Pan Asian

Sun and sand aside, January in Baghdad can get quite chilly. My breath hitting the frosty morning air is proof in point. Eyeing the swimming pool and neatly clipped lawn and bushes that surrounds the posh house where I work, I register another irony: This walled property—complete with towering palm--would not be out of place in some gated community in L.A. I’m here editing TV spots to promote Iraq’s first free elections. But today we are locked out of the house. I should have known something was wrong when Saad didn’t show up.
A deafening blast suddenly rocks the peaceful morning, spreading a concussive wave of bass that rattles my bones. Instinctively I hit the dirt, covering my head from the shower of debris. Our bewildered security guards run around wide-eyed, jabbering in Arabic. They point at a column of black smoke rising from the direction of our residence.
We eventually learn that our neighbor, the Australian Embassy, was the target of a truck bomb. While the heavily fortified compound suffers minimal damage, our residence and practically every other building within a 50-yard radius has its door and window frames blown in. Luckily none of our slumbering colleagues inside are hurt.
But Saad arrives bloodied and shaken, his shirtsleeve ripped. He had the bad fortune of entering onto the main street of Karada, one of Baghdad’s upscale districts, at the precise moment of the explosion.
Humble and good-natured, Saad looks after our media house, greeting us each morning with a scalding cup of tea from the kettle he kept at a boil. Though he doesn’t speak English, we communicate with hand signals—as well as through the universal language of laughter. A Sri Lankan-American, I bonded with Saad over the Ceylon tea popular in Iraq, served with no milk and lots of sugar. Tea breaks were the only time we could behave like regular human beings--lauging, joking and socializing.
Observing the vacant expression on Saad’s face, I understand the true meaning of ‘shellshock.’