Black-haired
and brown- eyed, Ala'a spoke to the 31-year-old American in the
limited English he had learned from the sisters. He recalled the bombs
that struck government buildings across the Tigris River.
"Bomb-Bing!
Bomb-Bing!" Ala'a said, raising and lowering his fist.
"I'm
here now. You're fine," the captain said.
Over the next 10
months, the unit returned to the orphanage again and again. The
soldiers would race kids in their wheelchairs, sit them in Humvees and
help the sisters feed them.
To Southworth, Ala'a
was like a little brother. But Ala'a -- who had longed for a soldier
to rescue him -- secretly began referring to Southworth as "baba,"
Arabic for "daddy."
Then, around
Christmas, a sister told Southworth that Ala'a was getting too big. He
would have to move to a government-run facility within a year.
"Best-case
scenario was that he would stare at a blank wall for the rest of his
life," Southworth said.
To this day, he
recalls the moment when he resolved that that would not happen.
"I'll adopt
him," he said.
Before Southworth
left for Iraq, he was chief of staff for a state representative. He
was single, worked long days and squeezed in his service as a national
guardsman -- military service was a family tradition. His
great-great-great-grandfather served in the Civil War, his grandfather
in World War II, his father in Vietnam.
The family had lived
in the tiny central Wisconsin city of New Lisbon for 150 years. Scott
was raised as an evangelical Christian; he attended law school with a
goal of public service, running unsuccessfully for state Assembly at
the age of 25.
There were so many
reasons why he couldn't bring a handicapped Iraqi boy into his world.
He had no wife or
home; he knew nothing of raising a disabled child; he had little money
and planned to run for district attorney in his home county.
Just as important,
Iraqi law prohibits foreigners from adopting Iraqi children.
Southworth prayed
and talked with family and friends.
His mother, who had
cared for many disabled children, explained the difficulty. She also
told him to take one step at a time and let God work.
Southworth's
decision was cemented in spring 2004, while he and his comrades
watched Mel Gibson's film, "The Passion of the Christ."
Jesus Christ's sacrifice moved him. He imagined meeting Christ and
Ala'a in heaven, where Ala'a asked: "Baba, why didn't you ever
come back to get me?"
"Everything
that I came up with as a response I felt ashamed. I wouldn't want to
stand in the presence of Jesus and Ala'a and say those things to
him."
And so, in his last
weeks in Iraq,
Southworth got approval from Iraq's Minister of Labor to take Ala'a to
the United States for medical care.
His parents had
filed signatures so he wouldn't miss the cutoff to run for district
attorney. He knocked on doors, telling people he wanted to be tough on
criminals who committed injustices against children.
He never mentioned
his intention to adopt Ala'a.
He won office --
securing a job and an income.
Everything seemed to
be in place. But when Southworth contacted an immigration attorney, he
was told it would be nearly impossible to bring Ala'a to the United
States.
Undaunted,
Southworth and the attorney started the paperwork to bring Ala'a over
on humanitarian parole, used for urgent reasons or significant public
benefit.
A local doctor, a
cerebral palsy expert, a Minneapolis hospital, all said they would
provide Ala'a free care. Other letters of support came from a
minister, the school district, the lieutenant governor, a congressman,
chaplain, a sister at the orphanage and an Iraqi doctor.
"We crossed
political boundaries. We crossed religious boundaries. There was just
a massive effort -- all on behalf of this little boy who desperately
needed people to actually take some action and not just feel sorry for
him," Southworth says.
He mailed the packet
on December 16, 2004, to the Department of Homeland Security.
On New Year's Eve,
his cell phone rang. It was Ala'a.
"What are you
doing?" Scott asked him.
"I was
praying,"' Ala'a responded.
"Well, what
were you praying for?"
"I prayed that
you would come to take me to America," Ala'a said.
Southworth almost
dropped the phone. Ala'a knew nothing of his efforts, and he couldn't
tell him yet for fear that the boy might inadvertently tell the wrong
person, upending the delicate process.
By mid-January,
Homeland Security called Southworth's attorney to say it had approved
humanitarian parole. Within three hours, Southworth had plane tickets.
He hardly slept as
he worked the phones to make arrangements, calling the American
Embassy, hotels and the orphanage. His Iraqi translator agreed to risk
his life to get Ala'a to the embassy to obtain documentation. Like a
dream, all the pieces fell into place.
Southworth returned
to Iraq for the first time since a deployment that left him
emotionally, physically and spiritually exhausted.
His unit had trained
Iraqi police from sunup to sundown; he saw the devastation wrought by
two car bombings, and counted dead bodies. Mortar and rocket attacks
were routine. Some 20 in his unit were wounded, and one died. He knew
that nothing could be taken for granted in Baghdad.
So when he saw Ala'a
in the airport for the first time since leaving Iraq, he was relieved.
"He was in my
custody then. I could hug him. I could hold him. I could protect him.
"And forever
started."
They made it to
Wisconsin late January 20, 2005. The next morning, Ala'a awoke to his
first sight of snow.
He closed his eyes
and grimaced.
"Baba! Baba!
The water is getting all over me!"
"It's not
water, it's snooooow," Southworth told him.
Police found Ala'a
abandoned on a Baghdad
street at around 3 years old. No one knows where he came from.
In all his life in
Iraq, Ala'a saw a doctor 10 times. He surpassed that in his first six
months in the United States.
Ala'a's cerebral
palsy causes low muscle tone, spastic muscles in the legs, arms and
face. It hinders him when he tries to crawl, walk or grasping objects.
He needs a wheelchair to get around, often rests his head on his
shoulder and can't easily sit up.
Physical therapy has
helped him control his head and other muscles. He can now maneuver his
way out of his van seat and stabilize his legs on the ground.
"I'm not the
same guy I used to be," he says.
He clearly has
thrived. At 13, he's doubled his weight to 111 pounds.
Ala'a's condition
doesn't affect his mind, although he's still childlike -- he wants to
be Spider-Man when he grows up.
Ala'a's English has
improved, and he loves music and school, math and reading, especially.
He gets mad when snow keeps him home, even though it's his second
favorite thing, after his father.
At first, he didn't
want to talk about Iraq; he would grow angry when someone tried to
talk to him in Arabic. But in the fall of 2006, Scott showed Ala'a's
classmates an Arabic version of "Sesame Street" and boasted
how Ala'a knew two languages and could teach them.
Soon he was teaching
his aide and his grandmother, LaVone.
LaVone is a fixture
in Ala'a's life, supporting her son as he juggles his career and
fatherhood. One day, she asked Ala'a if he missed his friends in Iraq.
Would he like to
visit them?
Big tears filled his
eyes.
"Well, honey,
what's the matter?" asked LaVone.
"Oh, no,
Grandma. No. Baba says that I can come to live with him forever,"
he pleaded.
"Oh, no,
no," he grandmother said, crying as well. "We would never
take you back and leave you there forever. We want you to be Baba's
boy forever."
Southworth knew once
he got Ala'a out of Iraq, the hardest part would be over. Iraq had
bigger problems to deal with than the whereabouts of a single orphan.
On June 4, Ala'a
officially became Southworth's son. Though he was born in the spring
of 1994, they decided to celebrate his birthday as the day they met --
September 6.
Life has settled
into a routine. Father and son have moved into a new house with an
intercom system, a chair lift to the basement and toilet handles.
Southworth showers him, brushes his teeth and washes his hands. He has
traded in his Chrysler Concorde for a minivan -- it was too hard to
lift his son out of the car. 
See photos of Ala'a and his
dad at their Wisconsin home »
In October, the
Wisconsin's deputy adjunct general gave Southworth, now a major,
permission to change units because of Ala'a. His former unit was going
to Guantanamo Bay for a one-year deployment, and he didn't want to
leave his son behind, at least for now.
He hopes one day to
marry to his longtime girlfriend and have more children. He may run
for Congress or governor someday -- he's already won re-election once,
and plans to run again next fall.
Not everything is
perfect. Ala'a never encountered thunderstorms in Baghdad, and the
flash-boom reminds him of bombs. He is starting to get over it,
although he still weeps during violent storms.
But
Ala'a -- who picked out his own name, which means to be near God --
knows he's where he belongs. Southworth always says Ala'a picked him,
not the other way around. They were brought together, Southworth
believes, by a "web of miracles."
ole
dummy's vote for top journalist, media, and reporting awards for all
of 2007; 95% for
5% against.
