It was called "Desert Storm" but the only sand was being laid on the city streets of Denver one cold morning after the Gulf War began. When the first flag decals came out; (which, by the way, still "won't get you into heaven anymore") the capital P atriots got into their exhaust-stinking, oil-burning, red and blue Ford trucks and went huntin' for something to beat up.

He was on his way to his early college class, Anthropology; and as he walked to the bus stop, he was day dreaming of the upcoming weekend.  He might have a chance to have a little fun instead of studying and reading all of the time.

Mosabah came Colorado from the United Arab Emirates, a placid, healthy, peace-loving corner of a very large, very diverse desert. Mosabah was blind, he carried a white cane. That morning, just like every morning, he reached the bus stop and sat on the bench, checking to make sure his tape recorder was working well and if he had brought enough batteries to tape all of the classes today. They had been discussing cultures' languages and all of the strange alphabets the worlds' literate peoples use. He was thinking of the beauty of such a diverse world of culture and language.

 A beat-up pickup truck pulled up. He couldn't make out color, even though his visual impairment allowed him to see shadow and some highly magnified print.  Mosabah sat at the bus stop--many people went by this time of morning. But the truck stopped and the engine sputtered out. Two doors slammed, and then he heard the voices: raised, inflamed, arrogant, coming right toward him.

 "What the hell are you doing, camel jockey? Your big red Camaro car in the shop? Ya come over here to steal our women and then go home and burn our flags."   The voices.

Mosabah stayed composed, but was getting concerned about the words that were growing into fists. He was big and he had brothers to wrestle with growing up; he tried to reason rationally; he tried to remember the street next to him, he listened for the sound of the cars, the cars.... Mosabah prayed.

The bus wasn't coming for another few minutes so Mosabah stayed on the bench: motionless and speechless. One of the voices yelled "Ahm gunna go git my huntin' rifle." The guy who smelled like beer and cigarettes standing next to Mosabah yelled "NO!" and they began to notice other people approaching their bus stop.
 
 Time was running out, they started to use those fists that had been folded over and over with hateful words and hate filled stares. They rammed into him from either side, punched him until he felt his face hit the cement. Then he felt the toes of their boots--"had to be work boots--so damned hard!" The two thugs kicked him over and over. Mosabah could only taste the blood in his mouth and the fire in his rage, HIS rage.

The media heard about Mosabah and did a story on him during that dull no-news, wait-and-see time at the beginning of the Gulf War. Many of his friends went home, those from Iraq and Iran were first to book a flight; then finally, those from his neighboring United countries started to go home. Mosabah stayed in America. He finished his degree from the University of Denver.

I was a good friend of his; I answered an ad for readers for a blind international student. We started meeting regularly at the school to go over texts, maps, notes, tapes, and essays.  We also shared hours of friendship and discussion of ethics and religion, culture and similarities; families and friends.

While all the other Middle Eastern students were leaving for at least a semester, I asked Mosabah why he didn't go back home for a semester, as his father and brothers were urging.

He told me: "All people are not bad. Not everybody hates, and if they do--it will come back to him. Perhaps these men will see the beautiful colors and religions of the world and embrace it, not run from it or hate it."

"I do not think all Americans are ignorant and racist because I met two who are."