thedrifter
07-09-07, 09:51 AM
Within the Sound of Sirens
Monday, July 9, 2007; B03
Aaaaah, these summer mornings in Washington, trees fluttering in the gentle breeze, flowers in full bloom, and . . . the sirens, the sweet lullaby of the sirens. You don't hear the sirens? Omar Fekeiki, a summer intern in our newsroom, hears them, and they make him feel at home.
In Baghdad, where I come from, I usually woke up about 6:30 or 7 every morning to the sound of a boom. I didn't need to set the alarm clock. That punctual sound of the improvised explosive device was enough.
Since the invasion of Iraq in 2003, loud noises such as shootings, bombs and the sirens of ambulances or firetrucks signified more than what the ears comprehend. They were the final touches to a painting in progress, almost a melody that, to my surprise, I often found myself humming.
Since leaving Iraq, I feel the absence of that noise: the sound of an explosion, of the ambulance and police cars sirens ululating all day, of an AK-47 spraying bullets that we knew meant we would count down a neighbor. We turned it into a game in my house, trying to guess where the sound was coming from or going to.
"The sound is coming from the left and going right," my father would declare. "Then the bomb was in Amiriya or Jihad," my mother would reply, referring to two Sunni neighborhoods in western Baghdad where Sunni insurgents have found a haven since the invasion.
It is weird, but that is an aspect of life that I miss here: the anticipation and uncertainty and dark humor that comes with tragedy.
I came to Washington a month ago. I arrived late at night from Berkeley, Calif., where I go to school. I went from the airport to the house of a friend and directly to bed. I didn't set the alarm clock, because I wanted to get a good night's sleep.
The next morning, I woke up just after 6 humming to the sound of sirens. For a moment, I couldn't believe my ears. I opened my eyes to see a ceiling that didn't look like my room in Baghdad. What was happening? I didn't know, but it felt right. I repeated to myself: I am in Washington, not Baghdad.
Having sirens flavor my day was a piece from home that I had missed for a long time. Like in Baghdad, the sirens don't seem to stop in D.C. One tones down and another picks up and continues. I walk in the streets and feel at home. In Berkeley, I knew I was a stranger, and it felt like it, too. I didn't hear sirens very often. It is a beautiful place, but there was something missing. The flavor of sirens.
Sometimes people complain about annoying noises, such as dogs barking or trucks roaring in the streets. Only when we lose them do we realize that we had grown used to them, and to complaining about them. A friend told me that if Niagara Falls stopped running for a night, the people who live nearby would waken in the middle of the night with a headache.
My Niagara stopped for a few months, but it is up and running again.
-- Omar Fekeiki, staff writer
Ellie
Monday, July 9, 2007; B03
Aaaaah, these summer mornings in Washington, trees fluttering in the gentle breeze, flowers in full bloom, and . . . the sirens, the sweet lullaby of the sirens. You don't hear the sirens? Omar Fekeiki, a summer intern in our newsroom, hears them, and they make him feel at home.
In Baghdad, where I come from, I usually woke up about 6:30 or 7 every morning to the sound of a boom. I didn't need to set the alarm clock. That punctual sound of the improvised explosive device was enough.
Since the invasion of Iraq in 2003, loud noises such as shootings, bombs and the sirens of ambulances or firetrucks signified more than what the ears comprehend. They were the final touches to a painting in progress, almost a melody that, to my surprise, I often found myself humming.
Since leaving Iraq, I feel the absence of that noise: the sound of an explosion, of the ambulance and police cars sirens ululating all day, of an AK-47 spraying bullets that we knew meant we would count down a neighbor. We turned it into a game in my house, trying to guess where the sound was coming from or going to.
"The sound is coming from the left and going right," my father would declare. "Then the bomb was in Amiriya or Jihad," my mother would reply, referring to two Sunni neighborhoods in western Baghdad where Sunni insurgents have found a haven since the invasion.
It is weird, but that is an aspect of life that I miss here: the anticipation and uncertainty and dark humor that comes with tragedy.
I came to Washington a month ago. I arrived late at night from Berkeley, Calif., where I go to school. I went from the airport to the house of a friend and directly to bed. I didn't set the alarm clock, because I wanted to get a good night's sleep.
The next morning, I woke up just after 6 humming to the sound of sirens. For a moment, I couldn't believe my ears. I opened my eyes to see a ceiling that didn't look like my room in Baghdad. What was happening? I didn't know, but it felt right. I repeated to myself: I am in Washington, not Baghdad.
Having sirens flavor my day was a piece from home that I had missed for a long time. Like in Baghdad, the sirens don't seem to stop in D.C. One tones down and another picks up and continues. I walk in the streets and feel at home. In Berkeley, I knew I was a stranger, and it felt like it, too. I didn't hear sirens very often. It is a beautiful place, but there was something missing. The flavor of sirens.
Sometimes people complain about annoying noises, such as dogs barking or trucks roaring in the streets. Only when we lose them do we realize that we had grown used to them, and to complaining about them. A friend told me that if Niagara Falls stopped running for a night, the people who live nearby would waken in the middle of the night with a headache.
My Niagara stopped for a few months, but it is up and running again.
-- Omar Fekeiki, staff writer
Ellie