As I embarked on my journey—I was to fly a commercial airline into Kuwait and from there hop aboard military transportation to Iraq—two “news” stories dominated the airwaves: an Imam planned to open a community center in an old Burlington Warehouse located several blocks from Ground Zero in New York, and a nutcase minister wanted to burn copies of the Qur’an on 9/11 in Florida.
I found these stories interesting, because I was landing in Kuwait at the tail end of the month of Ramadan. Ramadan is like Lent on steroids; it is a holy time for Muslims in which they fast from sunup to sundown. The reason I parallel the events from America with Ramadan is: Kuwait is a kingdom, not a democratic society. This means I was told in advance to adhere to the laws governing that religion while visiting. When in public, such as walking through the airport or even in a military vehicle traveling between United States military bases, I was told not to drink or eat, including water. If Kuwaiti law enforcement were to see me doing so, I would be arrested and thrown in jail. This despite the fact I am not Muslim. Or, as the case may be, it was more likely I would be thrown in jail because I am not Muslim. Apparently the law is imposed more strictly on foreigners and foreign workers than Kuwaiti nationals.
Kuwait is an obnoxiously rich country; they carry a budget surplus of billions of dollars annually. So Kuwaiti citizens are wealthy, and thus during Ramadan simply shift their habits. They sleep the day away, then awake at dusk to party and drink (but only behind closed doors; drinking in public would be bad, because it is forbidden in Islamic states). Those who have to be awake during daylight hours, merchants, maids, visitors to the country, and the like, are then punished for trying to sustain their health while the sun shines. Unfair, but that’s what you get without democracy.
How I relate Ramadan with the Community Center is by using it as a prime example of what freedom is. Not only do the obnoxious non-thinkers of the country have the right to cry about a Mosque being placed inside an abandoned warehouse, but the Muslims involved actually get to buy the warehouse and build their Mosque wherever they damn well please. These are both living, breathing example of what it means to live inside the borders of a free nation. To those who would cry that the building of the Mosque is a threat to “our way of life,” I would ask them to visit a non-democratic country. After doing so, they might consider opening their pie-holes when having nothing of value to say.
Relating my visit to the arsonist in Florida is a little trickier. What I believe is: as people in the Islamic world do not have freedom, they do not understand the full spectrum of opportunities it allows. Under their law, burning the Qur’an is illegal, and most likely punishable by death; most things over there seem to be. What they cannot comprehend is that freedom allows people to act like jackasses and get away with it. If they could relate their fetish for burning our flag and, in effigy, our president to crackpots in America who desecrate their holy book, they might gain insight into why it was a non-issue. As it stands neither sanity nor intelligence can be forced upon anyone.
Both events seem to show a willful ignorance on the part of media outlets than anything else. People do not think things through and generally react in anger over reason; it is easier to lash out and feel better than to sit for five minutes and attempt to assess any situation. When those in the Muslim world cry, “America hates Islam” because one fanatical moron in Florida wishes to burn their book, it’s because they don’t understand the difference between majority and minority. 300 million Americans are reduced to Islam-bashing Satanists quite quickly. Likewise, knuckle-draggers in America who proudly proclaim, “I learned all I need to know about Islam on 9/11” demean an entire religion thanks to their limited understanding of the whole.
It makes me wonder how much information we ingest is actually news, and how much is distractionary bullshit designed simply to get our blood boiling and therefore keep us unfocused. In the spring of 2010, the country of Greece was ready to default on a loan and throw the world economy into destruction. Didn’t happen. Before that, swine flu was set to run riot around the globe, killing millions. Didn’t happen. There are so many examples I could point to of sensationalism it’s pathetically hilarious. And yet we buy into it again and again; Obamacare is socialism! Teh gays are trying to marry! Drugs are bad, mmmkay? All non-issues that do nothing but keep a populace focused away from truly important issues: the economy, cost of living, the health of everyone in our society, human rights, and so on.
But I digress, as happens so often when I write. My tale is supposed to involve my traveling overseas, not the failings of our news media (and by relation, ourselves.) I landed in Kuwait during Ramadan, and was happy to discover the “don’t eat/drink while driving between bases” was mostly a scare tactic. On long drives, my lovely America liaison put sunshades up in the car. These served the dual purpose of: (a) keeping the sun out of the car, and (b) allowing passengers to eat/drink without being seen. Take that, Kuwaiti food-enforcement patrol.
Oh, and as terrifying and silly arrest for drinking water seems, there is humor in every situation. Much like police blotters in small town USA that post the names of drunk drivers and shoplifters, the Kuwaiti national newspaper also carries a criminal section in its back pages. “Achmed was caught eating a sandwich!” “Jamal drank a Mtn. Dew and was jailed!” The postings are brief, and hilarious. Humiliation takes many forms, and I suppose “offending god” is up there with the best of them. But it still makes me laugh.
Our first show almost didn’t happen. A few months prior to our arrival, another entertainment agency sent over comedians who were so inappropriate the base commander said, “No more comedy. Ever.” A poor, knee-jerk reaction, yes, but it took the leader of my tour much in the way of cajoling and explanation to make the man understand two things: not all comedy is created equally, and comedy is for the twenties-something men and women serving, not necessarily him, the fifty-year-old commander. Language was an issue last time around, and while were eventually allowed to perform, our show was to be “radio clean.”
This was fine, but also a little odd. The men and women we were to stand in front of were in a war zone. They carried guns, fought and could possibly die for America, but bad language was considered harmful to them? Not only that, but the one thing they were trying to install in the Middle East was the concept of democracy, and an important part of democracy is freedom of speech.
Because of the controversy following the previous show and excitement of comedy returning, our event was standing room only. The seats, aisles and back of the house were all full, giving the room an electric energy. For the most part, each comic adhered to the law of the land—I did a “clean in language” sex joke; the other comics dropped gentle swear words—and the show was a huge success.
Afterwards, as we did our meet and greet, shaking hands and such, I noticed a trend that became too silly to ignore.
“Thanks for coming,” a soldier would say.
“Thanks for serving our country,” I would return. “And thanks for the mustache.”
Yes, the more soldiers passed me, the more I noticed every male was attempting to grow a soup strainer beneath his nose. A female soldier finally shed light on this goofy obsession. She asked to take a picture with the comics, and as she and several female friends stepped in, they curved their index finger up across the top of their respective lips. On each index finger was a squiggle: a hand drawn mustache.
“It’s so boring over here,” she explained, “that a few days ago the men all got a bug in their butt and decided to grow mustaches. All the women think it’s silly.”
Of course they did. Growing a mustache as a fashion statement is a rather goofy thing to do.
But growing a mustache just to do so? That’s something I approve of, and I then laughed at every peach-fuzzed upper lip I saw.
One of the most surprising insights of the tour came to light over dinner at COB Adder. A soldier named Robin started the discussion, and when the topic surfaced half the table piped up, describing similar experiences.
Robin’s mother was walking through a grocery store in the states when a neighbor spotted her, approached, and gave her an excited hug.
“Oh, you must be so happy,” the neighbor stated. “Your daughter is finally home!”
The mother was confused; “My daughter is in Iraq.”
“But Obama was on TV saying the troops were home...” the neighbor stammered.
After that night, I asked soldiers if the situation was familiar to them, and many laughed and nodded their head. The sad fact of it is, many people in America believe the troops are now safely with their families. It is to our detriment as a society that we notice headlines and disregard content. “Combat Troops Come Home” may shine brightly, but if you continue just a paragraph or two into the story, you read, “50,000 support troops remain in Iraq.”
I have to admit to surprise, but not shock, regarding this revelation. Reading into details is not how people operate, and this is a worldwide phenomena. Consider again the outrage in Afghanistan, when pastor mustache in Florida announced he was going to burn a Qur’an; people torched flags and held protests. What they didn’t read was this was a single nutjob with only 50 followers. In a nation of over 300 million people, one man made worldwide news due to a combination of overreaction, and media stupidity.
I say media stupidity because it takes two to tango. While people are responsible for scratching beneath the surface to find truth in a situation, it is sometimes difficult to do in such a frenzied, sensationalistic environment. By giving attention to the Florida fanatic, the media validated him, which is the last thing they should be doing. You don’t reward asinine behavior, you either ignore it, or put it in its place. Have you ever seen a mother trying to reason with a two-year-old?
“Sweetie, stop crying. We don’t act like this in public. Put the toy back, please...”
Bullshit.
Swat the kid on the ass, or turn and walk away, letting him realize, “Oh shit, I’m on my own now and no one is paying attention to me.”
I have believed in this approach for as long as I can remember. In 1989, Andres Searrano set the Christian world afire with his picture, “Piss Christ.” A plastic crucifix was set in a jar of urine, and a photograph was taken. This was in 1987. For two years, nothing happened, until in 1989 people discovered the picture and went ballistic. The whole time the controversy surged, I couldn’t help but think, “If you don’t like it, why not just ignore it?” All the press the artist was receiving could do nothing but further his career, which was probably the exact opposite of what the angry mob wanted.
Regarding pastor mustache, at this point it doesn’t even matter that the Qur’an wasn’t burned. There are no doubt people across the globe who believe he did torch it because of all the hype surrounding anticipation of the event. In such situations, belief becomes much more important than fact, which is regrettable.
Such is the problem with religious zealots worldwide. Without confidence, you cannot be secure in your faith. Thus, if someone says they are going to burn your book, be it the Qur’an, Bible, Stephen King, or any other silly tome, instead of saying, “Well, that’s on you to burn it; you will suffer the consequences,” the insecure attack and cry and holler.
Maybe it is an unfortunate trait inherent in many humans to simply react first, and think second (if at all). In life and on line, I have been witness to many a person whose immediate thought is to assume the worst and lash out in ignorance and anger, rather than to approach a situation with the benefit of doubt, leaning towards caution and compassion. What’s funny, meaning sad, is: often times those lashing out and shouting forth accusations are simply exposing their own shortcomings as a person.
By the time we get to a place called Wassam, I have lost track of the acronyms used to describe locations; I’m not entirely sure if it’s a FOB, COB, Firebase, or “other.” What I do know is that it is an encampment inside an Iraqi military base. As America slowly eases out of the country, locations once entirely run by American soldiers are turned over to the Iraqi army. Sometimes we vacate the premises entirely; other times we cordon ourselves off in a corner of the site. Even when America shares an area with Iraqi counterparts, it is not done in an open environment. High gates, guard towers and blast walls separate the two armies within the walls of the larger base itself.
A First Sergeant was at the landing pad, and immediately issued a gruff apology for what was going to be a light show. The night before, two Apache helicopters had been escorting an Iraqi convoy and watched as it was set upon by “Sand Pirates.” These were looters, people dedicated to profit not insurgency, and had no clue the Apaches were high above and out of sight. They saw what they thought were “easy pickings,” and opened fire on the convoy. The Apache pilots rolled their eyes, lit up their guns, and wiped out every vehicle and attacker within minutes. Now that it was daylight, a platoon had gone out to gather up the bodies.
The First Sergeant says this, and then adds with a gruff laugh; “One of their looter buddies saw my platoon cleaning things up, and for some fucked up reason thought it would be a good idea to take a shot at them. Now his body needs cleaning up.”
He is a living, breathing stereotype, and I like him for it. His manner is direct, and it’s easy to believe that when the uniform comes off, the attitude remains. That he divulges he been divorced three times within his forty-some years lends credence to this suspicion.
The First Sergeant explained he would be calling a mandatory formation in the rec room; said space also doubled as their dining facility. Slowly, soldiers trickled in one by one; the First Sergeant was going tent to tent and issuing his order. There was to be no hiding from the show under his watch.
While standing behind a group of soldiers, I overheard a comment that made me wince: “Man, I’m beat. I just wanted to sit and play some Xbox and relax. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
Lovely. Standing in front of a hostile audience is never a fun thing, and an apprehension to the stage crept into me.
Fortunately, the First Sergeant knew his men well. When everyone was finally assembled, he introduced the show, and did so in his natural manner.
“Listen up! I know that you all probably wanted to nap, sit around and play fucking Xbox, or do some other stupid shit, but we had some comedians travel here all the way from the states to entertain us, and we are going to show them the respect they deserve!”
I smiled; nothing like giving the troops orders to laugh: “Private! I did not see you laughing at the third joke the comedian told! You will give me pushups NOW!”
However, that said, the show went exceedingly well. So well, in fact, that afterwards I was told one of the best quotes I’ve ever heard in my life. Walking by the First Sergeant during the show, one of his men said, “First Sergeant, you’re smiling. That means we’re having a comedy show, or you just got to kill someone.”
Funny, but also something known as a “no brainer.” Of course it was a comedy show; had he gotten to kill someone, he would have been laughing. Manically.
Afterwards, several hours remained before pickup, so I struck up a conversation with several soldiers and discussed America having to play janitor to bodies the Iraqi army would have let rot in the desert. Our talk led to further insight regarding the development of Iraq as a free nation. For several years it has been said “Iraq is a new democracy; it’s going to take them a while to work out the kinks.” The statement rings true, and makes me believe that if Iraq is experiencing growing pains, the country is currently in its rebellious teenage years. Not that we’re the absolute parents to Iraqi independence, but we did in the least attempt to mentor them. Compare it to a big brother/sister program; those usually focus on stable adults trying to steer wayward teens down the right path. That’s kind of like what we have going with Iraq.
Now that they’re technically on their own, Iraqi soldiers are pushing out their chest and demanding respect. I am told when two convoys cross paths on a highway, with the U.S. trucks are going one way and Iraqi vehicles the other, the event will turn into a Mexican stand off. Neither side is ever willing to pull over and let the other pass with a wide berth; each expects the other to demur. Many soldiers suspect this is most likely because members of the Iraqi military know we are not allowed to get into it with them. The fact of the matter is when push comes to shove, the Iraqi army acts like my Mini-Schnauzer, Kitty. Kitty is all bark, no bite. If someone comes to the door, he will rush them with a volley of bark-bark-bark-bark-bark! This is his house, and they damn better respect it. But if that person then bends over to pet Kitty, he scurries behind either my wife Lydia or I; he’s not exactly sure what the stranger is doing, but his barks weren’t threatening enough, and he needs the protection of mommy or daddy to back him up. The Iraqi army operates the same way; when all is well, they strut their stuff proudly. When the bullets start flying, “Call in the Americans!”
Several days after Obama declared combat missions had ended in Iraq, insurgents attacked a compound in Baghdad. According to all official news reports, Americans “provided cover” for Iraqi troops fighting off this attack. This was either an outright lie or journalistic lethargy. Before the story ever hit the press, soldiers on the ground were talking about the battle. Our soldiers fought, and fought hard. In a firefight, yes, you can “provide cover,” but if insurgents are attacking a perimeter, does anyone really think any soldier is going to sit back and go, “Ok, that’s just Iraqis working out their differences. I’m going to wait it out up here and maybe shoot the occasional straggler”?
While I write, I do realize that I am painting an incomplete picture, one fairly biased. These are the words I heard when speaking with American soldiers. No doubt there are two sides to every story, and the Iraq army is probably full of men proud of their country and willing to fight to the death for it; I was just unable to speak with them is all.
That aside, there are other signs Iraq is not exactly on the same page as America when it comes to the transition of power. As our bases close and/or are turned over to Iraqi control, there is a strict set of guidelines that must be followed. Like a rental property, we are to return the base in either the same or better condition than we found it in. Which is fine; it’s not Americas place to treat a foreign country like a Led Zeppelin hotel room. But the punishment for discrepancy in condition is capricious at best, and hypocritical at worst. While America is held to high standards, nationals are not. An example I am given involves an oil stain; should an American truck have leaked oil and left a stain on some gravel, that could be a $20,000 fine levied against us. At the same time, the Iraqi contractor in charge of vacuuming out American Port-a-Potty units dumps his waste—chemicals, feces and all—directly into a river a short drive from the base. This dumping ground is approximately one mile up river from a village that uses the water for cooking, cleaning, and washing. Yet we will be fined for oil stain left on some rocks. I believe the word to describe such a situation is “ingratitude.”
Everywhere I went, one rule of thumb seemed to be: the smaller the base, the more rewarding the performance. Though more established locations might have converted theaters and p.a. systems, very little could beat standing in a cramped little room with fifty soldiers and using my best theater voice to shout my act so all could hear. After a show at an outpost called Eastern Barracks, every single solder had the same thankful comment; “I can’t believe you guys are here. No one EVER comes here. This is the first entertainment we’ve ever had.”
They were easily the best audience on the entire trip.
Returning to base camp from Eastern Barracks was a bit of fun. Not at first, as we sat for about an hour inside a hot MRAP—a heavily armored transport truck—at the landing zone waiting for pickup. Our handlers didn’t want us out in the open, because while they said they were in the safest province of Iraq and hadn’t had an issue with violence in over a year, it was still best not to take chances.
When our helicopters finally arrived, everyone waiting was tired, sore, and ready to go. For the first twenty minutes, the ride was normal. Then, as we approached the town outside our destination, the two Blackhawks (all helicopters fly in pairs for safety) started doing “swooping circles” over the area, banking sideways at sharp angles low to the ground. Every time the helicopter banked, the gunner on that side would stand and scan the ground for activity.
This went on for about ten minutes, and I assumed they were just showing us a good time; “Hey, some maneuvers for the comics.”
I was wrong.
After we landed I was given two pieces of information: the reason the helicopters were late in retrieving us is they had been at a security briefing. The camp we were lodging at had been shelled two nights in a row; the night before our arrival, and our first night there. Intel had come in stating the insurgents involved had launched their attacks from the back of a white pickup truck. The Blackhawks were supposed to pick the comics up, dump us out, and go look for the truck.
There is an old saying, “No matter how hot a woman is, some guy is tired of fucking her.” It’s how Halle Berry and Michelle Pfeiffer have been cheated on in the past. Likewise, no matter how exciting your job may seem to others, when you do it long enough, it’s a job and becomes boring. The helicopter pilots knew that to drop us off, and then head back out again, would add about hour to their workday. To avoid this extension, they decided to just look for the truck on the flight home. Apaches had covered us from above; all the Blackhawks were to do was spot and call in coordinates.
Had the enemy engaged, however... Well then. Who knows what fun could have been had? Wishful thinking, I suppose.
While being a part of executed maneuvers should have been the most fun had on a helicopter, a previous flight had already provided endless amusement for me. Seating on a Blackhawk is arranged in rows: two seats facing forward, four facing the rear, and four seats again facing forward. On one trip, I was in the back row, facing forward. In the seats in front of me, facing me, were two soldiers, our guides for the day. In the seats in front of them, facing forward, was the entertainment liaison for the tour, Kenne.
What this means is: I could see Kenne, the gunners, and our pilots. Basically, I had a great view from the back of the chopper. The people in front of me, however, were stuck looking at me. How unfortunate for them.
At one point, I saw Kenne move from his seat and sit next to the gunner, positioning himself directly behind the .50 caliber machine gun. I noticed the helicopter had descended, and was skimming the desert surface. When the war started, I was told that on every flight they test-fired the guns just to make sure everything was in working order. No one wanted to discover a jam when coming across a patch of frisky Al Qaeda members.
In my several trips over, I hadn’t yet witnessed a test fire, but when I saw Kenne move, my eyebrows raised. I believed I was about to see the guns fired, and even more interesting: I realized the two soldiers sitting in front of me had no idea what was about to happen.
If you’ve ever heard gunfire, you know that as the caliber increases, so does the firepower and noise. Thus a .22 will be louder than an air rifle, and an M-16 louder than a .22. When a .50 caliber is fired, it is loud. Loud enough to be heard over the roar of whirling helicopter rotors.
I watched Kenne in anticipation, and I was not let down. After a quick explanation of operation by the gunner, Kenne pressed down his thumbs and let fly the bullets. And in front of me? Both soldiers near jumped out of their seats and began looking around frantically, reaching for their guns; were we under attack!?
They were only confused for a half-second or so, but that was enough to amuse me for the entire day. When we landed, they both confirmed they were about to lean out the windows with their weapons ready. I liked that. They could be startled, but into action, not fear. Or so they claimed.
On my second tour of Iraq, in 2009, I was given very disturbing statistics involving suicide rates in the military. Unfortunately, that situation has only grown problematic; June 2010 posted the highest number of military suicides to date. What’s frightening is, suicide might not be the worst morale problem currently threatening our armed forces.
At the end of the day, suicide hurts only one person. Family and friends will feel emotional pain, but the physical act that ends a life is taken at ones own hand, which is fair game. Unfortunately, a force that involves hurting another, damaging them beyond repair, is currently at work within the walls of American military bases. In one calendar month, on one of the larger bases I visited, ten rapes were reported. Ten. In one month. Three in one week. The number is amazingly large. Were I better at math I would work up a percentage; 5,000 troops vs. 10 rapes has to be a mind-boggling statistical number.
The idea of rape is near impossible for me to wrap my head around. How do you even get aroused when you are inflicting that kind of violence upon another person? Rape is one of the reasons I am pro-death penalty. I’m so pro death I think it should be mandatory in many cases. I do not believe it to be a deterrent to crime, neither do I play the silly mind-fuck game of, “you should throw them in prison, where they’ll get raped. That’s worse punishment than killing them.” To me, the death penalty is not about deterrence or punishment; it is simply taking out the trash. You give someone a fair trial. Offer all the DNA evidence possible. Give them an appeal, then kill them.
There is no other solution I can think of. In America, the act of rape is abhorrent enough, but within the military? The uniform is supposed to be a bonding agent; all who wear it are supposed to be connected. However, that it is taking place in the military also makes a frightening bit of sense. After all, how do you take aggressive young males, isolate them far from home, put them into a high stress situations where they are forced to kill or be killed, and then expect them to understand when a woman says “no?”
After hearing the disturbing news, the number swam around my mind repeatedly: ten in one month, ten in one short month... To be sure I wasn’t being misled, I confirmed the number independently with several people, and it was then I received an interesting twist to the statistic: Ten rapes, one male.
My ears perked.
One male?
Given the slew of attractive teachers in America that “raped” their 14-year old male students in the past decade, that sounded promising.
Then it was explained three male Ugandan guards raped a fellow Ugandan. Considering I had been walking around the base, alone, every night at 3 a.m., I found this new information quite chilling. When I voiced my fears to the group, I was assured that I was safe, as no one would want to rape me. I countered that I am quite rapeable, and from there the conversation devolved into slanderous assaults upon my being from which I have not yet recovered.
Regardless, the military is a very male-dominated world. This forces some, not all, women in the military to adopt more masculine attitudes, which is why I initially believed the male rape could have taken place at the hands of a woman. I shall explain.
To load onto a Blackhawk, you do so by approaching it from the side. You board, and then move across the body of the helicopter to the furthest open seat. By doing so, no one has to climb over you when they get on; should you sit down immediately, you’d create a bottleneck and jam up the process. How I, a civilian know this, while members of the military do not, is beyond me.
Our final flight of the trip had me first in line and first to the Blackhawk. I boarded, crawled over all open seats, and plopped down in what I believed would be the most out of the way location. A minute later, a gunner outside began gesturing angrily at me. The gunner was head to toe in a jumpsuit, wearing gloves, a helmet, and faceplate. I could see nothing but forceful, angry hand movements and head shaking; “YOU. MOVE. NOW.” The gunner had brought someone around the front of the helicopter to load them on the far side, meaning though I climbed across open seats to leave space behind me, I was now in the “wrong” seat.
I moved, but was somewhat bothered by the degree to which I was chastised. It wasn’t a simple, “Hey, wrong seat” gesture; there was tension and forceful anger behind them. It stuck with me, and for the whole trip I focused on the gunner, trying to get into his head. Maybe he was having a bad day, maybe he just didn’t like dealing with fuckhead civilians like me, I didn’t know. Until I looked closer, that is. The hands in the gloves were very small. The jumpsuit contained a petite body. Though no breasts showed, it suddenly hit me: that’s a woman. There is a woman gunner on this flight. Two thoughts followed: good for her for breaking a stereotype, but damn, no wonder she was forceful. In a man’s army, she probably felt she could show no soft side. Everything had to be done with angry determination, or her crew might think her weak.
When we disembarked, sure as shit, the faceplate went up and a hard as nails female face was exposed.
I told one of my travelers all my thoughts after the ride was over, and he looked at me as if I were nuts.
“Dude,” he said, laughingly rolling his eyes. “You think too much. Maybe she’s just a bitch.”
Touché. But I bet she could have raped my lilywhite ass, should she have chosen to.
When on military tours, commanders go out of their way to show generous hospitality. They are proud of the men and women working under them, and want visitors to learn about the base and how it functions. I got to visit: Apache helicopters (I got to sit in one involved with taking out the sand pirates), Predator drones (much larger in person than expected), the base fire department (actual excited quote, “the DFAC in zone three has been on fire a lot lately. The last time it was a fuel fire, with flames everywhere, and I was like BOO-YAH!”), a K9 unit (I got attacked by a vicious little puppy), and in Basrah, the base hospital.
The hospital visit started out on a light note; there were buckets of condoms at both entrances, back and front. Basrah may not be overtly promoting sexual fraternization between soldiers, but handing out condoms is in the least tacit approval. In such an environment, that simple act might help combat the problem of forced sexual advances.
On my previous trip to Iraq, 2009, things were amazingly quiet across the country regarding American fortifications. Violence was generally sectarian, and one base I visited hadn’t lost a single person to insurgent attack in over six months. Sadly, that was not the case on this trip.
I arrived in Basrah to discover only one-week previous, mortars had landed inside the perimeter, killing one.
In the hospital’s ER, our guide, a man who had been upbeat, smiling and happy the whole tour, grew somber.
“Did they tell you what happened last week?” He asked, referring to the mortar attack. “He died right there.”
His eyes were affixed to a gurney. Nothing about it looked special. There was no residual blood, no lingering ghost, no suggestion that something so horrible had occurred only seven days earlier.
Everyone held in silence a moment, and then the guide half-whispered and half-spoke to himself in a saddened voice.
“I can’t even remember his name.”
The confession created a stillness in the room. It remained delicately hung in the air as I exited.
When my time in Iraq ended, I felt it had been too short, which is my standard thought at journey’s conclusion. Though I always enjoy performing for the military, this tour meant a little more to me than previous visits. Last year, everything in Iraq seemed large. Our bases were big, and many people went about their business in a half daze, mostly bored with everything going on. This year, with the troop drawdown, I discovered that everyone had the exact same duties as before, only with much fewer people available to execute all commands. This led to a high level of stress in certain areas, and it meant a lot to me to be able to alleviate that stress through laughter, even if only for a moment or two.
American troops may be living and working in Iraq under the banner “Operation New Dawn,” but from what I could see everything was the same old, same old. “Operation New Dawn” may have its roots in genuine concern for the American military and the hope of a better tomorrow, but in reality it’s simply a label. Rebranding is as old as mankind; a company or situation is burdened with negative imagery, so a label is dreamed up, and the situation or company is dressed in the new clothes. Phillip Morris was a nasty cigarette maker; Altria is... well, no one knows what the hell they do. See? Problem solved. As I write, NPR is on in the background, stating that makers of High Fructose Corn Syrup, an unhealthy mess to the human digestive system and the cause of many health problems, will henceforth call their product “Corn Sugar.” And with that, even though high fructose corn syrup is in no way sugar, is still horrible for you, and childhood diabetes and obesity will continue to skyrocket, no one will notice, because we only see the surface of what’s happening. Once again, problem solved. If only life were actually that easy.
Special thanks to Scott Kennedy, founder of Comics Ready To Entertain and a hilarious comedian in his own right, for taking me, and thanks to liaisons Mr. Contee (Contee!) and Kenne Sjoberg for their kindness and assistance. There were soldiers who acted as on base handlers everywhere we went, and to thank them all would add several pages to this, and to be honest my note-taking wasn’t that proficient. Apologies to those I neglected, but thanks to everyone serving. You’re doing a job I’m way too pussy to.
