Zack and I decorated our metal living box last night. Using a variety of children's stickers and a dry erase marker we turned our plywood and metal furniture into art. Juvenile, penis themed art, but art none the less. So what if my locker now sports a shimmering glitter based Superman ass-punching some faceless Cobra operative? Who cares that I turned a stern and well defined Duke into a comically well endowed hermaphroditic chorus girl in mid can-can? This is just how we roll.
This is also not the first time we've modified our shanty existence to make spending the remainder of this deployment more palpable. When we first arrived during the hottest days of summer or primary concern was to lower the room temperature in the box from microwave to easy bake oven. Taking the (usually suspect) advice of other soldiers in similar living conditions we took wooden shipping pallets and whatever other nick-knacks we could scavenge and stacked them on the roof, the idea being that if the sun wasn't beating down directly on naked metal we might feel some indoor temperature improvement. I can't say if this actually worked or not because I recall laying on my bed half naked in a pool of my own juice both before and after the modifications were made but there is something to be said for the psychological benefits of taking control of any adverse situation. Either way it makes me laugh when ever I look up and see a mattress on my roof.
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I suppose my biggest gripe with this job isn't that people are actively trying to kill me, it's that they are passively trying to kill me and I feel like a little more effort should go into my untimely demise. If a man (or woman) puts on a uniform, waits in ambush and attacks my truck with an RPG then sticks around to at least fire off a few rounds in my direction, I'm certain I can respect this. This is a person of conviction. A person willing to sacrifice their safety and quite possibly their life to do battle against an enemy possessing superior armament and training. It's at least noble in it's own way. But it's not like that. It's like my team is driving down a road and whether or not my truck or a van full of civilians is hit by a hidden IED on the side of the road is just coincidence. It's lazy and it makes me clench my jaw when I sleep.
I don't blame them for choosing these tactics. It's guerrilla warfare 101. I can't say I'd do anything differently if I was in their position. As it is, I've learned quite a bit about being a terrorist, insurgent, or freedom fighter or whatever you call it depending on your political beliefs. I definitely feel much more prepared now for the zombie apocalypse than I did three years ago. Ultimately it just feels like no one really gives a fuck anymore. These days anybody who's anybody knows the best place to insurge ones self against an American is in Afghanistan. Iraq is the Paris Hilton of war zones. We keep throwing money at it but no one really knows why anymore.
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The most powerful of our senses is that of smell (I have no scientific evidence to back this up). Usually we're thankful for this. Perfume worn by a stranger can bring back memories of young love, the scent of fresh baked bread can make your mouth water and forget why you ever thought it was so important to count carbs. There are so many reasons to appreciate this gift, and then there is the Diyalla river. Meandering passively through our area of operation this liquid shit factory serves many functions for the local population. It's a bath, faucet, toilet, and highly effective garbage disposal, often simultaneously. They use it's water to grow their crops and quench the thirst of their live stock. It is the umbilicus from which this region feeds to survive and it is also completely disgusting. The color and consistency of cheap powdered chocolate milk, its waters are often choked with any number of questionable refuse coated by a distinctly pungent dark green slime. Everyone seems perfectly content to let the river, like much of the rest of this area, remain a complete dump.
The relative importance of this can be looked at a few different ways. First, the why things look here are not always the way things are. If their are violent militias roaming the streets at night threatening your family, your primary concern probably isn't whether or not an egret is going to choke on the plastic wrapper you just threw in the river. Second... well there isn't really a second, the point is that outward appearances mean shit if you can barely feed yourself.
The roads we travel are the Iraqi equivalent to highway strip malls. They are built and maintained as places of commerce with small pockets of residential areas periodically intermixed. It isn't much of a surprise that the scenery I see most often isn't beautiful. Beauty is in rare supply here even when it is actively cultivated. Also I assume this is a poorer than average district based on the other regions I've lived in but honestly it's hard to tell the difference sometimes. But regardless of the average daily income of the immediate populous, I can guarantee that the government money being spent on projects like building the giant (useless/ugly/traffic causing) brick archway over the main road heading south would be much more wisely placed in an effort to clean the waterways that, you know, keep people alive since they live in a fucking desert. Maybe I've over exaggerating and it's unfair to judge this place by the environmental standards I would back home. If the locals don't care, why should I? What do I know? All my water is bottled.
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Getting ready to come home is giving me a man-period. One moment I'm cranky and irritable for no reason and then I'm happy. I mull over things too much. I'm always tired but it's almost impossible to nap. I have the attention span of a 4 year old. I'll watch 15 minute increments of movies (but only comedies, mind you, anything slightly dramatic sends me into an emotional tailspin) and then turn them off with out finishing. Basically I'm a fucking mess. I'd like to say I have a good reason but honestly I can't think of one. Of course I miss my family and friends but I talk to them regularly enough to not feel totally out of the loop. I eat enough and don't skip meals. I have slacked off on the exercise because my motivation has begun to wane (I also have a secret fear that my neck size no longer matches my body, and this has inexplicably ruined weight lifting for me.)
Soldiers are great companions for many things but being there to support you for baring a broken soul in not one of them, nor should it really be expected, this isn't share-share time at feelings camp. The closest thing I can get to a therapy session is a talking with the guys on my truck while we try and whittle away the hours we spend driving around God knows where doing other peoples jobs for them. These conversations are frank, heartfelt, and rude in the way you feel you can speak to your best friend or a sibling. We've spent so much time together poking at each others issues and shortcomings that there has grown the sense you know more about the person you're speaking with than they do. Not that this is entirely surprising considering one of the only things I'm sure about human nature is that we lie to ourselves far better than we are able to lie to others.
It's a not a nurturing environment in the traditional sense but it's nice to know you can cut out the bullshit that gets stacked on top of what we really mean make sure no one gets offended when we talk to one another. Soldiers don't have that problem. Men are pigs, women lie and somehow we make it work or we don't and you're only worse off if you repeat the same mistake twice. There's a good deal of relief to be found in accepting how completely imperfect you are. Sometimes you just need someone to tell you you're a shit bag to your face to center your chi.
