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The
father weeps at the sight of his dead daughter Nadia, killed by a
missile
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BAGHDAD,
April 5 (IslamOnline.net & News Agencies) - An old man cries over
the coffin of his daughter. His wife and younger daughter sit in the
dirt outside the mortuary in shock and abject sadness.
It
is only an hour and 20 minutes since Nadia Khalaf died, too early for
total grief to set in. But time enough to know their lives have been
shattered forever, recounted the correspondent of The Mirror newspaper
in the Iraqi capital Saturday, April 5.
“We
discovered them during a random visit to Al Kindhi Hospital in North
East Baghdad at 1pm. The doctors did not know we were coming- we had
an official guide and we were free to choose which hospital.
“Nadia
was lying on a stretcher beside the stone mortuary slab. Her heart lay
on her chest, ripped from her body by a missile which smashed through
the bedroom window of the family's flat nearby in Palestine Street,”
according to The Mirror.
Slaughtered
Her
father Najem Khalaf stood beside her corpse. And I shall try to write
what he and his family said in exactly the order they said it. I shall
try because I hope it will better convey the bewilderment and horror
that broke on one Iraqi household yesterday.
"A
shell came down into the room as she was standing by the
dressing-table," Najem says. "My daughter had just completed
her PhD in Psychology and was waiting for her first job. She was born
in 1970. She was 33. She was very clever.
"Everyone
said I have a fabulous daughter. She spent all her time studying. Her
head buried in books. She didn't have a care about going out enjoying
herself. My other daughter is the same. She has a Master's degree in
English and teaches at the university. Me? I'm just a lorry driver. A
simple man."
He
holds out his dead daughter's identity card for us to see. His fingers
are covered in her blood.
Bush's
Humanity
I
go to offer my condolence to his other daughter Alia, who is 35.
"I
don't know what humanity Bush is calling for," she says in
English, "Is this the humanity which lost my sister?"
"We
are a working class family which made two academics. It was never easy
for my parents or for us. We struggled to get where we are. Our flat
is rented, not owned. I receive 75,000 dinars a month as a university
teacher, my main subject Shakespeare. The flat costs 35,000 monthly -
about $12. We were hoping to get ourselves a proper home when Nadia
started working. Now look."
Her
mother Fawzia raises her hand as if beseeching me. But words fail her
and she begins to sob again.
"We
have been looking only for peace and security," Alia says,
"We were not interested in collecting money, buying costly
clothes. We didn't care about dresses. Just peace and security. Not
this."
Both
women were still in their nightclothes, dressing gowns loose around
them. They said they had risen late because of all the shelling
overnight. Like everyone else, they were talking about the electricity
being cut off on Thursday night.
No
Sound
Nadia
was joking about going for a shower. Alia told her she'd probably be
away for three hours... just waiting for some water.
They
were laughing. "I didn't hear any sound," Alia says,
"Suddenly a shell or bomb or something came through the room. I
fell to the floor. My mouth was full of dust. I was swallowing dust.
Then I looked at her."
"The
missile, something big and unexploded, had come through her chest and
her heart. She was covered in blood, unconscious. I ran down to the
street, Daddy and Mummy behind me, screaming for an ambulance. There
wasn't any. A neighbor said he would drive us here to the hospital.
"We
all knew it was too late. But we hoped, we hoped."
I
tell her that the International Red Cross have said that the majority
of civilian casualties have been caused by falling anti-aircraft
shells.
"I
don't know. I don't know. But it is war which has done this. And that
war was started by Bush," she says, "Believe me. We have no
enmity for foreign people. We never will. We just want to live our
lives."
A
group of men help to put the corpse in a simple wooden coffin. Najem
weeps as he kneels before his daughter. His wife and daughter climb
into the back of the blue car. The other men place the coffin on the
roof rack, put on the lid and secure it with bindings.
Alia
asks that I send her a copy of this story and I promise somehow to do
so. It seems to give her some consolation. The only sort, apart from
the spoken word, which I can offer.
"Final
Journey"
And
so they leave. Three people driven by a neighbor with their precious
daughter strapped to the roof.
Our
guide says they will now wash her body, drape it in white and before
dusk lay her in the ground.
It
has been one of the saddest episodes I have ever witnessed in my 26
years of reporting
