It is a California winter, March 17, warm and green, and in the Berkeley Hills in the late afternoon, the wind pushes gently over the rooftops, lightly touching off the sound of chimes, faintly, as if from a distant bell tower. The sun migrates leisurely across the sky, making its way toward the Golden Gate Bridge and the endless ocean beyond. It is 5:45 p.m. on the West Coast, 8:45 in Washington D.C., 5:45 a.m. in Baghdad.
"announced tonight that Saddam Hussein and his two sons have 48 hours to leave Iraq and go into exile, or face U.S. military action. Bush went on"
My parents seem depressed; they have seen this all before, many years ago. For me, the reality of war has not struck home. I do wonder, though: How did it come to this?
I leave the television on and wander into the kitchen to get something to eat. I open the refrigerator and it is full.
It is always full.
March 18, 2003
It is my friend Jack's birthday tonight. I go over to his house for dinner, and his mom makes steak, garlic bread, salad and cake. Unbelievable. I was so full; I almost got sick while we were playing pool in the basement. While driving home, I turn to the sports news on the radio. I'm really looking forward to Cal-Berkeley's first round NCAA tournament game on Thursday. I've been saying all season that this is our year. It's gotta be! If Amit Tamir, our forward/center from Israel, is on his game, we'll be very hard to beat. I don't think I could take it if we lose, though. I'll be so depressed
March 19, 2003
"There is less than one hour left before President Bush's 48-hour window for Saddam Hussein to leave Iraq expires. With Hussein having already"
I turn off the television and sit down to read the newspaper. It is quiet in the house, my parents and sister are at work, and my dog is sleeping peacefully in the kitchen. I glance over the headlines: "UC Berkeley Prof. Says War Could Provoke Attacks on Israel," "Mysterious Epidemic Kills 9 in Southeast Asia," "CDC Investigating Possible Cases of Illness in U.S.," "Officials: Al Qaeda Originally Planned Larger September 11 Attack," "Bin Laden Rejected Plan That Included Attack on Bay Area Bridges."
I turn away from the paper and walk to the window. I never thought for a moment that war, for better or worse, would actually come; even when Bush gave his ultimatum, I still assumed something would happen. Somebody would back down. Human beings would find some way to avoid killing each other. How nave of me. Now it seems like the whole world is falling apart.
After my dad comes home from work, the two of us go out for a walk. We talk about war for a while, and then I change the subject, hoping to talk about the only thing that is currently making me smile: basketball.
"You know," my dad says. "If there was to be a terrorist attack during the tournament, Tamir would be an obvious target, being Israeli and all." That night, the bombing starts.
March 20, 2003
It is 11 a.m. in Berkeley, 11 p.m. in Baghdad. While the bombs drop, I am on my knees, praying for Cal-Berkeley to pull out what is now a tie game in overtime. My sister comes down the stairs and looks at me with mild contempt, as older sisters are apt to do.
"You know there's a war going on, right?" I keep my eyes on the television.
"Yes," I reply. "But I'm trying not to think about that, now."
Richard Midgley, a freshman point guard from England, nails a three-pointer with 3 seconds left to win the game. I am ecstatic; for a minute, all else is forgotten. I am running around my house like a little kid, jumping up and down in circles.
I run up the stairs in celebration, waving to my cat, wholly uninterested in everything except sleep. After jumping up and down on my bed for a few minutes, I return downstairs, walking this time, hoping to catch the announcers in the CBS studio talking about my team.
Dan Rather greets me instead.A U.S. helicopter has crashed. More bombs are being dropped.
Horrible images flash across the screen, accompanied by the sound of explosions, and all I can think is, what am I doing about it? When the sun sets over the Golden Gate Bridge tonight, and people start to die on the other side of the earth, what will I be doing? Watching a movie? Obsessing over basketball? When the urban warfare begins, what will I be doing? Checking blitz? Eating a breakfast sandwich? I sit for hours in front of the TV, watching March Madness, trying to forget that life sounds nothing like a basketball swishing cleanly through a nylon net.
It is March 20, 2003, the last day of winter, and Dan Rather is smiling at me, trying to reassure me that it will all be ok.
"We'll be here all day," he says. "And when news breaks out, we'll break in
"Now, back to the game."
