Leaving Baghdad
I’m still wearing the sib-hah that Rana gave to me. It’s a small one, and I wear it like a bracelet, contrary to Army regulations. Leaving the Iraqis and the project was emotional for me. The sib-hah has spooky little bird-eyes on every bead; Rana told me it was to ward off other people giving me the evil eye. I’m not sure about all of that, but I keep the bracelet on my wrist all the time to keep the memories from getting mixed up with our new and changing realities as we move a few steps closer to our former lives.
Kuwait is a lot different than Iraq. For most people, it means going to the mall, eating fast food, and the familiarity of Army life like barracks, sports, and friends. For me it is a place with no emotions, no futures, and a questionable past. We live here in a warehouse full of steel furniture; bunk beds, wall lockers and chairs. Pallets of water in cardboard boxes have been turned into tables and chairs, and the television is on from morning till night, with the usual fights over the remote control. I come and go from the warehouse to meals, mailing packages, showers and meetings, moving through the time here slowly; too slowly. We all just want to get on with our lives, however fragmented they might have become.
The stories people will tell when they get back home will probably be a lot like stories from Vegas; everybody has a good time and nobody loses any money. Ask most of the soldiers about their time in Iraq and they will tell you about the funny shit that happened one day, the way the mail never got through for two or three months then flowed like rain, or maybe, if you catch them just right, about some ordinary person who did an extraordinary thing that meant a lot, at the time. But, right now, in Camp Doha, ask them about going back to their families or jobs after fourteen months of being away and you will get the Vegas answer: no problem, they will say. My family is great; my boss is understanding, etc….
Until next November, when we get deployed again, for another nine to fourteen months. They don’t realize that, yet.
So I keep the sib-hah on my wrist, and count the beads every chance I get. I’ve kept a lot of things from Iraq, in addition to the sib-hah. I’ve kept the cough and shortness of breath that’s been with me since before Christmas. The red and white checkered yeshmagh which I wear everyday. The craving of a silence not broken by the sound of generators or car bombs. It reminds me of where I was, what I did, and what I have left behind. My future, like the future of many of my friends, hangs on a thread slimmer then the sib-hah on my wrist.
-30-
Copyright, 2004, Tom Kinton
Camp Doha, Kuwait
Kuwait is a lot different than Iraq. For most people, it means going to the mall, eating fast food, and the familiarity of Army life like barracks, sports, and friends. For me it is a place with no emotions, no futures, and a questionable past. We live here in a warehouse full of steel furniture; bunk beds, wall lockers and chairs. Pallets of water in cardboard boxes have been turned into tables and chairs, and the television is on from morning till night, with the usual fights over the remote control. I come and go from the warehouse to meals, mailing packages, showers and meetings, moving through the time here slowly; too slowly. We all just want to get on with our lives, however fragmented they might have become.
The stories people will tell when they get back home will probably be a lot like stories from Vegas; everybody has a good time and nobody loses any money. Ask most of the soldiers about their time in Iraq and they will tell you about the funny shit that happened one day, the way the mail never got through for two or three months then flowed like rain, or maybe, if you catch them just right, about some ordinary person who did an extraordinary thing that meant a lot, at the time. But, right now, in Camp Doha, ask them about going back to their families or jobs after fourteen months of being away and you will get the Vegas answer: no problem, they will say. My family is great; my boss is understanding, etc….
Until next November, when we get deployed again, for another nine to fourteen months. They don’t realize that, yet.
So I keep the sib-hah on my wrist, and count the beads every chance I get. I’ve kept a lot of things from Iraq, in addition to the sib-hah. I’ve kept the cough and shortness of breath that’s been with me since before Christmas. The red and white checkered yeshmagh which I wear everyday. The craving of a silence not broken by the sound of generators or car bombs. It reminds me of where I was, what I did, and what I have left behind. My future, like the future of many of my friends, hangs on a thread slimmer then the sib-hah on my wrist.
-30-
Copyright, 2004, Tom Kinton
Camp Doha, Kuwait
posted by tomk at 10:50 AM
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