Mohammed Ghareeb Ramadan

From the news reports:

Mohammed Ghareeb Ramadan was killed August 19, 2004 while trying to prevent the kidnapping of Italian journalist Enzo Baldoni ...

I have wondered for many days just what I can do and if all I can do is to share the story of this friend, this man of peace, this prince, then I hope that by introducing you all to Ghareeb, he may live forever in the hearts and minds of all his family across the globe. ...

Ghareeb had been a computer engineer before the war. He drove a Nissan. He wore polo shirts. He wanted to go to Canada. He was just your average, every day man trying to live his life in Baghdad. The entire time we were with him, he absolutely refused payment of any kind, instead always thanking us for being his entertainment, for giving him a reason to practice his fluent English, for telling him about America and the world, for simply being there.

To my knowledge, when we met Ghareeb was not involved with any humanitarian or political groups. He was just a regular guy who wanted to help his country and to do right however and whenever he could. In the end, his goodness would make him everything but regular or ordinary.

By the time of his death one year later, Ghareeb had become guardian and friend to travelers from the U.S., Italy, Germany, and England, to name a few. He had gone into Fallujah at a time when everyone else was fleeing so that he could deliver medical aid and transport women and children to safety. When he and others were attacked by U.S. snipers and their ambulance destroyed, he was not deterred but returned again and again in his own beaten up car, squeezing into his back seat one injured child after another. He called periodically to report the damage, paying for hours of phone calls and staying up until the wee hours even after long exhausting days so that he could report what was happening to other internationals. It is only because of those phone calls and the resulting mass emails that many of us have any idea of what really happened in Fallujah.

Upon hearing of Ghareeb�s death I found myself sitting next to the only reminders I could find of his presence: a photo of his jolly grin, a small collection of the old Iraqi coins that are now out of print and that he had gone out his way to find for me, and a ticket to Babylon. From those memories I draw out images of him: Ghareeb laughing with his friends, whose children lines his lap like he was an Iraqi version of Santa Clause, Ghareeb stopping the car so we could pet the sheep or feel the breeze on our skin, Ghareeb driving us out of danger and into the sunset, showing us the beauty of his land and drilling us about the beauty of his home, Palestine.

I will always remember coming across an overturned van one day alongside the road. A group of men had gather to do what they must have known they could not and somehow overturn this hulking mass to free the young man trapped underneath. Even if rescued, he would likely die soon after, for there was no ambulance, no police, no 911 call, only desert and the pushing, sweating bodies of his countrymen. We passed, Ghareeb halted and nearly leapt from the car saying, I MUST stop, I MUST. One of our group was arguing, there is nothing we can do now, we should just go, another began to cry at the scene, for the sadness and hopelessness of it all. I felt the hot air on my face, felt the sand creeping into the car. I watched as Ghareeb returned from the van, shaking his head. He stopped and stared briefly off into the distance, wiped his brow and returned to the car, lit a cigarette and drove us on. That look on his face then, how he felt, truly felt for all, for every last person, his saying, �I MUST,� and his ability to take tragedy after tragedy and still see beauty and hope, that was Ghareeb as clearly as know how to paint him.

Ghareeb was popular in Iraq. He introduced us to friends from all walks of life, who invited us into their homes and shared their stories, their meals, and their laughter with us. And no matter whether he agreed with them or not, Ghareeb carried understanding and compassion into every relationship. He was one of the most non-judgmental people I have ever met in my life.

The last time I spoke with Ghareeb was last summer. His near-death experience in Fallujah had scared me enough to tell him how I felt, how I loved him, how WE loved him, to ask him to be safe at the end of every call. �Of course Jessica, of course. I will talk to you soon,� he told me. I never heard from him again. ...

I find comfort in knowing that Ghareeb�s life was so full and he was so loved in the end. But I still mourn for what could have been. In his death, we have not only lost this one man but all that this one man could have shown us. ...

For Ghareeb, my friend, I have no words left with which to describe my love, my gratitude, my blessed experience at having known you. What words do we have left with which to speak the language of the heart?

Email sent by Jessica Anderson