"It's been the worst day, since yesterday."
If you are expecting random funny, this isn't the post. I have something on my mind. It seems that I should forewarn all who dare continue to read. If you've known me my whole life this will likely not seem odd, maybe something slightly out of character, but not odd. If you've known me since high school you will think I'm potentially losing it. I promise, I never had "it" to begin with. If you've only known me since late October of 2004, or more recent, you may not want to continue as this isn't "me" as you know me. And you are going to read the word hate. As many of you know I am in the habit of correcting others (and myself) when they say they "hate" something or someone. I don't feel that most of our daily interactions with people (or things) are so weighted that you can assign hatred to them for whatever it is that you particularly dislike. I’m not a fan of the word hate. Also, this in no way, is to be construed as my abandoment of the mission in Iraq, nor a comment on politics in general. We should see the job through. When the Iraqis can stand and secure their country we should exit, stage right. No, this is just a rant. Little more.
But...
If there were one thing in this world that I could wipe off the face of the Earth, without a moment of guilt, it would be a small prison, just west of Baghdad, Iraq. Two days ago (Veteran's Day) I reflected on the time I spent in the Marines. I thought about the good times that we had, even if they were few while we were deployed. The inside jokes that those of us, who were unfortunate enough to serve there, share. The things I "liberated" (read: stole) from the various Army units that were there with us. (Back then my motto was "If they didn't want me to take it they woulda bolted it down.") The lost night vision goggles and me asking my platoon Sgt if "The serial numbers have to match? 'Cause I'll get you a pair of NVGs."
And today I went to the opposite end of the spectrum. Its long weighed heavy on my mind how horrid of a place Iraq was, and in the nether regions of my brain's memory, it will remain to be. The utter disgust I hold for a small 60 year old prison that sits next to a humble Iraqi village is unfathomable by those who have never been there. A place that was renamed the Baghdad Central Correctional Facility to make it more acceptable to the ears. A place, I feel, I never should have been in the first place. But, it was my lot in life at the time to be assigned there. A place I fought to protect but hated with every sinew and synapse in my body. This prison that should be remembered as one of Saddam Hussein's greatest crimes, but is widely regarded as one of America's greatest moral failures to those that know the name. A place that I spend countless conversations explaining why I was there. And telling and retelling what I did, and did not do there. This place, as my best friend in the Marines daveamongus said will forever be associated as the "Mi Lai" of Iraq.
Most know it as Abu Ghraib prison.
I cannot, without pouring over older LJ post and hand written journals, get into the detail of my sordid trip to Abu Ghraib. And the accounts of that bureaucratic mess are well documented in older post. But I can tell you the only time I felt happy while I was there was the first day. Shortly after I arrived mortars rained down on the "base" from points unknown. The "joy" I felt was when daveamongus walked in the room and I knew he was okay. Aside from a bumpy ride in a helicopter, where I'm told we were shot at, this was my first experience with someone trying to kill me or my friends. I watched, safely I might add, from the comfort of a concrete prison block (that had been converted into what can only be described as the worst dorm rooms on earth) as scarred Iraqi (and assorted other Arab nationals) detainees fled. Incoming mortars ripped their flesh and killed 22. This was the last day during my stay there that I felt "happiness" as I had known it in the 21 years prior.
Sure there were lighter moments of humor and shenanigans. Pranks played and leaders being mocked (Operation Bronze Star I & II) were common place. And the simple pleasure of a conversation with an "adult" was always just on the other side of my plywood and 2x4 table that my laptop lived on. It sounds cushy now, and by the measure that some other Marines lived in, it was. But the psychological aspect of being locked in a prison, in a cell, with poor officers, even worse NCOs and lesser minions, that seemed to try and annoy you on a daily basis, wear on a man after time.
Dave Klecha saved me. If it weren't for him tolerating my lesser intelligence, laughing at my general jackass-ery and questionable moral compass, challenging my thought processes and listening to me when I was afraid, I don't know that I would have come back "whole." Dave was older than I. He turned 27 while in Iraq. I had just turned 21 prior to the deployment. He could have more easily associated with the NCOs who were his age (or younger). They often sought his advice or knowledge on varying subjects. At one point the rumor was that Dave held no less than 4 bachelors and spoke 3-6 languages, depending on who told the story. If I was telling it he held 6 degrees and was he fluent in Sanskrit. I likely added to those myths to increase his credibility. Because I couldn't let Dave be seen as inferior to the horrible NCOs that we had. Yes he held lesser rank, but he was morally and intellectually leaps and bounds above them. And because Dave chose to befriend me. And I him. It would have been easy to have become one of the "kill 'em all" crew that ran around blindly spewing their manhood (figuratively and sometimes literally) on anything that they deemed necessary. I could have sat and pretended, as many did that Iraq was "the most important thing I'll ever do with my life." But we rejected that ideology. Well, Dave did and I willing followed. Many have likely heard me say "I don't want Iraq to be the most important thing I ever did in this world." I still feel that way and I'm almost certain that quote can be attributed to Dave Klecha. A guy who will never get a medal for "saving me" but deserves no less than a dozen for doing so. Dave, just a guy from Michigan who was nice to me.
But...that prison. The mere thought makes my lips curl and churns my stomach. In much the same way that an ill advised cigarette will after a heavy night of drinking. I will carry that hatred for Abu Ghraib Prison for the foreseeable future. Part of me wishes I become independently wealthy someday. Not just to help out my friends and family, or to own a large home and raise a family in it. All those are wonderful ideas, but the absolute destruction of Abu Ghraib is paramount to most of those things. I can only hope that seeing it destroyed would assure me that no more lives would be hurt by that place. A small amount of me is comforted believing that no one else will be tortured there, and that I had a miniscule part in assuring that.
Any petty descriptions of the dank cells, horrid execution chambers, mass graves and a literal pond full of shit would pale in comparison to actually seeing it. For those that lived there, Abu Ghraib will forever leave a stain upon our minds. In short, I hate it.
I hate its "death chamber" and what it represented. I hate those terrible acts committed by members of a U.S. Army that will allow nearly anyone to join their ranks. I hate the pictures that will forever circulate the internets and news channels showcasing how "terrible" we Americans can be. I equally hate the lack of press coverage of atrocities committed there in Saddam's name, well before Americans ever touched Iraqi soil. I hate the plywood doors on the cells with bungee-cord springs to make sure they close. I hate the thought of people peeing into empty water bottles because the bathrooms are 400 yards away. I hate the sound of a far off *THUMP*, not unlike a door slamming, that indicated we were being mortared. I hate remembering that "sonic boom" of a jerry rigged Grail anti-aircraft missile narrowly missing Dave, as I lay in bed thinking "Tarri told me to take care of him." I hate the memory of riding in the back of a humvee to go stand in a tower for hours on end. And furthermore I hate the memory of looking at Iraqi detainees and saying "Do you think they have any idea that we're just as much prisoners here as they are?" as I waved to them with a smile. I hate the Sgt that refused to leave his room out of fear, but who never hesitated to volunteer one of us to go do any task that he deemed fit. I hate that, eventually, I found myself acting like him, even in small ways, to younger Marines upon returning from Iraq.
Oddly there is something I don't hate. After leaving Abu Ghraib we went to a place called Al-Taqqadam. Our only "mission" there was to chill out and wait on our plane ride home. Even funnier this was the place that I came closest to being killed. Mortars had not touched the base in months, or so we were told. A kevlar helmet and flak jacket were not needed, or so we were told. And as Dave and I huddled under computers in a tent we laughed about the mortars as they fell. The all clear sounded and an officer advised us to go "check in" with our units. As we exited that tent the second wave of motars fell. And I needed to pee. I smile as I write this. Dave dove into a tent (only stopping momentarily to make sure it was not a tent for female Marines...always the gentelman) and I had to pee. So I ran for a row of trailers that housed bathrooms. When the smoke cleared, and after I peed, I went to find Dave. And upon finding him I laughed to hear him say "Oi! I thought you were dead!” A nervous laugh because moments before I’d been thinking the same about him. For whatever reason that is the next “happy” memory I have of Abu Ghraib and Iraq, as a whole.
There will be no "Veteran's Tours" of sunny Iraq for Corporal Wright 30 years from now. I’ll decline to attend the “museum” that is now open at Abu Ghraib. I left nothing there. No need to go back.
Maybe just an overdue trip to Michigan to see a guy named Dave, that was nice to me.
Happy (belated) Veteran's Day, Dave.
But...
If there were one thing in this world that I could wipe off the face of the Earth, without a moment of guilt, it would be a small prison, just west of Baghdad, Iraq. Two days ago (Veteran's Day) I reflected on the time I spent in the Marines. I thought about the good times that we had, even if they were few while we were deployed. The inside jokes that those of us, who were unfortunate enough to serve there, share. The things I "liberated" (read: stole) from the various Army units that were there with us. (Back then my motto was "If they didn't want me to take it they woulda bolted it down.") The lost night vision goggles and me asking my platoon Sgt if "The serial numbers have to match? 'Cause I'll get you a pair of NVGs."
And today I went to the opposite end of the spectrum. Its long weighed heavy on my mind how horrid of a place Iraq was, and in the nether regions of my brain's memory, it will remain to be. The utter disgust I hold for a small 60 year old prison that sits next to a humble Iraqi village is unfathomable by those who have never been there. A place that was renamed the Baghdad Central Correctional Facility to make it more acceptable to the ears. A place, I feel, I never should have been in the first place. But, it was my lot in life at the time to be assigned there. A place I fought to protect but hated with every sinew and synapse in my body. This prison that should be remembered as one of Saddam Hussein's greatest crimes, but is widely regarded as one of America's greatest moral failures to those that know the name. A place that I spend countless conversations explaining why I was there. And telling and retelling what I did, and did not do there. This place, as my best friend in the Marines daveamongus said will forever be associated as the "Mi Lai" of Iraq.
Most know it as Abu Ghraib prison.
I cannot, without pouring over older LJ post and hand written journals, get into the detail of my sordid trip to Abu Ghraib. And the accounts of that bureaucratic mess are well documented in older post. But I can tell you the only time I felt happy while I was there was the first day. Shortly after I arrived mortars rained down on the "base" from points unknown. The "joy" I felt was when daveamongus walked in the room and I knew he was okay. Aside from a bumpy ride in a helicopter, where I'm told we were shot at, this was my first experience with someone trying to kill me or my friends. I watched, safely I might add, from the comfort of a concrete prison block (that had been converted into what can only be described as the worst dorm rooms on earth) as scarred Iraqi (and assorted other Arab nationals) detainees fled. Incoming mortars ripped their flesh and killed 22. This was the last day during my stay there that I felt "happiness" as I had known it in the 21 years prior.
Sure there were lighter moments of humor and shenanigans. Pranks played and leaders being mocked (Operation Bronze Star I & II) were common place. And the simple pleasure of a conversation with an "adult" was always just on the other side of my plywood and 2x4 table that my laptop lived on. It sounds cushy now, and by the measure that some other Marines lived in, it was. But the psychological aspect of being locked in a prison, in a cell, with poor officers, even worse NCOs and lesser minions, that seemed to try and annoy you on a daily basis, wear on a man after time.
Dave Klecha saved me. If it weren't for him tolerating my lesser intelligence, laughing at my general jackass-ery and questionable moral compass, challenging my thought processes and listening to me when I was afraid, I don't know that I would have come back "whole." Dave was older than I. He turned 27 while in Iraq. I had just turned 21 prior to the deployment. He could have more easily associated with the NCOs who were his age (or younger). They often sought his advice or knowledge on varying subjects. At one point the rumor was that Dave held no less than 4 bachelors and spoke 3-6 languages, depending on who told the story. If I was telling it he held 6 degrees and was he fluent in Sanskrit. I likely added to those myths to increase his credibility. Because I couldn't let Dave be seen as inferior to the horrible NCOs that we had. Yes he held lesser rank, but he was morally and intellectually leaps and bounds above them. And because Dave chose to befriend me. And I him. It would have been easy to have become one of the "kill 'em all" crew that ran around blindly spewing their manhood (figuratively and sometimes literally) on anything that they deemed necessary. I could have sat and pretended, as many did that Iraq was "the most important thing I'll ever do with my life." But we rejected that ideology. Well, Dave did and I willing followed. Many have likely heard me say "I don't want Iraq to be the most important thing I ever did in this world." I still feel that way and I'm almost certain that quote can be attributed to Dave Klecha. A guy who will never get a medal for "saving me" but deserves no less than a dozen for doing so. Dave, just a guy from Michigan who was nice to me.
But...that prison. The mere thought makes my lips curl and churns my stomach. In much the same way that an ill advised cigarette will after a heavy night of drinking. I will carry that hatred for Abu Ghraib Prison for the foreseeable future. Part of me wishes I become independently wealthy someday. Not just to help out my friends and family, or to own a large home and raise a family in it. All those are wonderful ideas, but the absolute destruction of Abu Ghraib is paramount to most of those things. I can only hope that seeing it destroyed would assure me that no more lives would be hurt by that place. A small amount of me is comforted believing that no one else will be tortured there, and that I had a miniscule part in assuring that.
Any petty descriptions of the dank cells, horrid execution chambers, mass graves and a literal pond full of shit would pale in comparison to actually seeing it. For those that lived there, Abu Ghraib will forever leave a stain upon our minds. In short, I hate it.
I hate its "death chamber" and what it represented. I hate those terrible acts committed by members of a U.S. Army that will allow nearly anyone to join their ranks. I hate the pictures that will forever circulate the internets and news channels showcasing how "terrible" we Americans can be. I equally hate the lack of press coverage of atrocities committed there in Saddam's name, well before Americans ever touched Iraqi soil. I hate the plywood doors on the cells with bungee-cord springs to make sure they close. I hate the thought of people peeing into empty water bottles because the bathrooms are 400 yards away. I hate the sound of a far off *THUMP*, not unlike a door slamming, that indicated we were being mortared. I hate remembering that "sonic boom" of a jerry rigged Grail anti-aircraft missile narrowly missing Dave, as I lay in bed thinking "Tarri told me to take care of him." I hate the memory of riding in the back of a humvee to go stand in a tower for hours on end. And furthermore I hate the memory of looking at Iraqi detainees and saying "Do you think they have any idea that we're just as much prisoners here as they are?" as I waved to them with a smile. I hate the Sgt that refused to leave his room out of fear, but who never hesitated to volunteer one of us to go do any task that he deemed fit. I hate that, eventually, I found myself acting like him, even in small ways, to younger Marines upon returning from Iraq.
Oddly there is something I don't hate. After leaving Abu Ghraib we went to a place called Al-Taqqadam. Our only "mission" there was to chill out and wait on our plane ride home. Even funnier this was the place that I came closest to being killed. Mortars had not touched the base in months, or so we were told. A kevlar helmet and flak jacket were not needed, or so we were told. And as Dave and I huddled under computers in a tent we laughed about the mortars as they fell. The all clear sounded and an officer advised us to go "check in" with our units. As we exited that tent the second wave of motars fell. And I needed to pee. I smile as I write this. Dave dove into a tent (only stopping momentarily to make sure it was not a tent for female Marines...always the gentelman) and I had to pee. So I ran for a row of trailers that housed bathrooms. When the smoke cleared, and after I peed, I went to find Dave. And upon finding him I laughed to hear him say "Oi! I thought you were dead!” A nervous laugh because moments before I’d been thinking the same about him. For whatever reason that is the next “happy” memory I have of Abu Ghraib and Iraq, as a whole.
There will be no "Veteran's Tours" of sunny Iraq for Corporal Wright 30 years from now. I’ll decline to attend the “museum” that is now open at Abu Ghraib. I left nothing there. No need to go back.
Maybe just an overdue trip to Michigan to see a guy named Dave, that was nice to me.
Happy (belated) Veteran's Day, Dave.