I Always Watch the Kids
04.16.03
By Dick Gordon

Listen to the sounds of the coutyard of the Baghdad Mosque. Click for a map of the region

I always notice the kids. In a "war zone" like Baghdad, I always watch the children. Anyone who has children would do the same thing, and sometimes it's frustrating as a reporter because you know that beyond their cheery "Hello Mister!" (which is likely all the English they know), there's not much you can do but watch the kids, because they're hard to include in radio stories that require people to express their emotions and feelings. Kids aren't often great at that. They're shy, and even if you speak to them through a translator, they're expert at one word answers (not great radio).

Today we were in one Baghdad neighborhood and there were boys and girls scampering on the sidewalk, jumping, shouting -- it could have been recess in a schoolyard anywhere. Except of course, these kids have no school and no immediate prospect of returning to school. But watching them on the sidewalk it was so clear that they had been cooped up for days and they were simply exulting in the sunshine and the chance to stretch their legs.

Later in the day, Marc was off trying to find someone for an interview (tough work in a big city where there are no phones) and I was waiting at a small Sunni mosque to record the call to prayer. I later found out that Marc's truck was, at one point surrounded by a bunch of thugs with sledgehammers and wire cutters, and it was a bit tense, but it turned out they were just..."shopping," yeah that's it, "shopping." But it makes my point because while Marc was off in the dust and the noise of Baghdad, I was sitting in the mosque. I've always felt very much at peace in a mosque. Throughout the Muslim world it is always a place that is physically cooler and quieter and more restful than the chaos on the street just outside. As I sat in the shade under one of the stone porticos, a small boy, maybe 4-5 years old came out of one of the prayer rooms on his tricycle. As I watched, he proceeded to pedal around and around the inner perimeter of the mosque, oblivious to the trials of his nation. He kept poking his pudgy little index finger at one spot on his handlebar, saying "Beep-beep," "Beep-beep" -- a great imitation of the sound of the car horns coming in over the high stone walls of the mosque. He was smiling and rolling his head as he steered through his corners. I'm telling you this because it was such an everyday scene. I mean it could have been anywhere. And it gave me some small sense of peace to know that, and to remind you, that despite the urgent and grave tone of all the news stories you've been hearing, there are still happy kids in Baghdad.