Homeless

A dog stood in a vast puddle, the water just over his paws. His head low, with ears set back and low as if wary of being surprised from behind. His coat was matted with filth, his natural color of white tanned and darkened in splotches. We drove through a vast field of refuse, a narrow one-lane path winding between humps of industrial, construction and household trash. A family was picking through the piles and placing the desirable items (metallic) in a small cart pulled by a small donkey. And there were flies. They achieved what bullets, shrapnel and bomb fragments do not; they penetrated the humvee and invaded the space around my face. We had heard there was a large camp of displaced persons (I use the required phrase) out near Sadr City; we talked to several families living in huts and brick houses but did not locate any camp. We find it difficult to determine that such a level of poverty is normal for some families, not brought on by fleeing their homes with few possessions. I try not to make assumptions. Reportedly there is a major movement of civilians in Baghdad, but in an area with nearly 7 million people perhaps we can be forgiven for not noticing. It is unclear what is exactly motivating the movement. Some say sectarian threats and violence. Others say a political agenda to shift the demographics of the nation. We turn back and wind through the vast wasteland of standing sewage water and lumps of garbage. A smoldering hulk of a stripped car spews filthy smoke. I see the dog perk his head up, interrupting his cautious slurping. I wonder if he once had a home. Or if he has always run wild. Or if he would think there is much of a difference.