Hulk

Over the next fortnight or so, I will be on furlough in faraway lands. Although I have no intention of adding new posts during my absence, I may finally upload my photographs. In the meantime, I have compiled an index to some reading material from the past seven months. This is by no means a comprehensive list, so please feel free to browse the archives.

Although I've been here since early January, I didn't begin writing until the following month. At that time, I wrote all my entries on Team Crusader's blog. In March, I was propelled to begin my own site as a result of some subtle disagreements. I copied all my material from that site to this one. Among my first posts was a treatise on Army motivation and the word, "Hooah". It remains one of my favorites to this day. Shortly thereafter, I published a response to a very unique gift that arrived for me in the mail.

After I began writing on my own site, my style began to undergo a metamorphosis. Although retaining the satire and sarcasm of the earliest posts, my writing took a turn for the darker. The first example is Timely Death, inspired by a very inappropriate calendar. Shortly thereafter, I wrote Crumby, named for my (never-fulfilled) plan for scattering crumbs beneath the beds of those who displeased me in the hopes that rats would maraud their areas at night.

My all-time favorite entry was Baath Time, the story about how happy I am to live in a toilet. In my first truly introspective look at my childhood in Hong Kong, I told a tale of a really amazing schoolbag I once owned. Encouraged to write more about my youth, I later wrote about the day I found out I was American. Returning to dark humor, I wrote Thought For Food, in which I explore the possibilities of an undead zombie army (an idea that I still think is a reasonable alternative to the draft).

A lot of people still don't believe me when I tell them that I'm a minor sun deity, but you can read the comments on this post to see real-life testimony. My favorite book in the world right now is Catch 22, and I was absolutely tickled pink to write this entry about the Arab version of Major Major. I followed that one up with my reactions to an invitation for my highschool's ten year reunion.

My final nonpolitical entry came in the form of Insomnia, my first piece about the frustrations of the Army's stop loss policy. I wrote Manifest Destiny immediately after reading Michael Moore's "Dude Where's My Coutnry" while I was in Baghdad for training. I didn't cross the line then, but I came close with Tax Refund, a guide to getting some free stuff out of the Army. In a merger of old styles and new, I combined politics with satire in one of my most popular entries, Club Fed. I continued in a similar tradition with Black Hole, a unique perspective on how your taxes are being spent over here. By far, my favorite political satire yet is Remember Petey, a story about a fictional school... with a twist.

Most recently, I wrote a quick something about censorship after the Army released a policy for all soldiers deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan who maintain websites. July saw my most controversial entry (whose words I still stand by) in the form of a Fourth of July well-wishing. Directly afterwards, I wrote a synopsis and history of the situation in Iraq under my favorite title, Mesopotomac. These last few - and those more recent than they - can be accessed directly from this page under "Recent Writings", so I shall end it here.

So, I leave this hulk here, a dumped and unwanted reminder of all the negative emotions this place holds for me. May I be successful in shedding them for my sojourn. In over a fortnight, I will unwillingly don it once again, but - somewhere in between - I pray to find some peace of mind.

Coy Mistress

It is only a couple days now until I begin my epic journey stateside for a fortnight's furlough. Of course, people have been telling me how excited they expect me to be. And of course, I am excited to a certain extent. But there are some other emotions that are going on that are a little more subtle and complex. In tonight's conversation with Holly, I was able to articulate some of them, but I pressed myself to explore further.

In the face of my inexorable departure, I have been made to dismantle defense mechanisms which were carefully set in place to shelter myself from a hatred of my surroundings. Veteran audiences to my complaining will remember my trip to Baghdad where I made a similar claim. I mentioned then that by focusing on my routine, I would be able to avoid the objectionable and intolerable glare of reality.

Those who face greater dangers beyond the refuge of our well-protected bases will attest to different coping mechanisms. During our last deployment, danger was our defense against boredom, and we relished it to a certain degree. We would seek to engage and surround ourselves in peril so we wouldn't have time to ponder it. This also allowed us the added benefit of directly confronting a concrete threat.

The biggest difference this time is the vastness of ambiguity surrounding the danger. There is no direct source of fear here. The enemy is ethereal: striking, then retreating to it's urban camoflauge. The threat is perceived psychologically, but with little concrete reference. Thus, the fear can grow limitlessly.

Each person has their method of combating it. I have noticed that for those of us on our second deployments here, we are more likely to manifest the anxiety from fear negatively. As a result of prolonged and almost constant contact with one-another, these manifestations are often projected onto others. Projections of fear can be positive expressions among peers, or they can be violent and hurtful outbursts from superiors (an unfortunate inevitability in an organization where dangerously underqualified people are sometimes placed in leadership positions).

Some people project fear internally and engage in activities to avoid a boredom that will inevitably lead to brooding and - ultimately - access to the insurmountable well of negative emotions. Whatever the case, they will find a way to cope. Whether that mean spending all their time at work, or playing video games all the time, or doing coursework, each person makes do with what is available.

For myself, I have taken a strict observance of routine and made it my mechanism. That doesn't just mean doing the same things every day, it also means thinking them. It is a sort of self-imposed version of the movie, "Groundhog Day". Recently, the Summer Solstice came to pass. This was an important milestone to achieve because it means the days will begin to grow shorter. If everything else remains equal, the shortening days will be the only indication that at my back, time's wing'd chariot is slowly making it's inexorable passage nearer.

Since the upheaval of that almost holy ritual of monotony, I have become extremely excited. But I'm still in Iraq. And I've been left defenseless. I have learned to deal with it through other ways, though. For one, I've fallen back on an old favorite: my almost-clinical-but-not-quite obsessive compulsive disorder. In the last forty-eight hours, I bought a notebook computer because I felt like it, and then became convinced that my flight home would be delayed because of a sandstorm and almost changed all our plans for vacation based on that ridiculous notion.

I've also learned something very interesting about myself. Its that subconsciously - despite all my moaning and complaining on this site (which, of course, is another way I cope) - I have been dealing with being here. Sometimes, maybe not as well as I would like; but its very interesting to look introspectively and appreciate everything that my brain has done for me. I'm very grateful to it, and am very pleased it has all these added benefits that weren't advertised at point-of-sale. And there I was thinking brain cells were just there for killing off with beer!

Kurdistan

This place really sucks. People keep killing other people. I can't even imagine how many Iraqis live within a mile of me who would prefer me dead. It must be in the hundreds. We were attacked twice today. Of course they didn't hit anything. Honestly, though, I would much prefer getting mortared than to have a suicide bomber hit a bunch of civilians. They blow up the police checkpoint right outside with suicide bombers on a quasi-regular basis, and it just depresses me. Somehow, fear is more manageable if the threat is clearly directed in your general direction.

When these zealots blow themselves up to kill civilians, there's so much ambiguity in what they are targeting and what they are trying to achieve. That they are doing it for no other reason than to kill people is such a foreign concept to me. I don't understand where these lunatics went wrong. How did they make it this far in life without the most fundamental characteristics of humanity: self preservation and empathy?

I was writing something about trying to logically define the progression of thought that leads one to decide that the best thing to do that day is drive a car full of explosives into a crowd of young children. I stopped halfway through. I don't know if I could follow the decision-making process. Not even animals do what they do, so it would take even more than shedding humanity to understand their nature.

On a different note... here's this funny link I found:

(Author's note: Link no longer valid)

I met some Kurds in Baghdad when we were here last time. It was at a newspaper printing place. It used to be run by Baathists, but the Kurds had overrun it following Saddam's fall. We thought they were still Baathists, so we raided the place. I "interviewed" some of the Kurds, most of whom were really nice. Well. To be honest, I didn't understand their Arabic, really. The Kurds have their own language, but were forced to not use it under the Baathists, so they're quite resentful about speaking Arabic. I'm pretty sure most of them were really nice. I was an optimist last time. It's probably a good thing they don't drag me along on those things anymore.

Chair Force

When I was in university, I used to think that if I failed in my job-seeking efforts, I could always join the military. In fact, I grew so used to thinking along those lines that when I was finally thrust on the job market, I wasted no time in even trying to find a regular job. I just went to the recruiter and all but signed that day.

The only reason why I didn't join right off the bat was because I kind of wanted to hear what the Air Force recruiter had to say, but he was never in. I had already spoken to the Navy recruiter, and he very badly wanted me to be a rescue diver. Those are the guys that jump out of helicopters to pluck downed pilots out of the water. I looked at the job description, the first line of which was, "recruit must be in outstanding physical condition". Not being the athletic type, I was in pretty poor shape and had a gut large enough to rest a beer on. "Don't ever talk to them again," was sage advice from the Army recruiter.

In fact, I never got to speak to the Air Force recruiter. He was never in his office. I understand now that it was because he was an Air Force recruiter that he was never in his office. At the time, I was angry and joined the Army, instead. It's pretty ridiculous because I have nothing in common with the Army. I hate hiking, camping, and being dirty. I like offices, computers, and air conditioning. I have a degree in aeronautics, for crying out loud! But there I was, taking the Armed Forces test for the Army, all the same.

I scored perfect and they were pretty straight forward with me: "you can do anything you want," they said. So, like an idiot, I said I wanted to be a linguist, thinking that for sure they'd stick me behind a desk in a dark room, where I could ride out my five-year enlistment (two of which would be spent in language training) in relative tranquility.

Of course, I knew there was a possibility that things might be different from how I imagined them, but I'd never have imagined I would be sitting on the banks of the Tigris, trying to wonder how my life would have been different if the Air Force recruiter hadn't been a golf fanatic. He called, apparently. I guess it was while I was in basic training. My roommate took the call and told me about it after I got done. The guy had said something like, "this always happens to me" after my roommate told him I'd joined the Army because he wasn't ever in his office.

The truth is I owe a lot to that guy. Sure, I wouldn't be part of an organization I hate with every fiber of my being. Sure, I wouldn't live in a swamp half the time and a desert the other half. But, in truth, if I had the chance to go back and change everything, I know I wouldn't. I bitch and moan and complain a lot, but there are some good things that will have come of this experience. One of them - of course - is the experience itself, but I'm too myopic to see that now. But what I do know about now is that if that guy had cared one bit about his job, I probably wouldn't have met Holly. Recently, that's how I've been justifying my time here, and its turned out to be pretty foolproof, because I don't know anything I wouldn't do to have a Holly!

Crude Reaction

In the days following the fall of Baghdad two years ago, our greatest threat came from vandals and looters. For those of us in the invasion force, there was little to do. Our goal of winning the land war was achieved, and we began to think of the inevitable trip home. But as days pressed into weeks, we grew restless and combated boredom by going on foot patrols with the infantry. Since we spoke Arabic, we weren't just a welcome addition to the team, but a valuable commodity that our host units grew to rely on.

In Baghdad, the patrol route traced a path between the various petrol stations in our area. Although abundant in crude, the country lacked (and still lacks) the proper infrastructure to refine it. The resulting gas shortage caused long lines and chaos anywhere petrol was sold. A black market quickly emerged wherein scalpers would fill jerrycans that they would resell at extraordinary prices. This racketeering was deemed a threat to stability, and our job was to crack down on it.

On foot, it was simply impossible. The young Iraqis would drop their jerrycans and bolt. Of course we would give chase, but - burdened by body armor, weapons and ammunition - there wasn't one of us who could keep up. It left the patrol spread out and vulnerable to snipers, so confiscating their fuel cans was our sole claim to victory. Once, though, we chased a scalper who refused to part with his fuel. With the playing field evened out, we were able to make good our chase. We followed him into an alley, and watched as he entered one of the houses.

Anytime the patrol would stop for any reason whatsoever, it would immediately attract attention. Empty streets would suddenly come to life if a soldier so much as bent over to tie his laces. The longer the halt, the larger the crowd. As we waited for everyone to catch up, people had already begun to gather. Our lieutenant was young and scared, and he knocked on the door with the authority of someone trying to hide both. None of us were expecting what happened next.

The door was answered almost immediately by a slender young lady in her mid- to late-twenties. She was dressed traditionally, and her gesticulations were consciously feminine, her movements graceful. She was angry, and the emotion belied her delicate features that stood out in contrast to the poverty that surrounded her. She was yelling at us, and I was caught so off guard by her apparition, that it took me some time to realize that she was speaking English. Perfectly. The Queen's English, albeit with only the slightest hint of an accent.

"Why are you here? Iraq is a sovereign nation, and you are not welcome!" She went on for some time in that vein while everyone stood there, transfixed by the rage she communicated so eloquently and conclusively. Drawn by her shrieking, the crowd had grown much larger and outnumbered our patrol by at least three-to-one. Worse, they kept inching closer to us until they were among us, and we them. Finally, an awkward silence had fallen; the girl had stopped screaming, and everyone - myself included - was staring at our lieutenant. Whether it was because of denial or legitimate miscommunication, her words were not registering with him. After a pregnant pause, he turned to me and demanded, "Goetz! What's she saying?"

All I could manage was an, "um". He asked me again, yelling this time. I was scared. I could feel the heat from the bodies of Iraqis pressed against my own, and I suddenly became very conscious of the rifle in my hands. "I think she wants to know why we're here," I admitted. He thought about this, and yelled, "tell her we're here for the gas! We just want the gas!" Expectations mounted, and they were all pointed in my direction. "Goetz! Tell them we're just here for the gas!"

Finally, I blurted out some Arabic. Formed under the spur of pressure, my translation was flawed. I screamed it to hide the fear in my voice. It had a strange effect on the crowd. A murmur of understanding passed between friends and neighbors, as if to say "oh, so that's it". They began to disperse. The young lady was caught off-balance from an unexpected response. She surrendered the fuel, which we dumped in order to finish our patrol. Later that night, someone asked what I had said. I responded honestly that I had said by accident, "we are just here for your oil!"

Seven Seven

The world is getting smaller. As communities have grown closer together through technology and through global investment, it has dissolved conventional stereotypes and transcended both logical and physical barriers that have separated humanity throughout history. For almost everyone in the world, it means greater appreciation for different cultures, religions, ethnicities, and nationalities.

Some scant few are afraid of the opportunities the twenty-first century implies, and they have retreated from society. Others, though, have lashed out, trying to destabilize the inevitable. Unwilling to accept that the juggernaut of globalization has come to their doorstep, they have surrendered their humanity in violent protest by taking the lives of innocents.

Although to some scale or another, this tragedy is playing out on various stages world-wide, so rarely does it take such a central and pivotal stand as it did today in London. The full extent of my horror at this vile and disgraceful behavior cannot be portrayed in words. Suffice it to say that I extend my utmost in solidarity to the British people. The despicable and wretched perpetrators of this heinous crime will be dredged from the depths they retreated to, and incarcerated like the animals they are.

A message to them, then. Wherever you are, I - and people like me - are watching you, waiting... you don't know me, but I know you. I know where you eat, where you sleep. In this world, there will be no safe haven for you. You will find neither refuge nor solace in the mountains of Afghanistan or in the streets of Baghdad. You are The Hunted, and because you will spend the rest of your days fleeing in terror, your life is over. It belongs to me now.

That having been said, this site will observe a moratorium on comments and critiques that are speculative against Britain, her government, or any of her allies (including, but not limited to The United States). The suspension will last one day for each person murdered today in London. This decision is taken voluntarily, and without duress. At it's conclusion, the status quo will resume. In the meantime, I will continue writing; but only about affairs that do not satisfy the above criteria.

Again, my sympathy and solidarity to London, and to all of The United Kingdom.

Mesopotomac

Someone told me how hot it was yesterday, and the numbers didn't even make sense. Certain quantities have no reasonable value after they transcend a logical limit. It's like the deficit; when one talks about money in terms of "trillions", it looses significance. 'Hot' isn't unusual here, but what made yesterday noteworthy was the dust storm. Unlike the raging sand storms of the desert, this one was surreal in it's opaque serenity. As it settled, it formed a thin, annoying layer on everything. Little protection was offered indoors; particles were omnipresent, suspended by invisible forces. But even as the dust made breathing cumbersome and irritated the eyes, it served as a reminder of the historical significance of this place. How many generations before me cursed the same dust storms? How many will come after me?

I am sure the climate has changed in the thousands of years since the first civilizations sprang from the very land that I live and work on every day. But, a certain part of me isn't convinced that it could have been that different. Even though civilizations are measured in thousands of years, I think of topography and climate as monoliths that require the impetus of much greater spans of time before they are subject to significant variations. I imagine, then, the tribes that drew together to establish the legendary cities of Ur and Babylon. I imagine one tribal elder saying to another as they shield their eyes from the constant barrage of dust particles, "this looks like a good place".

I'm pretty sure I'd have been that guy that says something like, "screw you guys, I'm going north". But here it is, all the same. The 'fertile crescent', ripe with... well, fertility. I don't know how much has changed from the agrarian lifestyle of the first settlers twelve thousand years ago, but I doubt it has been much. There is a lot to be said about the simplicity of life here. Two years ago, I had the opportunity to "tour" a lot of the rural areas surrounding Falloujah on the Euphrates. I spoke to some of the people and learned that of primary concern to them wasn't Saddam, Americans, or even electricity and water. To a lot of them, of ultimate importance in their lives was fueling the sectarian rifts that had divided them from neighboring communities for generations.

I remember thinking that if divisions existed on such a microcosmic and fundamental level, no government other than an autocracy could hope to keep them bridged. The daunting task of building a political system that would exchange the iron gauntlet for fair representation left me in doubt. From the top-down, it looks fairly simple. Kurds in the North, Sunnis in their Triangle, and Shi'as all over (appropriate, because the word shi'a itself means spread out). But from the bottom-up, it's a completely different story. Neighboring communities of the same religion may hold long and deep grudges against each other. Transectual alliances weren't unheard of (excuse the pun). Take that, and throw in all the other minority religions (Christianity, Druze, et cetera) and ethnic groups (Turks, Persians, et cetera), and you get an idea why not everyone has the same warm feeling about equal representation.

After the First World War, the French and British sat down and carved out bits of the Arab world, annexing parts in exchange for others. An unfortunate side-effect was that resulting physical boundaries paid no heed to ethnic and cultural divides. Left to deal with it on their own, the Arabs would probably have figured it out themselves in a couple of decades. But they weren't left to it. Oil and Israel saw to that. Enter America. And enter the most proactive foreign policy in the world. With the retreating remnants of the European Empires, a new corporate will was asserting itself in the form of post-industrialized United States, which traces it's interventionist foreign policy back to the days of the Boxer Rebellion in China. Although often interfering only to forward her own objectives, the United States has usually done so responsibly.

Usually, but not exclusively. Questions of true motives aside, there is the aftertaste of global responsibility in America's actions in Iraq. I know critics disagree, but it is difficult to argue the country would have been better off under the grip of brutality. Again, I'm reminded of stories from families in Falloujah. They tell of Saddam's death squads coming in the night to whisk people off to permanent and unknown whereabouts. But the difficulty in rebuilding a country so prone to strife is like trying to make a house of cards in a hurricane.

In the meantime of transition, it has become necessary to appear as the dove, while acting as the gauntlet. It quickly became apparent that the only way to maintain civil order was to fill the vacuum of tyranny with as much military might that we could muster. While flexing the muscle, we had to appear as though offering something different and something better than the despotism under which Iraqis have lived for generations. Everyone can see the paradox objectively, but it means something different to everyone, emotionally.

Mahatma Ghandi says, "just as a man would not cherish living in a body other than his own, so do nations not like to live under other nations, however noble and great the latter may be". When I was learning Arabic, I had an Iraqi teacher who would say of Saddam, "we hate him, but he is our leader". Clearly, the Iraqis need self-rule. But just as clearly, the country would descend into civil war if occupation forces withdrew. Much more brilliant men than I have pondered the same conundrum. Between the importance it plays strategically, and the interests of the millions of Iraqis, the solution emerged that status quo would be maintained until further notice.

In the end, of course, there will be an Iraq. It will come about one way or another. There will be a result and people will decide whether or not it was 'worth it'. In the meantime, people will continue to die. Iraqis will continue living in hell, and I will continue to serve in the Army. I think myopia denies me the pleasure of appreciating my role in history. I don't think I'm alone, though. I wonder how many Iraqis appreciate theirs?

S.O.S.

We - the forlorn Atlas, who bears the burden of lofty decisions - salute you, the free. May this day be a blessing to you and yours as you celebrate your freedom from the clutches of tyranny and strife. May your beer be as cold as the hearts of your enemies and your fireworks carry the zeal of your patriotism.


On this day, may you not be napalmed by an invading Army. May you not be tortured for a parking violation. Today, may your hometown not be bombed. When you sit down to eat tonight, may armed men not barge into your house and search your wife's underwear drawer. May you not be zip-tied, marched outside, beaten and shot in the face.


God Save America.


God, save America.