Playing in the Sandbox

Epilogue

2008-11-17T14:10:00.005+01:00

I think it's time for me to stop writing here.

The stylistic concept I strive for in just about everything is simplicity via elegance - say what you need to say with minimal words, but make each word as full of impact as possible. This concept extends to the music I write as well.

In the course of the relatively short time I was deployed, I didn't write about everything that happened or everything I felt. I wanted to save what I wrote for when I actually had something to say rather than flooding the internet with more meaningless drivel than it already has. The war for me, for now, has ended, and so in the interest of brevity I'd rather let my work stand as it is than push it past its welcome.

Again, I want to thank everyone for their comments, positive thoughts, and well wishes throughout this whole thing. Writing provided a constructive form of escape that I was happy to share with others, far more than I'd originally anticipated. If you'd like to read what I have to say when I'm not, you know, in Iraq, then feel free to follow me elsewhere.

Trieste-Zurich-Baquoba 1914-2008

Timeless

2008-11-09T16:11:00.006+01:00

My watch broke. And not my digital Iraq watch (now rather sandy), but my nice watch that I left in my dresser before I left and was irrationally excited to wear once I came back. Over the course of a few days I noticed that it was slowing down, and then one day it just stopped ticking. I still wear it, somewhat defiantly, but more as a personal ornament than an actual timepiece despite the frequency with which I catch myself checking it.

Friday night I went out with a few friends to Amberg, a wonderful town about half an hour from where I live. Take what you might imagine a German town to look like – cobblestone walkways, old churches, classic architecture – and you’re probably not far off. In fact, here’s a picture!

After wandering around drinking for several hours, we walked back to a friend of a friend’s house and crashed for the night. I woke up the next morning a few minutes before anyone else did and decided to amuse myself by taking Waiting for Godot off the bookshelf. I then glanced over at my broken watch, lying still on the coffee table next to the couch on which I had just finished sleeping. For a second I thought it had jumped back into time’s arrow, but it hadn’t. I stared at it for another minute before putting it back on my wrist and turning the next page of the play.

Mystery Revealed

2008-11-08T12:15:00.002+01:00

For those of you who don't already know me and wonder what I look like, wonder no more!

That's me on the left.

Fall Back

2008-11-08T11:44:00.003+01:00

{As promised, this is what I wrote just minutes after walking into my apartment on my first day back.}

And all of a sudden, it was over.

One moment we were sitting around in Kuwait, the dust and sand still touching every fabric of our lives. Then, as we flew over Germany, brilliant green grass and autumn tinted trees came into view. Red tiled houses dotted the countryside, a dark mist settled into the valleys between the rolling hills. We were back.

As I walked down the steps of the plane the air felt crisp and cool. A light rain drizzled, in my mind the very same rain that was with us at Warhorse, then Balad, and down into Kuwait. I like to think it followed us back just to make sure we got home safe.

Now that we're here, we celebrate our return. We mourn those who did not return with us. We remember that many of us are still there.

Since 2003 American soldiers have been deployed to Iraq, and slightly longer in Afghanistan. And unless you had a family member or close friend actually there, you didn't really pay a whole lot of attention to it all. Sure, you watched the news and read reports in the paper whenever they came out, but over time they have quietly drifted into the back of our society's collective consciousness. I've known a few people who deployed before I did, and even then I only gave it casual thoughts whenever nothing more important occupied my mind. I never really thought about the people who were there and what they were going through on a daily basis.

Now I will never stop.

Change I Can Believe In

2008-11-07T13:35:00.005+01:00

Despite appearances, I have not fallen off the face of the earth, nor have I passed out in a drunken stupor from barrels of German beer only to find I'm in a town I've never heard of surrounded by people I've never met and wondering why I have no pants....yet.

I've been back in Germany for a little over a week now, and it's every bit as awesome as it was before, probably more. Unfortunately, I've had limited internet access - including none at my actual house - and so haven't been able to upload any of the entries I've written over the last week. I would just sit here and rewrite them, but I spent some good time crafting them (especially the very first one which I wrote minutes after coming home) and would rather wait until I can post that than try to recreate it. I had an interesting one for my birthday a few days ago, but there wasn't anything there that I haven't written here.

Readjusting to life again has been easier than I imagined, mostly. Civilization, where I've spent the vast majority of my life, hasn't really changed all that much. It didn't take long to reacquaint myself with a language I already know, using my own bathroom (and potable water from the sink!), and eating meat not fashioned from goats, among a myriad other small things that make daily living immeasurably better.

Admittedly there are times when it's a bit too much to take in all at once, and I have to slow down and let the world catch up. I don't like when doors slam loudly. I continually search for a rifle I no longer have. I touch my hand to my heart after shaking peoples' hands. And I've tried to haggle with cashiers at department stores. In time, I'm sure these will transition from actions into memories, but for now I'll just have to deal with them.

Now that I'm back, it feels inconceivable that I was ever there. The dream from which I thought I would never wake has ended, and I'm left with several hundred pictures, some stolen chai glasses, and a comically large Iraqi flag to prove that I was in fact there. I'm glad it's over, I'm glad it happened, and I look forward to whatever comes next.

Stranger in a Strange Land

2008-10-27T19:34:00.003+01:00

The United States Army came into existence on June 14, 1775. Large scale conflict and troop movements date thousands of years before that. So you'd think someone, somewhere would have this figured out by now.

Nope.

Despite still being relatively new at this little game, I've always maintained that the Army operates - and maybe even depends - on the assumption that somebody somewhere knows what the hell is going on. Quite often, that assumption is almost laughably incorrect, and it leads to various minor inconveniences (which is a wonderful euphemism for a number of words oft repeated by soldiers, my favorite of which begins with the word "cluster.")

In case you are wondering where today's healthy dose of cynicism stems from, it is because I am writing from Camp Virginia, Kuwait, where hopes are dashed and dreams come to die. Originally I was supposed to be drunk on German beer at this very moment, but the Big Green Machine had different plans for us. Due to some clusterf...*ahem*...minor incovenience at a higher level, it seems that someone (that very someone!) forgot to include seats for an entire squadron of soldiers, and thus exists a bottleneck stuck in the sand waiting to charter out of this part of the world long ignored by the that which is good in life. I'm probably oversimplifying the actual problem, but chances are I'm not too far off.

Leave it to me to find a bit of humor within this mess though. When we first got here, after loading and unloading bags countless times, standing around for endless roll calls, and finally wheeling through the gate, we had predictably missed dinner (the Army hates fatties, remember?). So a convoy of hungry people were standing in line waiting for the bright shining beacon of McDonalds (!) in the middle of the desert. Those who were lucky enough to already have their food were seated beneath a small roofed area, much like at a park somewhere on the other side of the universe. Curious lightning streaked through the clouds, racing to leave even faster than we were. Moments later it began to rain, light at first but steadily increasing. Smug, I sat at a dry bench dodging most of the rain, thinking how fortunate I was that it wasn't falling on me. Seconds later, the drizzle became a downpour, and a roof that, in retrospect, was obviously built to fight the sun and not the rain gave way and began to leak everywhere, soaking everyone underneath, and also their burgers and fries.

The absurdity of a thunderstorm in the desert is a perfect example of just how crazy this entire place still seems to me. Every night I go to sleep expecting to wake up and find out that it was all a dream. But then I remember what a lame, overused plot device that is, so I stick it out to the next day.

A (Few) Day's Kuwait

2008-10-23T13:20:00.002+02:00

The last few days have consisted of having various awards formations that last entirely too long, lessons from nearly every senior leader in the unit about not getting drunk and beating your wife back in Germany, and a whole lot of nothing else. Fortunately, I'm not married, so I only have to worry about getting drunk and beating someone else's wife.

In the very near future I'll be back in Kuwait, where this trainwreck began. Like many others, I couldn't wait to leave it for Iraq on the way in. Now I can't wait to leave Iraq to get to Kuwait. It's not ironic, it's just how it is.

There will undoubtedly be bullshit along the way. With the Army, there always is. Simple tasks often require seemingly Herculean efforts to complete, and suggesting better ways to do things to anyone who outranks you generally brings scorn and leaves you feeling like a dog who fetched yesterday's newspaper. Good ideas tend not to be part of the Army mantra, unless the person who asked for one is the person who comes up with it.

But it doesn't matter. We're days away from Germany, a land free of war and destruction and intolerance and....oh wait. A land of beer!

Excuse

2008-10-21T10:21:00.000+02:00

I have an embarrassing confession to make.

Keep in mind, I like to consider myself an aficionado of higher art and culture with a taste for sharp wit, satire, and compelling story structure.

The other day, at the request and recommendation of one of the soldiers, I watched the movie She's the Man.

Maybe you don't know it (I don't blame you). I vaguely remembered its less than earth shattering release into theaters only a few years back as I reluctantly slid the disc into my unsuspecting computer, avoiding awkward eye contact with the collected works of Claude Debussy and Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray laying nearby.

Plot - I've taken the following plot outline directly from the internet movie database, written by (presumably) a fan of the movie, or at least someone who saw it.

Here's the thing Viola's soccer team at Cornwall got cut so she wanted to join the boys team, but they did not allow. So she thought "If you can't join them, beat them". And so she does, she disguises herself as her twin brother Sebastian, and goes out for the Illyria Boys Soccer Team. But she didn't plan falling in love with her roommate Duke. But the thing is Duke has his eye on Olivia. The thing that makes matters worse Olivia starts to fall for Sebastian who actually is a girl and she/he has a sensitive side. If things couldn't get more problematical the real Sebastian (who is in London working on his music) comes home early. He arrives on campus and has no clue that he was replaced by his twin sister. - Barbara-Ann

(Note: I'm assuming this is not the same Barbara-Ann of Beach Boys fame. If so, their infatuations were seriously misguided.)

Result - I watched the movie. And loved it. Sure, it's not The Godfather or No Country for Old Men, but it was cute, at times rather funny, and showcased a number of incredibly attractive members of the opposite sex running around getting into all kinds of adorable shenanigans. What more could someone deployed to Iraq really want from a movie?

Vindication - Throughout the movie I felt there was something oddly familiar about the story. Then I realized it was based on Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, just with addition of soccer and the aforementioned adorable shenanigans. Woohoo! My sense of high class art and literature was saved!! Kind of!!

Shukran

2008-10-15T10:52:00.003+02:00

One of the unintended consequences of writing this thing has been a much larger readership than I'd imagined, which was basically my family and a small group of friends. I don't know what you, the invisible audience, has come to expect from me - if anything - over the last several months, but I've tried to give at least some insight into the wide range of strange experiences I've had in this ridiculous country.

I realize there are gaps in the story. A lot of my earlier posts detailed daily life as I was becoming accustomed to it, and since those days I haven't really talked about it much. Part of that is because the routine had little deviation: wake up, curse life, put on gear, hop in trucks, drive around, start to sweat, maybe stop here or there and talk with some Iraqi dudes, drink some chai, eat a falafal at the IP station, curse life, get back in the trucks, find somewhere else to go to eat up however many hours we have to spend in sector that day, maybe dismount somewhere and walk around, sweat balls off, shoo away legions of Iraqi kids trying to steal pens and sunglasses, curse life, hop back in the trucks and drive back to the COP, remove gear and soaking wet uniform, walk over to the dining area and curse the predictably awful food, curse life, shower, lie down for a bit, sleep, lather, rinse, repeat.

With few exceptions, that was mostly what caused the earth to turn and the sun to rise. Now, the new unit has arrived and begun to take over all combat operations while we look for other ways to roll on. Though the metronome sways more slowly now, there is always something that needs to be done. The enlisted guys get put on various details. Some are necessary to ease our transition back to civilization. Others are more like pushing large rocks up a hill. Just ask Specialist Sisyphus.

Ultimately whatever it takes to keep the arrow moving forward is welcome as we prepare to exchange one surreality for another. My plan is to keep writing throughout redeployment and until I touch ground in Florida in December. But while I have the chance now, I'd like to thank everyone who took time to read this, however you found it, and for all the comments and positive thoughts while I was here. They meant more than you might think.

Coined

2008-10-11T14:46:00.002+02:00

Well, my days of controlling the near future of Iraqi prisoners with a pen and my initials have come to a close.

Over the two weeks I worked I met nearly 200 people ranging from around 18 years old (and looking it) to nearly 70 (and looking like they should have died years ago). If you believe their at times elaborate stories, nearly all of them were farmers or taxi drivers. Some were probably innocent, caught up with the wrong people or just unlucky enough to have a weapons cache buried near their property that they somehow never noticed. Most were probably guilty, at least of something shady.

Throughout the review process I relied on instinct as much as evidence. Soldiers are not policemen or forensic crime scene investigators, and so many of the files I saw lacked more than circumstantial evidence. But even when the other two board members recommended a detainee's release, I often wrote down continued internment simply on bad vibes and a feeling. After all, if you're capable of kidnapping and killing your fellow citizens, laying roadside bombs, or encouraging martyrdom, you're capable of lying about it.

The daily cast of characters I met was always a surprise, even if what they had to say usually wasn't. Without a doubt my favorite was the guy who might as well have been an Iraqi stoner - unkempt beard, shaggy bed-hair, giggling at all the wrong moments for all the right reasons. When asked what he would do if he were released, he shrugged and gave an oddly insightful smile, saying, "If I leave I'll have to go back to work on a farm somewhere. It's too hot outside for that. I'm really pretty lazy and would much rather stay here where I can watch TV and sleep." For his unmatched honesty, we recommended him for release. Take that you mooching asshole!

I also met several feeble old men who could barely walk and yet somehow the units that captured them thought they needed some jail time for whatever minor crime - if any - that they had committed. One man's hands were shaking uncontrollably as he gripped his cane in one hand and the Koran in the other. Another one couldn't stand comfortably so we let him sit cross-legged on the floor. Both still fit the old man stereotype, talking loudly and incoherently about unrelated topics and their grandchildren. We let them go too.

But the vast majority of the cases were fit only for a coin toss. Many pleaded with us to grant them mercy and let them go back to their villages and families. Some cried. I sat and listened patiently, occasionally nodding my head in a cold form of acknowledgment of their momentary presence in my life. As they left I offered a parting ma' a salaama (goodbye) or ayamak sa'ida (have a nice day), then quietly wrote down my comments and immediately dismissed them altogether from my thoughts.

It may seem coldhearted, merciless, emotionless. Probably a combination. But then I remember the streets and villages, the people who tell us they live in a constant state of fear because of local militias intimidating them or forcing them from their homes. I've heard too many stories, read too many reports, and seen too many blast craters and bullet holes to let my boxed initials drift from one side of the page to the other.

I may flip a coin to decide their fate, but most of the time, it's one-sided.

Hyposmia

2008-10-06T13:36:00.007+02:00

I think my sense of smell is gone. Or if not gone, then certainly skewed.

It shouldn't come as a shock that nearly everything in this country smells terrible. Sometimes breath-stealingly terrible. I'll spare you any detailed descriptions of these olfactory abominations, but rest assured (as if you wouldn't) that searing heat plus a lack of any discernible sewage system does not remind me of a rose garden in spring.

After a while you stop noticing how bad you and those around you smell, partly from acclimation and partly from inevitability. As the breezes of increasingly cooler mornings preach the end of summer, it still feels like a coat of defiant sweat has painted itself onto my skin, rage raging against the dying of the light. (Suck it Dylan!)

But none of that is the real problem. I mean, who really cares if man-stink or burnt donkey shit no longer sends them to seek a sensory sanctuary? In this kind of environment that might actually be an advantage. But losing one side implies loss of the other, and as a consequence I don't think I can even smell good things anymore!

This realization didn't hit me until just a few days ago. I was in the shower fighting futility when I began to stare down my soap/body wash bottle. To test my theory I opened the top and held it right up to my nose, taking a cartoonish whiff. Nothing. Not a damn thing. It could have been a mixture of sulphur and vinegar for all my nose told me. I then tried to think of the last time I remembered something that smelled good. Beer in Germany maybe?

While I'm reasonably sure that my newly discovered affliction will be cured when I leave this place, I also worry that it may come back too suddenly for my senses to process. Fortunately I can kill those senses with that very same German beer, and won't know the difference anymore!

Entitled

2008-09-29T14:05:00.004+02:00

In a land already the definition of surreal, it takes something truly incredible for me to consider it strange. And yet, perhaps for exactly that reason, I shouldn’t be so surprised when it happens. A few days ago I arrived at Camp Bucca, located just over the Kuwaiti border in southern Iraq. Bucca boasts the world’s largest detainee facility, complete with all the escape deterring hopelessness one might imagine at a maximum security prison, from nested levels of razor wire fences to internal and external overwatch by guard towers with high caliber machineguns pointed in all directions. It also has a Burger King and a Pizza Hut, neither of which are the world’s largest. One side of the base is home to threats to national security and society of varying degrees, from the “death to the infidels until my last gasp of air” guys to the “I was just outside walking my donkey when Coalition Forces detained me for no reason” types. Amazingly, by their own words, not a single one of them is guilty of any insurgent activities! Who knew Iraq was such a peaceful country full of so many false accusations? Someone should really look into this.

On what might as well be the other side of the world is the temporary prison of the soldiers, sailors, and airmen currently deployed here. Unlike the detainees, however, we have the aforementioned Burger King and Pizza Hut, basketball courts, internet cafés, a small marketplace, and the illusion of freedom. (Please forgive high degree of cynicism. It happens here after awhile.) In the middle of it all is a large wooden stage surrounded on three sides by bleachers focused towards a raised platform in the middle for potential performances. No word yet on if the Stones are coming.

War has changed, that is not a question. But I never realized the differences that exist even in different parts of the same war. Front line combat units in Europe during WWII probably thought the same thing about rear echelon support personnel who took weekly trips to Paris. Coming from a small outpost in the rural Iraqi countryside it is eye-shattering to see what some people are afforded while deployed. I don’t mean to sound elitist, if that’s even possible in this sense, but slightly altered perspectives can sometimes yield monumental changes in how we see things.

Then again, I’m glad to have the opportunity to come here and experience this double dichotomy – the disconnect within the varying locations of the country, and disconnect within the base itself. Having been on the other side of both it is at the very least an educational experience. My unit detained quite a few people over just the last month, all likely headed here, if not here already. And not the Burger King and basketball here, the razor wire and solitary confinement here.

And still no word on the Stones.

Escape

2008-09-24T11:09:00.003+02:00

During my long bouts with insomnia at night I like to relive moments of my life as a means of temporary relief from acknowledging where I actually am. For whatever reason I have very sharp images of seemingly insignificant events over the last (almost) 24 years on this planet. Maybe insignificant isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind.

I was about to go into detail about these images and memories, but then I realized memories never translate well into words. So scratch that.

Sometimes I relive moments that haven't happened yet, or maybe they did but I tweak them to my own personal taste. After awhile it becomes difficult to tell the difference between what actually happened and what I feel like imagining. Not that it really matters, since an alternate reality is the goal anyway.

When daydreaming doesn't work, I can turn to movies or books or music to do the job. Music is great because I can associate specific albums and songs with the places I first heard (or wrote) them. One album takes me back to last summer in Florida, another to winter in Ithaca, and still others to any number of random days in my life that can be so easily recalled with a simple melody.

Hey, I think I just discovered the lazy man's time travel! Pity it only works in one direction.

Guilty

2008-09-19T13:48:00.002+02:00

While sitting at the Mayor's house the other day I watched a few minutes of David Hasselhoff in Knight Rider with Arabic subtitles. At that moment, the absurdity that is my current life finally dawned on me.

Also, starting next week I have the equivalent of Iraqi jury duty.

Variations on a Theme

2008-09-10T20:12:00.004+02:00

Just over the wall that separates our little outpost from the surrounding village there is a man. This man has a megaphone. Nearly every day this man picks up his megaphone and begins to sing, loudly and in Arabic:

ALLLLAAAAAAAHU AKBARRRRRRR ALLLLAAAH SHIGGITY SHIGGITY SHWAAAAH!

{Note: It is slightly possible that I added the "shiggity shiggity shwah" part.}

What's worse is that before he even starts he always tests the megaphone, usually by blowing a quick burst of air into it, amplifying an annoyingly static whoosh, warning us of his impending monotonic vocal sonata.

Sometimes I wish I could have a competing megaphone, and for every "Allahu Akbar" I hear, I can retort with an "I'm trying to sleeeeeep!!!" Especially now during Ramadan when they like to wake everyone up at 3AM to eat before the sunrise so they can manage the day's fast. But maybe that's a bit insensitive. Perhaps I could politely suggest alternate methods of spreading the word, like a weekly newsletter.

This week in Zaganiyah:
Allah is still great!
Bake sale Saturday!
(Just kidding, it's Ramadan!)

Everybody wins!

Phobia

2008-09-04T19:05:00.002+02:00

The other day I saw a spider crawling on a wall and said, "Check it out, it's an Iraq-nid."

If war has changed me, it has not changed my affection for terrible, terrible jokes.

Biography

2008-08-30T19:59:00.004+02:00

In the year of Our Lord 1984, I was born. Profound apologies to George Orwell for stealing his year.

I cried, ate some stuff, threw some of that stuff up, and crawled around a bit before I learned to say anything. Of course, I know none of this first hand - relying on the memories of those around us to fill in the gaps in ours is probably the greatest trust you can place in someone.

And now here I am. Abridged, if you will. Echoes of my one time summary of the history of the universe, reprinted here for your intellectual delight:

First there was the Big Bang. Then a bunch of stuff happened. And now here we are.

At the time I gave that explanation I had the aid of a diagram. For my personal chronology, your imagination will have to suffice.

Yesterday when I spoke my first words feels as recent as this morning when I woke up in Iraq. Or maybe they're reversed. Time happens all at once sometimes. Kurt Vonnegut taught me that.

So: the other day I was in Florida, or maybe New York or Oklahoma or Germany or Iraq. Florklamanyaq. It's lovely this time of year, or whatever time of year you want it to be.

In a recent email sent to my family I said that the days are so packed that it's difficult to keep them straight sometimes. If I didn't have a notebook reminding me of when stuff happened I might never know. Everything would blend together like a painting by a first year art student convinced he is reinventing Dadaism.

After I leave this country it will become just another place I've been on an ever growing list of places I'm going. When I'm old and think back on my life, I wonder if I'll confuse myself and imagine that I'm dodging suicidal donkeys at the beach during a blizzard while eating a pulled pork sandwich and guzzling down a stein of beer. Actually, that sounds pretty cool.

I'm going to remember that regardless.

Closer

2008-08-27T20:08:00.004+02:00

Last night I had the most vivid dream that I was home. I mean, the absolute most realistic subconscious movement of rapid eyes possible without hypnosis or some sort of Anthony Burgess imagined behavioral conditioning experiment.

At first I couldn't believe - with good reason! - that it was real. I remember waking up in my own bed, but not actually getting out of it, rather lying motionless in a catatonic state of euphoria. My eyes still had that hazy aura around them that follows a night of deep sleep, but just beyond the edge of my peripheral horizon I could catch the shadows of familiar surroundings - my bookshelf, my guitars, my door, my everything. My room. Such an essential part of my earlier life (how long ago it feels!) that now plays merely a supporting role in my daily comedy. All of it was right there, I swear I could have touched it if only I had moved.

When I had finally convinced myself that it was real, that I was really there, I woke up in Iraq.

....d'oh!

Ironic

2008-08-24T14:56:00.005+02:00

Whenever we do foot patrols around towns and I attract my usual entourage of Iraqi kids, the most common question they ask is whether or not I'm married and if I have a baby. Their method of inquiry transcends any possible language barrier - they point at my ring finger (or theirs) and say, "Madame? You, madame? Baby?" and then smile upwards at me with an irrational sense of hope and wonder in their eyes.

At first I thought maybe they had picked up a few other English words besides "Give me" and "MisTAR!" and were able to get a reaction out of many soldiers who in fact do have wives and children and are likely more than happy to show off pictures of their families back home. But this happens everywhere I go. Everywhere. And when people ask you the same question about yourself over and over and are so saddened and disappointed by your answer ("No." - "No baby??" - "No, no goddamn baby."), you begin to wonder if it's really you and not them that has the problem. I thought to myself, should I be married and have a few little Davids running around, soaking up knowledge to make the world a better place (or destroy it as my dad has always hoped for me)? I mean, a lot of people my age are already engaged or married or have kids, so did I miss a freaking memo somewhere?

Then it came to me - I shouldn't let the broken English of a group of Iraqi 8 year olds dictate how I live my life! Their entire world revolves around getting me to give them my pen! Problem solved. Peace of mind returned.

Also, it rained for about 27 seconds this morning. I was so confused.

Balance

2008-08-19T20:18:00.000+02:00

Reading through the various musings I've written over the last several months, I've noticed that a good majority of them have dealt with the darker side of this life under the unrelenting sun. Eternal optimist that I am, there is - of course - a sprinkling of more comedic observations that I've managed to dig out of the sand (e.g., suicidal donkeys and Mohammed Cobain). Today I caught myself wondering if the pervading darkness in my writing is more a reflection of the author or the environment. I have a preference, but the thought remains.

The history and culture of the people I see on an almost daily basis is beyond any scope of understanding possible for anyone fortunate enough to have avoided birth into a land of such war and violence. Nearly every one of them has a relative who was killed or kidnapped or captured or one of any number of horrible fates that may befall a person. We attempt to bring law and justice to their chaos, the effect akin to spitting on a forest fire. Guilty ones, or perhaps those merely accused in an act of vengeance (often one in the same) literally tremble at the sight of the me and those wearing my costume, dressed to kill despite passing out candy to children and warmly receiving invitations to drink tea. They lie constantly and without a hint of hesitation, but never fail to offer us a meal for fear of appearing selfish. We eat the meal, smiling, laughing. Then maybe we arrest the people who offered it to us. Maybe not.

Emotions here tend to slip through the cracks, as they must, but reflections arise when the temporal metronome slows just enough to allow furtive thoughts to sneak past the unsuspecting guards against them. And reflections reveal almost the same as emotions, only without the conscience. I like to think that my ability to produce anything positive and light-hearted in such an environment is much more representative of my personality than some of the darker things I write. If not, I can always coax the happy side back out with an endless flow of beer upon my return to Germany.

Mmmm....beer.

Echoes

2008-08-12T22:18:00.000+02:00

Nights here often yield some of the clearest, darkest skies I've ever seen, and it's not hard to see why.

Electricity anywhere outside the larger cities is limited at best, just barely enough for a few flickering fluorescent bulbs and maybe a small TV. So light pollution really isn’t a factor. Combine that with the blackout conditions on the base and there is precious little artificial light obstructing the sky's true glow.

I try to take a moment of my time each night to look up. Not only am I greeted by the million bright ambassadors of evening, but it reminds me of the predictably striking contrast between the beauty of the sky and the ugliness of the earth. It's easy to forget that the constellations adorning the sky here mirror those back home. Familiarity breeds comfort, and even a small amount of either can last just long enough to carry me to the next night to start the cycle all over again.

Dumb Asses

2008-08-04T20:47:00.003+02:00

With the exception of zoos and various theme parks, animals back home generally maintain a respectful distance between what they consider to be their habitat, and what we consider to be ours.

As is the case with just about everything here, this is not back home.

Driving (or walking) through the streets brings you to within spitting distance of cows, chickens, dogs, sheep, and donkeys. Normally they just ignore us, or stop their aimless wandering in quiet deference to our ability to accidentally run them over if they aren't careful.

Other times, narrow roads and stupid animals lead to hilarious consequences. Once, while driving on a small dirt road in an even smaller, dirtier town, a couple of cows were just off the embankment as we wheeled by. One of them just lost it and utterly freaked out. Spastically it started running for its life to get away, but the combination of the narrow road and the fact that it was, in fact, a cow didn't allow it more than three feet of leeway in front of us. I was in the lead vehicle and couldn't help cracking up at this cow, frightened to death and convinced that this giant armored vehicle was chasing it down the road. Eventually he found just enough room to move off to the side, skeptically staring at the rest of the convoy rolling past his new sanctuary.

Perhaps not quite as funny overall, but undoubtedly more frequent, are what I call the suicidal donkeys. With every mounted patrol come encounters with the local donkey population, perhaps only slightly smaller in numbers than the local people population. For reasons completely beyond my understanding these donkeys will invariably run directly in front of our vehicles and come to a halt. I have seen donkeys lying peacefully on the side of the road a quarter mile from us, and then just as we reach them they stand up and move right into the path of our oncoming trucks. And stand there.

Maybe they somehow realized that they are donkeys, and even worse, they are donkeys in Iraq. Maybe they just can't take another day and want it all to be over. Whatever it is, it's happened too many times for me to consider it coincidence, which if you know me, you know I don't believe in anyway.

To date we have not obliged any of these suicidal donkeys. If we have to be here, so do they.

Following

2008-07-29T07:57:00.002+02:00

Of the many surprises I’ve had since arriving here, seeing how children react to our presence has been one of the more interesting. Driving through any of the nearby villages almost always yields small groups of kids standing on the sides of the roads, waving as we pass by. Waving back is one of the small pleasures I take from daily life here. I wish I knew exactly what was going on in their minds at that moment.

But driving by them is nothing compared to dismounted patrols. It starts with one or two, depending on the area, and within minutes even the shy ones just peeking from behind their doors come out and join the crowd. Between over five years of American occupation and the occasional English speaking television feed, many of them have learned a few key phrases that they love to show off.

To catch our attention they invariably start with “MisTAR MisTAR!,” accenting the second syllable and slightly rolling the final R. They also say this without regard to gender. The following is a typical conversation I’ve had with just about every kid in the area:

Every Iraqi kid ever: MisTAR! MisTAR!
Me: A-salaamu aleykum. (Hello.)
EIKE: Give me! (He then points to something on my vest, usually my pen or sunglasses.)
Me: No I can’t. I need it/them/these.
EIKE: Yes yes. Give me.
Me: It’s mine, I need it!
EIKE: MisTAR! Give me pen! Please! (The ‘please’ has been new lately. These kids are smart, and must recognize my affinity for politeness.)
Me: I’m sorry, I can’t.
EIKE: {something in Arabic}
Me: What?
EIKE: MisTAR! Give me!

If allowed, this cycle can repeat indefinitely.

I’ve also learned – the hard way – never to actually give them anything, unless you want an Iraqi kid entourage following you around town.

Peace or Quiet

2008-07-27T21:31:00.003+02:00

The deep drone of a vehicle's engine just outside the door. Midnight artillery. Radio traffic. A thousand voices. Generators. Air conditioners. Islamic prayers through broken loudspeakers. Sometimes music. Always something. Ceaseless sounds strip silence from the surroundings.

Just the other day I realized that no matter where you go or what you do here, there is no escaping some kind of noise. I wish I hadn't, because now I can't help but notice it, much like when someone mentions breathing or blinking and suddenly your entire concentration focuses on what is ordinarily involuntary.

I guess I'll just put my headphones back on. At least then I can choose what I hear.

Anniversary

2008-07-21T17:31:00.000+02:00

One year ago I was in Seattle, gold bars pinned on my shoulders. Today I'm in Iraq, gold bar on my chest on my body armor on my shoulders. I remember it well.

List

2008-07-17T19:03:00.004+02:00

Coming up with ideas to write about is always more difficult than actually writing it. Relating to what soldiers experience in a combat zone is probably somewhat difficult for anyone who has never done it before - patrolling hostile territory, fearing that the ground underneath your vehicle may suddenly explode while driving through the ironically serene suburban countryside, seeing destroyed buildings razed to mere stones as a result of neverending tribal tension, all while wearing 40 lbs of body armor in the skin-searing sun. No matter how vividly I describe this kind of life, it will never fully capture its reality.

On the other hand, everyone can relate to food!

Several times now I’ve had the opportunity to experience Iraqi dining and cuisine at its finest. On the surface the food isn’t too different from what we eat back home – roast chicken or beef, several kinds of rice, various soups and breads, and slightly fresh fruit for dessert. A long rectangular shaped table is brought out and covered with comically large plates of these foods. Greasy chicken breasts drenched in sauce drip onto a mountain of white rice, the absence of silverware like a beach without water. The Iraqis, having lived their entire lives on just such a beach, dig in without hesitation, grabbing a fistful of rice and meat and shoving it into their mouths with reasonable success.

Of course, the first time I witnessed this I was understandably hesitant to partake, having noticed the curious lack of sinks and soap in the vicinity. But now it's less shocking, and whenever I find myself sharing a meal with locals, I just look for anything on the table that appears relatively untouched. While the majority of it tastes surprisingly good, my body has enough trouble adjusting to the elements here that I don’t need any additional bacteria invading my insides.

I told myself that I joined the Army to experience cultures and parts of the world that I otherwise never would.

I believe that box can be checked.

Arrival

2008-07-14T19:10:00.003+02:00

Another morning after another night during which I’m not sure if I ever actually fell asleep. I remember lying there for quite awhile, and I’m pretty sure my eyes were closed for a good bit, but whether or not that can be considered “sleep” is entirely subjective.

Today was another day where time got tired and decided to take a break midway through the afternoon. Continuously checking the clock did nothing to persuade it to move forward – actually, I might have just scared it even more into hiding. When it eventually woke up, it was already too late. The day was gone. Passed by and forgot to bring me along. Tomorrow I’ll be sure to catch it early and ride it through to the night into the next day, the way it ought to be. Of course, it’s never quite fast enough, but in the end the destination is what matters most.

(Note: Please don't read into this too much. I was bored at work and started writing and this was the result. I liked the way it sounded, so decided to share. I'll update again with something slightly more uplifting in a day or so!)

Dream Theater

2008-07-12T19:50:00.003+02:00

Lately I've been an ironically exhausted insomniac. No matter how tired I feel, I just can't seem to sleep. Outgoing artillery rounds only a hundred meters from my metal box surrounded by sandbags that somehow counts as a room don't help either.

Also, if I do ever manage to sleep again, forget sex, forget fame and fortune, forget superpowers - I just want to dream that I'm drifting peacefully in an 82 degree pool.

Simplicity

2008-07-06T18:58:00.003+02:00

Recently a lot of people have asked me what Iraq is like. I've reduced it as best I can to this:

Iraq - Hot. Sand. Some people want to kill you. Some people don't.

Imagination Sand

2008-07-01T06:46:00.003+02:00

I find that during the first few minutes of every day - before the Sun begins to scorch the earth - I can walk outside, cup my hands around the sides of my eyes, block my peripheral vision, look down at the sand, and pretend I'm at the beach.

Spin, World, Spin

2008-06-25T17:08:00.001+02:00

Tonight I went to a memorial for a soldier in my unit that was killed last week. I never want to go to another one.

Monday Drive

2008-06-24T19:59:00.004+02:00

Yesterday I went out on my first combat patrol. The majority of it was an uneventful bumpy ride through the Diyala suburbs, parts of which lie along a river that brings a surprising amount of life to an otherwise dead region of desert. Some places might as well be Vietnam, complete with palm trees and untamed vegitation.

As we were driving, the lead truck spotted two guys with assault rifles who went running into the village somewhere. Of course, we had to dismount and go check it out. Watching the ramp at the back of the vehicle open to reveal the reality outside my armored shell caused my heart to skip maybe half a beat. Before I knew it I was running up to the front of the convoy surrounded on both sides by very curious local villagers. We pushed everyone to one side of the street and provided a small perimeter near a small cluster of buildings with gates leading to private courtyards. I found myself instinctively scanning around corners, on top of roofs, through the gates, even into the crowd, trusting nothing. Oddly none of it seemed real to me, like I couldn't believe I was actually there. I wasn't nervous at all; actually, my calmness began to bother me because it felt like I should have been nervous, or at the very least anxious. I don't know if this feeling is common at the beginning or just unique to me.

The guys around me have been doing this for months; I've been doing it for days. The difference is apparent only through conversation though, since we're all concerned with the same basic desire for safety and survival. After a few minutes of walking around and talking to various townspeople, we quietly climb back into a cloud of relative safety and drive back to the base, silently thankful at the lack of excitement.

Nevermind

2008-06-20T15:23:00.002+02:00

Sitting on a bus the other day I had my first taste of Middle Eastern pop music. Upon hearing it, I came to a realization about their culture that may provide insight into their views of the world. Not only did they never experience a renaissance - evident by their fervent religious extremism and strict adherence to theological ideals and government- but musically they never went through the 80s! Every song has a triggered snare drum playing a simple background beat while synthesizers cover the ridiculous melodies, complete with dueling male and female vocal solos screaming glam pop. If Western civilization and history is any indication they can't be far away from a Mohammed Cobain to become their cultural savior.

Living the Dream

2008-06-15T16:17:00.003+02:00

After an exhausting full day and a half of travel I finally made it to Kuwait a few days ago. We arrived in Kuwait City pretty late in the night and took a bus to Camp Buehring in the middle of the desert, where I currently am. The bus had curtains covering the windows and we were told not to open them for operational security reasons. I peeked through a few times, only to see that it was mostly dark. And desert.

As you might imagine, it's windy, sandy, and hot here. I suppose I just need to get used to having sand perpetually in my eyes and ears, and even teeth sometimes. It just makes the food a bit gritier, that's all.

Despite the elements outside, the Army does a rather amazing job of creating an alternate universe inside a multitude of tent-like buildings designed to help us forget that we're in the middle of the fucking desert. It usually works for a little while, until you step outside and see....the desert. But I appreciate the effort.

Thankfully we'll be heading north to Iraq in a few days. Given the lack of much else to do here (since our days are not busy at all, strangely), I tend to embrace the carpets and nice sofas and televisions in the USO building and ignore the truth of my location. Who knows, if I can keep this up for a few months I might even forget I'm in a combat zone. Well, until I step outside and see mortars and rockets and bullets sparking on the ground. Even the Matrix had glitches.

A Day's Kuwait

2008-06-11T15:16:00.004+02:00

Time has never really made much sense to me. Sometimes it feels like stumbling around drunk in a strange town - you start out at a bar at 3AM, and eventually you're crawling into bed at a hotel, but God help you remember anything in between.

That's how I see time, as discrete points on my lifeline. A year ago I was days away from going to Seattle for a month. Now I'm days away from going to Iraq for several months. In the meantime I've lived in Florida, Oklahoma, and now Germany, with a number of pit stops in between to give the illusion of continuity.

Despite the unbelievable quickness it took to find myself within reach of a plane heading into a combat zone, I feel I'm as prepared as I can be. The usual timeline of a soldier during predeployment phase with a unit requires a minimum of six months intensive training before ever stepping on a plane bound for the Middle East. I've been here 7 weeks, and with few exceptions have spent most of my time sitting on my ass watching tv, drinking beer, and cavorting with local fräuleins. According to the Army all I need is about 4 days worth of individual readiness training and a shot of small pox and I'm ready to fly. So it goes.

Whatever can be said for all of this, it is undoubtedly the adventure and experience I told myself I wanted. We'll see how I feel when I come back, but even if it's the worst thing I've ever had to do (and it may very well be just that), the tv, beer, and fräuleins will be patiently awaiting my return. And with that combination it's tough to be too upset about anything.