Remembering Allan: a tribute to Jill Carroll's interpreter

He could also laugh at himself. Allan was the first to recognize that he had not been formally trained as a interpreter, and that as a result he was prone to find himself over his head in some interviews. Fully at ease in man-on-the-street interviews (at least the ones that were in fact off the street and behind shop doors, away from peering eyes), Allan was less in command in formal interviews with officials using precise language, and he knew it.

He chuckled heartily for hours after a highly intellectual official in one ministry, endowed with enough English to know he was not happy with Allan's translation of his references to 19th-century philosophers, stopped the interview. "He's saying you need a new interpreter," Allan stage-whispered to me, grinning as the official fumed in the background. "What do you want to do?"

But on another occasion he picked up on the tension between an outspoken official and a ministry minder who in veiled terms warned the official not to dwell on certain issues - in this case sectarian tensions in schools - with the American reporter. Allan let their discussion go on without seeming to take note of it or translate it, but later in the car he filled me in on the heated words and, to his thinking, their significance.

Allan also wanted to learn on the job, so he could be a better interpreter. When he found out he was going to fill the Monitor's slot in a pool of interpreters for the Saddam Hussein trial, he was worried. "Really, I'm terrified," he told me.

Part of it was a concern that he would be recognized by the wrong people. That fear was allayed when he learned that he would not be seen or have his face broadcast on TV. But he also worried that he would stumble over legal terms he just didn't know. So we spent hours over a couple of days before his translating stint, watching the trial and making a list of key words: defendant, plaintiff, prosecution, witness, evidence, and so on.

The evening of his day in court, Allan called me, euphoric. "It was frightening and exciting at the same time, it was amazing," he said, breathless. "Do you know what it's like for an Iraqi to be in the room with the man who controlled our lives for so many years? It was crazy."

Allan seemed happiest, and proudest, the day he took me to have lunch at his house, where he lived with his own family, his parents, a sister, and a cousin. His mother, originally from Basra, prepared masgouf, a large river fish, with a fabulous Basran sauce of olives and spices.

After lunch, we sipped sweet tea and Raymond Enwiya, Allan's father, told me of his own good years and decline as a Baghdad businessman. Allan juggled Martin on a knee while keeping Mary Ann busy with his other arm. He made a video, speaking as he filmed to provide the audio for the kids' antics.

Today Mr. Enwiya, his wife and daughter, and Allan's wife and children, have left the country. They await word on their request for visas to go to the United States. Their lives have changed drastically, but they watch the videos Allan made, even the ones he isn't in, just to hear his voice.

"I won't let his children forget him," Allan's father says.

Back in Baghdad, others won't forget Allan so quickly either, especially those who cherished the music shop. Like the blogger, who, remembering how much Allan loved Pink Floyd, closed a cybertribute with these Pink Floyd lyrics:

Did you see the frightened ones?
Did you hear the falling bombs?
Did you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter
When the promise of a brave new world
Unfurled beneath the clear blue sky?
Did you see the frightened ones?
Did you hear the falling bombs?
The flames are all long gone, but the pain lingers on.
Goodbye, blue sky
Goodbye, blue sky.
Goodbye. Goodbye.

Donations may be sent to:
The Allan Enwiya Fund
c/o The Christian Science Monitor
One Norway Street
Boston, MA 02115

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