Are You Looking At Me?

An irrational fear has been brewing in my mind the last couple of days. It's roots, I think, are nourished by the countless books I read years ago about the Gestapo. Black-coated men sweeping into a house and arresting everyone in it, their power and reach limitless.

I told De'on that I often use humor when I'm nervous or worried. I'm not really afflicted by those conditions, but there are moments when the ceasless warnings I receive collect and weigh heavily. Some of the contractors who have offices in Kuwait and do business in Iraq warn me not to be taken in completely by the feeling of safety in Kuwait. They tell me that I would do well to remember that the Iraqi border is close, and it's known that people who support the insurgents, or the insurgents themselves, can move across borders. When they are in Kuwait, they act properly, conducting their business like well mannered Arabs. Then they return to their murderous agendas on Baghdad's streets.

Most of the time, I don't think the people here give me even a second look. Other times, though, I catch someone eyeing me closely, and I wonder why they seem to be studying me. This morning I passed an Arab who was sitting on a bench, and he was wearing the traditional "dishdashah," the long-sleeved, one piece dress Arab men wear. He was wearing a scarf, and he had it wrapped around his face, too. Only his eyes were showing. As I walked along the sidewalk, I could see that his eyes followed me. He was probably just curious about the Westerner, but it was, still, a little disconcerting because I could see only his eyes.

During the early years of WWII, some Americans, Jews and other foreigners were caught in Portugal, a neutral country. The Germans moved in and out of Portugal, too, and I can imagine how unsettling it was for the Americans and, especially, the Jews to have a gang of Gestapo officers seated at the table next to them in a restaurant. In later years, the Nazis disregarded Portugal's neutrality and took the Jews, but there was a time when they rubbed shoulders with stiff smiles.

So it is here. I wonder who is who out on the streets. I reign in my paranoia to manageable levels, but there's a brutal war being fought just a couple of hours away. And it's not just some of the Arabs who think the Americans are bad news. Yesterday, an Australian attempted to educate me about America's shortcomings and the criminal mob we call our military. He told me that Americans are mushrooms. That we live in the dark and are fed garbage by our government. That wasn't all he said, but I'll spare everyone the drivel. I was shaking with rage, and the people who know me know that it takes a great deal to anger me. It seems to be happening frequently here, though.

Because we were in the company of other people, I wanted to keep it civil, but I still wanted him to know how I felt. So I told him that what he thinks in his own petty mind is his business but that what he says in my presence about my country and about the men and women who fight for my country is my business. He said he didn't mean to offend, and I said well you did. And I told him, politely, that America has always regarded Australia as an ally and wasn't it lucky for Australia that such an alliance existed during WWII when the Japanese were so close to invading that country. That alliance kept his country from experiencing the horrors of Japanese occupation.

I know that I've written some posts that might come across as flippant, that I don't take this business seriously. Believe me, I do. Every night when I go to bed alone, I know it's serious. Each day when I move about this city, alone, I keep the seriousness of the war 1 1/2 hours away in my mind. I'm in a foreign city, moving bureaucratic mountains to get a visa to enter a war zone. I keep thinking that a terrorist is going to burst into my room or get into a cab with me. That's the irrational fear I was talking about at the beginning of this post.

I'm safe, and I have no doubts that I won't be harmed in Iraq. I've told De'on that I know that. But sometimes I feel like I'm Hillary Clinton at the Republican Convention, and I just passed gas -- loudly. It's kind of hard to blend in.

I have to tell you, though, that it just kills me when I see a veiled woman, I mean even wearing gloves, and she's wearing glamorous heels. Cracks me up. Heck, if I were her, I'd wear some red ones.

OK, I'm going to go read Cinderella or something. Oh, and what I really wanted to say to that Australian was ... just how long has it been since you had a country ass whuppin?