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?