By Asif Tejani

Allawi never knew his father. He was born to a family of four sisters -- the long awaited, allegorical son that his father never got to see.

When she was widowed three years ago, his mother moved in with her brother, a roadside peddler and his family. I remember seeing the man walking the streets of Kerbala by chance the day before and wondered how someone could make a living selling knick knacks that nobody seemed to want.

The family now rented some rooms in an old building just outside Kerbala in a slum where old, decrepit houses had been divided into rental units for families. We walked single file through a dark and narrow passage that opened up to a doorway which led into their home.

Allawi was all smiles, posing for the camera and flashing a mischievous smile that was as contagious as it was uninhibited. He was oblivious to the anxiety etched on his mother’s face. They were facing eviction from these rooms next month. They had missed their rental payments and the landlord had presented them with a notice to vacate.

His mother was a woman of few words. When pressed, she gave us a synopsis of her monthly expenses: $80 for rent, $25 to purchase cooking gas. We didn’t press her for the details of raising a family of five, school fees, food, clothing and healthcare. Child Aid’s monthly contribution seemed hardly worthy of mention.

I saw Allawi’s mom smile only once. It was when we asked the three year old what he wanted to be when he grew up. He glanced shyly at us, then at his Mom and in a response that seemed obviously rehearsed, said, “a doctor.”

And you, we asked her, what are your dreams and your aspirations. She didn’t hesitate when she said, “as for us, first and foremost we ask for dignity from God.”

Outside their home, in the dusty cul de sac, a group of children were playing soccer with a battered ball, the type that makes that hollow thump when kicked. Allawi ran from team to team, tackling the older kids who playfully teased and taunted him with the inaccessible ball. We joined in, enjoying the small pleasures that I have come to appreciate from people who despite material lack, so often exude such a resilient love for life. Earlier, Nouri had offered to buy them a new soccer ball. The kids had led him to a nearby corner store, skipping and giggling in anticipation. Allawi had held Nouri’s hand like a trusting child expectantly awaiting his reward. He wanted a toy tank. He was adamant about that. For a generation that has only seen war, I couldn’t blame a young kid for glamourizing the instruments of war.

As we made our way to the store, the entire neighbourhood’s kids tagged along wanting me to take their pictures, clamouring around me to see their images captured on digital camera, squealing with delight at their expressions. A young girl in bright pink peeked from her home, curious yet uncertain if we were friend or foe. A neighbour politely inquired if we were from the area. We looked obviously out of place. Nouri told them briefly about Child Aid without mentioning the family we were visiting.

The woman pulled her abaya closer upon herself and said. “You don’t have to tell me more…if you are here to help the widow and her children, all I can say is that you must be doing something right, because if there is one family that really needs help and would never come to ask you for it, it is theirs.”

It was getting late and we had to leave. I turned back to hug Allawi goodbye, but he wriggled through my arms, flashing me a huge grin as he ran to join his friends.

He was clutching his box of Abu Walad sandwich biscuits that he had somewhat stoically accepted as a substitute for the toy tank that the store didn’t sell. He radiated the joy that only a three year old can in whose world, a box of cookies and a toy weapon are so closely interchangeable. And somehow, in a world where childhood is such a fleeting moment, I felt happier for it.