me and smiles. Then I think of other children who never had anyone smile back at them. I can't help it. I remember all the children I ever saw in tattered clothes, who didn't have homes, let alone toys, but looked up and smiled at me anyway.
I remember children standing on the sides of streets in Baghdad, their faces smeared with grease, as they hawked black market gasoline. I remember the young girls and boys crisscrossing traffic jams in Jakarta, selling boxes of Kleenex and chewing gum to motorists. I remember meeting a little Iraqi girl on the verge of prostitution. I could see it in the glitter on her chipped fingernails and the smeared rouge on her cheeks.
I think of the countless funerals for dead children I've witnessed, all victims of war. All these children who never had a childhood, who had to grow up too soon, I think about them when I look at my little boy.
He's thriving before my eyes, and soon, words will replace his grunts and coos. Those legs that constantly kick will hoist him upward and forward. I want him to take his first steps laughingly with next to no fear about what'll come next. I want him to know I'll be watching, ready to catch him. That his little milestones are more heart-stopping than any war zone could ever be.
But I also know that as he explores this world with happy wonder, I'll be thinking of those countless other innocents who never had that chance.
RAZ: Jamie Tarabay was NPR's Baghdad bureau chief. Now, she's a correspondent living stateside with her husband and infant son, Jake. Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright National Public Radio.
