There has been a lot of virtual high fiving and back slapping since 218 representatives voted for a new "emergency spending" bill with a deadline for a troop drawdown, re-deployment, withdrawal or whatever they are calling it today. In the longterm, it is, of course, a good thing, a necessary first step. Sadly, we all know that it is the best we can do, politically, at this juncture. Sadly, we all know as well that our best isn't good enough. It doesn't stop the pain, the suffering, the bloodshed, the hundreds of thousands of wasted lives and the hundreds of billions in wasted dollars. This genie can never be put back in the bottle.
Sadly, we know that somewhere in Iraq today, a woman had to go to the market to buy food. She didn't want to, it scared the shit out of her, especially because she had to take her young daughter with her. What choice did she have? She prayed, she took her daughter by the hand and went to the market. As frightened as she was, it felt good to feel the warmth of the sun, it felt good not to be trapped by fear in her house, and if it weren't for the pestilent stench of raw sewage it might have felt normal. She went from stall to stall as quickly as she could, bread, canned fava beans, a head of garlic and some mint, never letting go of her daughter. She did not hear the explosion, just felt the concussion, the pain, felt her body being lifted, but did not feel the ground as she hit it. Later, she came to, her right side screaming in agony, unendurable pain and she begins to scream as she realizes her arm has been severed, the arm that held her daughter's hand just moments before, and she can't hear the voices of the police and the medics as they try to comfort her and treat her and her screams don't stop and she wishes to God she was dead.
218 votes won't change that
Sadly, we know that somewhere in rural Oklahoma today, a Marine in full dress uniform sits in a sedan with his eyes closed, steeling himself mentally for the task ahead of him. He breathes slowly, deeply, practicing the words in his mind, hearing his inflection, focusing on the rock steady voice in his head until he becomes one with that voice. He puts the sedan in gear and drives the final block to the small house were another soldier's family lives. He parks, gets out of the car and puts his hat on. He becomes more detached as he approaches the door, ready to perform this god awful task one more time, his twelfth. A woman in her fifties answers the door, and before he can utter a sound she sinks to her knees and begins to sob quietly, her hands covering her face. A man appears behind her, her husband, lean with muscular arms but a middle-aged pot belly, his face rough from a lifetime of labor, and he kneels beside her and gingerly holds her head and the tears begin to role down his cheeks, too. The Marine has never felt felt so useless and horrid in all his fucking life and doesn't know why this one is killing him, but it is, and the words come out of his mouth but not the way he practiced in the car, and the grieving parents don't hear him and its just sound with no meaning and when it's all over they don't even look up, they are lost in their pain and he leaves them holding each other and he is not detached anymore and his jaw hurts from clenching it so hard and he gets in the car and tears come fast and furious and tries to block it all out, but he can't, not this time.
218 votes won't change that
Sadly, we know that somewhere in Tikrit today, a 12 year old boy awakens suddenly to the sound of splintering wood and crashes and orders barked in that horrible, nasally language he has come to despise, english. Many men run through his house, their night goggles making them appear otherworldly, the bulk of their bullet proof vests making them appear monstrously, impossibly huge. He kneels on his bed, just like his father has shown him, with his hands in the air. It is a drill his father has made him do several times, in preparation for this event. "If they come here, you must stay calm, you must be strong for your sisters and your mother." One of the men grabs him roughly by the arm and drags him to the living room, where his family is seated against the far wall of the living room. His mother rocks slightly back and forth, praying with her eyes closed while his father pleads with the interpreter. "Why are you here? We have done nothing!" The interpreter pulls his father to his feet and slams him hard against the wall, and all guns point towards his father. The interpreter whispers something to his father, but the boy cannot hear over the sound of furniture crashing and being over turned in other rooms, the barking of the radios. The boy sees the fight drain from his father as he is led to another room. He swallows his fear, his rage, and stares straight ahead at a fixed point. Someday, he will avenge this, someday they will pay for humiliating his father like this, someday he will rise up and right all these wrongs and show these godless motherfuckers and the traitorous filth who do their dirty work the wrath of Allah, someday he will rise, he will be the powerful one and they will kneel before him hoping for a little mercy. Someday, insh'allah.
218 votes won't change that
Sadly, we know that somewhere on the outskirts of Baghdad today, a soldier finishes zipping into his vest, grabs his helmet and heads out to join his unit. As he does every time he goes on patrol, he stops at the mirror, salutes himself and says "Hadji better not fuck with you, less he wants a world of fucking hurt." It is a ritual he he does mechanically, almost without conscious effort, like a superstitious baseball pitcher touching the brim of his hat five times before each pitch. As he rolls out of the compound he feels each muscle slowly tighten. He begins to think about the end of this deployment, his second, but pushes it from his mind. He remembers when he believed his presence here made a difference, when he didn't assume that every person staring at him wanted him dead. He tries not to think about the fact that his mission today is to provide back up to a squad of Blackwater mercenaries who are getting paid a hundred times more than he. Better them than the candy ass fucking Iraqis, he tells himself, at least the fucking mercs won't run and fucking hide when the shit hits the fan. He does not experience the explosion at all, does not hear it, does not feel the humvee being lifted into the air, he simply ceases to be.
Our PR victory didn't stop that.
Sadly, we know that in the center of Baghdad today, an Iraqi police captain guides a dented Mercedes through traffic. His route today has been carefully planned, and he encounters little traffic. As he approaches Sadr City, he is waved through check points. He drives easily through the warren of dusty streets, turns up a narrow alley and stops the car. He waits while unseen eyes inspect him, making sure he is alone. Ahead, a young boy runs across the alley, the signal for him to proceed. Farther down the alley, he turns the car into a small courtyard, and a gate is pushed shut behind him. He is led into a small house, where he is offered a seat, and tea is brought to him. Two men go outside to remove the M-16s from the trunk of the Mercedes, 15 brand new rifles, rifles that were reported "stolen" after the captain's station was "attacked" last month, an attack that the he himself organized. Money is counted out, crisp American hundred dollar bills, and the captain is back in traffic in under 40 minutes. He can see a plume of acrid smoke rising up over the opposite bank of the Tigris, and he hears the distant sirens. He lights a cigarette and keeps driving.
I wish someone knew how this ends.
I'm beginning to suspect that it won't.