Helpless.

Helpless.

I am a firm believer that everything in life is reciprocal; you'll eventually experience the opposite of every feeling you've had thus far. Everything prepares you for something; you just have to be open enough to see it. This isn't to be confused with karma or fate, but it is something that I hold to be true, although I didn't always feel this way.

In September of 2000, George W. Bush was running for president, I was a high school senior, football season had just hit district play, and my friend, Austin Hatcher, was murdered.

Austin was at a party when four males from neighboring high schools showed up. Words were exchanged; fists were thrown. Sometime in the dark, wet, drunken, chaotic night of September 24th, Austin was stabbed in the back multiple times. He died almost instantly.

What sticks with me from that time is how much I hated the three young men that had accompanied the one that murdered my teammate. Nevermind that they didn't actually kill him; they were there, and, thus, were just as guilty in my mind.

Time passed; the hurt faded. I grew older, and, slowly, the anger subsided. It wasn't until a couple, maybe three years later that I begrudgingly forgave the three in my mind. I had met one of the three through a friend; we spoke (though not about Austin) and I looked him in the eyes. I learned that it is a lot harder to hate someone when you have to look him in the eye. I realized that he was not who had killed my friend, and I had to just move one, but I always wondered what he was thinking that night; what he had thought ever since.

It's years later now, and the scene is much different. The humvee is jerking me back and forth and the siren is blaring as we make the turn out of the Al Tahreer Square onto 3rd ID bridge. I'm the rear gunner, and, as I check the traffic ahead, I see cars just reaching the crest of the bridge and quickly pulling to the side . . . The Americans are coming. I start to rotate back to the rear when I see it: our lead vehicle is traveling down the left lane, swerving aggressively. The gunner is pointing his weapons at the cars that have already made every effort to get out of our way. The traffic is practically being pushed into the Tigris River at this point.

Disgusted, I return to my view of the rear of the convoy.

It was hot outside, at least 110 degrees, as I wiped sweat from my brow with one hand while the other tightly held onto my rifle. You could tell it was summer in Baghdad; I could see heat waves emanating from the bridge. "Goddamn, it's hot", I was thinking when something caught my eye. A car door behind us flew open, and a man rocketed out of the vehicle as if spring loaded. He started sprinting towards us with something in his hand, in both hands. I grabbed my rifle tight and stood up. What was he holding? What was he pointing at me? A million questions went through my head in the split second that I first saw the object and the time that I identified it . . . The man was chasing after us with both shoes in hand, showing me the bottom of his soles.

Now, to many people, this may not mean much, but, to an Iraq veteran, this is quite significant. In Iraqi culture, the absolute worst insult you can hurl at someone is showing them the soles of your shoes. It signifies the great disgust that you have for them; they are lower than dirt. That day, to that man, I was lower than dirt. I don't know what exactly he was screaming, but I saw the emotion that washed over him. It had been quite some time since I had seen that amount of anger in one man's face. As we continued to drive on, the man angrily chucked one shoe at our disappearing convoy and wiped what could have been sweat or tears from his eyes, probably both. He then slowed to a stop, dropped his hands to his sides, and stood in the middle of the bridge as the anger subsided. His face now resembled something much less sinister; the man looked disturbingly sad. When I attempt to guage the level of anger and sadness in that man's face, I just think of how hot it was on that day in Baghdad . . . as the man's shoes were in his hands, pointed squarely in my direction. How angry would I have to be to disregard the pain of 120 degree heat underneath the soles of my feet? I hope I never know.

As we entered the Green Zone and continued on our journey "home", I thought about what had just transpired. I had nothing to do with the jackasses in the front of the convoy; I had just thought about how unnecessary the whole thing was when I turned around and saw the messenger on the bridge. What could I have done? I just felt so . . . helpless. Helplessness was a recurring them in Iraq, but this was different. I wasn't angry that I could never seem to locate the enemy that always seemed to locate American soldiers so well. I was helpless in another fashion: I would never be able to make that man understand my own anger with the situation transpiring in front of me. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, too. I didn't ask to be here, and I didn't take pleasure in his pain, but he'd never know that.

Months later, I thought about that day and coincidentally saw a picture of my deceased teammate. Then it hit me: if I felt this helpless and angry about that, how did those three feel when Austin was killed by their friend? Helpless. Years ago, I was the angry Iraqi showing the soles of my shoes to some other helpless soul.

Helpless . . . that's the worst feeling of my life.