CHAPTER FOUR
The Children Of Northern Iraq

The war against Saddam Hussein lasted for only 100 hours, resulting in a lopsided defeat and mass surrender. This was all viewed on television each night with military videos of the latest smart bombs finding their exact targets with pinpoint accuracy.

I can’t remember when a war was followed with such interest by the public—due in part, no doubt, to the vastly superior telecommunication technology existing today. A person can be sitting in his living room and watch live footage of actual combat on the other side of the globe. Americans love a good fight and the nightly news organizations made sure that their viewers got a very exciting look at all our victories.

Just as quick to anger, the American temperament is equally swayed by other emotions, besides the heat of battle. There’s no question that this war galvanized the spirit of America to rally around her armed forces. But it is also true that an even more powerful emotion soon overtook the American spirit. The fighting was predictable enough, but what happened during the aftermath of the Persian Gulf War was totally unexpected.

I can still remember the vivid images. Without a war to report, the center stage of the nightly newscast was transported from the hot desert sands of Kuwait to the bitter-cold mountains of Northern Iraq. Scenes of burning oil wells and surrendering troops were replaced with pictures of little boys and girls being buried by their grieving parents. As for the children still alive, most had little to wear and inadequate shoes to flee from the ruthless Saddam, as he turned what remained of his weary forces against these nomadic Kurds.

Night after night America’s heart was torn apart by the pictures of these broken people. The plight of the children was especially heart wrenching. These are some of the most adorable looking kids in the world. And yet, there they were—cold, starving, some barefoot and many dying—struggling through ankle-deep mud up the side of a rain-swept mountain. Of course, this happened a number of years ago and in response to their terrible plight, President Bush ordered a massive military airlift of food and supplies in what became known as Operation Provide Comfort. The war itself certainly stirred the emotional fervor of the American populace, but nothing compared to their outcry over the plight of these helpless children.

Staring down the empty parade route, I suddenly became alert as another figment of my overly imaginative mind began to appear. I was genuinely surprised. Even perplexed. Unlike the other military floats that I had seen earlier, the float now approaching looked very strange. Instead of a mock up of a Navy ship or something similar, the float looked more like the top of some barren mountain peak. On it I could see several devotees dressed in soiled dhotis, standing around a large brass kettle. The kettle was shimmering in the sunlight. They were stirring its contents with large wooden paddles.

Another group of devotees were sitting in a circle off to the right, each with a child bundled in their laps. These devotees were holding plates of hot prasadam and feeding the children. High above them in banner-like style, a simple sign declared:

DURING THE AFTERMATH OF THE PERSIAN GULF WAR, HARE KRISHNA DEVOTEES FED AND SAVED THE LIVES OF THOUSANDS OF KURDISH CHILDREN

I was stunned. All around me the huge crowd went absolutely mad with shouts of praise and applause. In fact, their appreciation was overwhelming—even louder than their cheers for the returning troops—all at once bringing me back to reality. What did this mean? I sensed from the depths of my soul that something extremely profound had just happened. I felt that a very special window had just opened for the first time. Even now, years later, hardly a day goes by that I don’t spend at least some time appreciating the many things this open window has allowed me to see. I want to see more. This is what this book is all about.