The
woman in apartment 24 didn’t know him.
Neither
did the man in 26.
Of
course they saw him, from time to time, when he’d emerge from apartment 25.
They’d stand to the side, along the rail, as he’d cautiously wheel his chair
down the long ramp leading to the back parking lot of the Westgate Apartments.
But
they did not know his name. They did not know his story. And on Friday evening,
as that wheelchair sat in the space between their apartments, loaded with a box
of old mail, a half-case of unopened water bottles and a bright red medical
waste disposal bin, they did not know why.
They
should.
We
all should.
*
It
was the morning of Oct. 20, 2006 — the final hour of the final mission of Diyar
al-Bayati’s service to the U.S. Army in Iraq.
After
more than 200 combat missions, the 20-year-old interpreter was headed for a
much safer job translating for a private company in Kuwait.
And
then, out from the ground, like hell escaping into Earth, a fiery explosion
threw al-Bayati’s world into chaos. In and out of consciousness for the next
several months, he awoke one day to find himself in a hospital in Amman,
Jordan.
Without
his legs.
*
For
more than a year, he languished there, waiting for permission to travel to the
United States. In America, he believed, he would be able to begin his life
anew. But in the year that al-Bayati was wounded,
the U.S. government issued just 50 "special immigrant visas" to
interpreters like himself. The following year, in response to a growing
international condemnation of the way it had abandoned the Iraqi men and women
who had put their lives and families at risk to support the U.S. military
mission in Mesopotamia, the Bush administration increased the number to 500.
That was not nearly enough. When al-Bayati finally made it to
America, it was not through the special visa program but as a refugee. And like
most refugees, he didn't get to choose where he would go.
The U.S. government sent him to Salt Lake City.
He had no family here. No friends. None of the soldiers with
whom he served in Iraq lived here, either.
And despite his service to our nation’s military, al-Bayati was
offered no more assistance than any other refugee.
*
One by one, individuals and non-profit groups came forward to do
what our grateful nation’s government had not — providing care, a little bit of
money and, most of all, a measure of thanks for his service and sacrifice.
But it was too little. It was too late. The young man’s faith
had been shaken.
"They say that I can only get limited help," al-Bayati
told me in 2008. "In Iraq, when they wanted my help, I didn't tell them
that it was limited. I didn't tell them, 'No, I'm just an interpreter and my
services are limited.' "
*
He was in constant pain. He was angry and lonely and hopelessly
addicted to prescription pills.
“It was hard,” said Debi Clark, a mental health therapist who
has taken an interest in the plights of the growing number of Iraqi refugees in
Salt Lake City and, in particular, the case of al-Bayati. “He went through an
awful lot of surgeries. And there were an awful lot of disappointments. He
actually ended up in quite a bit more severe pain from all the surgeries. He
was really struggling. And he was really lonely for his family.”
Apparently aware that the end could be near, al-Bayati begged
his friends to promise that they would return his body to Iraq for burial.
Al-Bayati died Tuesday, alone in his apartment, in front of a
mirror with a brush in his hand. There was no sign of distress.
*
Mustafa
Al-Hussain, a volunteer at the Alrasool Islamic Center in Salt Lake City, said
that the cost to fulfill al-Bayati’s final wish
will be expensive, perhaps $15,000 if the body could be transported
immediately. But because the coroner has been unable to determine precisely how
al-Bayati died, U.S. law dictates that his body cannot be moved out of the
country for 12 weeks. And that, Al-Hussain said, could raise the cost by
another $10,000.
He said there is a small section of West
Jordan's Redwood Memorial Cemetery designated for Muslim burials. Interring
al-Bayati’s body there will cost about $2,500, al-Hussain said — a cost that
can be sustained by Alrasool's small, working class congregation.
On
Friday evening he was attempting to reach al-Bayati’s mother in Iraq to seek
her permission to bury her son in Utah.
al-Hussain
knows that is not what al-Bayati wanted. It’s not what anyone wants for him.
“But for now it is the best that we can do,” he said. “It is very unfortunate.
This is a man who died serving his country. And unfortunately, there seems to
be little chance that we will be able to return him to his family there.”
*
Clark
would like to believe otherwise. On Saturday she opened an account at Wells
Fargo, the Diyar al-Bayati Benefit account, into which anyone can donate simply
by visiting a Wells Fargo branch. If enough money is collected, she said, the
Alrasool center will be able to send al-Bayati’s body home. If not, the mosque
may be able to cover the costs of the local burial and perhaps send a small
gift of gratitude to al-Bayati’s mother in honor of her son’s service and sacrifice.
“In
the end, all he wanted was to go home,” Clark said. “And I feel this obligation
to somehow get him there. It feels like the least we can do for him and his
family.”
___
To learn more about Diyar al-Bayati's story, watch
Ramin Rahimian's compelling video/photo presentation, Last
Mission/Last Hour, read Bruce Finley's reporting for The Denver Post,
or read my articles for The Salt Lake Tribune here and here.
or read my articles for The Salt Lake Tribune here and here.
