Humanitarian Heat Wave

Dusty, dry, deep Iraq. I arrive in the small town, eyes squinting in the hot glaring sun. Here for a week, solo, in the compound, unable to leave except to walk through the archway to the adjacent office. I wave at my Iraqi staff and enter the guesthouse. I dump my bags and brace myself for 7 days of poor internet and Arabic TV, noisy food distributions and silent dinners. Except for the sound of the Imam, calling out every few hours. I turn on the fan and unbutton my shirt. The door then opens. In walks a beautiful black English man glistening with sweat from the afternoon sun. He says he’s arrived to section off the contaminated fields so the de-miners can start their work. I offer him some icy water. His hand brushes against mine, we lock eyes, he asks me where he should be sleeping that night.