I've been home for four days, and already I am off again – to Texas. The alarm wakes me at 4:00 am today, and I get up to catch my 7:00 flight to Dallas. Traffic is dense on the highway, but I make it to the airport just in time to realize that my flight leaves from terminal three.
Terminal three is the very place where I said goodbye to my husband as he left for Iraq some five months ago. Military families are allowed to enter through security to say their goodbyes. It’s a kind gesture, but really just delays the inevitable. Five months ago, I sat in a chair next to my husband, staring at the gate where I would watch him walk away. I could not find tears, but my heart beat against my chest, my pulse thrumming in my ears, my stomach sick with fear of what might happen to my husband in Iraq; dreading a year without my love. I wanted to be strong and brave, to be a supportive wife, so the tears flowed only after the last kiss goodbye. I sobbed as I walked away. I now know that my husband did too. We tried to be strong for each other. We still do.
Today as I stand in the place where we said goodbye, my stomach turns and I feel like I’ll be sick, the emotion of that day filling me again. I make it through security just fine; no tears come. I've learned to keep those at bay by now, in public anyway.
I'm doing just fine keeping the tears under wraps until I see them: a man in uniform bending forward in his chair under the weight of this heavy day, and a woman, her hand on his head, and then his neck, her head leaned close to his. She’s wearing dark sunglasses and I know exactly why. I remember so well the pain of those last moments, the fear. I remember the sense that my husband and I were beginning something that goes against all natural instinct, but that joins me with millions of women in history who have sent their lovers to war. I somehow found strength in this, and still do. I wait until the uniformed man boards the flight, and then catch the woman as she walks away. Nothing I say will take away her heartache. My throat feels like I swallowed a golf ball as I say to the woman that I’ve been where she is. That first day is the hardest. It gets less painful, but it never gets easy.
Having just been in Iraq, I believe with all of me that we cannot leave there. But I ache with the pain that us being there causes for people who never asked for war. And though I hope and believe that the sacrifices being made will birth at least some semblance of peace and freedom for families in Iraq, I can't help but hate the very fact of war and what it does to our families.
There is a selfish part of me that says we should end it now. Bring our men home. Bring my husband home to me. We take care of our own. Let them sort it out. This is their problem. Not mine; not ours. Part of me wants more than anything for this to end no matter what the cost to the Iraqi people. But there is another part of me that believes that good must fight against evil, that strong must protect weak, and that our honor is worth more than my happiness.
22.10.07
11.10.07
Marine Brotherhood
I saw something today that taught me volumes about the brotherhood of Marines. As I stood in line to grill my sandwich, I watched a young corporal preparing two meals to-go. There was nothing really special about the meals, except this. It was obvious to me that this Marine was carefully selecting different things for each tray. One was for him. The other was for his buddy who stood guard at the gate. He carefully selected meat and cheese, meticulously grilled and wrapped them, then chose sides. I was moved by the obvious care with which the Marine made lunch for his buddy. But the bond between these Marines goes far beyond chow time.
The International Zone has its own Marines who stand guard to keep the area safe. There are about 50 of them, and they live in the basement of the Presidential Palace. I sat down with a few of them, a team of four, to get a taste of what it means to be one of them. And I learned this: the Marine Corp is a family.
The men I spoke with are all between age 19 and 23, and all single, though the one from Rhode Island has a girlfriend. When the topic of girlfriends rises, the other three give him a hard time, something he’s obviously accustomed to by now. I can tell these four guys are close. They are all part of a group of five who are on the same guard schedule. When I indicate my assumption that this must be why they are so close, one of them replies, “Ma’am, if anyone of the 50 Marines down here walked into a dark room, I could sniff and tell you who it is.” These men don’t just share a job; they are brothers.
There was something about these four that reminded me of that bad joke that John Kerry tried to cover up a few months ago – the one about young people who don’t study hard enough ending up in Iraq. Let me say this. I have never met more impressive, intelligent, respectful, honorable, funny, handsome men in my life. These young men are the best America has to offer. They are not washouts, dropouts, or losers. And, while their peers are back home beer-bonging at a frat party, these young men are on the rise as leaders. They keep their living quarters cleaner than my grandmother’s house and they bear the burden of ensuring safekeeping of the people who live in the Green Zone. These men make me proud to be an American.
And while the four I met utter not a word of complaint (aside from the fact that they need more beef jerky), they are making sacrifices. I try to get them to talk about these sacrifices, and they really won’t have it. They talk about their fellow Marines who are fighting in more dangerous areas, under fire daily. They feel guilty because they are in a relatively safe place. But they know their time will come. Today they protect their fellow Americans – the people who live and work at the Embassy in Baghdad. But they look forward to that day when they can take their turn protecting Iraqis from the bloodshed that has driven a stake into the heart of Iraq. It is a timeless honor to sacrifice for our countrymen, but I wonder how many of us are so eager to live a life of sacrifice for people not our own, for people of a foreign land.
When I direct the conversation to thoughts of home, I get a reaction I’m not expecting. Talk of family is usually the one thing that gets people talking about sacrifice. Missing home and loved ones is maybe the hardest part of the tour of duty. These four love their families, and they talk about the things they look forward to about home: BBQ on the beach, sleeping late and letting mom wait on them, the food (this came from the Italian boy, of course), and girls. But they all agree on something that shocks me.
When they go home on leave, they can’t wait to get back to their brothers. When they are home, they call back to the unit, missing their fellow Marines. My small mind fails to comprehend how a group of young men can bond so seamlessly – more tightly than many siblings. These men would die for each other in a heartbeat. I pray not one of them is forced to make such a noble choice. But I have no doubt each one of them would happily lay down his life for his friend. These men are Marines. They are family.
The International Zone has its own Marines who stand guard to keep the area safe. There are about 50 of them, and they live in the basement of the Presidential Palace. I sat down with a few of them, a team of four, to get a taste of what it means to be one of them. And I learned this: the Marine Corp is a family.
The men I spoke with are all between age 19 and 23, and all single, though the one from Rhode Island has a girlfriend. When the topic of girlfriends rises, the other three give him a hard time, something he’s obviously accustomed to by now. I can tell these four guys are close. They are all part of a group of five who are on the same guard schedule. When I indicate my assumption that this must be why they are so close, one of them replies, “Ma’am, if anyone of the 50 Marines down here walked into a dark room, I could sniff and tell you who it is.” These men don’t just share a job; they are brothers.
There was something about these four that reminded me of that bad joke that John Kerry tried to cover up a few months ago – the one about young people who don’t study hard enough ending up in Iraq. Let me say this. I have never met more impressive, intelligent, respectful, honorable, funny, handsome men in my life. These young men are the best America has to offer. They are not washouts, dropouts, or losers. And, while their peers are back home beer-bonging at a frat party, these young men are on the rise as leaders. They keep their living quarters cleaner than my grandmother’s house and they bear the burden of ensuring safekeeping of the people who live in the Green Zone. These men make me proud to be an American.
And while the four I met utter not a word of complaint (aside from the fact that they need more beef jerky), they are making sacrifices. I try to get them to talk about these sacrifices, and they really won’t have it. They talk about their fellow Marines who are fighting in more dangerous areas, under fire daily. They feel guilty because they are in a relatively safe place. But they know their time will come. Today they protect their fellow Americans – the people who live and work at the Embassy in Baghdad. But they look forward to that day when they can take their turn protecting Iraqis from the bloodshed that has driven a stake into the heart of Iraq. It is a timeless honor to sacrifice for our countrymen, but I wonder how many of us are so eager to live a life of sacrifice for people not our own, for people of a foreign land.
When I direct the conversation to thoughts of home, I get a reaction I’m not expecting. Talk of family is usually the one thing that gets people talking about sacrifice. Missing home and loved ones is maybe the hardest part of the tour of duty. These four love their families, and they talk about the things they look forward to about home: BBQ on the beach, sleeping late and letting mom wait on them, the food (this came from the Italian boy, of course), and girls. But they all agree on something that shocks me.
When they go home on leave, they can’t wait to get back to their brothers. When they are home, they call back to the unit, missing their fellow Marines. My small mind fails to comprehend how a group of young men can bond so seamlessly – more tightly than many siblings. These men would die for each other in a heartbeat. I pray not one of them is forced to make such a noble choice. But I have no doubt each one of them would happily lay down his life for his friend. These men are Marines. They are family.
5.10.07
Poor Man's Bidet
It hit me this morning in the bathroom. Ever since I began my travels in this part of the world, I have been baffled by the amount of water that is on the floor of every public restroom I have entered. I mean, we all see water on the floor occasionally, but this is a lot of water, like someone sprayed water all over the stall...every stall. It just didn't make sense to me. Of course, now I feel silly for not putting it together sooner.
In well-appointed palace restrooms and in homes of the wealthy, a bidet sits next to the toilet for use in cleaning after using said toilet. I believe the Arabs are keen on these fountain thrones because, in their tradition, the way we Westerners...well, you know...after we use the toilet, is unclean. I can follow this reasoning, and maybe they do have a point. But I'm not sure they've found a better solution just yet.
Get this. In less well appointed public restrooms here in the Middle East, kitchen sink sprayers have been installed next to the toilet. For weeks now, I have been thinking...hoping...that maybe, just maybe, the purpose of the sink sprayers is to clean the toilet. Or maybe they are to help flush...you know...because the water pressure isn't that great sometimes. I've actually wondered that, and once, when I couldn't find the flush lever, I almost picked up the sprayer to assist in the flush process. Oh my!
But this morning, as I tried to hold the hem of my pants out of the water as I, well...you know, I caught a glimpse of the white sprayer snaking from the wall by a dirty slinky hose. And the truth hit me. I had an "AHA!" moment. Is it possible that I knew all along, but could not allow myself to believe it? In any case, I have finally allowed my conscious brain to come to the conclusion that these kitchen sink sprayers are not as closely related to toilet cleaners are they are to toilet paper. And now I know how the floors get wet.
In well-appointed palace restrooms and in homes of the wealthy, a bidet sits next to the toilet for use in cleaning after using said toilet. I believe the Arabs are keen on these fountain thrones because, in their tradition, the way we Westerners...well, you know...after we use the toilet, is unclean. I can follow this reasoning, and maybe they do have a point. But I'm not sure they've found a better solution just yet.
Get this. In less well appointed public restrooms here in the Middle East, kitchen sink sprayers have been installed next to the toilet. For weeks now, I have been thinking...hoping...that maybe, just maybe, the purpose of the sink sprayers is to clean the toilet. Or maybe they are to help flush...you know...because the water pressure isn't that great sometimes. I've actually wondered that, and once, when I couldn't find the flush lever, I almost picked up the sprayer to assist in the flush process. Oh my!
But this morning, as I tried to hold the hem of my pants out of the water as I, well...you know, I caught a glimpse of the white sprayer snaking from the wall by a dirty slinky hose. And the truth hit me. I had an "AHA!" moment. Is it possible that I knew all along, but could not allow myself to believe it? In any case, I have finally allowed my conscious brain to come to the conclusion that these kitchen sink sprayers are not as closely related to toilet cleaners are they are to toilet paper. And now I know how the floors get wet.
2.10.07
Ramadan
It is Ramadan this month. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this tradition, Ramadan is one month every year when Muslims fast during daylight hours. Lucky me, they also expect everyone else to fast, or at least appear to be fasting. In reality, I've met several Muslims who do that very thing: they take on the appearance of fasting in public, but eat in private.
I usually need to eat more than three meals a day and I’m practically famous for my ever-present glass (or bottle) of ice cold water. I’m always eating or drinking something. So this Ramadan thing is definitely a shock to my system.
Since I am not Muslim, I obviously do not observe Ramadan. But I’ve not been eating or drinking in public out of respect for those who are fasting from sun-up to sundown. I also have heard that one can be harassed by angry Ramadan observers if one eats in their presence. So, I’ve been doing it out of respect, and to prevent harassment. Prior to today, I’ve been sneaking sips of my water while I’m in a cab. That all stopped today when I learned the real reason I should be refraining from eat, drink, and chew (gum that is). This act of respect that I’ve been committing has actually been keeping me out of jail. Apparently it isn't just disrespectful to eat or drink in public while others observe Ramadan. It's an actual crime in this country to eat, drink, or chew gum in public during Ramadan. Punishment is jail until Ramadan is over, which is not that far away now. I got pretty thirsty today - it was hot outside and I had to walk a fair distance before hailing my cab. And then my cab driver decided to have an altercation with another driver while I sat and watched them scream at one another in Arabic for who know what reason - both of their faces getting redder by the second, fists moving more with each word. I’m guessing they were both a wee bit cranky with hunger and thirst. I’d be crabby too. The driver then got out of the cab and told me to wait while he ran across the square to who knows where. I think he said something about police, so instead of waiting to see what was about to transpire, I chose to hail another cab while he ran away, which involved more walking. The second cab driver was much more civilized. I learned on my trip that he spoke seven languages. SEVEN! And he drives a cab. So back to the whole Ramadan jail thing. I’m beginning to think jail might not be so bad - as long as I can have some ice cold water.
I usually need to eat more than three meals a day and I’m practically famous for my ever-present glass (or bottle) of ice cold water. I’m always eating or drinking something. So this Ramadan thing is definitely a shock to my system.
Since I am not Muslim, I obviously do not observe Ramadan. But I’ve not been eating or drinking in public out of respect for those who are fasting from sun-up to sundown. I also have heard that one can be harassed by angry Ramadan observers if one eats in their presence. So, I’ve been doing it out of respect, and to prevent harassment. Prior to today, I’ve been sneaking sips of my water while I’m in a cab. That all stopped today when I learned the real reason I should be refraining from eat, drink, and chew (gum that is). This act of respect that I’ve been committing has actually been keeping me out of jail. Apparently it isn't just disrespectful to eat or drink in public while others observe Ramadan. It's an actual crime in this country to eat, drink, or chew gum in public during Ramadan. Punishment is jail until Ramadan is over, which is not that far away now. I got pretty thirsty today - it was hot outside and I had to walk a fair distance before hailing my cab. And then my cab driver decided to have an altercation with another driver while I sat and watched them scream at one another in Arabic for who know what reason - both of their faces getting redder by the second, fists moving more with each word. I’m guessing they were both a wee bit cranky with hunger and thirst. I’d be crabby too. The driver then got out of the cab and told me to wait while he ran across the square to who knows where. I think he said something about police, so instead of waiting to see what was about to transpire, I chose to hail another cab while he ran away, which involved more walking. The second cab driver was much more civilized. I learned on my trip that he spoke seven languages. SEVEN! And he drives a cab. So back to the whole Ramadan jail thing. I’m beginning to think jail might not be so bad - as long as I can have some ice cold water.
1.10.07
Darkness
I am overwhelmed tonight by the darkness of this place. I have spent the day with new followers of Christ who used to be Muslims. And I am crushed by the weight of the darkness that is Islam. They tell me the lies they believed, the fear in which they lived, and the joy they have now, even when they fear death at the hands of their own families, if they should ever see them again.
Darkness is far worse than war.
Darkness is far worse than war.
Insurgent's Mother
This article speaks for itself:
Khitam Bahir, Iraq, ”I no longer recognise my insurgent son”
BAGHDAD, 27 September 2007 (IRIN) -
Khitam Bahir, aged 51, says she was shocked when her 24-year-old son Mustafa (not his real name) became an insurgent. An engineering student, he left college in October 2006 to join a local fighting group linked to al-Qaeda in Iraq. She has tried in vain to change his mind.
“I no longer recognise my son since he turned into an insurgent. He used to be a very popular, easy-going and modern person but now he has changed completely. He has decided to fight US-troops, even if he is killed.
“I’m desperate because I didn’t raise my son to be a fighter. At home we gave him love and tenderness, good food, education, health care. His siblings always considered him the most lovely person in our family.”
“He left home in November and is living with other fighters but I don’t know where. Sometimes he drops me a line, saying that he is happy and has helped in an attack. It just breaks my heart and makes me cry.”
“My life has changed since he became an insurgent. I never know if he will be alive tomorrow. His brothers and sisters are confused about his decision. He was going to finish college in two years’ time and had great plans to go to Britain to do a PhD, and now when I urge him to go back to university and leave this life, he tells me that he cannot betray God and hangs up the phone.
“I miss my old son, a person who was always smiling and playful. He was going to get married next year but his fiancée ended the relationship after he told her he was going to help insurgents around Anbar Province, and now she is with her family in Jordan.
“Mustafa was encouraged into this life by two of his friends from Ramadi. They were filling his head with Islamic extremism. I hope my son can change his mind and return to his old life.”
as/ar/cb[END] © IRIN. All rights reserved. More humanitarian news and analysis: http://www.irinnews.org
Khitam Bahir, Iraq, ”I no longer recognise my insurgent son”
BAGHDAD, 27 September 2007 (IRIN) -
Khitam Bahir, aged 51, says she was shocked when her 24-year-old son Mustafa (not his real name) became an insurgent. An engineering student, he left college in October 2006 to join a local fighting group linked to al-Qaeda in Iraq. She has tried in vain to change his mind.
“I no longer recognise my son since he turned into an insurgent. He used to be a very popular, easy-going and modern person but now he has changed completely. He has decided to fight US-troops, even if he is killed.
“I’m desperate because I didn’t raise my son to be a fighter. At home we gave him love and tenderness, good food, education, health care. His siblings always considered him the most lovely person in our family.”
“He left home in November and is living with other fighters but I don’t know where. Sometimes he drops me a line, saying that he is happy and has helped in an attack. It just breaks my heart and makes me cry.”
“My life has changed since he became an insurgent. I never know if he will be alive tomorrow. His brothers and sisters are confused about his decision. He was going to finish college in two years’ time and had great plans to go to Britain to do a PhD, and now when I urge him to go back to university and leave this life, he tells me that he cannot betray God and hangs up the phone.
“I miss my old son, a person who was always smiling and playful. He was going to get married next year but his fiancée ended the relationship after he told her he was going to help insurgents around Anbar Province, and now she is with her family in Jordan.
“Mustafa was encouraged into this life by two of his friends from Ramadi. They were filling his head with Islamic extremism. I hope my son can change his mind and return to his old life.”
as/ar/cb[END] © IRIN. All rights reserved. More humanitarian news and analysis: http://www.irinnews.org
24.9.07
Peace is Their Nemesis
Last night as I ate dinner in Baghdad, a suicide bomber walked into a mosque in Baquba and blew himself up. He murdered 28 people and seriously injured 35. There were no Americans present indicating that the man who committed this act of terror was not aiming to kill Americans. The deaths were not collateral damage in a war. They were murders. It seems someone simply wanted to hinder reconciliation and to prolong bloodshed and chaos in Iraq.
The Baquba mosque that became a grave for 28 people was the location of a meeting between the Shiite Mahdi Army militia and the Sunni insurgent group, the Brigades of the 1920 Revolution. They met there to find reconciliation, and for that they were murdered.
This desire to keep Iraq violent, to prevent meetings of peace and reconciliation - this is something that is impossible for my mind to grasp.
These men may hate Americans, but their arch-enemy is peace.
The Baquba mosque that became a grave for 28 people was the location of a meeting between the Shiite Mahdi Army militia and the Sunni insurgent group, the Brigades of the 1920 Revolution. They met there to find reconciliation, and for that they were murdered.
This desire to keep Iraq violent, to prevent meetings of peace and reconciliation - this is something that is impossible for my mind to grasp.
These men may hate Americans, but their arch-enemy is peace.
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