A Poem from the translator of Rumi to the U.S. President
 
               Just this Once
               President Bush, before you order airstrikes,
               imagine the first cruise missile
               as a direct hit on your closest friend.
 
               That might be Laura. Then twenty-five other
               family and friends.
               There are no survivors. Now imagine
               some other way to do it. Quadruple
               the inspectors, or put
               a thousand and one U.N. people in.
 
            Then call
                for peace activists to volunteer to go to Iraq
                for two weeks each. Flood
                that country with well-meaning tourists, people
                curious about the land that produced the great
                saints, Gilani, Hallaj,
                and Rabia. Set up hostels near those tombs.
 
                Encourage peace people to spend a bunch of money
                in shops, to bring rugs
                home and samovars by the bushel. Send an Arabic
                translator with every four peace activists.
                The U.S. government will pay
                for the translators and for building and staffing
                the hostels, one hostel for every twenty activists
                and five translators. The hostels
                are state of the art, and they belong to the Iraqis
                at the end of this experiment. Jimmy Carter, Nelson
                Mandela, and my friend, Jonathan
                Granoff at the U.N., will be the core organization
                team. No one knows what might come of this. Maybe
                nothing, or maybe it would
                convince some Iraqis and some of the world that
                we really do not wish to kill anybody, and that
                we truly are not out
                to appropriate oil reserves. We're working
                on building a hydrogen vehicle as fast as we can,
                aren't we? Put no limit
                on the number of activists from all over
                that might want to hang out and explore Iraq
                for two weeks. Is anything
                left of Babylon? There could be informal
                courses for college credit and pickup soccer
                games every evening at
                five. Long leisurely suppers. The U.S.
                government furnishes air transportation, that
                is, hires airliners from
                the country of origin and back for each peace
                tourist, who must carry and spend the equivalent
                of $1001 U.S. inside Iraq.
 
                Keep part of the invasion force nearby as police,
                but let those who claim to deeply detest war
                try something else just this
                once, for one year. Call our bluff. If this madman
                Saddam's WMD threat is not, somehow, eliminated
                by next February, you
                can go in with special ops, and do it that way.
 
                Medical services, transportation inside Iraq, lots
                of big colorful buses - let
                the pilgrims paint them! - along with many
                other ideas that will be thought of later during
                the course of this innocently,
                blatantly, foolish project will all also be funded
                by the U.S. government. There's a practice known
                as sama, a deep listening
                to poetry and music, with sometimes movement
                involved. We could experiment with whole nights
                of that, staying up until dawn,
                sleeping in tents during the day. So instead
                of war there's a peace period from March 2003
                through February 2004.
 
                It could be as though war had already happened,
                as it has, and the healing and rebuilding. Now
                we're in the celebration
                afterward. I'll be the first to volunteer for two
                weeks of wandering winter desert and reading Hallaj,
                Abdul Qadir Gilani,
                dear Rabia, and the life-saving 1001 Arabian Nights.
 
                I am Coleman Barks, a retired English professor
                living in Athens, Georgia,
                and I don't really consider this proposal foolish.
 
                Coleman Barks
 
                2003
 

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