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.