The troupe travels slowly across the countryside. Neither desert nor marsh nor twin rivers halt its advance. But still the traveling party proceeds with exquisite deliberation. It never skips over a single town or hamlet, no matter how small.
In the cool of the evening the troupe members gather at the nearest suitable venue: The community center, the mosque, the empty schoolyard. And there they put on a show of sorts. There are jokes. Magic tricks. Possibly karaoke, if there is electricity and enough young people attend.
But the closing act is always a man — the same elderly, frail man — speaking in English. About the war.
Iraqis by now are accustomed to foreigners appearing in their country to discuss the war: journalists, aid workers, government men, freelance do-gooders and general dingbats of every stripe. But this battered creature truly knows the story of the war. He pulls no punches in his remarks: Mistakes were made; sacrifices were demanded; savagery was met with greater savagery. He also has opinions about the current government, and about neighboring Iran — but heh-heh, he says, he’ll save those for next time. Continue reading
