Kuwait Roofball

At twilight the dirty soccer ball became hard to see. The boys abandoned the broken street full of junked cars and climbed to the roof where they'd have a clear shot.

Out west, past five striped water towers resembling a 'yield' sign standing as a national landmark in Kuwait, an orange ball of sun whirled down into desert night. To the east, dark aquamarine colors deepened across the Arabian Gulf. Bloated bodies danced on shorelines.

Two Palestinian boys kicked the ball around inside the walled roof. One held a black semiautomatic pistol in the air with the safety on while delicately managing the ball off his bare foot. His bored dark haired friend chipped away at dusty plaster walls with a broken stick. Discarded brown carpets decorated checkerboard tiles.

The roof was divided by a half-story high extended wall of broken windows and chipped stucco. A collection of bent antennas resembling insect arms searching for prey probed the sky. The boys played on the clean side.

The other side of the building extension was scattered debris. An upside down discarded sofa covered with a gray and red ripped and sandblasted fabric resigned to its fate, waved in a useless wind.

A tricycle with worn rubber tires lay stranded next to a rusty ladder. Piles of sand, rocks and an old chair formed a belt fed 60-caliber machine gun nest near neatly stacked metal ammunition cases in the corner overlooking a ring road.

A pair of open-backed sandals served as a goal, guarded by a tall youth in a fragmented gray sweat suit. The ball bounced off the wall well controlled by the younger player as they patiently waited for the sound of tanks and armored personnel carriers rumbling down from Iraq.

They were ready for a new game.