The Moment That America Embraced

By Neely Tucker
Washington Post Staff Writer
Friday, February 4, 2005; Page C01

Every now and again, a set of scripted and chance events comes together to form an indelible moment that sums up so much in so little.

During the State of the Union address Wednesday night, it was The Hug.

It was one of the most emotional moments in the history of the usually staid addresses; it wasn't planned, and it took place between Janet Norwood, the mother of a U.S. Marine slain in Iraq, and Safia al-Souhail, whose father was assassinated by the Saddam Hussein regime more than a decade ago.

"I just turned around and did it," al-Souhail said yesterday between the barrage of media talk shows and Capitol Hill meetings that followed the televised embrace. "It was from the bottom of my heart. I wanted to turn and kiss her and tell her how happy I am to have the opportunity to tell her how grateful I am, and people in Iraq are, for all of this. And, of course, I know the hurt she is going through."

Such televised images during the State of the Union address don't happen by chance. Presidents and their handlers put people in those seats, cue the television cameras, and the latter turn on the former at the key moment.

It's politics, it's staged and it can be powerful.

Nobody did this better than Ronald Reagan, who pioneered the process. In the 1982 State of the Union address, Reagan had Lenny Skutnik seated in the gallery. Skutnik, an office worker, became a national hero after his death-defying leap into the icy Potomac River to save victims of the Air Florida crash.

Skutnik's courage and humanity was the type of selfless act that gives dignity to human beings, and when Reagan recognized him during the speech as an example of the American ideal, the room erupted in thunderous applause.

Every president since has used the device -- planting people in the audience to illustrate a key point in the speech -- to the extent that speechwriters now use the term "Lenny Skutniks" as slang for any such person used to make a predetermined point.

For this speech, the U.S. Embassy in Baghdad reached out to al-Souhail, who wasn't that hard to find, particularly since she used to live in Arlington and gave birth to her only child in Fairfax Hospital.

The 39-year-old activist is well known among exiled Iraqis who opposed Hussein. Her father, Sheikh Taleb al-Souhail, and the rest of the family were forced from the country when she was 3. The family lived mostly in Lebanon or in Jordan, the latter as guests of King Hussein, and she lived in Virginia for about a year in 2001. About 18 months ago, after U.S.-led forces forced Hussein from power, she and her family returned to Baghdad to live.

Last week, during Iraq's election, she was contacted by the embassy and asked if she would like to be Laura Bush's guest at the State of the Union address.

"I was extremely happy and surprised," she said yesterday.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, Janet and Bill Norwood were mourning the loss of their 25-year-old son, Byron. The Norwoods live in Pflugerville, Tex., a few miles outside of Austin. Byron, who had played trumpet and been a star in high school theater productions, had gone on to become a Marine sergeant.

He was killed by a sniper Nov. 13 in Fallujah, while on his second tour of duty in Iraq.

Terribly proud of their son's sacrifice, Janet Norwood wrote Bush to say how devoted to his country her son had been, and how they still supported the war. The White House invited them to the speech, too.

That leads to Wednesday night, where the scripted met chance.

Al-Souhail was seated directly in front of Janet Norwood. While the various guests of honor were making small talk before the speech, al-Souhail heard Washington Mayor Anthony Williams introduce himself to Janet Norwood.

"She was telling the mayor, 'I wish that [Byron] was alive, so that he could see the success that he and his colleagues helped with the election," al-Souhail said. "When she finished, I turned around, stood up, and said, 'I'm Safia from Iraq. I heard what you said, and I'm here to tell you how grateful we are. . . . Hopefully, one day I can invite you to Iraq.' "

"I asked her if her finger was purple," Janet Norwood said yesterday on "Good Morning America," referring to the ink stains that proved a person had voted in Iraq. "She held it up and showed me it was. I grabbed her finger, and it would have made our son so proud."

Norwood shared pictures of Byron in Iraq, shortly before he was killed. The women exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses. The first lady arrived in the box, and the speech started.

Al-Souhail was recognized by the president first, showed her ink-stained finger to the congressional crowd and drew her own applause.

Then Bush turned to U.S. soldiers.

"We have said goodbye to some very good men and women, who died for our freedom, and whose memory this nation will honor forever," Bush said. "One name we honor is Marine Corps Sergeant Byron Norwood."

The camera cut to the Norwoods as Bush recounted the letter Janet Norwood had written to him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, with grateful hearts," Bush said, "we honor our military families, represented here this evening by Sergeant Norwood's mom and dad, Janet and Bill Norwood."

The room stood and applauded, as was expected. Bill and Janet Norwood stood, too, side by side. Bill's arm moved behind his wife's back, pulling her close for a comforting embrace. Laura Bush turned and shook Bill Norwood's hand. Beside her, al-Souhail also turned, applauding.

And then Janet Norwood looked down. She smiled slightly, let go of her husband, and reached out with open arms to al-Souhail.

Al-Souhail reached up, and, with her arms around the dead soldier's mom, patted her back. Once, twice, several times, the thing mothers the world over do to comfort when words are not needed.

Janet Norwood's eyes shut tightly, her face buried in al-Souhail's shoulder, holding back the tears of losses that cannot be eased, only endured. The women's embrace was so unplanned that when Norwood started to pull back, the chain from her son's dog tags, which she had been holding, became entangled in al-Souhail's accoutrements. The women had to disentangle themselves on live television, the awkwardness lending the moment an unrehearsed charm.

It was, by any measure, magic.