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!