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It turns out that neither Esam nor Ahmed has ever gone swimming here before. We change and I jump into the cool water. There are a couple of reporters studiously doing laps, but after Esam and Ahmed tentatively enter the pool and start splashing around like kids, the lap swimmers soon leave. My friends aren’t strong swimmers and keep to the shallow end, practicing their dog paddles. Completely unselfconscious, they whoop it up, their kicks sending sprays of water at a nearby group of journalists having dinner, who nervously eye them but leave them alone. After an hour I’ve gotten cold, and get out to have a cigarette. Esam and Ahmed wont leave the pool. An hour later they’re ready to have dinner, but after we eat they jump right back in. Esam likes to submerge and then come up, his long, glossy hair streaming down over his eyes. He says he can check out the gaymar (Arabic for cream, i.e., blondes) that way, without them knowing he’s spying.
Looking across at the crowd of journalists eating and chatting, I’m reminded of summer dinner parties in New York, among artist friends. But thinking of my companions here in Iraq, I feel proud to be with them. My project has allowed me the time and luxury to become close to people with whom I don’t need to have a professional relationship with. I’m wondering if it will ever be possible for them to travel as Iraqi tourists to the U.S.
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