Thursday, February 28, 2008

Text of speech given March 1st in Springfield, Missouri

In 1776, Thomas Paine wrote: “These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.”

In 1971, Vietnam Veterans Against the War exposed the criminal nature of the Vietnam War in a historic event called Winter Soldier. They were called traitors, ingrates, malcontents, and cowards, but they were brave enough to look their accusers in the face while they made history in the spirit of Thomas Paine and the revolutionaries who founded the United States.

In an effort to provide the public a better understanding of the war, 100 Vietnam veterans and 16 civilians gave anguished testimony in a crowded Detroit hotel lobby about the war crimes they participated in or had witnessed. This was something that had never happened before and the media treated it as such. Those who participated in the investigation are proud to this day of that service to their country.

I know that many of you are wondering right now how big of an event this could have been, since you have most likely never heard of it. Don’t feel bad. I am a product of a very good public school system, and I excelled in history and government while I was in school. I also had never heard of Winter Soldier until recently. This is not something that the government wants to teach its students: that the Vietnam War was ended not by traitorous anti-war hippies, but by conscientious, moral-driven veterans of that criminal war. Even now, those brave men and women are slandered. Most recently, John Kerry was the subject of the traitor tag. I am sure you remember the ads showing a young Kerry testifying to the pillaging of villages during the heated 2004 presidential election.

Today, I am here to educate you about Winter Soldier: what it was (which I just did); who is participating in WS:IA; why I am participating; and how you can help to make sure that this time WS is not lost in history.

My name is Justin C. Cliburn, but the army likes to call Specialist Cliburn. I deployed to Iraq in December 2005 as a staunch supporter of President Bush and the Iraq War and returned as an Iraq Veteran Against the War. How I undertook this change is story longer than any of you have time to hear, but I will do my best to condense it.


I arrived in Iraq on December 20th, 2005, and I immediately started to notice the divide between what I had thought to be true about the war and the reality of the situation.

It was our first week at Camp Anaconda and my team leader had just come back onto the base after his first "right hand ride." A "right hand ride" consists of the replacing unit personnel riding along with the unit to gain a sense of what is going on in the AO. Upon his return, I anxiously asked him what it was like out there.

Stephen told me he didn't want to talk about in front of the other soldiers and I didn't press him. Later that night, he and I spoke inside his room.

"So, what's it like?"
"Man, it's not like we thought."
"How so?"

He described to me the cruel nature of the men he had ridden with that day. They told him they usually pull over one vehicle a day and search it and told him to choose which to search. He pointed out a small bongo truck with two men inside and the truck's gunner leapt from his sling and pointed his rifle at the men as the driver of the humvee aggressively drove towards them.

The men pulled over and appeared to be scared to death. There was no interpreter and no way of being able to communicate effectively. The men had large amounts of cash on them and the squad interrogated them about how they had come across the money. Were they terrorists? Were they trafficking for terrorists? Through the dialogue, there was no way of knowing . . . until the two men started crawling around on hands and knees "baahing" like sheep.

The men were nothing more than sheep herders and they were terrified. They were subsequently zip cuffed and blind folded as the squad took turns taking pictures with them.

"So, they weren't terrorists?" I asked, a glint of hope in my voice that they had done something to deserve this.

"Well, all I can say is this: if they weren't terrorists today, I guarantee they'll be terrorists tomorrow." Stephen said with a mixture of humor and sadness.

This really struck a chord with me, especially because I never perceived Stephen to be particularly sympathetic to the Iraqi plight. If he was this upset by it, then it must have been significant.

I was already beginning to rethink my position on the war, but I knew that my turn to right hand ride was coming up and I could make judgement on my own then.


We left the base, navigated the long, windy turns of Route Milton, and onto Main Supply Route Tampa; we were headed to Baghdad. It was the first time I'd be in an Iraqi city, and I was nervous and excited. As we entered the north gate of Baghdad and into the heart of the city, I was struck by the sheer normalcy of the people. They were driving to work, walking to the market, socializing on the sidewalks, and drinking tea outside cafes. Children were walking to school and citizens were cursing rush hour traffic. In the middle of all this, there we were: pushing cars off the road, pointing guns at people, firing warning shots, blaring our sirens, and generally disrupting the normal nature of their day.

I always thought my first trip into Baghdad would be greeted with applause, thumbs up, smiles, and cooperative drivers allowing me to go wherever I needed to go to defend their freedom. On this day, I just felt guilt: guilty that I never once thought they could possibly be normal human beings with the same daily routines of Americans, and guilty that I interrupted it with sirens and intimidation. I felt like an unwelcome visitor.

I got over the initial shock and continued to do my best to remain sane. Not long after that, we were moved to Camp Liberty in Baghdad and our mission changed. Now, we were to escort military and civilian officials to Iraqi police stations and train and mentor the Iraqi police. Our work was going to have a direct effect on the security of the country and the success of the war. I was a little excited and hoped we could actually make a difference.

One of our first trips to the traffic police headquarters brought me face to face with an Iraqi child collecting cans. He had a big, dirty bag of soda cans, filthy clothes, and worn out shoes that barely protected his feet. He was shy and apprehensive, scared and distrustful. It took the better part of an hour to open up to us but he eventually did just that.

His name was Ali and he was about 13 years old. Members of my squad made jokes about his shoes and he laughed nervously until they gave him $20 or so to buy new ones. He couldn't believe it. We left that day hoping to see him again.

Every time we would arrive at that station, I would look around for Ali. The next time I saw him, he introduced me to his best friend, Ahmed. Ali and Ahmed became my saving grace in Iraq. They were all I looked forward to seeing; they were the people I felt I was truly helping, in my country or theirs.

My time with those children reinforced my inflated idea of what we were doing there, however, and it only served to set me up for disappointment when I communicated with other Iraqis . . . Ones that weren't benefiting quite so much from our presence.

The Walk
It was a May day like any other as we pulled into the poorly fortified Traffic Police Headquarters compound. We parked in our usual spots and the squad leader rallied us around him. He had a BOLO (Be on the lookout) list in his hand, and we were to check license plates in the adjacent parking lot against it. He needed about half the squad; I was one of them.
It was about a 100 meter walk between the parking lot and our location in north Baghdad. In our way was small market, but a crowded small market, and we made our way towards it. As we fanned out, I saw all the blustering and posturing my comrades were doing; they looked ridiculous. They were wearing body armor, a helmet, sunglasses, a pistol, and a semi-automatic assault rifle; they didn’t need to intimidate anyone with their behavior. As we approached the market, I saw the Iraqis' faces; they looked apprehensive. What was going on? What was going to happen? Why do they look so angry?
"Sergeant Jackson, can I mess with somebody? Please, let me mess with somebody!" one of our junior NCOs asked our squad leader.
The squad leader said that it might not be a good idea to piss anyone off, especially when we were outnumbered and had to come here practically every day for the next nine months, never mind that it was just plain wrong. Wrong was not something that the young sergeant would have responded to however, so I don't fault the man for omitting the most obvious argument against the request.
We continued walking towards the market and I could now make eye contact with the people there: the passers by; the shop keepers; the shoppers; the old men drinking chi under a canopy . . . all of them. They looked frightened. They looked angry. They looked hopeless. I made eye contact; I smiled. "Salaam a'alaikum," I said. Some smiled back and replied "Alaikum a'salaam" in the same nervous manner that I had greeted them; others continued to stare. Activity slowed all around us; we were the center of attention.
"Hey, Sergeant Stephens. That guy's staring at you!" one said with a laugh and a smile.
"I'll kick his ass!" Stephens yelled with an exaggerated arch of his back and raise of his shoulders. Now, everyone was staring and the looks of despair and hopelessness deepened. What could anyone do? What could the man in question do? We were armed to the nines and wrapped in body armor; the staring man was in a tunic and sandals.
. . . and why wouldn't he or anyone else stare? They tolerated us at the police stations and on the roads, but this was their territory. Why were we there? This was out of the ordinary, and they had every right to wonder, every right to stare. They were scared, worried, angry.
As we made our into the market and started splitting up to search the parking lot, two old men sat at a table to my left. They were old; they looked wise. They both stared at me like they would a disappointing adult grandson: saddened; disappointed; resigned to my and their respective fates. They weren't angry; they were just sad. There was a lot of wisdom in the creases that stretched out from their old, tired, brown eyes. They had probably seen more war than I ever will, and they were tired. I gave a nervous smile, an embarrassed smile, and made my way into the parking lot.
As I looked out over the vast parking lot, the sheer lunacy of this mission hit me. Here we were, looking for ten cars in a city of five million people. It was unlikely that we'd find one of them, but it was highly likely that we had just alienated a few more Iraqis. At that moment is when I empathized with the Iraqis still staring at me from the market. I felt hopeless, saddened, disappointed, just a tad angry, and resigned to my fate: I would spend the next eight to nine months performing counter-productive missions like this one. At the end of every day, I would make a few more enemies than I killed or brought to our side. I was embarrassed and humiliated that I ever thought differently; I wanted to tell the people behind me that I was sorry for what my country had done. I was sorry we had interrupted their commerce that day.
Like a good soldier, I drove on. I continued to search; I continued to do my job, just as I would the rest of my tour. In front of me, two men were trying to push start an old rickety van. I had thought of helping them, but I was carrying the M249 SAW machine gun with no sling; there was no way I was going to set it down or ask someone to hold it so I could help. Then I heard SGT Stephens' muffled voice. “We're supposed to be winning hearts and minds, right?" Stephens sighed under his breath. I watched, shocked, as the same man who had just lobbied to "mess with somebody" slung his rifle and helped these men get that van started as I covered him from a safe distance. It was indicative of his seemingly bi-polar personality, I thought as we all met up in the rear of the parking lot.
"Any luck?"
There wasn't any, and we made our back through the parking lot, to the market, through the market, to our humvees in the police station. As I passed through the parking lot that last time, the same old men stared at me once more. Our eyes met again, and I nodded in their direction. They nodded back, and I felt like I was forgiven.
I made it back to my humvee, sweaty and slightly out of breath, and didn't think about those old, tired men again for quite some time.

I went away from that day realizing two things: one, we were not exactly the welcome liberators that we thought we were; and two, that these were still normal people who reacted to compassion and politeness. I started to look around ask myself "Why?" Why was I here? Who were we helping? I started to read anything and everything I could about foreign policy, theology in politics, democracy, and Islam. I had not read anything on my own accord since high school, but I was now seeing a reason to educate myself, to look for answers. I decided that the only thing I could do in my year there was to treat the Iraqis as well as I could, continue to make life easier for at least Ali and Ahmed, and, through the Iraqi police we trained, make the streets safer for all of them. It wasn't long, however, before that idea was shattered as well.

You may remember hearing about vague reports of a Shi'ite death squad being caught in Baghdad, shortly before the sectarian civil war became what it is today. The day that CNN covered the story, I transported, catalogued, and inventoried the confiscated weapons from that death squad. They were members of the Iraqi Highway Patrol, under the command of the station that we trained. The next day, we returned the weapons to the station and signed them back over to the IHPs. I felt stupid giving the weapons back to the people who were using them for the wrong reasons, like we were played like fools, but it we had no choice.

I was no longer comforted by the positive nature of our mission; I felt like all I was doing was training the best death squads in Iraq. It all left a bad taste in my mouth; guilt set in, even though I knew I had very little choice in the matter.

August 24th, 2006 was a routine day for my squad in Baghdad. We had gone to Traffic Headquarters and I had gotten to visit with Ali. Business taken care of, we started to make the familiar trek back to Camp Liberty. It was a hot day, over 120 degrees, and I stood up just a little higher than usual with my sleeves unbuttoned to let the air circulate inside my body armor and clothing. It had been a good day.
Back on Route Irish, we were on the home stretch when the call came out over the radio:
"Eagle Dustoff, Eagle Dustoff, this is Red Knight 7* over"
"This is Eagle Dustoff, over"
"Eagle Dustoff, I need MEDEVAC; my gunner has been shot by a sniper."
The voice went on to recite the nine line MEDEVAC report and I marveled at how cool, calm, and collected he sounded. My squad leader plotted the grid coordinates and found that this had occurred only a couple blocks away from one of our two main destinations on Market Road.
"Cliburn, go ahead and get down; someone might be aiming at your melon right now", CPT Ray said. Sergeant Bruesch concurred and I sat down, listening intently to the radio transmissions that I couldn't turn off even if I wanted to.
Five minutes in, the voice on the radio was losing his cool.
"Have they left yet?! He's losing a lot of blood; we need that chopper now!"
In the background, you could hear other soldiers yelling, screaming, trying to find any way to save their friend's life. At one point, I swear I heard the man gurgle.
Ten minutes in, the voice on the radio was furious.
"Where's that fucking chopper!? We're losing him! He's not fucking breathing! Where the fuck are you!?"
Every minute to minute and a half the voice was back on the radio demanding to know what the hold up was. Every minute to minute and a half the other voice on the radio, a young woman's voice, tried to reassure him that the chopper was on the way from Taji. She was beginning to tire herself; I could hear it in her voice. She was just as frustrated as he was.
All the while, there I sat: sitting in the gunners hatch, listening to life's little horrors with no way to turn the channel. No one in the truck was speaking. The music was on, but no one heard it. There was just an eerie silence. All I heard was the radio transmissions; I watched as the landscape passed me by in slow motion. I didn't hear wind noise or car horns or gunfire or my own thoughts. I was only accompanied by the silence of the world passing me by, interrupted only by the screams of the voice on the radio.
At this point, I was as frustrated as I had been all year. Where the fuck was that goddamn chopper and why was it taking so long?! What if it were me? Would I be waiting that long? Would this pathetic exchange be included in the newscast if the guy dies?
I was angry, upset, frustrated, and anticipating the next transmission in this macabre play by play account. Forget about TNT, HBO, and Law and Order: THIS was drama. This was heart wrenching. Seconds seemed like hours; minutes seemed like days.
Finally, after several more non-productive transmissions where Eagle Dustoff attempted to reassure the voice, after twenty minutes and a few more frantic, screaming transmissions by the voice, the man's voice was calm again.
"Eagle Dustoff, cancel the chopper. He's dead."
. . . and that was that. The voice had gone from being the model for the consummate soldier (cool, calm, collected, professional) to more human screams and frantic pleading for help and, finally, to solemn resignation. Now, the voice was quiet.
"Eagle Dustoff: requesting recovery team. We can't drive this vehicle back; we need someone to come get the vehicle and body. Over."
"Do you have casualty's information?"
"Yes. SGT King, over."
I sat in that gunners sling in a fit of rage that I couldn't let out. I had to be a soldier; I had to keep my cool. We all did. I was so angry, I still am, about being an unwilling voyeur, forced to listen to the gruesome play by play of another soldier's life and death.
We had been told that the insurgency was in its last throes, that they were just a bunch of dead enders. No, not this day. Today, SGT King was the one in his last throes, and I was there to listen to the whole damn thing, whether I liked it or not.

A soldier's death isn't anything like the movies. There was no patriotic music; there was no feeling of purpose. It's just . . . death. I wasn't there physically; I didn't see him, but I was there.
Any sane person would have wanted to turn the channel. No one wants to hear the screams of a man losing his friend, but I couldn't turn it off. We were required to monitor that channel. Either way, it didn't take long to become emotionally invested in it; was he going to make it? I needed to know, damnit. I hung on every word until I got the final, sobering news.
My truck was the only one in the convoy monitoring that net. When we got back to base, no else had heard it, and SSG Bruesch, CPT Ray, and I didn't discuss it. I don't think we ever did.
A few days later, I felt like I had to find out more about this soldier. I felt like I had lost a friend, yet I didn't know anything but his name and rank. Looking back on it, I should have just let it go, but I didn't. Using the miracle of the Internet, I found out all I needed to know about the young man, and to this day I don't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
SGT Jeremy E. King was 23 years old. He was from Idaho, where he played high school football. He had joined the army to get out of Idaho and see the world. He was one year younger than I was, and he was dead. He sounded like any of a number of teammates I played high school football with. What irked me the most was how sanitized the news account of his death was:
A Fort Hood soldier from Idaho has died in Iraq of injuries sustained when troops came under fire during combat, the Department of Defense said Friday.
That's it? That sounds almost peaceful, maybe even heroic. I can attest that the whole thing was anything but peaceful, anything but heroic. Who am I though? Shortly after investigating who SGT King was, I locked the memory away in my head and didn't think of it again for quite some time.

Later in the year, I had confided in my aunt that I was really getting nervous. I told her how the violence level in Baghdad had been steadily rising and the sniper activity was higher than it had been all year. Bodies were being found every day tortured and dumped out in the open. I couldn't tell my immediate family this, but I had to vent my fear and frustration to someone and she was strong enough and kind enough to listen.

So, I was surprised when she sent me a message asking what I thought of a report on CNN that said murders in Baghdad were down 50% in the past month. I was shocked and initially didn't know what to think. I wondered how I could feel so out of the loop when I worked there and had not seen any of this progress. It was a very unsettling feeling, and I thought about it to myself for over a week wondering if perhaps I was wrong, but the reality of the intel briefings and the gun shots and explosions I heard outside the wire told me otherwise. After a week of wondering what was going on, I logged onto CNN.com and saw an Associated Press article stating that the Department of Defense had retracted its report. In their original estimation of the murder rate, they had counted any and all violent killings; however, in their second one, they had classified some violent deaths in other categories and therefore could trumpet the success of the decreasing rate. In other words, they tried to pull a fast one on the US and someone caught them.

Again, I felt betrayed.

No matter how guilty or betrayed or angry or frustrated I felt, though, I always felt better after seeing Ali and Ahmed. Later that month, I arrived at Traffic Headquarters and immediately saw Ali running to my door. I opened the door and bellowed "Ali!", but he didn't yell back. He didn't smile. He was repeating "Ahmed, Ahmed" over and over again as he made signals with his hands and booming sounds with his mouth. Through an interpreter I learned the sobering news: Ahmed had been in an explosion. He and his mother were at the local fuel station when a suicide bomber approached them. His mother was killed instantly, but Ahmed, who was carrying the can of fuel, was set ablaze and lay somewhere in a Baghdad hospital, burned head to toe.

Hospitals in Iraq will not treat someone until they have payment, and Ahmed was poor. Ali explained that Ahmed's father was out begging for money to get his son treated, but he didn't have enough. My squad put together what little cash we had, about $40, and gave it to Ali for Ahmed's care.

It was several days before I again got to see Ali at Traffic Headquarters and I spent the days and nights wondering about my friend. I dreamed that I had adopted him and Ali; I dreamed that he was okay. The next time I got to see Ali, however, I looked in his eyes and I knew: Ahmed was dead. Ali quickly left that day to go be with Ahmed's father and I sat inside the humvee with my squad leader as we silently cried.

I had always promised to give those boys a picture album of us together, but I never got around to it. I asked my mom back home if she would put one together for Ali and she came through in less than a week. When I gave the album to Ali, he opened it up, saw a big, smiling picture of Ahmed, and fell to his knees and wept.

I felt so angry and helpless and started thinking about what had really killed Ahmed. Was it the suicide bomber or was it the US letting the genie out of the bottle in a place that they have little knowledge of? I felt guilt as an American and could not wait to go home and get away from all this. I had come here to help people and instead I had only helped death squads operate more efficiently, angered motorists on a daily basis, been betrayed by my leadership, and lost the son I had never had.

If I had not gone home at the time I did, I just may have gone crazy.

I arrived home December 1st, 2006. After four months of heavy drinking and debates that never went anywhere, I stumbled upon the IVAW website and joined the cause. After all that I have shared with you, it is easy to understand why I joined an organization of Iraq war veterans that calls for three things:

  • Immediate withdrawal of all occupying forces in Iraq;
  • Reparations for the human and structural damages Iraq has suffered, and stopping the corporate pillaging of Iraq so that their people can control their own lives and future; and
  • Full benefits, adequate healthcare (including mental health), and other supports for returning servicemen and women.

So, I stand in front of you today as the South Central Regional Coordinator and Lawton-Fort Sill chapter president of Iraq Veterans Against the War to tell you about Winter Soldier: Iraq and Afghanistan.

Winter Soldier is taking place March 13-16 at the National Labor College in Silver Spring, Maryland. Already, we have over 200 Iraq veterans registered to attend, as well as Iraqi and Afghan civilians. Contrary to popular belief, Winter Soldier is not about war crimes and shock value. Each veteran and victim will tell a story that, when pieced together, paint a larger picture of the reality of occupation. In order to make this event as historic as it can be, however, we need your help.

There is a way to help for everyone. For starters, IVAW would appreciate it if everyone here will sign the statement of support listed on the IVAW website. There are still veterans who are trying to raise money to attend the hearings and donations of any size are a tremendous help. Donors can conveniently donate online or they can fill out a “Support a Veteran” form, which I have with me today. Of course, all donations are tax-deductible. In order to make Winter Soldier something people look back on and remember, we need as many people to view the hearings as possible. This is possible if our allies host Winter Soldier House Parties. The hearings will be broadcast on Dish Network’s Free Speech TV and streamed live online. The IVAW website has ways for you to organize and publicize your viewing party. We need our elected officials to pay attention to Winter Soldier and, as such, we are relying on you to write your Congressional delegation to pay attention to the troops that they say they support. We need letters to the editor and a cry for local media to cover the event. All of this is easy and we appreciate everything our allies do for us.

Something that has defined my life since I joined IVAW in April of 2007 has been Gandhi’s famous quote: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” Without you, without me, without hope, there will never be the change in foreign policy that we want so badly. Thank you for your time and thank you for your support.

What He Won't Be

What He Won’t Be

It was a sunny day three or four months ago when I pulled into that gas station parking lot and met my appointment with fate. The weather was unseasonably nice and my windows were rolled down. Grieves' "Scar Gardens" was playing on my stereo just loud enough for me to listen to it while I pumped a tank's full of gas.

He walked out of the station, and, as he slowly passed my car, our eyes met. After a drop of his head and skip in his step he pulled the pump from its perch and started filling his SUV. I laughed to myself as I noticed the one hand in his pocket. He was a soldier and a soldier in uniform, and his hand was in his pocket. Part of me was bothered by it, and I didn't know why. I've always felt like that is the absolute most inane rule in the military: don't put your hands in your pockets. I didn't say anything; I mean, who am I anyway?

A short time later, he spoke up. "You like that? If you like hip hop, you'd probably like my stuff, man. I'm a musician." he said as he tried to hand me a CD. "$5 is all it is." I didn't have any cash and asked if he had a Myspace address where I could preview it.

"Yeah, sure. www.myspace.com/EastCoBar That's East Coast Born and Raised my man; I'm from South Carolina. I'm going back there one day; I love it there."

I wrote it down, finished pumping, shook his hand, and made my way onto Cache Road, Grieves still pumping through eardrums.

I tapped the space bar to awake the computer from its sleep as I pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket: www.myspace.com/EastCoBar I typed into the address bar. The first song that caught my eye was "Desert Voice", making me lean forward in my chair and place my feet flatly on the floor. I listened to the lyrics intently as I thought of all the emotions that he and I shared about our experience in that country so far away. I wrote him as I listened to that song over and over:

"Hey man. I checked out your page and I like what I hear. I don't know if you've heard of us, but I'm a regional coordinator for Iraq Veterans Against the War and we just started a Lawton-Fort Sill chapter. Our website is www.ivaw.org and I'd love to have you as a member. We put on a hip hop concert for Veterans Day and I think you'd make a great addition. Let me know what you think."

When I got his reply, I pumped my fist as I read how enthusiastic he seemed to be about joining IVAW, hosting benefit concerts, and plugging all his active-duty and musician friends into the movement. He was going to join, and we were going to have the beginnings of one Hell of an IVAW chapter, I thought.

We continued to correspond. Our near-future schedules did not match up well, but we vowed to meet for a beer and start planning our strategy. Weeks went by, then months. I started to wonder if he had been spooked or changed his mind. I wrote him last week:

"Hey, man. I hadn't heard from you in a while. I'm still excited about having you join up and I want to meet up soon. Let me know what time is good."

The reply I received floored me:

How are you Justin, My name is David... Easterling was shot and killed Jan 28 monday night...I am making sure his website stays up and some of his works stay alive, for those that know him and Love him. I am a good friend of Easts I am active duty and have been deployed, and If you would like to meet up to discuss this matter, email me take care Godbless

Ira Easterling was 27 years old. He was a private, a musician, a father, a lover, a veteran, a patriot, a dreamer, a friend to many, and an enemy to one. That enemy, for whatever reason, shot and killed him outside a local night club where Easterling was performing. Sadly, he is just the latest statistic in the wave of violence and murder that has enveloped my city over the past two years. He's the second person I knew to have been murdered in a year, the first one having been shot by a nineteen-year old toting an AK-47. It's a sad commentary on a town that I remember as being a safe place to grow up to know two murder victims in a year, but this is the reality of Lawton, Oklahoma as of right now.

A tinge of guilt came over me as I thought about all the things that Easterling wouldn't be able to do now that he had been so tragically taken. He wouldn't be the face of IVAW Lawton-Fort Sill. He wouldn't plug me into his active-duty patriot friends. He would never emcee an IVAW benefit concert in L-Town. He wouldn't contribute to the IVAW benefit CDs that get produced. He wouldn't be my friend and ally.

But, really, what is most important here? Ira Easterling will never again be a friend to the men he served with in Iraq. He'll never again hold and comfort his children. He'll never love his significant other again. He'll never tell his mother he loves her. He'll never again relive his dream of being the emcee everyone loves. He'll never get to mentor a young man with his same dreams, problems, or both. He'll never again rock the mic or bring a smile to a stranger's face at a gas station on Cache Road. He'll never be a well-known rapper. He'll never be a grandfather. He'll never be an old man. He'll never . . . be.

So, what kind of blog is this? I don't know. Is it about another Iraq veteran? Senseless violence? Love? Hate? Fate? Yes, no to everything. It's about life, and life consists of everything above and so much more. It's precious. It's fragile, and it's undervalued.

I didn't know Ira in the way that would allow to eulogize him at his funeral or share stories with the best of his friends, but I know enough to know that he lived his life by the ethic that is described in my favorite quote:

There is more to life than increasing its speed.

Judging by his pictures, the enthusiasm I saw in his face and heard in his voice, the melancholy that exists in the voice of his grieving friend, the introspection in some of his music, and the way he followed his dreams, he is a model to any of us who ever wanted to do something, but didn't. Ira took time to smell the roses . . . until someone took his life.

Blood is the New Black: A Stab at Poetry

Blood is the new black: A stab at poetry.

A very talented hip hop musician in Oklahoma City is working on his new album "Blood is the New Black". He asked his friends and fans alike to leave a voice message with something relating to the title: what does it mean to you? I wrote this in about five minutes drawing on the title, my disdain for people who ask me how many people I killed or friends I lost in Iraq, and my disillusionment with the "Support the Troops" culture of America today. No, ribbons and prayer are not enough. So, while I usually have no problem expressing myself on here, I publish this with great apprehension, as this is the first time I have delved into poetry, something I am painfully inept for. (I think poets have to have a sense of rhythm.)

www.myspace.com/emceejabee

Blood is the new black,
in America and in Iraq.
How much blood did you shed?
How stained is your shirt red?
How much blood did you cause to flow?
None? Then why'd you even go?

You served your nation?
Patriotic and patient?
I wasn't there, soldier; I was back home pacin'.
I'm going to need some proof, need a receipt.
How many bodies did you put six feet deep?

Blood is the new black,
in America and in Iraq.
But I've never done the popular, never been trendy,
Never betrayed my soul because the air is windy.
I don't have any stories to tell of raisin' hell,
but I sleep at night knowing I treated them well.

Blood is the new black,
in America and in Iraq,
Now here's your ribbons of support,
I don't want 'em; take 'em back.

In Retrospect

It was February 2003 when I walked into the national guard armory in Duncan, Oklahoma knowing that I was packing my things to go to war. Saddam Hussein had refused to allow weapons inspectors to search for the now infamous weapons of mass destruction and all diplomacy was over.

As per usual in the military, we had been given several days to accomplish about a day's worth of work. I arrived, packed my things, spray painted my stenciled name and rank on my duffel bag, and proceeded to hang out in the section room with my friends. Fighting boredom, Kasey started playing with his knife, trying to throw it like a ninja or some other warrior with a hell of a lot more training than us. After several unsuccessful attempts, the knife broke with the handle flying in one direction and the blade flying in the other. Holding the two pieces in his hands (and still fighting boredom), Kasey decided to fix it. Several plans were proposed by the group before we agreed on.

Kasey held the broom while I sawed off the rounded end about four inches down with the hack saw attachment on my Gerber multitool. I sawed and sawed and sawed on that thing while trying not to cut Kasey's fingers off as we laughed about stupid this project was. Finally, the handle of our new knife was in my hand and the real work was to begin. Again, Kasey held the target while I sawed a notch down the center of the flat edge of the handle. After several more minutes of ferocious, repetitive sawing, the handle was ready and my hacksaw attachment resembled something more like a nail file than anything menacing.

We slid the blade down into the handle; it was a perfect fit. Anyone who has ever been in the military knows that one (or both) of two things are required for every project: 550 cord and 90 MPH tape. We wrapped the handle with one layer of 90 MPH tape and then methodically wrapped the 550 cord around the handle, making sure to cover every piece of tape we could see while trying to give the impression of military precision with every revolution. It was akin to installing a steering wheel cover and painstakingly working to have equal space between every rotation of the cord keeping the cover in place. We finished, burned off the ends of the 550 cord, and marveled at how cool our little project turned out.

Kasey celebrated by stabbing the ancient table sitting in the middle of the crowded room that in all likelihood violated several of the local fire marshal's laws. With a "Ugh!" he struck the blade in a downward motion and right into the tabletop and then yanked back. The blade remained in the table; the handle was firmly held in his hand above his head. Undaunted, we formulated a new plan.

There was a small hole in the bottom of the blade ideal for a screw, but we had not hardware and no way to drill the requisite hole for the screw, so we made something up about retrieving needed equipment and snuck out for a while. Our first stop was Locke Supply. There, we explained what our little project was and what we needed. The man on duty gave us two braces and a nut and bolt. As we pulled out our wallets to pay, the man held up his hand. "You don't have to pay. Go to Iraq, take care of those sons of bitches, and promise me you'll meet me at the VFW for a beer when you get back and we'll call it even." We agreed, shook his hand, and headed to the car in silence.

Next we drove to a hardware store. We asked where the drills and saws were and were directed to the back of the store. There, we explained how we were trying to save a good knife and how we needed just one hole drilled through the middle of the handle. The young man on duty (who couldn't have been any older than me) enthusiastically took the handle and went to work as we walked around the store, checking out an attractive woman who had been giving us smiling glances. When we heard the end of the ungodly sound of drills and saws, we returned to the rear of the store and looked at the work of the young man in the red work apron. This was going to work, we said, as we started putting the pieces together like a puzzle. "How much do we owe you?" I asked the man. "Nothing. Just promise me that when you get back you'll come and tell me how you killed those Iraqis with it and that'll be enough."

"Hell, yeah; thanks man."

We drove back to the armory discussing how great it was that the public supported us. Never did we stop to think of what was actually being said.

Several days later, I drove a large military truck down the main drag in Duncan towards Fort Sill, where we would train before we deployed. The streets were lined with balloons; people holding signs; red, white and blue ribbons; and old men saluting us. I got choked up; I couldn't help it. It wasn't until much later that I started to re-analyze the events of that week in Duncan while the country geared up for war.

At no time during the run-up to war had the president said that the Iraqi people were a threat to the US. To the contrary, he spoke of the moral obligation to free them of Saddam Hussein's oppression. Never had any of our leaders said that Iraqis hated America or Americans, yet, in private, there was very much a feeling of revenge being expressed. We were being hailed as liberators and defenders of freedom in public and agents of violent revenge in private conversation. It was such a telling dichotomy that I for so long failed to recognize. Even on a personal level, I justified this great inconvenience in my life by reminding myself of what a great thing we were doing as defenders of freedom, while also getting excited thinking about killing some ragheads.

Three months at Fort Sill flew by with little to no discussion of just what we or our leaders were doing and what our motivations truly were. With less than a week to go before we were to head off to Iraq, our brigade commander spoke to us in formation and informed us that the war was over and we were going home; thanks for coming.

It wasn't until over two years later that we again were faced with the opposing emotions about going to Iraq, but our mindsets had changed little. This time, however, we weren't quite as lucky and we arrived in Iraq December 20th, 2005 for a first hand trial by fire in the emotional roller coaster of serving out our leaders' orders.

It's now February 2008 as I look back at all the things that should have made me reconsider my feelings about the war, but I am not bitter; I am not angry. I was young, ignorant, and naive. Most of all, I wanted nothing more than to believe I was sacrificing for something so noble and true that I could be proud of it the rest of my life. I've grown a lot since then, and I can't be proud of where I am today without addressing where I started.

As Dewey Binns has said, "What's the point of living if you never learn to grow?"*

*(www.myspace.com/8bitcynics "Time")

"The Liberal Media"

It was late in the tour, late summer or early fall; it was difficult to gauge the seasons. All I know is that it was still hot. By this time, I had such a routine that I felt like I worked an ordinary nine to five job, but, under the surface, I knew my job was anything but ordinary. It had been a relatively quiet tour; only one guy had been killed, but he wasn't "one of ours". I felt guilty every time I said that no one had been killed yet and always corrected myself . . . "but he wasn't 'one of ours'." I think it made me feel better to pretend that SFC Laughlin hadn't been killed, that we really weren't in a war zone. I tried to forget that the very policemen we were training weren't running death squads, weren't members of al Sadr's Mahdi Militia. I put the IED blast that went off just in front of me that day in the mosque standoff in the back of my mind. I ignored the tracer round I saw fly my head. I was in denial, and I hated to hear about what was going behind the scenes.

We reported to the motor pool that morning expecting to hear the same old shit: yesterday there were six IED's; two car bombs; three kidnappings; one EFP; and four tortured bodies had been found in our AO. Whatever; I was numb to it and didn't get alarmed anymore. CPT Ray and SSG Bruesch instead told us that we would have to search every nook and cranny in the IHP compound today. We weren't going to be liked, and we might not like what we find, they said. The day prior, a squad had accidentally found a secret torture chamber and prison at the MOI building. Iraq's Ministry of the Interior had housed a secret prison; tortured prisoners had been found. Oddly, I wasn't surprised, but I wasn't really letting in sink in either. We made our way towards IHP and I still expected the same mundane day I had conditioned myself to experience.

We arrived and told Major Muhammad and General Ali of our intentions. We put guards at the different buildings and, to the protest and anger of the IHPs, searched every building room by room. The police who we had tried to build a rapport of trust and cooperation with for the past several months looked on in anger and disbelief as we looked for torture victims in their compound. I looked at them from my overwatch position in the gunner's hatch and saw the rage in their eyes. Either they were hurt and angry that we didn't trust them after all this time, or they were just angry that we were looking places they never thought we'd look. It didn't help that our guys walked from building to building and room to room like members of a renegade swat team in some b-rated action flick. I found myself angry and frustrated, but I didn't know why. I thought this was a waste of time. I was afraid we'd find nothing and have to explain why we hadn't trusted them. I was afraid we'd find something and have to try to detain and question fifty or more armed torturers. Either way, I didn't like our options. I just wanted to sit in my fantasy world and pretend it had never happened.

I didn't want to think about the tortured men at MOI or possible torture victims right under my nose. I didn't want to feel like a fool. I didn't want to acknowledge that the Samarra mosque bombing had changed everything; I didn't want to think of our guys as members of death squads. Most of all, I didn't to come to grips with the possibility that I had been doing nothing but training murderers; I didn't want to think that my house raid training had made them a better death squad. Ignorance is bliss.

All that had happened, however, and it was about time I faced reality before it snuck up and killed me. I started to think about how profound a find the MOI prison was . . . this was like finding a secret torture chamber in the State Department building in DC. This was huge; this was going to be all over the news and serve as just another example of how corrupt the Iraqi government was. Viewed in that light, I started to think about everything else that had happened: the IHPs being caught running a death squad; the time Mahdi Militia took over the fuel station by force and the IHPs refused to do anything; the missing IHPs; the missing weapons; the lackadaisical attitude of the force; the intel reports detailing what all had occurred in that area under their watch. It was sobering; all these months and nothing had changed.

I made mental notes and waited to see the story in the news. I was curious to see what CNN could say about it and curious to see how it affected the political environment back home. Days went by, and then weeks. Nothing was ever reported. The media never even knew. I had been told that all the liberal media did was report the negative news, the things that portrayed the mission in a hopeless fashion, the liberal media was nowhere to be found. I was a little frustrated and a tad hopeless. I wanted to track down every person who had told me about the big, bad, liberal media and shake them. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT! HOW CAN THEY ONLY REPORT THE NEGATIVE NEWS WHEN THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW HALF THE NEGATIVE NEWS?

When I realized that there wasn't a big, bad, liberal media skewing the news into an Iraqi quagmire, I realized we had all lost a scapegoat. We couldn't blame the media. We couldn't blame the liberal politicians. We could only blame the Iraqi government and security forces and our own government's mistakes. It was cold, difficult, and depressing, but I finally came to grips with reality.

Over the next few months, we found two cars involved in drive-by shootings and a man on the most wanted list in their parking lot, found out the Iraqi general in charge had been skimming $40,000 a month from the government, were set up at least twice by the IHPs to be blown to bits, and had almost gotten caught up in a confused, angry all out gunfight after two IHPs accidentally shot each other and we were thought to be the culprits. Every day closer to us leaving was a little more hostile than the last; every day was more and more eerie, more and more uncomfortable. We spoke to the IHPs less and less; fewer and fewer smiles were exchanged. We knew and they knew that we weren't exactly on the same side. Some remained friendly and I continue to believe that they were legitimate, but I'll never know. I no longer thought of them as contemporaries I needed to train to fight the good fight. They were simply friendly faces to acknowledge until I could jump on that plane and fly home.

I left that place with mixed emotions, but grateful that I no longer had to frequent the place where I constantly looked over my shoulder. I was disappointed that, in my mind, there was no longer a group of dedicated, ambivalent Iraqi policemen manning that building and there was no longer a big, bad, liberal media to blame it on.

Saving Souls and Losing Allies

Saving Souls and Losing Allies

It was Autumn. The temperature was slowly falling to a bearable 100 or so, and the day until we left Baghdad was drawing nearer and nearer. Ahmed had been dead for a few weeks, yet Ali still talked about him every day we visited with each other. With the mention of his name and a wipe of his eyes, he would look in my eyes and tell me how much he missed his friend. I missed him too. I didn't necessarily believe in a Heaven or a Hell, but, if such things indeed existed, I knew that Ahmed would be welcomed with open arms into anyone's Heaven. He was the most gentle, respectful, funny, and pleasurable kid I had ever known or cared to know, but, most of all, he was Ali's best friend. Through our grief, I think Ali and I silently agreed that we were quietly relieved that Ahmed had not suffered more than he already had. Burn wounds in American hospitals with all the world's best technology were almost unbearable, and Ali and I both knew that Ahmed wasn't in America.

It was another long day at Traffic Headquarters when Ali threw my door open and gazed at me with a puzzled look on his face, pointing to something in his hand. I took the booklet from his hands with the same quizzical look on my face and thumbed through it, right to left, as it was in Arabic. As I went through each page and tried to make sense of it, Ali turned to a page in the middle and pointed frantically at a picture of a man burning in what appeared to be Hell.

"Ahmed?!?" He asked with much strain in his voice and tears in his eyes.

"What? No. Hold on."

I went back and looked through each page again, and, all at once, it dawned on me. I don't speak Arabic, but I read pictures pretty well. This Arabic language comic book portrayed two Arab men in a car or walking down the street (I don't remember now, as it wasn't important) talking about religion. One of them talks about Christianity as opposed to the Islam that the other was holding onto. A few pages later, a bomb blast is seen (a very real and frequent occurrence in Baghdad) and the two men perish (as Ahmed did.) The adamant Muslim finds himself in Hell, burning in the flames and wishing he had converted to Christianity while the newfound Christian ascends to Heaven and is greeted by Jesus and a Cross. Ali again pointed to the page.

"Ahmed?!?"

"No!"

"No Ahmed?!?"

"No. Bullshit!"

"Bullshit?" he asked, with a glint of hope in his voice.

"Yes, bullshit. Mu-zien." I replied in an assuring voice.

I asked him who had given it to him, and he pointed at the humvee parked behind me. Fitch was sitting in the front seat . . . reading the Bible with that smile on his face that followed him anywhere. "Goddamnit, Fitch" I said under my breath. Didn't he realize that this was actually against the Geneva Conventions? Didn't he realize that we weren't missionaries, we weren't Crusaders?

As I thought about walking back there and explaining it to him, Ali sprinted towards him and told him what bullshit he thought Fitch's literature was. I smiled and decided that Ali could take care of himself in this situation. Ali returned, slightly out of breath, and pointed in Fitch's direction. "Bullshit; mu-zien!" he said with a relieved smile on his face.

We sat there together and talked about whatever it was that could entertain the two of us at the moment until it was time to go, and I waved goodbye to him as I watched him collect his cans in his worn down, filthy sandals with a smile on his face.

On the drive "home", I could only think of what was going through Fitch's head when he decided it would be a good thing to imply that Ali's best friend, who had been a Muslim and who had died in a bombing, was burning in Hell as we speak. Did he truly think he was saving a soul? Did he truly think that a young, kind, funny, generous Muslim like Ahmed would burn in eternal flames? If he did, how could he possibly be smiling? I liked Fitch, and I still do, but this really bothered me. It bothered me then, and it bothers me now. It's part of a bigger problem: does he (or others like him) support the war because he thinks it might create a few more Christians or are there other reasons? If he wasn't a Christian, would he worry about what religion dead kids in Baghdad were raised in? What stories does he tell about his time saving souls in Baghdad? Who agrees with him? All these questions run through my head everytime I see his smiling face at school, as we attend the same university. I like Fitch, and I liked him then. It's difficult, however, not to think about how his evangelicalism could have wrecked Ali's world if I wasn't there to comfort him and tell him that it's bullshit . . . it was all bullshit.

I confided in my friend and comrade Aaron this story while we were still in country and he had this to say:

"All their lives, these people have been told that the West is one day going to invade their holy land, pillage their homes, and convert them to Christianity. We can tell them it's not like that all we want, but then we show up and people like Fitch just confirm it. No wonder they don't trust us."

He was right, and it makes me wonder how many Fitches are in Baghdad today, saving souls and losing allies.

Chickenhawks.

I walked into my Political Theory class last January and immediately noticed Matt sitting at a desk with a familiar, satisfied smile on his face. I didn't know Matt, but I knew that smirk. I couldn't place it, made a mental note, and moved on.

April came and the semester was almost over. Before the period began one morning, a few students were discussing when they had first registered to vote, a rousing discussion in a poli sci class, I guess. Matt was standing with his hands in pockets and, looking directly at me, said with great gusto, "I remember the day my registration card came in the mail, and it said Republican." He stood there, staring at me with that same satisfied smirk on his face. After what seemed like an eternity of silence he asked (more like indicted), "You're a Democrat, aren't you?" Then it hit me; I had seen that smirk before . . . on the face of George W. Bush.

Matt and I got along fairly well in that class, mostly because I didn't speak too much about the war as it didn't come up in conversation very often. I heard him speaking to others about the war and listened from a distance as he pretended to know everything it. I laughed to myself as he talked about how honorable military service is; if it were so honorable, why was he in my college classroom and not living on Pad 15 at Camp Liberty, Baghdad, Iraq, I thought. Even though I saw these contradictions, I let him have his fun for the most part and kept to myself, but every time I have seen him since, I immediately think to myself "Chickenhawk."

Fast forward to the Fall semester and we again have a political science class together. We've gone toe to toe in debating the war and I've laughed in his face as he cites his source for how great the situation on the ground is: one of my comrades whose job in Iraq was to escort the Colonel the four miles from the palace on Camp Victory to a palace in the Green Zone three days a week. After dropping the Colonel off, his big decisions were whether he should eat at Michael's Restaurant; go to the food court; or swim at Liberty Pool. Decisions; decisions. We've agreed to disagree in the end, but I always come away thinking of him more and more as a chickenhawk who thinks that supporting pre-emptive strikes and hawkish policies makes up for his fat, rosy cheeks and complete lack of aggression.

So, you can imagine the spike in respect I gained for the man when I heard him refer to himself as a Chickenhawk. We were talking about fantasy football and comparing team names, which are half the fun of creating a team. My fantasy football team's name is and always has been "Arrogant Americans." It's self-depracating and somewhat of a political statement, but, most of all, I find it funny. "My name has always been The Chickenhawks." Matt said with that smirk on his face. I almost choked on my gum I laughed so hard. "I appreciate the fact that you can poke fun at yourself, man." I said with a smile on my face.
"What do you mean?" the Chickenhawk replied.
"What is a Chickenhawk?" a woman asked from the peanut gallery.
"It's a funny-looking animal with a funny name; there was a cartoon about one." Matt answered her with a stern determination in his voice.
". . . or it's what you call someone who supports war and the military but is too afraid to ever serve in one himself." I added.
"I've never heard that!" was his immediate, adamant reply.
"It's true, man; look it up." I told him in between laughs.
His face was now as red as ever and he looked angrier than I had ever seen him.
"It's just a stupid cartoon named Foghorn Leghorn; that's all it is!" he said, seemingly trying to convince himself that the irony was all a fluke. I had to go and politely excused myself, but I still laugh to myself every time I see his red and embarrassed face in his mind. Each time I see that arrogant, "Dubya" smirk on his face, I'll think of the "Chickenhawk" face and die laughing at the sweet irony that I couldn't have scripted any better myself.

Arrogant Americans versus The Chickenhawks sounds like it could be an intrasquad scrimmage, but, sadly, only one of the coaches would appreciate the satire.

Where is the rage?

Where is the rage?

I had drill this weekend. Drill has been a forever-evolving presence in my life for the past six years. I went from looking forward to drill to hating it to missing it while I was in Iraq and back to looking forward to it when I returned. I used to hate drill, but found myself liking the weekends where I was reunited with those that I spent a year with in Iraq. Over the past few months, that has turned into dread, and I am questioning whether or not I can remain an effective member of the military.

Over the course of our many bullshit sessions at drill, the topic of Iraq inevitably came up. We exchanged stories and shared laughs as the new guys who didn't deploy looked on with wonder. Stories about clandestine drunken nights, the anger that comes with being kicked out of the chow hall for being sweaty, and getting to the point where you ignore gunfire took up most of the time, but not all of the stories were so innocent. The same set of soldiers that in 2005 said they couldn't wait to kill "ragheads" were now bragging about times they scared Iraqis, bent the rules of engagement, and generally enjoyed playing bully for a year. I like these guys a lot, but I don't know why I was surprised. I had thought that maybe being there for a year would eventually change them and open their eyes to how their actions were inhumane, but I was wrong.

Someone who had not deployed before asked if we would go again. "In a heartbeat!" one soldier replied. Others assured him that they would have no problem going back. Now, the eyes were on me.

"No, I am not going back to participate in that war."

The look of shock and awe on their faces quickly gave way to a flurry of questions about how I would get out, what I would do, how I could do that to my comrades, why I felt the way I did, what I thought I was proving, and why I thought I could make a difference. The question that got me on a roll, however, was none of the above.

"What are you going to do . . . become a conscientious objector?" one soldier and friend said with a smirk and a chuckle.

"In fact, I just may do that. That's what I am, essentially, isn't it?"

You could have heard a pin drop as the smirks fell from their faces; this appeared to be the worst thing I could have said. It amazes me how they had just gotten done talking about taking pleasure in bullying Iraqis and I was somehow demonized for stating that I had a moral objection to the occupation and subjugation of a third world nation. I have a conscience, and that upset them more than anything else I could have said for some reason.

I then spent about twenty minutes explaining why I had a moral objection to scaring Iraqis for the fun of it, occupying a country that didn't attack us, risking my life and the lives of my comrades for a war that does nothing but make the world more dangerous and less stable, and giving complicit approval to policy that has failed on every front.

What stuck out to my comrade, however, wasn't about killing or risking my life.

"Why do keep talking about how unstable the Middle East has become as a result of the war? I mean, you almost seem to take it personally. Why do you care if wars break out there?"

I was exasperated, but I kept trying to make him get it. I care because where there is war, there are innocent people dying. It doesn't matter if they're Iraqi, Syrian, Lebanese, Israeli, Palestinian, Iranian, or Turkish; I do not want them to experience the horrors of the war. On a more selfish front, the more unstable the region is, the more chance there is that we'll have to eventually intervene. The region has gotten worse and worse since our invasion to "stabilize the region", and constitutes a gross failure of the Iraq War.

"Yeah, but why take it so seriously? I mean, you've got to defend your country either way. You've got to have the balls to go even if you don't agree with it."

No, it takes balls not to go when you don't agree. The courage to resist is oftentimes more honorable than the courage to enter a foxhole. These same friends of mine told me that they concede that the situation did nothing but get worse in our year in Iraq and that they didn't see how we could really "win". One went so far as to say he didn't believe in the war, but could never "abandon" his country. One said he agreed with everything I said . . . he just lacked the political will to do anything about it. Another stated his agreement with me, but said he was just going to hope that his contract runs out before they ever call us up again. Out of all those sitting there, only one fully supported the war, but all were willing to go back either for some misguided belief in honor or because they were too lazy or scared to do anything about it.

I thought I could this; I thought I could oppose the war and remain in the military. Change from within, I thought. I realized this weekend that that was a pipe dream, for me at least. I spend half my time in that uniform cringing at exaggerated stories, expressed pleasure in other peoples' pain, and empty, misguided proclamations of honor, integrity, and selfless service.

I am done with the military. I don't know how exactly I will leave the service just yet, but I know that I will. I entered the army in an honorable fashion and I will leave it that way, but leave it I will.

I leave Friday for Washington DC to take part in the September 15th protests in DC with tens of thousands of other concerned Americans, including representatives of Iraq Veterans Against the War, Military Families Speak Out, Gold Star Families, and the ANSWER Coalition. I am taking more and more responsibility within IVAW to end this war, take care of our veterans, and provide reparations for the Iraqi people and it feels right.

I accepted the position of Regional Coordinator-Gulf Coast Region this week and look forward to working with other IVAW Regional Coordinators in the future. I am writing for their newsletter (Sit-Rep), which is being published for the first time this week. If anyone has any questions about the organization or wishes to join, please contact me.

In the meantime, I simply ask, "Where is the rage?!"

Tears in Baghdad

It never ends.

Ali was trying to tell me something about Achmed with a seriousness I had yet to see from him, and I took it to mean that Achmed had somehow been injured in an explosion, but I wasn't sure. With the language barrier, it was difficult to understand what was being said all the time, even with the seemingly obvious body language. One time, I thought that Achmed was telling me Ali had been hurt in a blast, but it turned out he was saying that Ali was working on his home, so it could have been anything. I told myself it was probably nothing and tried to forget about it; ignorance is bliss.

I thought about what it was that Ali was trying to tell me all weekend. Ali and Achmed were my saving grace in Iraq: those boys had been what had kept me sane for the last nine months. They couldn't have been more than fourteen years old, but they had seen more than I ever will. Their sense of humor and positive attitudes were infectious, however, and I and the rest of my squad had unofficially adopted them months before. Baghdad seemed a lot more like home with those kids around.

I wish I was right about it being nothing; I wish that Achmed was simply working on his house. After a few days of walking around in denial, I again saw Ali and this time I had our linguist mediate the conversation. According to Ali, Achmed and his mother had gone to the fuel station to buy fuel for their home. As they were leaving, a suicide bomber appeared and Achmed, who was holding the can of fuel, and his mother were engulfed in a ball of fire. Achmed's mother had died instantly. Achmed was burned terribly from head to toe. As he sat in an Iraqi hospital, his father was out doing anything he could to come up with the money for his treatment, as there is no insurance and hospitals there expect payment up front. I felt like I had just lost a lifelong friend, if not a family member. For all I had done for those two young men, I felt so helpless that no matter what I did in our trivial hours together at that police station, I would never be able to protect them from the horrors of everyday life in Baghdad. When I left them each day, I returned to the heavily fortified base complex that allowed me to sleep easy at night. Of course, it was hard to rest easily when you know that your friend is in horrific pain in a sub-standard hospital, and the bags under my eyes could attest to how worried and tired I had become. Myself and two other guys did what any self-respecting man would do: we gave what little cash we had to help pay for our friend's hospital bill. Together, though, we were only able to give him roughly $30. If there had been an ATM nearby, I would have contributed my daily limit to that poor boy's hospital care, but life in Baghdad limits you in ways that you never know until they appear.

What upset me was the general indifference the rest of the squad treated the news. Some gave an unconvincing exclamation of their sorrow, but all said they had no money . . . something that I know was untrue. Some cited their inability to believe Ali 100% for their reluctance to help, but I found that to be nothing more than a cop out. Say, for example, that Ali made it all up and he and Achmed were splitting the proceeds behind our backs; what are you out? $5? $10? Weigh the risk/reward of that scenario in your head: if you are right, you have thus gained a whole $10; if you are wrong, an innocent little boy waits in pain as his father searches for a way to pay for his treatment. Take into account the risk of infection and the prompt treatment of his injuries becomes imperative. What further blew their argument out of the water was that these were not exactly fiscal conservatives we are talking about. They blew money on two or three DVDs a week (at almost $20 a pop), ate Pizza Hut, Popeye's, Burger King, and Hardee's at least four times a week; paid crazy amounts of money for fancy coffee in the morning from Green Beans Coffee (usually $5 a cup); and the list goes on.

These, aside from two individuals, were also the religious wing of the squad. They had told me that they are Christians and wish to live a Christian lifestyle and questioned my lack of faith. No amount of religious posturing, however, will make me forget how they elected to treat not only our friends Ali and Achmed, but the Iraqi people in general. If anyone of them ever again in my lifetime attempt to tell me what Christianity is about or what they are about, I will not hesitate to throw this back in their collective faces. This is just one example of their hypocrisy, but I think it is the most glaring. Good Samaritans they were not. This is not to criticize the faith itself, but I never again want to hear these men pretend to be men of God.

All I could do over the weekend was hope that the money raised was enough to precipitate the treatment of Achmed and that that treatment could have at least alleviated the pain he was in. I had said many times before that I will never forget about these young men and that hasn't changed. I am so thankful that my children, when I have children, will not be subjected to the things these boys were.

That night, an Iraqi girl instant messaged me out of the blue. She was worried that I might be reluctant to speak to an Iraqi woman, but I assured that was not a problem. We talked for hours about our respective lives and how different and alike they were. It wasn't long before she asked me about my Yahoo picture, which was one of little Ali wearing my helmet and goggles. I told her about him and Achmed, what I had done with them and the bond we had forged. I expressed my regret that I had not been able to do more for them in my time in that country and she really put me at ease. She said, "I think you have done all you could have done and I think you are a very kind man . . . They will never forget you, you know." A peace truly did come over me after hearing that; perhaps I needed to hear it before I left my habibis, my good friends. It made the day's news just a little more bearable and alleviated any guilt I may have been feeling.

If I was a man of faith, I would have been convinced that she was an angel because no one on this Earth could have made me feel as at peace as she did in that moment. Somehow, she picked the perfect time to come into my life and I thank her to this day for that.

I spent that weekend hoping against hope that Achmed would be okay. I had hoped that our money was enough to get him the treatment he needed, that he received it in time, that he had not succumbed to infection, and that he was in as little pain as humanly possible. Within minutes of arriving at the police station, I saw Ali and knew that I would have some type of news. As I approached him, his eyes met mine, and I knew. As Ali made a digging motion towards the ground and repeated "Achmed, Achmed" over and over, the cold reality sunk in: Achmed was dead.

Ali said that Achmed's father had told him to please thank us for all we had done for him and especially for the money we gave him to pay the hospital. Ali thanked us profusely for trying. Of course, I didn't think we did anything incredibly special. Achmed was a friend and a friend in need. I did what friends do; I helped as much as I could.

The last time I had visited with Achmed, I taught him how to play 'Rock, Paper, Scissors' and laughed as he went 'rock' twenty hands in a row. We goofed off playing for twenty minutes and I'll never forget him giggling like the little boy he was as I tried to explain something to him that he obviously didn't understand, as long as it was in English. No matter, we killed a lot of time and had some fun doing it. He again asked me over and over when I was going to give him a picture of him, Ali, and me together and I told him I would get it to him before I left. Oh, how I wish I had gotten it to him in time, but I always thought I'd have time later. When it was time for me to leave, he gave me two kisses on the cheek and told me he would see me next week. That was the last memory I will have of him, and it is a cherished one.

I know that I meant a lot to him, or at least brightened a number of his days. I know I did, but I don't think he ever knew how much he had meant to me. He and Ali were what I looked forward to on mission days; on weekends, I thought about them. I dreamt I had adopted them. They brightened my day as much as I did theirs and I worried about them when I didn't see them. Every time there was an attack or an explosion in that area, I held my breath until I saw them again. I knew that this day may come, and I wasn't particularly surprised or angry when I heard the news. I accepted it rather matter of factly, but I indeed hurt inside. Afterwards, I sat in my humvee silently as tears rolled my face. I didn't sniffle. I didn't wail or moan. I didn't punch anything. I didn't even breathe heavily, but I cried. It was a type of cry that I had never before experienced. I felt like I was watching myself deal with the news from someone else's point of view; I felt detached.

How had this happened? What did Achmed do? All he was guilty of was being born in Baghdad. He was a victim of circumstance, bad luck, bad timing, and, some would say, fate. He did what millions of people do everyday: he bought fuel from the neighborhood fuel station. At that same time, someone detonated a suicide vest and Achmed and his mother were lost.

As I went from tears and sullen silence to bittersweet reflection and drier eyes, I took out my journal (which I had not written in nearly as much as I should have) and started writing what I was experiencing. At that time, the cutest little girl, maybe three years old, passed by holding the hand of her father. I couldn't help but wonder how long she'd be allowed to live, how long she'd be allowed to be a child. I certainly hope it is longer than Ali and Achmed got. She looked so much like my brother's daughter; it was uncanny, and I was immediately grateful that she was being raised in the United States, far from IEDs, car bombs, and mortars. It is unfair indeed, and it is easy to feel a certain level of guilt. I know, however, that I had about as much control over where I was raised as Achmed did. It's no one's fault, and there is no sense in feeling guilty over it. I took solace in what Sarah, who lived in Baghdad, had told me about these two boys in our instant message conversation the night I had first heard the news about Achmed: She was certain that I had done everything within my power to help the young man, and I had made a difference in his life that I could never measure. That comforted me.

I was also slightly comforted in knowing that he was no longer suffering. Third degree burns can be extremely painful even with the world's best medical treatment; they must have been terrible in an Iraqi hospital with limited resources. I did not want to think of what pain he felt in his last few days; I was just thankful that it was over. If I had to pick one memory of him, it would be the sight of his face peering into the humvee window looking for me, and then his yell of "Justin!" when he spotted my face. I will surely remember that face for the rest of my life; I had never seen anyone, outside of my parents, so happy to see me.

After sharing the terrible news with me, Ali begged me once again for a picture of me, him, and his best friend, and this time I couldn't drag my feet. I knew that I had to get those pictures developed and in his hands as soon as possible. In the meantime, he said he wanted a picture of me and my family and I obliged. I took out a photo of our family portrait and wrote "To my friend Ali, Justin" on the back. He was happy and said that he would try and get a picture of Achmed with his family for me.

The news was sobering and not at all what I was hoping to hear, but the memory of the day is bittersweet. Sergeant Bruesch and I talked to Ali for at least a couple of hours and we all shared nervous laughs. Later, Gonzo, our linguist, came out and translated everything. He said that Achmed had given him the shoes I bought for him, but they were too small. I told him I would bring him a bigger pair the next week and we shared a smile and a firm handshake (Ali never hugged and gave cheek-kisses like Achmed) as he left us to go collect some more cans.

Two weeks had gone by since I learned of Achmed's death and had promised Ali a picture of the three of us together. My mom did a great job of developing the pictures I sent her and shipping them back in a folder for Ali. I was ready to fulfill my promise.

Within minutes of arriving at the Traffic Police station, I heard the familiar voice yell my name; it was Ali. I walked over to him calmly, shook his hand, and simply said, "Pictures." "Achmed!?!" he asked excitedly. "Yes." As I turned around to go retrieve the pictures, I heard Ali behind me telling one of my comrades in his broken English that I had pictures of Achmed for him; it dawned on me just how important this was to him.

I brought the folder to him and recognized a familiar look on his face, yet it had been years since I had seen that look. It was the face of a boy at Christmas waiting for the go-ahead to rip open his presents. The folder had barely switched hands before he had pulled it out of its envelope and opened it to page one. Staring back at him was a full page picture of Achmed, smiling like always. I saw a sudden shift in Ali's posture, and he slowly fell to his knees . . . and wept. He tried to hide his face, hide his sniffles, hide his breathing, but it was to no avail. Ali wept like a little boy, and I had never heard a little boy weep for such a right reason. These were tears of love, friendship, memory, and closure. I'd seen those tears before, but rarely had they come from the eyes of a boy so young, yet so aged. Such is life in Baghdad.

I tried to comfort him; I did what I could. I placed my hand on his back and told him it was okay. He was embarrassed, but no one could fault him for letting it all go. As I uneasily watched him alternately weep, look at the photograph again, and wipe his eyes, a strange peace came over me, and it was then that I realized it: this was my closure. I had fulfilled my promise to Ali and, posthumously, Achmed to bring them pictures of the three of us together; we, the "Three Habibis." I even brought pictures of Hidar, whom I had seen less and less of as of late. I didn't get to witness a funeral, or a eulogy, or wake, or burial, or memorial, but I got to see the emotions that were present in all five. Ali was certainly solemn and depressed when he first told us of the news, but other than the deep sorrow I saw in his eyes, I saw very little emotion. If the tables were turned, I would have expected to see Achmed cry everyday; he was a very emotional kid, but Ali had always been a little bit more reserved. Ali tried to be a tough guy; Achmed just acted like a kid.

Ali was embarassed and composed himself within a couple of minutes, but he cried just long enough for him to get it out of his system and for me to feel like a chapter in my life was indeed coming to a close. He cheered up and was back to his usual self again. I gave him some socks that he had asked for the previous week and he told us that someone had tried to steal his "junta" (backpack) after he left us last time, but he had thrown "chocolata" in the opposite direction for them to chase while he ran away. We all shared a laugh and were in mutual agreement that the awkward moment of before was over, although no one said it outright.

Before he left, he said, in one way or another, several times that it will be a sad day for him when I returned to the States and indicated that tears may flow by repeating a wiping motion across his eyes. He asked me if America would be good for me without Ali, and he asked how much time I had before I left him. Guilt is not the correct word, but I was sure I would feel something when I left and it wouldn't dissipate simply because I was home and away from the tears in Baghdad. I knew that I would be leaving one of my best friends, and I didn't like it, but I knew I would have little choice in the matter.

That day has come and gone, and I still think my Iraqi friends and those tears in Baghdad. Not a day goes by that I don't wonder how Ali is doing or how Achmed's father is coping with the loss of his wife and son. I left Baghdad eight months ago, but Baghdad has yet to leave me. I don't think it ever will . . . and I don't ever want it to.

"Why Should I Care?"

"Why Should I Care?"

This weekend was drill weekend, the weekend I used to dread for three weeks out of the month. I'm not exactly in love with the idea of wearing the uniform now, but a part of me does look forward to this weekend. When else will I be able to see all of my comrades from Iraq? So, it was with that tempered anticipation that I couldn't wait to see my friend. Josh lives on the other side of the state and I convinced him to come stay at my house Friday so that we could go out, drink a few beers, and get caught up.

In between beers and meaningless conversations with bar flies, we talked again about Iraq. Knowing that he was against the war from the start and is generally described as being pretty liberal in his political and religious leanings, I asked him if he wanted to join Iraq Veterans Against the War. It seemed like a natural progression for him, but his answer surprised me:

"Why should I care? I mean it kind of worked out for me: I've got more school money; a new truck; veterans' benefits."

I was floored, but, undeterred, I continued with the recruitment.

"You think I can't cite positives? I'm a homeowner now. I have more college money, veterans' benefits, and self-confidence. I like who I am; that year changed me for the better, but all that means is that I made a positive out of a negative situation. Why should you care?! You can't be anti-war while you're in it and then become indifferent when your ass is no longer on the line. You should care for all the other guys like us that are over there."

Did it work? Who knows? I can't say for sure one way or the other if I made an impression; the blonde inches away from me was just too hot to ignore to continue harassing Josh. I'd like to think that, if nothing else, I made him see the hypocrisy in his statement. I have no problem saying that I benefitted from the deployment; I think that I grew as a person in ways that I never would have had I not had that type of eye-opening experience. However, when your primary reason for supporting a war (or even projecting a laissez faire attitude towards it) is a financial one, you become no better than all the war profiteers that you railed against the whole year you were there.

I care, and I'm not the only one. There are several comrades of mine who have either joined IVAW or have pledged to do so soon. One of them is taking the next step and attending the IVAW National Convention with me at the 22nd Annual Veterans for Peace Convention in St. Louis in a couple weeks.

Aaron and I will make the road trip August 15th to St. Louis to meet other members of the organization, find out what we can do to help, learn more about the organization, and to have a good time. I was contacted last week by IVAW's executive director and notified that I had been nominated to IVAW's Board of Directors by a last minute submission. I couldn't believe it, but she told me that she had read my writings on the website and felt that I really told my story well and felt that I should go for it. I later found out over a Jack and Coke that it was Aaron who nominated me, but, hey, his opinion matters too. His exact words, "I thought 'man, I'm too lazy for that shit, but I think Cliburn'd do a good job.'" So, in two weeks, the members of IVAW will choose seven members out of nineteen nominees to sit on the Board of Directors. Whether I am elected or not, I feel like I'm finally finding my niche in life, at least temporarily. I've read the other nominees' profiles and I genuinely believe all of them have a better shot of being elected than me, mostly because they had longer than two hours to put their nomination packet together. But that's not the point: I would be happy with anyone on that list; I'm sincerely "just happy to be here." If I am elected, I see my life changing significantly, and I get excited.

Whether I find myself on that Board of Directors or not, I will become a contributor for the IVAW newsletter that will be starting soon. My first assignment: write a review of the DVD's "The Ground Truth" and "Sir, No Sir!"
I have "The Ground Truth" and I ordered "Sir, No Sir!" a couple of weeks ago. I will post my reviews here when I get them done. This is obviously an exciting part of my life that is opening itself up finally; I may finally get the platform that I've been wanting for so long, but will I want the responsibility that comes with it? I think so.

Whether I'm in school, on this (relatively) meaningless blog, at the bar, or even Wal Mart, I aim to present myself as an Iraq veteran that you can respect: I'm not going to Goose Step with the administration, but I did my job and tried to help people along the way. I don't carry a sign to that effect, but those that discuss the war with me are going to come away thinking that about me . . . and hopefully they'll start viewing the rest of the veterans in a different light as well. I have to realize that for every one of me, there are ten like a certain soldier I served with. "DB" allegedly has been telling anyone with a beer and a listening ear that he used to sneak off the base in Iraq and kill Iraqis. Someone decided he was either telling the truth (in which case he needs to be prosecuted), or he was lying (in which case he needs a thorough kick in the ass); either way it doesn't make us look good. The man contacted our unit and reported it and the problem has been resolved, but it's still unsettling. How many other dumbasses are telling lies to sound "cool"? How does it make us look?

I finally emptied out one of my foot lockers from Iraq in order to fill up a bookshelf with the books I read while I was in country. I found in it the Iraq Tourists Book. There was no date inside, but it was obvious that it was at least ten years old. I remember buying it as a souvenir from a little Iraqi kid, but I never actually opened it. Nostalgia filling me, I opened it up and took a whirlwind tour of pre-occupation Iraq. I was astounded to see the same places I used to frequent in Baghdad in pristine condition. al-Tahreer Square looked beautiful; it was lively and clean and looked like what a major square in a world capital should look like. The al-Tahreer Square I knew was nothing of the sort. It was disconcerting to see all the museums that I know are now looted and essentially non-functional. A part of me feels so badly for Baghdad and the architects that designed a city that is truly gorgeous in many ways, only to see it turn to shantytown over years of economic sanctions and war. I don't know what came first, the war or the decay, but Baghdad used to be beautiful, and I hope it is once again in the future.

Perhaps one day I won't think of Baghdad and that year so much. Maybe I'll eventually just let it go and think of something else in my idle time. Until then, however, I'm going to continue to care, continue to think critically, continue to tell my story.

DVD Review: The Ground Truth

This is a review of the Documentary "The Ground Truth" that I wrote for Iraq Veterans Against the War's upcoming newsletter.

www.thegroundtruth.net

The Ground Truth tells the story of seventeen Iraq War veterans, but it serves as more than that: these seventeen stories are a microcosm of the problems America's war veterans are facing everyday. The seventeen soldiers and Marines are an eclectic group. They represent all regions of the country; all races and colors. Their motivations for enlistment are diverse, as are the ways with which they have dealt with their war experiences. This is a melting pot; this is America.

Your first glimpse of the military in this documentary is the same as the veterans' in the film: Recruit induction day, complete with all the pomp and circumstance that that entails. Start learning about the war by learning what motivated these young Americans to join the military and, ultimately, participate in the war. Everything from duty to honor to college money to job training to a desire to leave a comfort zone is cited as reasons for joining our military; no one says they want to kill someone. That desire is learned, and you are given a crash course in the sociology of training our brothers and sisters to kill. It is not what you see in the recruiting advertisements on television.

Our narrators found themselves in different cities in Iraq, performing different missions, but having the same conflicting thoughts about their role in what they were witnessing. Innocent civilians were shot and killed. Iraqi men were humiliated for the purposes of intimidation. Children are dead on the side of the road. These weren't acts carried out by monsters; this is what happens when you train an animal to fight and then lock it in a cage. Soldiers and Marines give personal accounts of atrocities they witnessed or even committed; it becomes easy to understand how war has changed them.

When the soldiers and Marines were not witnessing the horrors of war on the civilian population of Iraq, they were busy crafting their own armor and wondering when they were going to see the best military equipment in the world. For two soldiers, the wait was too long and limbs were lost as a result. Sadly, the Department of Defense officially listed them as "wounded", just as they classify anyone missing an arm or a leg as merely being wounded. Regretfully, these soldiers can count themselves as lucky: at least the VA can see their wounds.

Of the thousands of soldiers who return to the United States from Iraq with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), most of them will never receive help. Of those that do pursue help from the VA, some are flat out denied service while others are diagnosed with a previously unknown personality disorder, effectively ending the military career and mental health eligibility of the veteran. The military that worked so hard to condition the personality of a Marine to kill without thinking is abandoning the man once he starts to think about what he's done. The Marines turned him from a civilian into a killer; once he becomes a civilian again, he is useless.

In a very political time in our history, on a subject that can be very political, The Ground Truth never once uses the words: Bush; Republican; Democrat; Saddam Hussein; or Conspiracy. This is simply about the soldiers and Marines: what they saw; what they did; what they encountered when they returned home. There is nothing to disagree with; it is a film of facts and emotion. You might become angry. You might find yourself sad, but whether you scream or cry, you will know the story of the American Veteran . . . You will know The Ground Truth.

The Walk

The Walk

It was a May day like any other as we pulled into the poorly fortified Traffic Police Headquarters compound. We parked in our usual spots and the squad leader rallied us around him. He had a BOLO (Be on the lookout) list in his hand, and we were to check license plates in the adjacent parking lot against it. He needed about half the squad; I was one of them.

It was about a 100 meter walk between the parking lot and our location in north Baghdad. In our way was small market, but a crowded small market, and we made our way towards it. As we fanned out, I saw all the blustering and posturing my comrades were doing; they looked ridiculous. You're wearing body armor, a helmet, sunglasses, a pistol, and a semi-automatic assault rifle; you don't need to intimidate anyone with your behavior. As we approached the market, I saw the Iraqis' faces; they looked apprehensive. What was going on? What was going to happen? Why do they look so angry?

"Sergeant Jackson, can I fuck with somebody? Please, let me fuck with somebody!" one of our junior NCOs asked our squad leader.

The squad leader said that it might not be a good idea to piss anyone off, especially when we were outnumbered and had to come here practically everyday for the next nine months, never mind that it was just plain wrong. Wrong was not something that the young sergeant would have responded to however, so I don't fault the man for omitting the most obvious argument against the request.

We continued walking towards the market and I could now make eye contact with the people there: the passers by; the shop keepers; the shoppers; the old men drinking chi under a canopy . . . all of them. They looked frightened. They looked angry. They looked hopeless. I made eye contact; I smiled. "Salaam a'alaikum," I said. Some smiled back and replied "Alaikum a'salaam" in the same nervous manner that I had greeted them; others continued to stare. Activity slowed all around us; we were the center of attention.

"Hey, Sergeant Stephens. That guy's staring at you!" one said with a laugh and a smile.

"I'll kick his fucking ass!" Stephens yelled with an exagerrated arch of his back and raise of his shoulders. Now, everyone was staring and the looks of despair and hopelessness deepened. What could anyone do? What could the man in question do? We were armed to the nines and wrapped in body armor; the staring man was in a tunic and sandals.

. . . and why wouldn't he or anyone else stare? They tolerated us at the police stations and on the roads, but this was their territory. Why were we there? This was out of the ordinary, and they had every right to wonder, every right to stare. They were scared, worried, angry.

As we made our into the market and started splitting up to search the parking lot, two old men sat at a table to my left. They were old; they looked wise. They both stared at me like they would a disappointing adult grandson: saddened; disappointed; resigned to my and their respective fates. They weren't angry; they were just sad. There was a lot of wisdom in the creases that stretched out from their old, tired, brown eyes. They had probably seen more war than I ever will, and they were tired. I gave a nervous smile, an embarassed smile, and made my way into the parking lot.

As I looked out over the vast parking lot, the sheer lunacy of this mission hit me. Here we were, looking for ten cars in a city of five million people. It was unlikely that we'd find one of them, but it was highly likely that we had just alienated a few more Iraqis. At that moment is when I empathized with the Iraqis still staring at me from the market. I felt hopeless, saddened, disappointed, just a tad angry, and resigned to my fate: I would spend the next eight to nine months performing counter-productive missions like this one. At the end of everyday, I would make a few more enemies than I killed or brought to our side. I was embarrassed and humiliated that I ever thought differently; I wanted to tell the people behind me that I was sorry for what my country had done. I was sorry we had interrupted their commerce that day.

Like a good soldier, I drove on. I continued to search; I continued to do my job, just as I would the rest of my tour. In front of me, two men were trying to push start an old rickety van. I had thought of helping them, but I was carrying the M249 SAW machine gun with no sling; there was no way I was going to set it down or ask someone to hold it so I could help. Then I heard SGT Stephens' muffled voice. "Fuck it; we're supposed to be winning hearts and minds, right?" Stephens sighed under his breath. I watched, shocked, as the same man who had just lobbied to "fuck with somebody" slung his rifle and helped these men get that van started as I covered him from a safe distance. It was indicative of his seemingly bi-polar personality, I thought as we all met up in the rear of the parking lot.

"Any luck?"

There wasn't any, and we made our back through the parking lot, to the market, through the market, to our humvees in the police station. As I passed through the parking lot that last time, the same old men stared at me once more. Our eyes met again, and I nodded in their direction. They nodded back, and I felt like I was forgiven.

I made it back to my humvee, sweaty and slightly out of breath, and didn't think about those old, tired men again for quite some time. It wasn't until August that the thought of those grandfatherly figures again crossed my mind.

It was August and it was hot. We were running late, and, as we approached the police station, we saw a familiar plume of smoke: car bomb. We parked as usual, SSG Jackson asked me to monitor the radio and provide security while he and others went to investigate. I wanted to protest; I wanted to go. I wanted to check on Ali and Achmed; I didn't see them and they could have been in the carnage. But I didn't protest; I did what I was told.

When the men returned, they told me of the death and destruction they had just seen and I was slightly glad I didn't witness it.

"Man, two old men were just sitting there drinking chi and it went off next to them; they're fucked up!" One soldier said, clearly not joking and clearly not making light of it.

. . . and there it was. The eyes that told me how hopeless and resigned to their fate the men were, the eyes that had forgiven me, were dead, never to pass on any of their wisdom again. I felt sad; I felt like the world had just lost a couple of good men, even though we never spoke.

I started to remember all the faces I saw during The Walk, all the eyes I looked into. How many were gone? How many had forgiven me and my country? How many would die before I left? It was unsettling, but it was by now not at all uncommon. I was tired, physically, but mostly emotionally. Mentally, I just gave up, and, as I hoped I would see Ali and Achmed soon, I slid deeper into my body armor and took a nap while my comrade monitored the radio.