One Afternoon In Iraq: a soldiers' rendition of life-changing events
Earthwalker
April 09, 2008
We've been raised to accept war. In schools, the world history classes for the most part, war is enunciated. In bold print. Other historical events are taught and acknowledged as a side dish yet another war.
Can you imagine being in Iraq. The mind was conditioned in school to see war as some kind of rational process. Something that had to happen, or at least devoid of negative, unethical or criminal labels.
But on the ground in this strange country, you are sweating, senses on heightened alert. Muscles tight, the soul; folded up nice and neat and gently placed in the back pocket.
You and your rifle. Your rifle is your friend. Your rifle is your friend.
You will never be seen without your friend. The programming is your friend. As you crouch slightly forward. The buildings are scarred from prior battles. The 120 degree heat forms multiple waves of transparent energy. Flowing, hovering above the street ahead. Faint sounds of families in distress. Growing softer, unseen. They avoid us. They are as confused as we are. They don't know if the helmets, uniforms and weapons of the young occupation soilders, are worn by those that would rape and kill, or those that truly want to help. No time to decide. Best to avoid contact.
We move around the corner. One at a time. Military perfection and positioning. Maximizing our potential to round the corner and if attacked, we are barely exposed. Maybe only two or three of us will be injured or worse.
The fleeing families are not the only ones confused. My fellow soilders and I don't have the option of facing an enemy that is obvious. There are no armies, or planes. We can't attack. The strength of our military is our ability to attack and destroy the enemy. Now. Here. We don't know who the enemy is. So as we all safely round the corner, our platoon leader motions to set up around the home in front of us. We kick in the door to search. I honestly don't know what I'm searching for. Hell, my father owns a gun. Just because the old man here has a gun, we can't assume he is, or was, or after disrespecting his home and family; will become the enemy. I can't understand the old man in the house. He's angry and afraid. We are jacked up. Full of adrenalin. Almost as scared. Does this gun belong to the enemy. Is the posture of the man in front of me one of defiance, protection, fear? I can't understand him. I'm hot, I'm hungry. He is loud and won't shut up. At the time, I didn't realize he could have been upset becasue he no longer has a working front door. His home now exposed to the violent streets. Lord knows, he won't be able to just hop in a truck and drive to the local hardware store for a replacement.
We were standing in his living room. His children being shuffled down the candle lit hall by screaming women just as incoherent to me as everyone else not dressed in combat greens. They seemed to curse us.
All of the yelling. He yelling at us. We yelled at the women, somehow expactant. Like even if they did understand us, they would tell us the hiding place of a brother or uncle. As the majority of these memories,
this volatile exchange also melted into a jumbled glob of denial. Thrown across the room with the others, overflowing all over the floor at the base mental basket I use to hold repressed memories. I do remember though, we didn't kill anyone. We left without unleashing pent up frustration or an instance of panic. Their lives in my control. With the inadvertant squeeze of this metal sliver, the trigger that breaths life into the weapon. Unleashing destruction. They tell me that the best soilders can deliver a kill shot from an extreme distance. I had an image of war and killing in battle. Still, I wasn't prepared for the real thing. The body colored in red, flesh spread open, sometimes shredded or seperated from the rest of it. I was physically sick every night for the first 2 weeks or so. But eventually, I got good at throwing my feelings across the room; and the trash basket began to fill rapidly.
It was obvious in a few of our faces, relief. One less glob of mess to clean up when this is all over. The squad leader gave the command. Once a building (ethically softer on the conciouss mind than home) is satisfactorily checked and determined clear of enemy combatants, most of the time we would immediately leave. The few times we hung around, were not one of our proudest moments. The faces of those families. Their screams not of anger but pain and loss. Those memories too were tossed in the basket of repressed experiences, now overflowing on to the floor.
The leader was still trying to quiet the man. They nonverbally came to agreement. They stood silent. Face to face. One glaring, the other staring. Both doing what they thought to be right. The old man earned a little respect withot crossing the line. The leader turned; "Clear."
When we left their home, there is the scurrying of concerned or nosey neighbors. They disappear around corners, in doorways, or away from the ledge of rooves. As the last of us clear the doorway, again we are vulnerable to the street. Each of us looking high, low, every possible angle that presents
a clear line of fire to the enemy. To me, that is the most frustrating part of this war or conflict. The fact that we are almost waiting to be attacked. Thats the only way we can determine the enemy. Last week a man crossed the street making a bee-line toward us. Screaming and waving his arms. He had no gun, but in this war, the enemy wears civilian clothes. And for maybe they were seeking vengence for an intrusion just as we had left behind. Maybe the interaction with a previous occupation unit went bad. Maybe he lost his middle son, or his older, or one of his daughters were approached in a manner that culteraly we have little understanding. Who knows why ordinary people decide to become the enemy. A gun, an explosive, or a bomb strapped to them; they hate us enough to kill themselves for an opportunity to kill us. I have to stop thinking. The movement of our squad, helped bring me back to the moment. We were about to move on. We are off to bring these people democracy.
Our troop leader looks ahead. He looks across the street, up than back.
The whole time holding his arm behind him, instructing us to hold position and hug the wall. At least this time we are in the shade.
I reaffirm the grip on my rifle. MY friend.
We get the signal, and we're moving again. Which home do we search next? What are we searching for? Dammit!... Be exact, no double-talk, non of that re-framing my quest, shun the clear, avoid answering directly type of political hypnosis. I'll stand up and fight for my country, but you are asking me to kill. My soul may not ever be the same. I could suffer a mental or physical problem. But if you need me to risk this, I will. I will let a professional soilder teach me how to kill. I will learn tactics that raise my chance of avoiding injury. I will learn how to shoot from a distance or kill someone in a hand to hand fight.
If you need me to, I'll end the life of someone I don't know or care. I will avoid feelings and thoughts: like, slashing a throat of a person that maybe has no real attachment to this war other than what he was told to feel. Does that person I am about to remove from any and all future holidays with family, does he really hate me? Does he know that he and his rationale are wrong? Does he know that I am risking my spiritual sanity on the fact that we are right? I will kill the sons of the enemy: If you need me to. You need me to kill someone? There is a chance that my family won't be overly affected. But I'll, we will do it for you. I know the risks, short term in the daily battles and long term mental or hospital-oriented risks. If you convince my family and I, they will make the sacrifice. I guess that sounds egotistical. My family would make a sacrifice.; what would that be? Me? Does that sound selfish? Maybe my parents do value me. THey may have expectations that include me. Grandchildren maybe; or just an acknowlegement of some sort that their offspring was raised properly. They would be proud to know that I would go to extremes to protect them, us, our country. And I would go the extreme. Risk death. Bring death upon another. If I need to. If you need me to. But, you've got to clearly:, tell me why?
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