David Smith-Ferri is a writer who has published a collection of poems about his experiences traveling in Iraq. He has traveled to Iraq with Voices in the Wilderness, as well as other organizations, in order to bring some measure of relief to people who are suffering.

Last night he was in Olympia. The Olympia FOR sponsored a speaking engagement at the Artisan's cafe. David read several poems and told many stories about his experience working with wounded Iraqi refugees, both in Iraq itself and in neighboring countries (Jordan mostly).

The proceeds from his book, Battlefield Without Borders: Iraq Poems, are going to help with the Direct Aid Initiative (DAI), which serves Iraqi families who have extreme unmet medical needs. $12 from the sale of his book goes toward DAI, while Mr. Smith-Ferri keeps only $2 of the total.

You can find out more about DAI, and make a secure online contribution by visiting www.electroniciraq.net.

[read more..."if you can heal my child, please take him with you..." ]

A humanitarian crisis rages in Iraq. 70% of Iraqis (oxfam.org) go without adequate access to water.

It was good to hear of the amazing work that David Smith-Ferri does in order to better the situation of Iraqis who are now suffering so horribly as a result of the current invasion, and the many years of sanctions prior.

There was one poem in particular, which struck me very powerfully. Hopefully this poem will inspire a similar emotion in you.

The Unmistakable Imprint of Love

Saddam General Hospital, Amara – July 25, 1999

In this sad place, powerlessness is a voracious presence,
unappeased and pathologic. It eats flesh,
a bacteria consuming people from within,
emptying everyone who comes here,
leaving patients, their parents, the doctors like hollowed reeds.
When the air moved, we expected a mournful tune.

For three hours this morning,
stopping as planned at each cot,
we walked slowly through the pediatrics wards,
observing children caught in the swollen river of sanctions:
tiny bodies tossed by the tide,
hands groping for a root, a branch,
but torn downriver by the implacable current.
Taking measurements and securing water samples for analysis,
we calculated the depth of the river, its width,
the number of feet above flood stage.

At one bedside, I held Hassan, a featherweight, eight-month old child.
Dying there slowly, he slept in my arms.
His mother smiled; she spoke to me directly, in Arabic.
Turning for help, I felt on every side
the fixed, expectant eyes of other mothers holding me,
waiting for my response,
even as I waited for her words to come out of hiding.
Doctor Khammas came across the room to translate.
She said, ‘If you can heal my child, please take him with you.’
I struggled to breathe,
and the plain meaning of those words came from too far away,
came so slowly toward me,
as though swimming through a great depth of water.
I handed Hassan back to his mother,
who smiled graciously, without the least cruelty,
and the mothers’ eyes released me,
but the electrical surge of their desire
marked me forever:
the unmistakable imprint of love.

[source]