For the Family

My sister says the deep purple stain on our right index finger looks like the early stages of leprosy. I think it looks more like I slammed the finger in a car door. Though we joke, this ugly mark is actually a source of pride. We voted in the Iraqi election on Saturday--the country's first in half a century (the ink is to ensure we don't try and vote twice.) We can laugh about it because we live in Los Angeles, where the purple stain did not serve as a target for insurgents with hand grenades. It was a chance to brag to people I don't even know--"Hey look, I voted!"

I know this is a historical moment that may mark the resurrection of democracy in Iraq. It was, after all, one of the first Arab countries to allow voting back in the 1920s (under a British occupation), only to lose that privilege by the mid '50s. My father's side of the family all still live in Baghdad and even though President George W. Bush urged them and millions more Iraqis to get the vote out, I hoped they'd stay home. You see, they do not have the protection of the secret service or a bullet-proof limo to accompany them to the polls for that "Democracy prevails!" press shot. No word yet on whether they made the hazardous trip.

Of the 240,000 eligible Iraqi expatriates in the US, only 11 percent registered to vote. For many, the polling places were too far and few between (there were only five precincts nationwide.) For some, it was a protest of sorts. They felt the election was a front to make us forget about the empty claims about weapons of mass destruction, the violent occupation, the 1,500 American soldiers and the estimated 100,000 Iraqi civilians who've died. But my sister and I decided we should do it for our family's future and for my father, who passed away 15 years ago and never did get a chance to cast a ballot in his to homeland. It seemed a little absurd though considering we never lived there and barely speak a word of Arabic--but were eligible because we are the daughters of an Iraqi-born male.

The question that vexed us was who to choose to represent the Iraqi people. We had one choice among nine coalitions, 74 independent parties and several more individual candidates. Our choice would hopefully make up part of the 275 national seat assembly--a group that will form a transitional government and draft a new constitution. My criterion: to choose a moderate, secular-minded and intellectual party with first-hand knowledge of Western culture and politics. I chose the United Iraqi Alliance list endorsed by Shiite leader Grand Ayatollah Ali Sistani not for religious reasons, but largely because of a key member, nuclear physicist Hussein Shahristani. His track record: a Shiite who refused to work with Saddam on a nuclear program and was jailed for over a decade. He escaped, lived in exile in England and was behind several humanitarian campaigns to help all refugees from Saddam's violence--Shiites, Kurds and Sunnis.

We drove down south on the second day of voting set aside for expatriate Iraqis to the defunct El Toro Marine base in Irvine, California that served as the only Iraqi election polling station west of the Mississippi. We waited in line at the vehicle checkpoint with about 30 other cars, including a bus load of voters from The Las Vegas Assyrian Church, a packed Honda from Washington with rosary beads hanging from the rearview mirror and a Hummer full of hip 20-somethings blasting Sean Paul tunes. Just inside the checkpoint--which took about a half hour to clear--a group of Kurds in traditional garb danced in the parking lot to Kurdish music blasting from their car stereos. Assyrians did the same while waving their flags and holding signs: "VOTE FOR 139!" The cork was out of the bottle and everyone had a chance to voice their opinions and flaunt their cultures. Every news agency imaginable was there. Over and over they placed themselves near the most stereotypical "Arab-looking" individuals: women in abayas (the full body and head covering), a Shiite cleric in a long beard and covered head. They didn't bother to photograph the other 90 percent of the voters: the mother and toddler in jeans, the middle-aged woman who came from work in a suit and heels and the young men in the "Raiders" T-shirts (I overheard one complaining: "Dude, I can't go in 'cause I forgot to register!").

My sister and I had been struggling with the Arabic language sample ballot in the car. It was a little humiliating when we had to ask a couple of different folks in the parking lot if they could please show us which number represented our candidate. They were happy to help. Just past the metal detectors and the pat down, I double checked with an election official inside to make sure we had the right number. "You do," he beamed. "And I appreciate your choice." I guess most Americans would be horrified that an election official let his opinion show, but this is not an American election and every Arab knows that it takes a lot more than a comment or two to sway a fellow Iraqi's opinion.

We presented our registration cards, dipped our finger in ink and cast our ballot. Here's to the family, to dad, to our hopes for real democracy. Then my sister and I cried as we walked out of the building. There were the news cameras again. They focused on the bearded "Arab-looking" man in front of us. Victorious, he pushed his thumbs in the air and cracked a huge grin. "Woo Hoo!" he screamed like a football fan. "We're Number One!" My sister and I laughed. How very American--how very Iraqi.