Decades of smiles have left crinkles on his face that belie the sadness deep within his eyes. His hope and love for America has turned to a despair he is unable to express.
“I want to talk to an American general or judge,” says Nihad Munir. “I will give them my guarantee that my son is innocent. I will tell them that if he is not, then they can take me.”
His son, Ayad Nihad Ahmed Munir, was detained from their home during another of the middle of the night home raids the U.S. military is so fond of conducting in occupied Iraq. That was on September 28, 2003. Ayad remains in Abu Ghraib today, and his father has not been allowed to visit him, despite trying everything he can think of to do so.
Of course, as usual, Ayad, married with three children, wasn’t charged with anything.
Mr. Munir carries a small brown satchel, which holds copies of paperwork … the fruits of months of his futile attempts to break down the untouchable barrier that bars him from seeing his son.
Here is a verbatim transcription of his written account of what occurred:
“On late night 27/28 September 2003 My own house/sons house has been attacked in a very bad and severe unrespectful manner by the American Military Occupation Forces regardless to our Islamic and Iraqi Holy Family Traditional safety and security manners. Claiming they received information about strangers hidden in this living area who are in touch with the recent explosives accidents occurs near the main Highway connecting Abu Kharib Amiriaa/Shouala close to hour house. They put us outside our main gate entrance (I and my sick wife of over 70 years, my son Ayads’ wife and three children, in deep sleep took them out of bed). Our two houses were both thoroughly and too repeatedly inspected for 3.5 hours. Finally they took away along with them my son without explaining the main accusation or charge. This incident resulted to: Losing cash money (son owns $1500 US), three women and men’s handwatches. My sons ID Card, his own passport, N. 459835 issued 3/5/2001 valid until 2/5/2005, and food stuff form NO. 863553.”
Mr. Munir has visited America. His dream is to return there again someday. “I’m a 65 year-old man, do you think I’m too much a dreamer?” he says with a hopeful smile.
I tell him, “Of course not …where are we without our dreams?”
I’m trying not to cry as I tell him this … because in Iraq, for Iraqis today, for Mr. Munir, this is all he has right now.
“I had a brother in Michigan who I so wanted to visit in the ’70s … but he died,” he continues while pulling out a copy of his son’s passport to show me a handsome photo of the detainee. “I visited America, I know Americans are very friendly people.”
His soft, kind voice hides his anguish. While distraught with the actions and behavior of the U.S. military in his country, he still separates this from the populace of the country which produced it.
Smiling gently, he adds: “See my hope? I still want to go to America.”
But the brief interlude of dreams dissipates as the reality at hand sets back in. He shows me a form he’d filled out from the Islamic Party – another document that has so far proven useless for obtaining contact with his son.
Then there is the letter signed by tribal sheikhs that he wrote last January, when the CPA was granting the release of some prisoners if their tribes swore to be responsible for any crimes the freed detainees may commit. Another useless document.
Mr. Munir’s despair returns: “We are lost! Our Iraqi lawyers are useless, because to the American military here, everything is about U.S. security.”
With gracious thanks he shakes my hand for making the time to visit with him. “I am so grateful for you for talking with me about my son.” His other hand is placed upon mine which he continues pumping. “Anything you can do will be most helpful for us.”
And now I’m in that position I dread again, as I explain to him that I am only a journalist; that although I will write about his story, I don’t know what else I can do to help his son.
Iraqis aren’t the only ones who are powerless in their country today. I hate this feeling … having someone hold hope in my writing … that it might actually change something for them. I never know what to do with this feeling.
The talk with Mr. Munir softens the anger I’ve felt so often towards the injustice which is slammed in my face every day here. The gentleness of his soul, despite his “critical time,” as he calls it, touches the deep sadness that lies beneath the false exterior of anger that usually covers it.
The rest of the evening I am sad. I think of how beneath the fury of the fighting of Fallujah in April, lies a bottomless ocean of sadness here. Under the bloodshed and fighting that rages in the South even now, there is unfathomable grief.
Driving back home with Abu Talat, I phone my parents and tell them I love them. We laugh some, they speak with Abut Talat in parental solidarity, and we laugh a little more.
I hang up the phone and stare at the silhouettes of palm trees, the stars, the sliver of moon, and breathe deep so as not to cry … because of Mr. Munir.
“Do you think I’m too much a dreamer?”
