A couple weeks ago, I wander into the living room, and discover my husband in his armchair watching TV. As I enter, he looks up. "A Japanese reporter was shot by the Army at a protest in Miramar," he reports.
I stop dead in the center of the room. "WHAT?"
He repeats it.
I clutch my head, and try to work out exactly what on earth could have happened, envisioning weeks of nightmarish diplomatic maneuvering. "Is he dead?"
"Oh yeah."
OK. Take this slowly. "A Japanese reporter. Was shot dead. By the US Army. While covering a protest at MIRAMAR? Our Miramar? In California?"
The husband looks at me as though I am deranged. "BURMA," he clarifies.
Oh. Myanmar.
Well, not exactly good news, since the reporter is still dead, but I headed into the kitchen feeling a lot less hysterical.
Geography is a strange, strange thing.
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In 1999, I was staying with a Muslim family in France. I had fallen asleep in front of the TV and woke up to hear them yelling wildly.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Hussein's dead! Hussein's dead!" They were wailing.
I was confused. "Who killed him?"
They gave me a look. "What?"
"Who killed Saddam Hussein? Did the US bomb him?"
Turned out they were talking about King Hussein of Jordan. Whoops.
Reminds me of this:
President Bush is meeting with his advisors concerning the war and its effect on our allies. One advisor picks up a sheet of paper and grimly reads, "Three Brazilian soldiers were killed outside Bagdad this morning.
Bush cries out, "Oh, no!" and buries his head in his arms, all to the shock of those present. They had no idea he cared so deeply for the Brazilian presence.
Slowly, Bush raises his head, and in a low voice asks, "How many is a brazillion?"
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