Happy New Year!

If a ball drops in New York, but soldiers do not see it, does that mean the New Year will not come to Iraq? I keep asking soldiers what they are doing tonight and they all shrug, like what do you think I'll be doing? There is nothing to do. After all the celebrations for Christmas, soldiers are weary of trying to pretend that they can change the scene, that they can replace missing families with movies or barbeques, like alcohol, they only take the pain away for a bit.
I know I am tired of the ugliness here, the cramped quarters, the poverty outside these high walls, the endless terror out in the streets, the sound of generators roaring like immortal tigers trapped in your ears and the hum of helicopters over the roof as if they could just fall in your bed and rip you to shreds.
I spent the day interviewing soldiers about rock walls built and missions to hospitals outside the wire. I took a nap and now I am tired, I could care less about finding something to do, somewhere to go, sometimes the quiet times are best here. Sometimes the loneliness, like blankets that cover your head, is comforting, like a secret you won't ever be asked to tell.

Happy Birthday to me!!

This would have been the worst birthday ever had it felt like it was actually my birthday. Not that a few people did not try to make it memorable. One soldier presented me with bubble wrap as a gift, which was actually quite a nice stress reliever. As we watched Monty Python's Holy Grail, my choice, and ate pizza, I happily popped my plastics bubbles.
I spent the morning on the phone interviewing an interpreter from Darfur. For the rest of the day I attempted to write a story about rock climbing, but it's been so long since I've been out on real rock I seem to have forgotten what it is all about.
On the positive side, I had Internet access all day and was able to view the many heartfelt messages sent by friends and families on Facebook. To everyone who thought of me yesterday, thank you so much, you have no idea what it means to feel loved while so far from home.
On the negative side, I was hoping the soldiers would let me do whatever I wanted and be extra nice to me since it was my birthday, but apparently they didn't agree. "Now you're gonna be the old chick at the bar," one soldier joked. When I announced to another soldier it was my special day he responded, "eat shit."
happy Birthday to me!!!

Looking Back

These Things I've seen
This last month, I’ve played pool with an Iraqi contractor and ate dinner cooked by a Nepalese man outside a carpet shop, where the owner rolled out a $35,000 rug. I tasted sheep liver with Turkish engineers, played cards with Bangladeshi maintenance workers in Balad, Iraq. I’ve danced with Iraqi police and council men in Camp Korean Village, Iraq.
I’ve flown on numerous Blackhawk missions overlooking Iraqi villages and crops. I’ve watched soldiers fix a blown tire during a convoy to Scania, Iraq. I’ve had days where I can’t seem to move and days where the whole world seems open with limited potential. I no longer want to be in this place, but can’t imagine being home.



Saying goodbye
Yes, I will miss this place. I will miss late night Scrabble games with the soldiers. I will miss the bouldering wall Sgt. Cornick built in the hangar, those nights when we seemed to escape from Iraq for a few hours. I will miss the peace of the flight line at night when everyone has gone to sleep.

Sudanese Refugees in Iraq

There is a man in Iraq, we’ll call him Sam, we cannot call him by his real name, it’s not safe for others to know his identity. He is Sudanese, he spent twenty years in Baghdad, graduating from the University of Baghdad and working as an electrician in the city before the war. Now he works as an interpreter for the US military. He went home to Baghdad for vacation some time ago, but it was not easy disguising his job, getting to and from the base without detection from the outside world. So Baghdad is no longer his home and Sudan is a place he can’t return to. He has family in Darfur, seven murdered lay under the ground and four sisters and a brother live in villages dependent on Sam’s income. He says it makes him cry to think about Darfur, to think about death, serial rapists, children cut from arms and slaughtered, villages burned in minutes, the endless sorrow in the eyes of people ripped through and through by genocide.
Sam says he finally feels safe inside the military base. He wants to be an American, away from the bombs and the blood and desolation. If he could prove he is a citizen of Iraq, his immigration would be easier, but ever since the war his documents, like so many, have been lost. Many Iraqis have lost their birth certificates and passports, but all they need is a family member or a sheik to vouch for them and papers appear in their hands. For Sam, there is no one to vouch for him; he has no family, no sheik. He is Sudanese, an orphan in these lands. The US government will help him, but these things take so much time. So he’ll stay with the military as long as possible. He is stuck, but he is safe and his money flows out to Sudan.
I wish you could meet Sam, see him smile like sunlight and shake his hands warmly. I wish could hear him proclaim his gratitude for his wood hut, heat, food and water. I wish you could hear him say, I am happy, I am happy. I wish you could feel that truth ring out sincerely. I wish you could walk away with the bitterness I feel, with that ache and anger at a world where so many horrors occur.
Sam is not the only Sudanese working in Iraq. Near a small base in western Iraq, there is a camp of nearly a hundred Sudanese refugees living in poverty. Soldiers serving in Iraq,and I are gathering some items this holiday season to share with the Sudanese. We are not able to send comfort to the multitudes suffering in Darfur because in March the president of Sudan removed humanitarian aid groups that have provided basic life support to over 2 million displaced people in Darfur. The death toll is already between 200,000 to 400, 000 in Sudan and has the potential to reach even higher. For more information about the Darfur conflict go to:
www.savedarfur.org or to read the New York Times coverage google “Kristof Darfur”.
We can send some comfort to the Sudanese camp in Iraq and let them know someone is thinking of them, that the lives of their people are still in the hearts and minds of at least a few Americans.
Care packages with these following items will be greatly appreciated:
1.Non-perishable food, rice, canned fruits and vegetables, dried fruits, nuts, crackers, coffee, tea, etc.(please no pork items)
2.Toiletries: toothbrushes, floss, toothpaste, deodorant, lotion, eye drops, vitamins, band-aids, ointment, wet wipes, etc.
3.Blankets and warm clothes.

Please send to:
Emanuel Salazar
S-2 LEP Office
1st BCT 504 Red Devils
Korean Village Iraq
FPO AE 09371

Boys Just Want to Have Fun

On a recent trip to Al Asad, Iraq, one of the new bases the Medevac crew is calling home, I was happy to see some people aren't letting the desert get them down. Spc. Grant McRobert built this skimboard out of leftover wood. For a moment you can almost imagine he is somewhere tropical, with the blue sky and palm tree, but alas the brown water and port-a-potty tells a different story. To add insult to injury poor McRobert was out there in 40 degree temperatures. Who said Medevac's not hardcore?

Football

I could post links about poverty in Iraq, wounded soldiers or Medevac evacuations, but I am sure you would rather read stories about football fans. Not that these stories don't touch on other themes. Whether you love the game or not you can surely sympathize with people who are away from the things that bring them those fleeting moments of joy.

http://www.kval.com/news/69803357.html

http://www.kval.com/news/69809212.html

http://www.kval.com/news/70037827.html

TQ

The Medevac unit I have been embedded with is now working in several other bases in Iraq. Here are a few pictures from a base they were stationed at for a brief time.



A view of Charlie Company's parked Blackhawk from behind the camo-netting covering the Medevac compound's treehouse at Al Taqaddum, Iraq.



The Blackhawk circles in the air for a training flight at Al Taqaddum, Iraq.

Nothing to Report

I am counting down the days, can't tell how many days because it's classified, can't tell you how I really feel, that's classified.
I will tell you I am here on my own accord, no one is keeping me, although I do suspect I have been brainwashed by the military, why else would I choose to stay when I can easily leave? If you've tuned into any of my earlier posts you know the story, I'm staying with my unit, even though it is not my unit and I am not a soldier. I'm staying until we can all leave together.
The madness of my situation seems to increase and decrease at a regular rate. I am either making the greatest sacrifice or wasting a year of my life. One of my friends, back home, has a point about the latter. "What would you be doing back home?" he asks. Probably nothing as exciting as Iraq, but this place lost its shine about six months ago. I'm in a forest and can't see a single tree and all that.

Here's a link to a recent story about Iraqi Police and Military Police
http://www.katu.com/news/69484632.html

Halloween

Holidays in Iraq come creeping up without recognition. Without the autumn chill, brown leaves strewn underneath you feet and decorations crowding grocery store aisles there is no sense of Halloween. The chill here is mild, lost in the roasted dirt and the smell of warm water in stagnant ponds left on the concrete recesses after the last storm. The DFAC has paper pumpkins hanging from the ceiling, but there is no excitement from kids getting ready to trick-or-treat. There are no nights off, no wild abandonment as you dress up as someone else and pretend that life is sweet.
So to get into the spirit of celebration I solicited help from one of the Medevac soldiers. We made some masks, a cat, a bat and a bunny. The magic was lost inside the rooms of blinding white fluorescent lights.
So I went down to check on the Infantry soldiers.
“Is anyone dressing up tonight?” I asked. “Yeah, as soldiers,” one replied with a chuckle. “We can’t wear anything, we’ll get yelled at for being out of uniform,” another soldier chimed in.
At night the soldiers barbecued and waited with wild enthusiasm for the Oregon vs. USC game. Their only costumes there were an Oregon jersey and a hat with an O. One soldier lounged on a bench with his robe over an Army shirt and shorts. Everyone sat outside for a while. They laughed, pitched some shit and chewed on their steaks. Happy Halloween.

Storm

A few nights ago the cloudy sky reminded of me of Oregon in spring.
At night bolts of lightening flashed just as the Blackhawks landed from their flight. I stood on the crow's nest Sgt. Boyce was building and tried to take photographs. Then came the rain. The soldiers walked out to the flight line, their little shadowy figures tied down the monstrous rotor blades so they wouldn't break away. As everyone, damp from the desert rain, took cover under the trailer roofs I sat underneath the little bunker with my misty camera lens and soggy hair. I watched the lightening come, turning the sky pink behind the helicopter silhouettes.
Listening to the drops of water splatter into large puddles reminded me of weekend camping trips to the wilderness. Now humid eucalyptus trees replace the smell of snowy spruce, and the silence of the forest is replaced by the constant torment of generators pumping lights into our nights.
Inside the compound a soldier planted sunflowers. They stood stoically throughout the storm in little green bouquets against the ugly gravel, drunk from the sudden onslaught of fresh water.

???

I have seen so much and convinced myself that I am changed by my experiences. I've had those moments when sitting in the back of an armored vehicle thinking, What the hell am I doing here? or How the hell am I the one to tell this story, when I know so little about, well, everything? or How did I get so lucky, to see so much, while some people never leave their small bubble, here I am in Iraq?
What is it that makes me want to stay when it's so easy to leave? I suppose it's the same reason why any of us continue with our lives, those moments that fill you with great joy or sadness, that you are compelled to stay on the path, or maybe it's more simple than that, perhaps we are just drawn to stay on the path we started on, afraid to get off the treadmill before it stops on its own accord.

So what have I done in my recent travels? I have shaken hands with the Iraqis who dig through the military garbage day after day. Their friendly nature and laughter filled up my stomach with guilt like stones. How is that my job is to write a story and click a camera when someone else is destined to dig through trash for a lifetime? How to set right such wrongs? I could abandon my own life of luxuries? I could be one of those bleeding hearts that act, or I could write this blog? Everything feels like a drop in the bucket? Isn't it easier to just accept that some things like, death, poverty and war are part of humanity, things that are as much a part of us as blood and bones?
So the heap of trash stays in my mind, like a dream, but when I remember the men and their faces I can only remember their smiles, as if they were somehow truly happy.

Stars

I am at a very small base near Jordan. Without stadium lights or street lights the walkways and gravel roads are plunged into blackness. I walk to the shower. I forgot my flashlight so I have to go slow. And for a moment I stop and look up, to the stars and the faint, cloudy Milky Way. At most of the other bases you can't see anything past the great lights and sandy skies. For some reason seeing these stars makes me feel connected to those starry, childhood nights laying on the dock on the lake. It's not that I ever feel un-human here, its just that I feel more human tonight somehow.

ID ID ID

I am currently in Al Asad, a Marine base, which means there are a lot of Marines, which means they make the rules. As usual they have a problem with my ID. "I've never seen this before," the Marine at the airport says looking quizzically at me. "Yeah I've heard that before," I say trying to sound tough. For once there is a simple solution. At the badging office they give me a VIP pass, which says in caps NO ESCORT REQUIRED. I like this ID. Most of the Ugandan guards smile and let me pass through the checkpoints as if I am really someone important. For some reason the Ugandan guards at the chow hall have a different take on the card. They often ask me if I have an escort. My escort usually tries to jump in at this point, but before he can speak I cut him off saying, "It says right here NO ESCORT REQUIRED." The truth is I always have an escort, but I feel the need to fight for this one point, just in case one day I need to go to chow by myself.
The chow halls here are also very strict on dress code. Yesterday I was stopped at the entrance. The guard said that I could not pass because I was wearing shorts. "Sir, these are clearly capris," I said, but it was not until I revealed my VIP card that I was allowed to eat.
Oh, it is a very hard life!

Baghdad

Back in Baghdad.
Back in the base with its rivers lapping up against Saddam's elobarate buildings. Every entrance has pillars and the marble halls are countless. Patches of lush green trees take over little corners and seem less beaten down by the constant thrusts of sand. I am here, mainly, to write about the Joint Visitor Bureau Hotel. I am hoping to find someone working in an area that is not classified. Luckily soldiers are busy today, escorting a high ranking official, prepping vehicles for a convoy and serving us a four star lunch. But you can read all about that at KVAL.com and KATU.com in the near future.

Convoy

In the last three days I've spent over eight hours on the road, experiencing the joy of convoys. Here are a few things I have learned through my limited experiences.
1 Convoys remind me of an early morning radio show; in fact most of the guys I've met would be quite successful at such a career. The banter on the radio between soldiers is constant because there is not much else to do hour after hour on the road. "It keeps us awake," one soldier said. My only is advice is to turn off your headset if they start telling jokes. I made the mistake of listening, laughing and telling bad jokes of my own. The madness went on all through the night. I wanted to sleep, but felt like it would be unfair to snooze while the soldiers must be wide-eyed and ready.

2. I was very impressed with the soldiers' positive attitudes. Here they are squashed inside uncomfortable armored boxes. Let me explain... Some of the armored vehicles have enough room in the back to stretch your legs, but most are worse than flying coach on a commercial airline. The other issue is the amounts of gear soldiers wear. The vests are several inches thick and weigh close to 40 pounds, which helps your body produce and then trap large amounts of sweat on your back and stomach. The high neckline can often choke you if you lean too far forward. My favorite part of the armored ensemble is what you wear above the neck. On convoys you wear a helmet, eye protection and a headset that fits snugly over your ears and under the helmet. After several hours the weight of the helmet begins to feel brain crushing. It also smashes the headset and sunglasses over your ears into a painful s'more of blunt objects.

3. On my last trip we were making our way through a long stretch of highway when something felt like it exploded beneath us. The driver quickly pulled the car over and the gunner announced that we had a flat tire. Within a few minutes the vehicle ahead of us backed up and another pulled along side of us for protection. Within ten minutes the tire was changed and we were on our way. I joked to the soldiers that I would write a story about how scared they were, which was the opposite of the truth, they got a laugh about that, especially when one guy kept saying he was only scared for one second. Not that anyone could blame them for getting shook up when driving in Iraq, where the greatest enemy threat is the IED. The 41st has already suffered several causalities, but soldiers still go out on the road every night. They do their jobs and fear is not part of the equation. I can't help feeling pride and pity for their plight.
The other excitement on the trip consisted of 10 minutes of hot miking. It was pure torture. Someone on another vehicle left their mike on, leaving everyone else with a deafening roar of static. Finally the culprit turned their radio off and the sound of silence was like the relief of peeing after holding it in for several hours.

Overall I am very thankful for the soldiers providing me safe travel through the country and allowing me a glimpse into their world.

Rain

I'm back in Balad.

A soldier and I heard there was a new Italian restaurant on base so we went on a walk to find such a place. Why? Just because it's something new. We didn't know where we were going so it was quite a journey. We talked about this and that. I went on about how I wished I could go to where the treeline hides the great sand dunes before the ocean. I wished I could feel the mist on my face on a rainy day. In fact I even raised my hands up and said, "I want it to rain!" True story. Much to my surprise the sky did not open and send a flood down, but the sky seemed to brighten with strokes of light. "Is that lightening?" I asked the soldier. "No I think it's some kind of beacon," he said. So we walked on and finally stumbled upon a small trailer with a deck and picnic tables. "Don't you feel just like Lawrence of Arabia crossing the desert?" I asked. "No," he said.
Inside the restaurant plastic, lime green chairs were set up beside little white tables. A line of soldiers waited to place their orders, we decided on pasta and pizza. We sat down at a table and within a few minutes a soldier walked in with a few dark spots on his shirt. I chalked it up to strange sweat stains, but then a whole group of soldiers came in laughing and wiping something off their arms and faces. I began to suspect that something was happening outside. "Its raining!" one girl shrieked with a laugh. But was it really raining? Was it possible? We ate quickly, good pizza, good pasta.
Outside the mist hit our faces and the sidewalks were already covered in mud. For the first time in nearly five months it was raining. We walked in the rain that was, well less then a drizzle and more like a fine sweat.
The next day the rain came and left at random intervals. The damp air and cloudy sky felt somber, especially after we heard word that a UH-60 Blawkhawk had crashed on base. One soldier was killed and 12 were wounded. It seemed only right for it to rain.
Read more at: http://www.katu.com/news/60003362.html

Stories about my work with the 41st Infantry will appear on kval.com and katu.com someday soon...

A New Day

Rolled out of bed at 5 am this morning, but I was anxious to get the day going. I stepped outside and to my suprise this place is cooling down. It's not until 9 or so that the heat makes you want to puke. Unfortunately by noon I am squished between two soldiers in a C17 with drops of sweat squeezing through my eyelashes. It's not so painful that I don't take a snooze over the next three hours and wake up with drool on my chin.
I am route to my new job as an embedded journalist with the 41st Infantry. I am traveling with two other military journalists from the Infantry unit. Everything is so complicated. We take our bags here and there and everywhere, one bag gets lost and found. We go to chow, we get lost trying to find the tent city, our lodging for the night, then we can't find our tents. Why must the military not organize numbers in a way that makes sense, 102 comes after 97?
We walk around in the dark, searching for my tent. The weight of my bag burns my shoulders and the deep gravel makes my feet feel like two dead fish. Finally we find my tent. I am tired, but ready for the unknown, new people, new places, but how I miss the Medevac unit. As I lay down for sleep and the air-conditioning breezes through the air I feel that darkness of one part of my life disappears, but I am filled with excitement of the faint light of the future. Who knows what will happen next?

Staying

I was looking at old pictures of myself the other day with another soldier. "You don't look anything like you do now," he said innocently. And I thought all of a sudden he was right. There were superficial things like my face is thinner now, my eyebrows are less plucked, my hair has natural sun streaks instead of the bleach bottle blond I used to be. There is no make-up on my face now, my hair is rarely seen down and my outfits come with only a few accessories, a watch, a ring and my dog tags.
I still smile, big with my gums showing, its just a natural expression for me. Perhaps I look a bit older now, they say life can age you and I wonder if my time here is wearing me down. I asked a medic the other day about my blood shot eyes and the fact that often I have a slight shake of the hands. He answers that its probably stress for the eye and lack of water for the shake. Stress? Hmm, but what do I have to stress about? As far as war goes I'd like to know where it is because I haven't seen a sign of it in Balad. The chow hall has flat screen TVs, the pool has loud speakers blaring hip-hop, the Pizza Hut and Taco Bell are always crowded, we live in quite a safe bubble on the base. I do miss my friends and family like crazy sometimes. I wake up in the morning sometimes just aching to be home and I think about maybe I'll get the hell out of here tomorrow, but I never do.
I stay because its too hard to leave knowing that others have to stay.

Outside the Wire

Inside the MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Proof) vehicle, I sit with my wide eyes peering outside the small window at my right. So far only concrete walls whiz by. "This is my first time leaving the wire," I tell the captain sitting across from me. "Really? Do you want me to take your picture?" he asks as I ungracefully untangle my camera from around my neck and hand it to him. I try not to smile, I am a serious journalist in my battle rattle (armor vest and helmet) I don't want to look like a tourist, but my face has a certain friendly, enthusiasm from just about anything, I can't seem to erase. So he snaps my picture with my long ponytail draped over my shoulder and a toned-down grin similar to a school girl on her first field trip. Oh well, I am me.
Soon the concrete walls are gone and the rubble of fallen buildings appear. We enter the city of decrepit shops, cars slowly rolling out of the convoy's way, boys on rusty bicycles and girls in black from head to toe. The people still stop and stare, though the convoy comes through here often.
At our destination the soldiers and I exit the convoy. The ceiling is low and I hit my head hard on the way out. Luckily I have several inches of armor protecting my head, but unfortunately it doesn't protect me from looking stupid. The soldiers don't seem to mind or maybe they just don't notice.
Out in the sun and on the ground soldiers greet Iraqis with traditional greetings and a kiss on one cheek. We walk past the Iraqi police station and into a building where a council meeting is in session. We sit on the sidelines, a translator explains the issues discussed, like paving roads.
Throughout the next several hours I meet several other Iraqi civilians who share their stories with me. The story is the same, they have greatly suffered, they are hopeful and they want a better future.
At noon we stop by a chai tea stand. The hot, sugary tea comes in a tall shot class on a saucer. The soldiers' translators have bought gyros. The pita bread is warm and delicious, inside there are crisp falafels, fresh cucumbers and tomatoes. It is the best food I've eaten in three months.
Back on the military base I head back to the Medevac unit's living quarters. They are jealous I made it out and into the real world of Iraq. They only get to see the country from hundreds of miles in the air. It's hard to stay behind walls, seeing the same faces day after day, locked in, with the same stark landscape all around.

Profile Pictures

I spent the better part of the day trying to build a makeshift studio for photographing soldiers. There were several obstacles including trying to find a window that would open and let in natural light. Most of the windows here are painted black to protect the glass from the hot sun. On top of that they are duct taped shut. Next task was finding a background. The genius in me found a green blanket and hung it up. Then came the soldiers, who I must admit were pretty accommodating. Many wanted to know why I am doing this. I had many answers, I'm documenting history, I'm doing my job, I'm bored, I think they're pretty. So one by one I had them sit down and they let me stick my big camera in their faces. Certain people had trouble not laughing, but we're all human and who says soldiers can't smile? Overall, I say great success.

Loneliness

The walls we hit are silent and invisible, like nightmares that sweep over our unconscious mind and leave us waking without an exact idea of why we are breathless, dizzy and with heartbeats like firestorms. The wall grows taller and wider mid-deployment, too far in, too far out, we are stuck in the middle. We can't remember the subtle details of home, nor can we look forward to that distant future of coming home, arms wrapped around our bodies in that enduring love that seems unfamiliar after all this time of keeping our guard up, forcing ourselves to feel less for survival's sake. If human contact is a morale booster than we are all lost for now.
For me, the loneliness is like a snake, artful as it wraps around my leg, totally undetected until its sinks its teeth into my shin and I fall. I lay there, surprised, venom in my bloodstream, wondering if anyone in this crowded room could suck the venom away? I could ask, but the asking seems more unbearable than the bite itself. Besides the venom won't kill me and in a few days the wound will heal, the bruises will fade.
I am lonely, but to say I am alone here would be a lie because if anything can grow in this desert it is friendship. The other day my uncle asked me how I feed my soul and I said friendships. Conversations on the deck near the airfield at dusk, dinners without silence, afternoons at the pool where everyone laughs because I can't dive, volleyball in the dust and things like this make my loneliness embarassing to admit.
But most of us here feel unhappy and happy then unhappy then happy again.
And everyday I watch the soldiers drive on, show up and make it through another day.

Mission

"Priority, priority, priority," crackles from the radio. I am standing by the Blackhawk. I run towards my room, grab my cameras and head to the operations office to find out the details of the mission. Maps hang on the wall, soldiers write down information and the crews on duty stand by.
In a few minutes we are at the aircraft, a few minutes later we are flying. Dirt, dust, fog covers the green, winding rivers, sun on the water, mounds of land, dark spots like burns. And we land, pick up the patient, fly to Balad, drop off patient, fly back to Normandy.
Maybe I'm not a mission killer after all.


Photo By: Mike Barber

Night Flight

Sitting in the back seat of a UH-60 Blackhawk at night is like looking at the surface of a darkened moon with all the chasms of craters and miles of dead silent landscape. Could there be life? We are sure there is not, but in the darkness we always wonder what is out there?

In the 60 I sit back letting the tiny pushes of breeze slip across my face. I look out the window and through the grey film of night here. I know there are houses, rivers, a lake out there, but to my eyes, without the help of night vision goggles I could be at the bottom of the ocean or in the outer reaches of space.
I haven't flown in a few weeks and I was accused of only wanting to fly for a joyride. I can't say that there isn't a thrill. There are not many moments here where the whole world washes away and all you can think is about the sky and the swift and high freedom. For a half an hour I don't think about mistakes I've made or family or beer or grammar, or word-counts and leads or anything, just sky, sky, breeze, land, dark, dark, darkness.
Everyday is the same here and out in the helicopter, the very newness cascades over me like a shower after a week's worth of dirt has built up on your skin.

Sunshine

The dust came in, the dust retreats, the sky is blue-grey, the sun beats through like a waterfall. Sunshine, a symbol of happiness, has quite a different meaning here. During Oregon summers I have a hard time not smiling when I wake up to sunny days. Yet here I yearn for a cloudy sky. Last night I went to midnight chow. The streets were quiet, temperatures dropped to 100 degrees, which after three months in the desert feels like a beautiful, winter chill. Back at home I locked myself out of my trailer and went to the housing office. One of the night workers walked with my back to my residence and unlocked my door for me. He has been in Iraq since December. Most civilian contractors spend two to four years without going home more than once. It makes my time here seem like less of a sacrifice.

Food

I have been away from home before. When I was 21 I visited New Zealand and Australia for three months. A couple years later I spent several months in Argentina. I have been with the military for nearly four months and let me tell you it seems like a lifetime longer than any other trip. For one thing, when I was in those countries I ate wonderful food. The tomatoes in NZ are as sweet and juicy as strawberries. Fresh veggies at restaurants and grocery stores sprout up like bouquets of flowers. Ice cream and beer await your purchase in every town and highway side stop. In Argentina, I was there in winter, the tomatoes were soggy and pizza always tasted off. But the panederias, bakeries, always offered croissants, doughnuts and other delights for under a dollar. We would spend hours sipping lattes with full cream in the cafes followed by more croissants. In Balad we have a coffee shop on the compound and I have indulged in carmel soy lattes on more than one occasion, but it just not the same. As for bread, I can't describe you the bitterness in biting into a stale, flavorless bun. On the up side the lettuce is usually fresh and the carrots are crunchy. There is a heathy bar, which serves some kind of white fish and cooked vegetables still dripping with water.
I think about food a lot, but surely the differences between my travels cannot be described within the narrow limits of cuisine?
Tonight in the chow hall, I explained to a soldier my recent daydreams including Pad Thai and carrot soup (even writing this makes my stomach growl). "Well food is a huge morale booster," he said as if this news could comfort me. I can't imagine any morale being boosted here. Yes the dining facility is much better that an MRE (meal ready to eat, containing freeze-dried, dehydrated food) or the processed mac and cheese and greasy beef servings at the cafeteria in Ft. Sill, Oklahoma where I started my deployment.
So relatively speaking, things are not so bad, but as I am writing this words at 4 am on an empty stomach I find reason to complain.
When I shut my laptop down I can eat in my dreams.

Butterfly

On the darkest days when the sand storm comes in and the base seems to have reached apocalyptic proportions. It is as if the sand could wash away all life and leave only a terrible fog. During one of these days I went to the chow hall, with the soil of the earth clinging to the corners of my rib cage. I cannot clean it out. I saw a soldier I know eating ice cream and his friend stood stoically by, his blue eyes glaring at the dimmed sun. I stopped to speak with them. I asked him if there was dirt in his dessert? He laughed; his friend was not listening. Then out of the sky a butterfly flitted by and landed on the quiet soldier’s camo hat. I pointed and smiled for the first time that day. How could such a delicate creature thrive in such an environment? No one else seemed blown away by the irony. So I laughed by myself and went inside to eat salad and rice on a plastic plate with plastic utensils.

Pretty

Breaking news! Two-piece bathing suits are now allowed at the swimming pool. On a good day you can see at least four women with bare bellies. It’s not so much the skin that is enticing, but the feeling of normalcy in a strange place. “You need to feel human,” a sergeant from another unit told me. He is allowed to wear civilian clothes when off duty. “You’re so lucky, I wish I could wear jeans,” a female soldier said to me in passing at the chow hall. I understand her words the camo uniforms are bulky and hot.
I suppose I take my civilian clothes for granted, but my beige and grey t-shirts are just about as exciting as the tons of gravel under my feet. This morning I found a long sleeved baby blue shirt that I had stuffed away in one of my bags. The soldiers are happy to see colorful material. My shirt is like a lemon for lost sailors suffering from scurvy. “The earth-tones were getting old,” says a soldier in reference to my wardrobe. So I guess I have found my calling and I should e-mail my mother and ask her to send over some lavender and crimson blouses. But with all the dirt here I think anything pretty will be whittled away.

Morning

This morning I made my way to the Internet cafe. On the road, the porta-potty cleaners were hard at work. Dressed in long sleeves and face masks they spray out the filth with a large hose attached to a truck. I hold my breathe and rush by, but before I can get out of the way I feel a light spray hit my arm.

Some mornings are harder than others.

Today the sky is blue and the dust is retreating into corners.

But there is nothing worse than the feeling of water and feces on your skin before you've even ingested your morning coffee. Well I guess it would be worse, my job could be cleaning the john.

My trials are nothing that a little soap and water can't fix.

4th of July

Last Fourth of July I drank micro-brews on my roof with a few friends. Fire works burst in the distance. We were indifferent to celebration. I went to bed early. Perhaps I had some grand notion that Independence Day in Iraq would be different, that the flags and patriotic streamers would solicit pride or joy or loneliness or sadness. I felt nothing, but the strange effect of another day in a dust storm in the desert, another day of sand and heat. I woke up with an orange glow filtering through my window. Outside the sand blocks out the sun.

It must be a joke. I keep waiting for a soldier to jump out of a cake and yell, “Today is actually Groundhog’s Day.” Wouldn’t that make us all roll in laughter for a little while?
But the only cake to be had was decorated with Lady Liberty and half-eaten by the time I made it to chow. I heard it was delicious. The 115-degree breeze stifles my appetite. Not that I am brave enough to complain, five years ago soldiers were huddled in tents eating MREs that turned their bowels into un-moveable solids.
At the compound, there is little talk about the ghosts of Fourth of July past. Most seem content in pretending the have forgotten the day or even the year because it really doesn’t matter. “Oh is that today?” the soldiers say smiling sheepishly in the sandy fog and looking at their dusty watches as if time could send an alert that people are celebrating back home with beer, bikinis and barbecues.
There is no way for me to reach home, no way to break through that hunk of concrete separating me from lakesides, mountains, the “I’m going to be sick” laughter with friends, the embrace of love, the look in his eyes when I smile and the trees gloriously standing dust-free. These are things I cannot reach and I cannot give those left behind more than a glimpse into life here. Yes, they can see my pictures read my words, but they cannot wipe sand from our faces, they cannot turn dusty doorknobs into cramped, ugly rooms and feel the utter emptiness. Dear ones at home, you cannot put your fingers on this place and those of us here in Iraq, know there is nothing we can do about that. And we are cut off from the wrist down too. The greatest tragedy is that life moves on, even without us.

Schedule

0830: Wake up
0900: Brief for the day on some couches shaded from the sun. Sometimes a kitten, domesticated by the soldiers, plays at our feet during the meeting.
0930: The soldiers make sure their aircraft is ready to fly.
1000: Back to the compound (living area). Soldier do paperwork, hit he gym, or retreat to their rooms to cool off. I go tap, tap on my computer.
Afternoon: Since I've been here, we've had missions during the heat of the day.
NIght: Movies projected on a big screen TV outside, cigar night (that's pretty much every night), Guitar Hero (that's pretty much every night), sitting around in a circle just telling stories, laughter and sleep.

A Smaller Base

Several days ago I arrived at a smaller base 60 miles NE of Baghdad. I'm staying out here for a few days to check out a more rustic lifestyle. There is no pool, no movie theater, no large stores or grand dining halls. I do have my own room, but its quite bare with two sagging mattresses as my only furniture. I sat in my bed last night, dangling my dog tags and room key in my fingers, pondering my situation. I find so much peace in new places. I grow so restless and anxious living in the same space day after day.

Last night the soldiers had a bonfire. They poked fun at each other will glee and complimented each other with sincere smiles. With so much laughter, so much camaraderie, so much appreciation for one another I discovered the brotherhood that these deployments create. These men live in an area the size of a football field and they have found a way to make the best of the long days of intense and horrifying missions. They have also found a way to deal with long days waiting for missions, but even then there is always maintenance work for the Blackhawks. When the work is done the enduring force keeping these soldiers together is teamwork and friendship.

It just goes to show its not what you have, its who you have.
So I guess its okay that I own nothing.

Movie Theater

Because of popular demand I will write about the movie theater. It is a beautiful place with a grand staircase accented with chandeliers with strings of light like jelly fish tentacles. The movie of the night is Fighting starring Channing Tatum and Terrence Howard. The plot is unremarkable; the experience of watching the movie in a theater bursting with military dudes is, well different. In one scene, Tatum starts kissing his love interest, but the actual sex scene is clipped out leaving the audience booing and screaming as if they have been denied viewing the winning point at the Super Bowl. I thought we were going to have an Apocalypse Now moment when the audience rushes the strippers on stage, but these soldiers managed to stay in their seats.

At first I thought the movie was made without that scene, but according to movie trailers the PG-13 rating is due to a sex scene. So perhaps the scene was erased due to the fact that we are in a Muslim country. Who knows?

I really shouldn't complain because stepping into the dark theater was like going back home for a night. I enjoyed the smell of popcorn, the sound of laughter and the luxury of the big screen, but then the lights turn on and the hundreds of men in uniform bring me back to the present. We are still in Iraq and no amount of Hollywood blockbusters can change that. 

ID

It appears I have been over zealous, yapping about my freedom and plastic and the cultural enlightment of my 15 minutes in Baghdad.

Today I went to chow by myself.

I smiled cheerfully to myself, relishing in the moment as I confidently pull the plastic ID from my pocket after greeting the Ugandan guard, an attractive and intimidating female who has in the past regarded me with a weary eye. She looks at my ID and back to me. "I thought you were getting your ID," she says her eyes narrowed. My smile has vanished, "This is the ID I have been telling you about." No, is her response as about a dozen soldiers line up behind me eager to eat breakfast. Another guard approaches and asks if I may step out of line. He is as serious as a police officer can get when you say, looks like I left my license and registration at home, but I am not apologetic, I am hungry and I have done nothing wrong.

"This is the ID issued to me, I don't work for the government. I’m not a contractor or a soldier, this is the only ID I can get," I say trying to keep my voice from carrying into the chow hall so that my many fans will not have to chuckle and then choke on their morning grits. Twenty minutes later I am still explaining myself.

"Whom do you work for?" the other guard asks.

"I'm a freelancer, but I work for a broadcast station, but I work for the internet so I don't get paid, but I can work for other companies," I say.

"So how do you eat?" he asks innocently.

Is this guy kidding?

"Well I eat at the chow hall, well I am supposed to be allowed to eat at the chow hall," I say.

"Yes, but you need to get the right ID," says the guard who lives in the black and white world.

For the next forty-eight hours I visit six different offices meet with dozens of personnel, captains, majors, colonels who either send me elsewhere or flat out admit they have no idea how to help.

"What I'm the only journalist in Iraq?" I ask as they shrug helplessly.

Finally with the help of a major, who I met by chance, we find a solution. A captain at the ID office sends a copy of my ID to every checkpoint in this base with the words approved stamped on top.

Has this solved the problem? Not quite.

The other day a guard informed me that he was confiscating my ID because of its expiration.

"Oh yeah," I say. "It expires the fourth of June 2010 not the tenth of June 2004." This is the third of fourth time someone has misread these numbers. "This is how the military writes their dates," I say snatching it out of his hands. For a month I've been nice and that has gotten me nowhere and now I'm just tired. The soldiers in my unit just laugh and for the hundredth time say, "Welcome to the Army."

Baghdad

Baghdad, giant crossed swords glinting in the scorching sun, the Fourth of July Bridge is ahead of us and beside us is the Monument to the Unknown Soldier. The unfinished mosque, further right, looks like a remnant of the war, but apparently Saddam stopped building it when pressure from the Arab world protested that it could not be larger than Mecca.


Three soldiers and I are headed to an office so that I can get my official ID as a member of the press.

For the last month, I've grown weary of carrying around a piece of paper that is supposed to get me unescorted access to the chow hall, but most of the Ugandan guards look at it and then look at me as if I am a crazed lunatic. They peer deep into my eyes asking, why, why am I giving them just a piece of paper? I practically go everywhere with another soldier escort fearing I will not be let inside the PX or the pool or the airfield or worse that I'll be detained for my flimsy piece of paper, which a few days ago ripped in two because of its home in my sweaty pocket.

To abttain an ID one has to visit the Combined Press Information Center (CPIC), but I must cross a checkpoint first. The guard looks at my passport and says, no I can't get through. "She needs to get through to get her official ID," says our driver, a journalist in the military. The guards just give us a blank stare and we pull over and wait for a guard that knows our driver.

Twenty minutes later I'm sitting on a wood bench in the CPIC office, waiting for my independence, handed to me in the form of a little plastic badge. What's new? Plastic makes the world go round. The process is easy enough... I hand a nice woman in the office my paperwork and she responds, "Okay, okay, sign this shit okay?" she says smiling, shivering and fussing with papers on her desk. I sign the rules for the press, promising I won't take identifiable pictures of wounded soldiers or detainees.

Next I give my fingerprints and have my picture taken and I smile and they smile and then they put the plastic badge in my hand and I'm out the door. Back in car, we drive in Baghdad, which feels as natural and as bizarre as being born. I watch the green grass, trees, check points, highways, high concrete walls and barbwire around the new embassy pass outside my window.

At the airfield, we wait for our helicopter ride to Balad. The guards blow their whistles whenever a new vehicle approaches. After an hour of whistle blowing I feel like someone is shoving the sounds down my throat, the ringing crawls inside my skull and I want to get out.

I don't miss Balad, it could make someone crazy the to and fro from one barricaded area to another.

Okay, okay, no one likes a whiner, I fly around Iraq in a UH-60 Blackhawk. I am amazed and yes sometimes I feel quite amazing. I can look down onto the fields and the little sand colored homes and the cows herded next to the river. Who sees what I see? I am one of few and my view of Iraq is stored in a velvet drawing room in my brain, as precious as love and death and I will never forget flying over this flat, desolate, green, crowded, vast, small, peaceful and hazy with dust war zone.

On the way back to Balad, I open my eyes wide against the gusts of the open window and my eyes sting and eventually I close them and let whatever goes on down there pass unseen.

Sammy's

There is a Turkish restaurant, called Sammy's, it is the only restaurant in Balad. As one Army Major told me, "We go there because it's different because it's not the chow hall." After several months on base, different buildings and different people are quite the luxury. Ironically Sammy's menu mainly features pizza, which is quite similar to the Pizza Hut at the food court. The thing about Sammy's is that it is a trailer with tables chairs, rugs on the wall and air-conditioning, where the food court offers picnic tables in the heat and meals that must be shared with many flies and birds. The Turkish restaurant is not like anything at home, but at least soldiers can lean back for a moment, waiting for the food to be served by a smiling face and pretend that they are somewhere else, anywhere but the desert.

Letter from Home

I got several packages from home and ripped into them like a deer on fresh grass. One box, from a friend, contained various books from the greats like Dickey Chappelle, Gloria Emerson, Micheal Herr and Tim O'Brian. If only I could finish Gertrude Bell's biography, but I am savoring every word which makes it difficult to turn the page quickly.


The other box, from my mother and father, included a large tin filled with homemade brownies,, much needed pairs of new socks, gray t-shirts, bags of candy by request, tiger milk bars, a DVD of my brother's recently televised Mixed Martial Arts fight and a hand written note. There is nothing quite like seeing my mother's longhand on a piece of paper. I imagine her sitting in her chair one night and writing to me, folding the paper, sealing it up and sending it off. So unlike the sterile and professional email.

I feel as if I have been gone for years. I hear myself saying to soldiers, "I can't believe you have to be here for ten months," and they reply "Why are you leaving early?" I have no intention of not staying, but its surreal for me, like I am just watching days go by.

Colors

While soldiers wait for missions they lounge in the Ready Up room, which has a large screen TV and shelves stocked with DVDs. Today they were watching A River Runs Through It and I sit down for a moment. Out of the sun, the desert fog and flies, I am captivated by the river, the water running over rocks like tongues running over smooth teeth, the grass in the wind like hair one could let down in a civilian world and the mountains rising in the distance remind me that there are some things humans cannot cover in concrete.

The best scenery here is at night before the sky turns black. If you look straight up you'll see midnight blue, then a bit lower there is deep ocean blue fading into shallow sea blue then robin's egg blue, white-blue, gray-blue, gray-white and finally a bit of pink and orange over the shadowed trailers. These are colors we cannot replace with computer or television screens. Colors that fade so quickly that we can still say,"Isn't that beautiful?"

Our Town

The world is shrinking. I am not in Iraq, I am in the smallest town in America, wondering what sunlight looks like when not reflected in armored cars or shut out by high concrete walls.
There are few new faces in this town except for the rotating guards monitoring the incoming traffic on the airfield.
The familiar town citizens only look different at dusk, in the smokey cigar ember light, when they shed their uniforms for PTs (a gray ARMY shirt and black shorts), but those with a swagger still move their hips and those with a limp still land heavily with one foot and I know their names from a mile away.
The faces only change in the rising dust storms. Hats, sunglasses and scarves cover those recognizable features, but soldiers wear their names on their chest, like scars or trophies and I know their names if I get close enough.

The Airfield

It's a ten minute walk to the airfield from my CHU. I often get stopped by cars slowing down to ask if I need a ride. Once on the compound (area on the airfield with offices and barricades) there is silence, unless a mission has been called in, then boots stomp through the gravel and rotor blades fill the air. Otherwise it is a ghost town. Everyone has a job, everyone is filed away in their own trailers working on paperwork or passing the boredom with cards and movies. Others are carrying or dragging or driving around helicopter parts or other odds and ends. If you stand by the landing pads on a clear day,more often then not other helicopters come in to drop off patients or things unknown at the hospital that is only fifty or so feet away.

Beyond the high concrete walls a few trees peek over and from inside the Blackhawk, when it soars over the base you can see the fields of green just beyond our reach.

Oregon Map

I step out of the shower, get dressed and walk outside, my hair soaking wet, and walk fifty feet to the dumpster. I throw out my trash, walk back to my CHU (Containerized Housing Unit aka trailer) and run my hands through my hair, which is now dry and brittle with dust.
I sit on my bed. I can't tell if it is the air conditioning or aircrafts landing nearby that shake the room.
I just moved into a new place, so that I now share my bathroom with another female. I look at the bags on the floor, wondering what is the purpose of putting books on the shelf and clothes on the hanger. This space is not my home, just a temporary shell and I have no desire to put lipstick on the pig. My one decoration is a worn Oregon map that I hang up on the wall just do I can put my finger on those great green areas and follow the river towards the mountains. "Um get over it," jokes one soldier after spying my map, but I am not hopelessly pining away for home. I am simply paying homage to the places that have brought me true happiness.

Good Evening Iraq!

A kevlar vest on my chest and a kevlar helmet on my head I push plastic into my ear cavities. The plane like a prehistoric shark opens its mouth and I walk inside the belly, no windows, no view from above to below.

After landing we walk into the hot darkness and climb aboard a bus headed for somewhere else, just so we can wait for another bus.

The landscape reveals sickly trees struggling to grow straight, a few stars, the tired eyes of soldiers, the hefting of duffels, neon Taco Bell sign, street lights, round abouts and armored cars. Gasoline fumes and dust burrows into my hair, sweaty synthetic clothing, mildew and burning plastic waifs through the air.

The wet CHU (referring to my trailor with a bathroom) is a luxurious space with plastic panels, a bed with a mattress, a night table with a lamp, two closets, a window, air-conditioning and sand.

While other soldiers share cramped quarters, I sit alone in my room wondering what everyone else is doing.

GREEN

Dear Dexter Filkins (famous journalist, who lived in Baghdad during the beginning of the Iraq war and went on daily runs through the city),

How did you manage to run in the streets of Baghdad? This morning I finally worked up the nerve to jog outdoors in Balad.

I hit the chow hall at 0630 hoping that I could get my running shoes on the ground by 0800, therefore missing the scorching heat that could burn the rubber off my soles. Unfortunately I drank too much coffee and couldn't move for thirty minutes. I also stopped by the internet cafe because I knew I could miss the crowds and get a reasonable connection. After my allotted thirty minutes I rushed home only to run into the soldier who had my computer charger, so I waited in my room until he finished breakfast so I could charge me computer during my run. So by the time my ponytail got flopping in the wind it was 0900.

In the words of America, "The heat was hot." Had it not been for the claustrophobia of living inside concrete walls I would have turned back into my air-conditioned hooch (military trailer).

So here I am jogging leisurely by semi-trucks pumping out clouds of black, diesel smoke floating towards me like malicious ghosts.

I ignore the soldiers staring at me as I leave my neighborhood (two hooches on the same block) and I don't even waste the energy to wonder if they are staring because it is crazy to run in this heat. I also ignore the truck driver who asks if I want a ride and the several other "Hey Baby," calls, which come from shadowed faces inside white trucks. Instead of staring at the vehicles charging by, the concrete and dirt I focus my attention on my feet, listening to the sound of my dog tags clinking on my chest.

I turn left onto a street I have never visited. At the end of the road a sign says, "Stop, No Running, No walking, No Biking." Beyond the sign is a wide roadway and beyond that a barb-wired fence and beyond that GREEN. A forest of palm trees sway in the breeze, towering over rich grasses and bushes. Sweat runs into my eyes and blur the oasis into a mirage.

I turn back overwhelmed by the color of vegetation.

I run on the other side of the street and I am again confronted by another foreign sight. A patch of dark green grass lays before me adorned with a sign, "Do not walk on the grass."

Walk on the grass! I would never even think of it, I want to lay down between the blades, bury my face in the familiar smell, but instead I run on without looking back.

Anyways Mr. Filkins, I have read your book, but still, how did you manage running through Baghdad?

Iraq Bike

I borrowed a bike today and went tearing down the street pretending I was not afraid of the semi-trucks and armored vehicles behind me. The ride lasted ten minutes, but I felt free like I was biking home or getting lost in the green forest behind Spencer's Butte in Eugene, Oregon. Then I stopped at the covered dining area, my only access to wireless internet. My excitement evaporated when I leaned the bike against one of the buildings. The flies landed on my eyes lids, cheeks and fingers. Pigeons and other littel birds flittered in and out of my view like trash blowing in the wind. I was wearing my last clean shirt and pants that I refused to wash because the turn around at the laundry service is seventy-two hours and I cant go that long without my blue jeans. Even though the cotton material and small pockets are most impractical they remind me of the world I used to live in.

Several hours later I rode the bike back to the airfield and walked home.

Have Fun at the Pool

"Have fun at the pool," the pilot says with a rueful smile after I inform him I am headed to Balad.

I met him in Oklahoma, on my first Blackhawk flight. It is like that in the military, people constantly run into old friends from flight school and old acquaintances from past deployments and so on. As a civilian I never run into familiar faces so I was excited when the pilot walked into the chow hall.

He is headed to a snaller base without the luxury of two Olympic sized pools.

"See you later," I say as he walks away because you really never know.


After breakfast , I haul my armored vest and helmet from under my cot, drag my bags outside and wait for the bus. "Hurry and wait," is the motto around here. After sunning my red cheeks in the morning light, a group of soldiers and I file into a bus destined for another compound in Kuwait. We wait there for a few hours, eating melted ice cream. Then we take another bus to the airfield. The desert, outside the window, is littered with barbwire and scraps of metal laid out like carcasses. Plastic and paper trash drift in the breeze. A few gray-green bushes stand heroically amidst the remnants of an older war.

Perhaps I should feel some grand emotions as I board the fixed-wing destined for Iraq, but after spending two weeks in Kuwait I only expect more concrete, more sand, maybe a few mortars and a room to myself. Perhaps emotions are contagious and since I am surrounded by soldier popping chewing gum or chatting or sleeping I feel like this is just another day. So I fold my hands over my lap, lean back against my seat and close my eyes.

More Thoughts on the Nature of the Desert

The gray sky carries in a bit of rain landing sideways on my arms. The timid wind combs my hair, cars roll by slowly and soldiers sleepily trudge to the bathrooms and brush their dusty teeth. During these rare, cool hours, the desert doesn't seem so formidable or impassible, but rather reigned in and tamed by a few drops of water. Escaping the concrete walls of the base for the open desert, just to see vacant land stretch into the distance, seems perfectly sane and senseless at the same time.

Tim

I recieved the news via email and tried to think of other things. I tried to keep my eyes on the computer screen, pretending I was alone instead of the crowded coffee shop in Kuwait surrounded by strangers.

And all the while I sat there typing about things like the color of sand instead of imagining my brother with the casket pressing heavily on his shoulder, his eyes blurring from tears and his head pressed against a wooden pew in reverance for his lost friend. "It is tragic going from being in his wedding to being a pallbearer in his funeral," my brother wrote to me about his friend, Tim.

Tim, killed in a traffic accident, left behind a six month old daughter and a fiance.

No matter how I tried to look at it, there was nothing, but devastation. I felt cruel trying to make sense of it because there are so many things this young man will miss and so on.

Here I am in the desert, thinking all through the day, how easily time can simply fail to exist and how living and dying and war and peace are what makes life fragile and exciting and honest and horrible. For many journalists it is death that provides the big break, or a sense of purpose or depression. For myself, I believe that when tragedy strikes, as if inevitably does, there should be someone there to document it and not let people pass on like dreams one cannot remember.

Luke Murphy has created a Trust for Tim's daughter, Adeline ensuring she will have resources for education in the future. Direct deposits can be made at Washington Mutual in the account "To the Daughter of Tim Cunningham" or you can contact lumurphy@microsoft.com for more information.

The Airfield at Night

Green-blue and amber lights glimmer in the airfield. Chinooks and Blackhawks roam the concrete airway like modern dinosaurs, tough-skinned and terrible and beautiful and magnificent all at once. Rotor blades slice through the hot, night sky and soldiers walk briskly in and out of the shadows.

When the helicopters take off into they air they are transformed into falcons, seeming light, and delicate, but still ferocious. One Chinook just hovers over the airfield, like the air produced some kind of ledge for it to gently rest on.

"Everything seems more exciting at night, while most people are sleeping everyone here is working," I tell the soldier walking beside me.

"Its because its too hot to work during the day," he says the wind blowing his voice into the distance.

Half-faces glow from headlamps on mechanic's foreheads as they work on the aircraft.

"Bored yet?" asks one of the mechanics as I stand by just looking up at the sky.

"No," I reply because I can't imagine anything more exciting then to watch the aircrafts hover, land and take off again.

Nothingness and Everything

There is nothingness inside of nothingness here. The land drifts on for miles, with no mountains for comfort, only large berms of concrete and sand. The Taco Bell, the carpet and gift Shop, alterations, laundry and Starbucks are all the same square, dust-colored buildings,only separated by mounted signs on the front. My movements are restricted to and from my tent, the shops, the chow hall and gym. 

I don't feel locked up because there is no where else to go, and I miss nothing because I am rarely reminded of home.

A few days ago it rained. I walked outside, recognizing the smell, but the drops of water soaked into the sand not green grass. 

Of course there are thoughts that occasionally cross my mind like indoor plumbing, wearing my hair down, having a beer with friends, long showers, vegan pizza in Eugene, driving out to Smith Rock or the Three Sisters and saturating my eyes with colors like green and blue. But the newness of everyone and everything here washes away my nostalgia because those lost things are connected to the things that terrify me, like long work hours at part-time jobs indoors, busy work at the University, television and grocery shopping. 

And besides, there is everything on top of everything here. The sand comes up and burrows into my eyes and scalp.  The coffee shops are always crowded and the generators are always running. The soldiers dress the same, but wear different patches on their uniforms and the sky above our heads turn from blue-brown to grey-brown to white-brown to brown.

A Day in the Life

0500 Watched the sunrise.

0530 Went for a four mile run with Specialist Cunningham and Chief Warrant Officer 2 Miller.

0700 Ate potatoes, fruit, yogurt. Drank coffee.

0800 Showered.

0900 Walked to airfield to watch the 60's aka Blackhawks.

0930 Walked across the airfield (1.5 miles).

0945 Walked back across the airfield (1.5 miles).

1015  Took a cat nap in the back of a 60.

1030 Took a brush, scrubbed the helicopter.

1045 Watched pilots flush engines.

1100 Got hungry.

1115 Looked out into the distance and saw nothing but sand and sky.

1200 Ate salad, rice and mango puree.

1300- Escaped the heat, went to the gym at night, ran some more on the treadmill, while watching a UFC on the tube, lifted some five pounders, no big deal.

2100 Some people call it bragging, I call it just doing my job.

Starbucks

 I've never seen so many guns in Starbucks.  The tables are crowded with soldiers in uniform at their computers attempting internet usage on an over loaded server.

I'm in the middle of a desert living days like swaths of white fabric in a factory, each day another piece is manufactored, it is brand new, but looks the same, feels the same. 

Time is confusing living here in the windowless large tent I share with twenty female soldiers. The flourescent lights come on sometime between 5 am and 6 am, but for a 4:30 am morning bathroom break, walking to the door requires a flashlight. That is until I open the door and let the light in into my eyeballs and on my skin. I'm instantly as dry as the dust under my feet. I reach for my sunglasses, but realize that I have left them on the bed. So I head out, squinting to the porta potties.

Later, I walk to the airfield. I walk from office to office, watch a few aircrafts roll by. 

I eat lunch at taco bell with some flies and the take cover in my tent during the heat of the day.

Taking a Break

The soldiers had a four day break this month. I went to Seattle for the final good-bye to my mother, father, brother, aunt and grandparents. I looked forward to wearing my slim jeans, knee high black boots and silk tops. I wanted to flat iron my hair, wear make-up, drink beer and eat four meals a day. When I told my mother my plan she pointed out the fact that I had only been away for six days. "Yes," I replied, "But I want to live it up before I leave for ten months."

When I got to the Northwest I no longer felt keen to dress up and despite best intentions I was not that hungry. I caught a glimpse of what one could call the Time Machine Syndrome, which often plagues soldiers.

Here is the scenario: 

Soldiers deploy for long periods of time in foreign countries. When they return home, nothing has changed. Their homes look the same. Wives, husbands and children look the same, time has stood still. Yet the soldier has changed, as if they have crammed a lifetime in a year.

Of course, as my mother previously mentioned, I have only been gone for six days, but judging by how much time it seemed had passed, I glimpsed at the future.

I wanted to share every detail, but events seem trapped in a dream like sequence that I could no longer capture. I reverted to photographs to tell the tales, but soon the topic of conversation didn't matter.  The truth was I hadn't really changed, not after six days anyways. 

Perhaps I am really just an observer after all.

The Mess Hall

"The apple tasted pretty good," I tell the soldier after my first luncheon at the mess hall. "The water tasted great," I add. 

The technical term for the mess hall is the MOB (mobilization) cafe because it is a temporary place for soldiers passing through on their deployment.  Breakfast, lunch and dinner is served in a large tent structure near the barracks. On windy days dining feels rather dangerous. Light fixtures on the ceiling shake and the sides of the tent ripple like a ship sail's in a storm. On extremely blustery days the doors blow open and knock styrofoam cups and plastic spoons into the air.

Fox news can be viewed on two flat screen TVs, but most soldiers sit with their unit and chit chat during meals. The food and atmosphere reminds me of the cafeteria at my grade school, except the staff is a much friendlier crew. They always smile as they scoop spoonfuls of rice or meat, which some soldiers refer to as slop.

I am the only civilian here. As I walk by the tables soldiers stop chewing and stare at me with quizzical expressions. Usually I wear jeans, a  t-shirt and my brown vest. Most of the units know I am a journalist, but some have no idea why I am allowed civilians clothes. One soldiers asked me if I was fresh out of boot camp because he thought I didn't know the rules. 

So perhaps people think I just don't know any better. One soldier suggested that I should wear a shirt that says Press. I told him, I don't think so. I don't want a bunch of people coming up to me and pressing my chest with their hands and saying, "What? It says press."

Running

I run downhill over jagged, loose rocks in rattlesnake country on a military base.  I feel like Dexter Filkins, the famous New York Times journalist who wrote about his daily runs during his two and a half year stint in Baghdad. Instead of passing through checkpoints, I run past signs that warn danger from artillery fire and forbid pets in certain areas. 

I run, hearing the thunder of artillery in the distance. I run, imagining what Filkins must have felt, the release one gets when in motion, free from dilemmas that bind us to stress.  I run, laughing quietly to myself because I am a slow runner. I am simply a hopeful journalist, a Filkins wannabe. I am only following the footsteps of other runners who have already worn out this trail.

The Bus Ride

I'm in a large bus.  The movie, "Dan in Real Life" plays on a small screen overhead. I nod off to sleep. When I awake I wonder, why are there rows and rows of men surrounding me? It takes me a minute to remember that I am an embedded journalist with the Oregon Army National Guard. For at  least the next nine hours I will spend close quarters with these soldiers. 

I could report something interesting, but the truth is I fall asleep again. Sleeping being one of my greatest skills.

We stop in several gas stations in small towns that sell anything from car radios to belt buckles to patriotic clothing. 

The soldiers wander through shelves of cupcakes and crackers. They are allowed to wear their civilians clothes until we get back to the base. I am surprised that I cannot identify certain people outside of their camouflage gear and tan boots. Soldiers look much different donning white tennis shoes and t-shirts with funny slogans.

Dust

The soldiers are practicing dust landings. I am practicing dust photojournalism. Before I get on the Blackhawk I am warned to keep the caps on my camera lenses. Apparently dust can get anywhere. Inside the aircraft the dust flutters about settling on various objects like my seat, hands, hair and equipment. This is nothing compared to the dust I experience when I am allowed to get out of the Blackhawk. I clumsily exit onto the desert and squint my eyes as a soldier escorts me away from the noise of the aircraft. Once I look up the helicopter's rotor blades begin to spin and soon the sound is replaced by silence. It is an interesting feeling, getting dropped off in the middle of nowhere by a Blackhawk. "How long do you think we could last here," I joke to the soldier.

He tell me that he doesn't think we have to worry considering that we just saw a truck drive by and that he can see a building in the distance. I guess I have romanticized this situation, I've always wanted to survive in the desert.

When the helicopter lands dust pours out in the air. I begin shooting pictures until my camera makes an awful beeping noise. The screen holds something like this message: error clean dust from lens. This is not a good sign. Luckily I have another camera, which works just fine even under this stress.

 When I get home there is dust embedded in my scalp. It is easy to shower and wash the grit away, but cleaning my camera won't be that easy. I carefully take the lens off the camera body, give it a quick dust off and lock it back into place. I snap a few pictures, no beeping. My conclusion, problem solved.

Meal Ready to Eat

Today I'm treated to my first MRE or Meal Ready to Eat. I am offered several vegetarian options, such as the veggie burger, manicotti and the vegetable omelet. The meals come with powdered drinks, side dishes and dessert. They are similar to the dehydrated meals you find for backpacking at outdoor stores.

My first choice is the veggie burger. The "meat" cooks in a bag that chemically produces heat and I am told it can reach finger burning degrees. After carefully removing the warmed meat from the bag using a soldier's pocket knife I take my first bite. It tastes a lot like tofu jerky, salty and chewy. A bun or wheat bread cracker compliments the patty. A packet of potato skins, similar to potato chips make the meal complete. 

The best thing about the MREs is that mini bottles of hot sauce are included in each packet because as one soldier said, "it makes everything taste good."

It's not too bad considering that I won't have to eat one three times a day. From what I've heard the MRE will keep your stomach full in more ways than one. 

My 1st Ride

1 am: I arrive at the fort. My room is full of four sleeping soldiers from another company. In the dark I get into bed with my clothes on. My luggage is somewhere in some airport.

I toss and turn. I am afraid I'll get up late on my first day in the Army. I wake up tangled in my sheet, the plastic mattress sticking to my legs.

8 am: I meet up with a group of soldiers from Illinois. I make the mistake of pronouncing their state with an s. We discuss passenger guidelines for riding in the helicopter. They ask me if I understand. I tell them all I have to do is stay in my seat until someone shoves me overboard. They laugh because that is essentially right.

10 am: I feel like strands from my ears, eyebrows and chin lift me up into vast swirls of blue and white outside the window. Every notch in my spine vibrates. I am officially riding in my first Blackhawk. It is my first day as a civilian in the Army.
After take off I am lulled to sleep by the helicopter's blades.
In the afternoon, we stop in a small town to grab lunch and refuel the aircraft.
Once again the Blackhawk lifts me up and the ground below shrinks. Great land formation of valleys and plauteaus seem like photos I could stick in my pocket.
Life is great.

Then comes the wind, followed by the sickness. The Blackhawk dips in and out. I try focusing on the horizon, but it sways like waves in the ocean.

"Do not get sick on you first flight," I repeat to myself clenching the edge of the seat with my sweaty fingers.

Luckily I have a bag in my purse so I won't have to use my shirt in case I can't hold it in.

I look at the soldier in front of me who is reading the paper. I close my eyes feeling green just thinking about one word. When I open my eyes again he is working on a Sudoku puzzle. This guy must be made of steel.

"Maybe I'm not cut out for this," I think.


After several nasueating hours we reach the ground. I try to conceal my joy.
When I meet the other soldiers in my company they tell me that their flights are cancelled because of the wind. "So rides are not usually that bumpy?" I ask.

After another flight and several days talking to soldiers I find out the answer.
Definitely not.

Turns out I will be able to handle most rides in the Blackhawk, but you will never see me with a newspaper in hand, unless it can be used as a barf bag.

Packing

Day One

March 31st 

In the past I've purchased most of my clothes from either second hand stores or from discount racks. Now I'm left with a bright red fleece, a lime-green rain shell, pink wool tops, and purple socks. Last week, I started packing for my ten-month trip to Iraq. I need clothes. Turns out that colors like khaki, grey, green and black are hardly ever on sale, but I can't go to the desert wearing primary colors. Now after several shopping trips my suitcase is packed with around 30 pounds of earth tones. 

Some other key items packed away:

-Over fifteen books including One Hundred Years of Solitude and Gertrude Bell: Queen of the Desert, Shaper of Nations.

-A hat with a net that fall around your face to protect from bugs.

-Headlamps, sleeping bag, note pads and other uninteresting items.

-Handheld video camera, two camera bodies, four lenses and computer.

-A giant cookie baked by my neighbor.

-A picture of my grandmother and two great aunts, a gift from my uncle.

-A desire to maintain objectivity.

After all this careful packing I hand off my bags to the airport. Unfortunately after nine hours of traveling my final flight is canceled and my bags are routed to my original destination without me. So for my first four days in the Army I have to wear the same outfit. It works out fine since the soldiers have to wear their uniforms everyday. What's my uniform of choice? Black lightweight wool zip up and jeans. I tell everyone that I'm roughing it.