We were blowing bubbles twenty minutes outside the city of Mosel, in the dump where they live.
Not metaphorically. A literal dump.
The kids sort through trash to find plastic water bottles.

The recycling plant pays $1 for every 6,000 or so.

A tent stitched from tarps is home.
A rusted stove for a kitchen. A board for a table.
Not a crumb of food that I could see.

15 kids swarmed like we were handing out iPhones
but all we had were bubbles.

One little girl, maybe four, wouldn’t let me look away.
Tangled hair, bright-colored dress, torn, dusty.
She smiled like joy was her job.

Our translator told me they call her Baklava.
Because she is so sweet.

I tried to hand the bottle of bubbles to a girl eager to try.
Before she could touch it, a boy snatched it.
Another grabbed the wand.
The bottle spilled in the scramble.
No one got any more bubbles.
We watched joy seep into the cracked desert.

At first, I felt anger at the boys who wouldn’t wait.
I know it’s not their fault.

Scarcity.

We gave her mother some cash. Not enough, but something.

That night, I laid in my bed and cried.
In my mind was Baklava’s smile.

I just hope life doesn’t choke it out.

Jon Peerbolt


Our team member, Jon, wrote this little reflection after we visited one of the poorest parts of Mosul together with local friends and partners.
It is for children like Bakalva we continue our work.

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