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The next day, dozens more die across my country. This has become normal. We're used to it. Iraqi lives are worth nothing; we're just numbers in the news. In the past, Iraqis would wear black to mourn a young man for many years. They would cry forever. But not anymore. Now we bury in the morning and forget by the evening.
On Tuesday, my wife gets her grades from dental school. She has done well. I am so happy that I vow to confront terrorism and live a normal life for one day. I decide to drive my own car and take my wife to a nice lunch at the only good restaurant left in Baghdad. I leave work early, head home and remove the cover from my car for the first time in a year. And with it, I remove my fear.
Oh, how I've missed my BMW. When I tell my wife that we're taking the car, she is afraid, but I convince her that nothing will happen. It's just one day, I say. For once, we'll live like normal people. I drive to the restaurant and feel so happy -- and fearful at the same time. But we arrive safely, although I'm stopped at a police checkpoint and asked about my sect. Normally, they just ask where you live or where you're heading, which are also clues, but this time they ask me directly. I have to lie, but luckily I have a neutral name that isn't obviously either Sunni or Shiite.
We have a wonderful time at lunch. But much later, after I finally go to bed at 3 a.m., after the neighborhood generator stops, the eternal questions start up again. Will it ever end? When will I die?
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