Writings of Iraqi glow like a beacon

Can anything good come out of Baghdad? And how are we to know?

The poet Pablo Neruda might say that Iraq is like an artichoke. We see its armor and spiky exterior, but we never get a glimpse of its heart.

Just what do the Iraqi people hold in their hearts?

I don't know the full answer to that question, but I know this much: Along with poverty, the Iraqis have poetry. Specifically, they have poetry written by Rabia of Basra — an Islamic saint and a national treasure. Rabia may have lived more than a thousand years ago, but Iraqi schoolkids and shopkeepers today still read her poems. So do the mullahs and the militants, the professors, pacifists and the politicians.

The writings of Rabia reside at the heart of Iraq.

And for peacemakers everywhere, that should be a sign of hope.

Rabia was the fourth daughter in a destitute family. After her parents died, she wandered about Mesopotamia — today's Iraq. Young and beautiful, she was captured, sold as a slave and forced to work in a brothel. Later in her life, she would write:

Dear sisters,

all we do in this world,

whatever happens,

is bringing us closer to God.

When Rabia finally won her freedom at age 50, she dedicated herself to meditation and prayer. She would also give spiritual counsel to people for no charge. Once, when a visitor left a pile of gold at her feet, she allegedly said, "My dear, flies will gather around that gold as if a horse had relieved himself. And I might slip in it while dancing."

She also said, "I was born when all I once feared I could love."

She said: "Live with dignity, men. Live with dignity, women. Few things will more enhance our beauty."

In one of her most quoted poems, she wrote:

It helps,

putting my hands on a pot,

on a broom, in a wash pail.

I tried painting,

but it was easier to fly

slicing potatoes.