Allah Ma'ak, Haiffaa

This is the story of a great woman. I prefer my stories with happy endings, and I'll warn you right now, this is not one of those stories; it is, however, a story with a happy middle, and sometimes, that's all we can cling to.

Sometimes we forget just how big the world is. We start to believe that our triumph is more magnificent or that our loss is greater; our joy is the most radiant or our sorrow is the deepest. And that's when life slaps us upside our silly little heads with the reality that we know nothing of triumph, loss, joy, or sadness at all compared to someone else's story. And the end of this story is this: Haiffaa Ali is dead.

Haiffaa Ali was born into a wealthy Iraqi family. Her father was an important person in the government, and his salary let them live not just comfortably, but opulently even. Her only money problems were "deciding what to spend it on"...a luxury few Americans, let alone Iraqis, enjoy. She married Majeed, an important man with more power and money, and her status grew. She believed her joy was complete.

When Saddam Hussein's role as Iraq's leader was threatened by US intervention, the powerful dictator became increasingly distrustful of everyone around him, drawing lines in the sand and imagining enemies where before he saw friends. He blacklisted numerous powerful people, one of which was Majeed. Haiffaa's husband was forced to flee from Iraq to Syria, leaving Haiffaa and their children in the care of her father. But Haiffaa's now-elderly father was soon added to Saddam's blacklist, and one night soldiers tore into their home and savagely murdered him in his bed while Haiffaa watched, helpless. Her sorrow was so deep...

Knowing that it was no longer an 'if' but a 'when', regarding an attack on her own life, Haiffaa packed up her children and went in search of her husband. Reunited in Syria, they were told the refugee camp was too full, and the options were back to Iraq or onward to America. With a heavy heart, she prepared to move to the land of disrespectful cowboys who probably wanted her and her family dead too. Arriving in Denver, she was placed in Hidden Brook apartments, a Hope Communities property, and given six months to get her family back on its feet. With not a dollar to her name, no marketable skills, children too young to work, and a now-disabled husband, it was a time of desperation for Haiffaa. A dedicated employee of Hope Communities, Jessie, befriended her and helped her sign up for English classes, as well as connected her with a group of refugee women who make and sell jewelry. Slowly, Haiffaa and her family adjusted to life in America, and the day that she sold her first necklace, for eight dollars, brought her to tears. Never in her life had she done something truly on her own, and her pride--left with the rest of her life in Baghdad--had found its way across ten thousand miles back to her gentle heart.

This tiny woman with thick graying hair and a colorful scarf on her head came into my life with a smile and a cup of tea. Seated in her living room, her stilted speech was somehow...melodic, and her words were wise and honest. She practiced her speech for us, preparing for her NPR interview, and she was at once highly intelligent yet gentle and modest. She fully understood the magnificence of her triumph, but refused to accept any credit for it.

Each year, Jessie went to Haiffaa's girls-only birthday party. Girls-only meant that Haiffaa could remove her head scarf--letting her hair down both literally and figuratively. Haiffaa had clearly assimilated into American life, and loved to tell other refugees of her revelation that the American government is not the American people. She was thrilled with her new independence, and even took a vacation to Germany to visit her son. Having finally rebuilt her life, not to its old glory, but to a new kind of glory, Haiffaa decided to make peace with her past. It was time to go back to Iraq and visit her father's grave.

Haiffaa crossed the border into Baghdad on October 20, 2009. She spent 5 days experiencing a city, once home, that now felt so foreign. She prayed reverently at her father's grave and breathed deeply, exhaling all the hurt and betrayal and grief of her past. And on October 25, 2009, she made her way back to the travel agency to arrange for her next-day departure.

On Sunday, October 25, 2009, two blasts erupted in downtown Baghdad--the worst bombing in over two years. As the death toll hit 155, Iraqis took to the streets to mourn. Somewhere in the chaos and smoldering ruins, lay the remnants of a colorful head scarf...