[Note: This was originally written just after I arrived back in the United States from Iraq December 5, 2006. I have added a little at the end, but the bulk of it remains what I wrote in my journal during that long flight almost a year ago. A lot has happened since then, but my mixed emotions remain.]
DJ Mixed Emotions
If I had to provide a soundtrack for the day I left Kuwait, I would quickly be dubbed DJ Mixed Emotions. Never have I experienced such a broad range of emotions in one day; never.
The day was long, with many stops between Camp Virginia and the jet plane taking us home. It provided plenty of time to reflect on our year, and like always, I fell into an abyss of memories and questions.
The day started at 0430 as we boarded a series of buses to take us to Ali al Salem Air Base amid cries of "Keep these curtains shut! The Air Force says there's intel of a sniper in the area!" Shortly thereafter, an Air Force sergeant poked his head in the door to ask who our two designated shooters were. Designated shooters are the two (count 'em; two!) soldiers who have ammunition to fire back at the enemy just in case we are attacked. I couldn't help but think that this is either a combat zone, in which case we all need a basic combat load, or it isn't, and they need to quit placating us with this designated shooter bullshit.
After we made it to Ali al Salem, we had a series of briefings about US customs and how much trouble we would be in if we tried to sneak pornography past them. I chuckled to myself as I was under the impression that we were Americans and, as such, had certain freedoms; I guess not. When we had all been cleared through customs, we sat in a tent waiting on our bus to Kuwait City Airport. I took the opportunity to get some much needed sleep, but I just dreamt about Ali, Ahmed, our interpreters, SSG Kelly's perfume, the new squad, MSG Karnes' crazed demeanor my last day out, the hot chick at the chow hall, the Indian guy who cut my fruit everyday, Major Muhammed at IHP, General Jafir's feast at Traffic, SSG Wyman, my new friends, my future at home, Sarah in Baghdad, and on and on. It was a relief to hear that our bus was coming and my nap was being cut far shorter than I wanted it to be.
The bus ride to Kuwait City Airport was silent for the most part; if anyone was talking I couldn't notice over the deafening questions inside my head. As I looked out the bus window (snipers my ass!) at the relative tranquility of civilian Kuwait (as opposed to cat litter, US military base, Kuwait), I thought of how much different life would have been for Ali and Ahmed if they had had the fortune of being born in Kuwait rather than Iraq. The Kuwaitis all seemed to not have a care in the world, the landscape was pristine and void of the trash that litters Baghdad, and the peace was never shattered by the boom of car bombs. It's just not fair . . . but what is? There are millions of children just like Ali and Ahmed; I just didn't have the fortune of meeting them all. It's amazing how a simple twist of fate like birthplace could have changed those boys so dramatically. I stared off into the vast Kuwaiti desert as I thought about what their lives would have been like had they been born here. They would have been taller and healthier just due to a better and more consistent diet, and they would have had many more opportunities at education. Their families would not live in destitute poverty, and Ahmed would not have died such a violent death. These questions, while they may have speculative answers, really do not solve anything, however, and I don't pretend that they do. It was just idle pondering, I suppose, but they were questions that I could not avoid.
I pictured myself a year prior, sitting in that same type of bus, traveling the same highway, and thinking nothing but "I cannot believe I am in Kuwait." This time, however, my mind was overflowing with thoughts as I admired the Kuwait City skyline. One year ago, this place seemed so incredibly foreign; this day I marveled at how normal it all looked. In some places, I thought I was on I-44 traveling to Oklahoma City. It's amazing what a difference a year can make.
If my initial impression of Kuwait was disbelief, then my initial impression of Iraq was of out and out resignation sprinkled with a tad of indignation. "I cannot believe I am in Kuwait" turned into "Dude, we're in fucking Iraq." I specifically remember uttering that phrase on more than one occasion. It wasn't fear or even disbelief; it was just sudden realization, like I had awakened and realized that this was not, in fact, a dream. Everything seemed so foreign and out there from the comfort of LSA Anaconda, but I felt so much better when I finally started going outside the wire and realized how normal life was, even here. The sheer normalcy of the Iraqis astounded me and I immediately changed my entire outlook on the place. These weren't monsters. They weren't that different. They weren't ingrates; they were just the ones bearing the consequences of our foreign policy. I wish more soldiers got the opportunity to see just how ordinary life is outside the wire; I wish more people were able to see the Iraq war from the their point of view.
The place that once seemed so foreign and daunting now feels like, if not a second home, at least a second comfort zone. As I left the instability of Baghdad, I thought of one day returning, not as a soldier or a mercenary, but as a journalist, tourist, or friend of Baghdad. I hope so much that in my lifetime I can safely visit that city; perhaps I could drink chi with my old friend, Ali Raheem Rothi, and talk about how our lives had been since our last visit and how we had each changed each other's lives in the same broken English and broken Arabic that sufficed us years earlier.
I know that I have become somewhat changed in the past year, if not vastly. For starters, I have noticed that my voice sounds significantly more country than it ever has before; I don't like that. Perhaps being around cowboys, rednecks, hillbillies, and reluctant-to-admit-it country folk for a year has slowly morphed my own voice, or perhaps I sub-consciously drifted that way to sound like the others in my company. I know that in the States, I make an effort to not sound like a hick, so as to stand out in southwest Oklahoma, but, in Iraq, I may have sub-consciously spoken like the rest in order to stand out in Baghdad, like a show of solidarity? No one will ever know why I sound so different now, but I hope it isn't permanent.
My attitude towards the government, war, and politics have all been affected by this deployment, and I don't know why that surprised me. It would seem natural to have an evolving opinion of policy, leaders, and war after being directly affected by them, but I honestly did not envision such a dramatic shift one year ago. I was naive and I will admit that; I can do that. I am so embarrassed to think of some of the things I had said about so many important issues (like the Iraq war) without having any firsthand knowledge of any of it. Reciting the party line is a stupid thing to do and that is what I see when I think of pre-2006 Justin. I again can admit this and move on; it's not my proudest moment, but I've learned.
No matter what I or anyone else thinks or says about the invasion and occupation of Iraq, however, I will always take solace in the times that Ali and Ahmed would say to me in their very, very limited English "Saddam: Iraq no food! America: Iraq food!" as if they knew that I was struggling with trying to comprehend the vast effects of my nation's war. I know that our war has affected millions of Iraqis in millions of different ways, but I feel good knowing that, at the very least, it put more food into the bellies of Ali, Ahmed, and their siblings. No one will ever be able to take that memory away from me. For as bad as they had it economically during my time in their city, they had it even worse under Saddam. It's hard to fathom since these young boys collected cans to help feed the rest of their family, but the kids don't lie. This opens up other questions about the effects of our pre-war economic sanctions on Iraq, but I will just take comfort in the change that I made in their lives and quit trying to rationalize everything my country does.
With the Kuwait City Airport in my sights and Ali and Ahmed heavy on my mind, I thought of all the petty things I remember people bitching about back home and, more importantly, all the petty things I bitched about back home and I thought of how silly it all sounds. We are so damn lucky to live in America; we won the grand powerball jackpot of humanity, but we still find a way to complain.
I left the bus, walked across the tarmac, and paused to take one last look at the caravan of buses; the useless curtains still "illegally" parted and open; and the drivers from all over the world watching us board a plane for a place they can only dream of living. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and boarded the plane with a heavy heart and a small smile on my face; DJ Mixed Emotions was on his way home.
As we all were pinned to the seat by the force of the jet engines and the plane left the runway in an almost vertical ascent, there was thunderous applause, hooting, hollering, and the demons of 150 soldiers being exorcised, even if only for that moment. As the ovation died down, someone in the rear of the plane bellowed, "Fuck Iraq!" Again there was applause, but I couldn't disagree more. For all the mistakes of its leaders, corruption of its government, near-sightedness of many of its people, and inhospitability of its weather, I will always consider myself a friend of Iraq, and I hope that at least a few Iraqis will do the same.
I spent the next twenty-plus hours with an almost perpetual smile on my face. I didn't speak much; I didn't watch the in-flight movies. I just thought about the ramifications of the last year of my life, read a book, took naps and dreamed about the friends I left behind. Somewhere in Maine, we were given the score of the Oklahoma/Oklahoma State football game and the combination of cheers and jeers of the OU and OSU fans of the Oklahoma Army National Guard finally hammered it home: we were civilians again.
We finally stepped foot on Oklahoma soil about forty eight hours after we first got on that bus in Kuwait, and, at the time, it appeared that it was finally over. After talking to many that exited that plane with me on that cold December day, combined with my own experiences, I know now that was anything but the end.
You see, it was almost a year ago that we landed back in The States, but, for many of us, it will be a long time before we leave Iraq. For many of us the war is over . . . and over and over and over again in our heads.
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