The word Iraq means root in Arabic. The roots of Iraqi culture are among the deepest in the world. Despite war and sanctions, they continue to draw forth sustenance from a past that stretches back over 7,000 years and includes the ancient civilizations of Sumeria, Assyria and Babylonia. If Iraq were a tree, it would be a giant tree, scarred perhaps and dying in places, but still capable of bringing forth flowers of incomparable beauty.

This autumn I visited the Saddam Art Center in Baghdad with delegates from Voices In The Wilderness, an organization dedicated to the lifting of sanctions against Iraq. We had heard that the museum was featuring a rare exhibit of paintings by Layla Al Attar, one of Iraq's greatest and most revered artists. I had first heard of her in 1993 when I read of her death following a cruise missile attack against Baghdad. An opportunity to see her work was something I was determined not to miss.

It was nearly closing time when we reached the art center. There were few other visitors. In Iraq survival is uppermost in people's minds. According to British journalist Felicity Arbuthnot, many of the country's archeological treasures are being looted while ancient buildings, designated as World Heritage Sites, are being destroyed. The bombing that took place in December of 1998, in addition to wounding and killing scores of innocent civilians in Baghdad, also blasted Al Qasr Al Abbassi, a palace built before the Mongol invasion in the thirteenth century and referred to as the Jewel of the Middle East. A similar fate has befallen Dar Al Hikma, the House of Wisdom. One of the earliest teaching hospitals in the world and the home of countless rare manuscripts, this monument of Arabic culture was razed by British and American bombs. We decided to accept her offer. As my companions huddled around the surrealist paintings by an Iraqi expatriate now living in Germany, I approached Zahra and asked if I might interview her about how sanctions have effected her life. A girl, perhaps 10 years old, peeked out from behind a column and watched me with fawn-like timidity. I had passed her earlier while she and her mother were polishing the glass entrance doors.

"Please, no machines," Zahra said as I removed a recorder from my bag. "When you think of me, I want you to have my words and my feelings in your heart, not on cassette tape. That way you will know me. You will remember Zahra. You will remember how I looked when you first met me. You will remember how you felt when you spoke to me and heard me tell you about my life. The machine will not do this for you. Only the two of us, standing here, face to face, looking into each other's eyes -- this is what will keep me alive in your memory."

I put the recorder away. The little girl watching me ventured forward just a step. I offered her a candy but she shook her head and looked away. "Her name is Rania," said Zahra, referring to the child behind us. "She comes here every day after school. Always she works very hard. Her family is poor. There is no other way for them to survive."

By now it was clear to me that I would not be interviewing Zahra, at least not in a conventional sense. I could only be present and let in whatever she had to share with me. We talked for nearly an hour. She revealed very little about her actual life but a great deal about her soul and her spirit -- one so deep, the other incandescent. "I too am an artist," she said. "The basis of my art is a fundamental error in the way we think about the world."

I asked Zahra to explain what she meant. Smiling coyly, she pointed to my tape recorder. "Your machine, like most machines, appears beautiful and alluring on the surface. But behind it, there is nothing. Only darkness and separation. I have studied computer science. It is based on a simple but deceptive formulation: one plus one equals zero. From this misconception comes modern science and technology. We both know that one plus one equals two. So put away your recorder. Let my heart speak to your heart, not to a machine. We are two people and between us there is a world.

"Your country wants to be the only power in the world," Zahra continued. But after America has crushed anyone who opposes her, what will she be left with? Nothing. Zero. In Iraq we have scientists and technicians. But we also have our history, our roots, which give us a sense of continuity. We have been here a very long time, and we shall continue no matter how great our suffering. My own life is very hard but I have hope because I love my culture. I know I am part of something very deep, very old.

As she spoke, Zahra radiated pride, dignity and inner strength. These things were more beautiful to me than any piece of art in the museum. Tears welled up in me as I faced this remarkable person and felt her heart open into mine.

"When you go home, please do not show only the pictures of our children in hospitals. Remember me and what I have told you. Tell your people about Zahra. Tell them the Iraqi people are strong and will continue."

"Show me your art," I said as the other delegates moved on to a second exhibit.

"Yes, but first I must help your friends understand what they are looking at. Come with me.

Zahra gave us an extremely informed introduction to the works of Ibrahim Ali-Merzar, whose principal medium is wood. The artist happened to be in the museum and accompanied us on our tour of his exhibit. When we were done and security guards were beginning to lock up, Zahra led us into a private room. On display was a spectrum of Iraqi art from the past 40 years. Zahra approached one of the paintings and stood by its side. "This one is mine," she said with gleaming pride.

The background was panels of stained glass. In the foreground stood a wistful young woman. In her hand a small, delicate white flower. "The flower is a symbol of love and purity," Zahra explained. "The girl is dreaming about someone who will come into her life and give her all the love she is seeking."

A guard poked his head around the room and reminded us that the museum would soon be closing. "Never mind him," Zahra said to me and my companions. "There is something else you must see before you leave."

Not knowing what to expect, we eagerly followed our guide up two flights of stairs and entered a lavishly appointed wing of the museum. "We are not supposed to be here," she said. "But you are my friends now and I could not bare to send you away without showing you the work of Layla Al Attar."

Those of us who knew something about this artist and her importance to the Iraqi people became hushed as we approached each painting with feelings of reverence and awe. Zahra wisely stayed in the background, letting the work speak for itself and allowing us the freedom to experience it each in our own way.

For me, it was a dream come true. Finally, to be in the presence of such profound and influential paintings. Each one celebrated the struggle of the human spirit for light and freedom from bondage of one form or another. Moving slowly from one work to the next, I sensed in Layla a depth of humanity and soulfulness that reminded me of Rembrandt. One painting in particular captured me. I felt entranced by the power of its imagery.

Zahra, seeing how taken I was by this particular work, came to my side. In a soft voice, she whispered, "I loved Layla and the way she used her art to inspire all of us, especially women, to transform and transcend the hardships of life.

"This was her last painting. She must have been working on it the night she died. Some see it as prophetic of her own death. Others say it is a vision of hope and the enduring power of love."

"How did she die?" I asked. I knew the basic story but hoped Zahra would provide me with a more complete picture.

"During Bush's War, the Americans tried to kill her. A cruise missile destroyed her home but thank God she wasn't there."

"Why would the Americans want to kill an artist?" I asked.

"Her work had earned her international recognition. She represented our face -- the face of the Iraqi people. She used her standing in the Arab world to organize resistance to Bush's War. In February, 1991 American bombs destroyed the Amariyah bomb shelter. Maybe a thousand women and children were killed that night. The horror of that attack led Layla to become even more outspoken. She dared to face Bush, to stand against him. She called him a criminal for destroying our schools, our hospitals, our mosques.

"After her home was bombed in 1991, she and her family moved in with her sister Su'at, who is also a well-known artist. Two years later, in June of 1993, while her sister was in London, Layla was preparing for a very important exhibit. It was night. Her husband and daughter and their housekeeper were asleep. At about two o'clock in the morning a cruise missile struck. Only 8 houses separated the sisters' homes. The attack had to be intentional. The aim was exact. They wanted to silence her."

Zahra swept her arm around the gallery, indicating all of the paintings on display. "As you can see, they failed. Her work is her voice and her voice will continue to speak to us and for us. The first missile destroyed the house. Then the second missile landed. Everyone in the neighborhood, when they heard the explosions and saw the flames, came running to help. They found Layla's body near the front gate. That was as far as she got. Her husband and the housekeeper were also killed that night."

"What about her little girl?" I asked.

"Blind," Zahra replied. "She lost one eye. Everything was lost but this."

Zahra gestured toward the painting on the wall in front of us. A deep silence surrendered us. Together we shared Layla's final vision: a thin, withered, tree-like hand rising from a landscape of ashes. In its grasp floats a large, luminous white flower.

When it was time to go, Zahra ushered us to the front door of the art museum. She embraced the women in our group and warmly shook my hand. "Please go quickly," she said, "before I cry. I am so sad not to see you again."