Tonight I saw a familiar sight. A facebook friend and fellow veteran posted up a new profile image. The image was that of two Abrams tanks passing through the “Qaws an-Naṣr” or “Swords of Qādisīyah” in downtown Baghdad.
I’m sure you’re familiar with it by now. It is a pair of “victory arches” erected by Saddam Hussein to commemorate the Iran-Iraq war.
Each arch consists of a pair of hands holding crossed swords. The two arches mark the two entrances to “Great Celebrations Square” and parade grounds.
When you look at images on the Internet or TV you may experience feelings associated with those images. The Eiffel Tower may invoke feelings of pleasure or bring forth fond memories of your honeymoon or family vacation. An image of the Washington Monument may remind you of a school field trip.
Just as smells and sounds, images can take you far away form where you are. They can force you to relive things you’d rather not.
Tonight, almost ten years after the fact, when I saw this image, a lump formed in my throat and I tensed up.
I grabbed at my face to adjust that damned stiff, yet soaking wet, headgear chinstrap. And, for a minute there I could smell the mustiness of that heavy, sweat soaked, hand-me-down body armor. I actually looked at my hands to see nothing where my weapon should be. There was no weight where my medic pack should have been secured. I felt like I was in the shit again… Naked.
Even though nothing bad happened to me the day I gazed upon those swords, I felt unprotected. When you spend the bulk of your time in a total state of vigilance, if something is “off”, you realize it quickly.
And, in that altered state of mind, you still manage to notice that your guys aren’t there. There’s no one. No one to cover you. No one to pull you out if shit breaks bad. No contact with command. No orders to be handed down. Nothing.
You’re standing there in the middle of the street with your dick hanging out and you’re quite sure that there are any number of Hajjis just waiting for the opportunity to take you out.
Even though it only lasts a few seconds, it feels like you relive your whole deployment in the blink of an eye.
Oh sure, you come to your senses and the reality of “home” comes creeping back in after a few moments. But, you’re left with the same feelings you had when you hopped that freedom bird out of the sandbox.
The feeling that you didn’t get to finish the job you started. The feelings of guilt you have for surviving. The holes in your heart for the ones you couldn’t save. They all come crashing though in a sick symphony of pain and self-loathing.
Yet, as sick as it sounds, someday, I’d like to see them again. I’d like the opportunity to stand where before I needed cover and casually take in the scenery.
Baghdad, from both the air and the surface, even in the throws of war, is an incredible city. And even though Saddam was an egomaniacal, evil, murderous bastard the man sure knew how to erect monuments.
If given the chance to hold my wife’s hand and walk her down the streets and around the areas I worked, would be something I’d probably like to do. Hell, it may even give me a bit of closure.
Sure, I’d be crying or pissed the whole damned time but the fact that life goes on and people rebuild is such a beautiful aspect of mankind.
There’d be places and buildings I’d pause at, take a knee and be silent for a moment. There’d be areas where I’d talk about my exploits and laugh at how stupid my buddies could be and how in horror, they made me fell somewhat comfortable. And, there’d be locations where I’d fall to my knees and cry like a baby.
I’d search for and probably never find the children and people I came in contact with. Hell, they wouldn’t remember me anyway, but I’d want to see them. I’d want to make sure they were still OK and had survived.
It probably sounds weird but, in my minds eye, it seems like it would have to be better for me than to sit in a room with a doctor and whine about how messed up I am in the head. Just for him to prescribe me a happy pill to subdue these images.
To me it would be a place where I could finally face my demons, call them out and challenge them right there under the swords.
I don’t know.
Since the day I left Iraq, I’ve been wanting and needing to go back there. Perhaps without combat, the place wouldn’t seem the same. Without purpose, chaos and fear, Baghdad would not be the Baghdad I remember.
Who am I kidding? I, in good conscience couldn’t stay in an air-conditioned room in a hotel in Iraq.
I’d crave the spirit killing heat and the rock hard, lumpy rack. I’d crave the shitty food and the constant fear of mortars, small arms fire and IED’s. I’d crave the need to jump into MOP-4 the moment I heard a “thud”. I’d crave the smell of the burn pits and the metallic taste of the air. I’d crave being chased by a camel spider. I’d crave being sweaty going into and coming out of the shower. I’d crave gearing up for a convoy rather than taking a taxi.
Hell, I doubt that until Hilton erects an era correct “tent city”, I guess I could never be comfortable there.
So, I guess I’m relegated to having to go there in my mind, in my flashbacks and in my dreams where all of these things are real and current.
No, I’ll leave it to future generations to sightsee and enjoy the scenery. I only pray they never have to have these images and thoughts engrained into their psyche.
Perhaps someday, many millennia from now, mankind will find a way to resolve their differences without the need for metal to ever make contact with meat.
The only thing I can hope for is that scholars look back on us as fondly as they do medieval knights and know that the premise behind our actions was a noble one.
Great picture Mark. Thank you.
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