The other day Wolfpack Company brought Emad and Somer to the ground-breaking of a new health clinic in Qarghuli. Emad invited me to his house to meet his father. We were about to eat lunch. "Can he eat with us here?" I asked. Emad explained his father was bedridden with cancer. Though Emad lived an hour away, in another city, his father lived nearby.
"He wants us to visit? but his dad's sick." I asked my interpreter.
"just go, man. he wants you to go."
"Where does he live?"
"Yellow house, after the bridge." Emad answered.
Good enough directions for the infantry.
As soon as I walked into the courtyard I could see an old man prostrate on a mattress in the doorway of the house. He managed to sit up and shake hands with us: 8 American soldiers and our two interpreters. We filled the room.
"salaam alekum" peace be on you.
A television in the corner the only furniture. We sat on the floor in silence. A group of kids gathered at the door. The father lay still; his wife fanned him with a piece of cardboard. There was an IV port in his hand.
"Where did Emad go?"
"I think he went to get us drinks."
"Doesn't he want to talk to his dad?"
Emad reappeared with pepsi and glasses and ice and he went to each American: pouring a glass.
This is prevalent in Iraqi culture: the desire for you to meet their family, the insistent and sacrificial hospitality. Emad said almost nothing to his father. Emad was busy serving us.
