From inside the embedded training teams...
Update #16The room was dark, and reasonably cool given that the power was off and neither fan or air conditioning was contributing to the solution. “Peace be with you General”.
“ah, LTC G.” General B smiled and struggled to prop himself up onto an elbow. His operations officer had told me a few minutes earlier that the general was sick, but that he had asked that I come over to his house. I rounded up my medic, and headed over to his quarters. My team doc is on leave, so we have borrowed SGT N for a few weeks to cover the gap. Young, competent, and enthusiastic, SGT N fits right in. He grabbed a pair of Iraqi medics to come along and do the actual work.
BG B, is laid out on a futon in his living room, watching TV with his wife. Now that I think about it, I am not quite sure how the television is working but nothing else is. The Iraqis have made siphoning electrical power into an art form. At any rate, his wife makes her exit, as a slew of medics arrive to barrage him with questions. He suffers it all patiently. Dehydration and exhaustion are almost certainly the culprits. For every patrol we go on with him, he does a second. The last week has been stressful, and he has had seven hours of sleep in three days. The medics all scold him in the way the medical profession is allowed to do. He knows they are right. I send them all away. He asks me to stay.
His wife returns with chai and the three of us talk quietly and watch some satellite TV. After a few minutes, his young niece of about thirteen scampers in and climbs joins the group. A few minutes later the general’s university age daughter comes skipping down the hall and slides to a halt at the door in stocking feet, sweat pants and tee shirt. She panics when she sees me sitting there, and races back down the hall. She emerges a few minutes later in black robe and head scarf. Feeling much more appropriate, she joins the group. She had attended school until a year ago…now it is too dangerous. She is largely trapped in the house. Mom delegates the next round of chai to her. The general’s seventeen year old son and nineteen year old nephew both come and go. The nephew is in uniform, he is actually one of B’s shurta. The son is out of uniform today, and while not officially in the national police often wears a uniform, goes on patrol, and much to my team’s annoyance frequently wears dad’s rank when dad isn’t around.
We talk a bit of business. The general appears to be perking up. He makes the comment “maybe I was just lonely.” I laugh. But it might be true. Arabs are very rarely alone, and B is almost always surrounded by people who need something from him. His daughter comes back in. She has shed the black coverings and is back in sweats. Apparently mom or dad had declared me safe. We watch the five o’clock news. I recognize more of Baghdad and the local politicians now than I do of D.C. or my own policy makers.
The phone rings, the oldest son calling from Syria. He has been there for a few months. He had been serving in the army but was getting threats against his life based on his dad’s position. He wants to come home. Dad says no. He tries to convince mom. No luck. She asks him to get a prescription filled for her that she can’t get in Iraq. Niece and daughter are trading video clips and songs on their cell phones. Dad hears something that peaks his interest and grabs the daughter’s cell phone and starts watching. As he thumbs through it, Nephew, Niece and daughter all exchange guilty uh-oh looks and I can tell they are just waiting for dad to find something he shouldn’t. The young niece notices my amusement and pokes her cousin who is now looking doubly guilty.
Daughter checks her watch, and pleads with mom. The channel is changed, to the opening minutes of “Iraqi Idol”. Everyone settles in. Dad gives back the phone, any contraband is either unfound, or returned without remark. The first contestant is a young blind man in his early twenties. He sings in a deep slow voice, that sounds much like the call to prayers we hear every day. The first song is a love song. He finishes. Simon-Mohammad gives him a hard time. Paula- Fatima props him back up. The final judge, a friend of the general who works at the local university for the arts, gives him a second chance and the young man launches into a second tune. This time one he wrote himself. The general gives me a feel for the refrain. Essentially a blind mans desire to see the country he loves. Mom sobs audibly and wipes a tear and whispers something in Arabic. B touches her softly. I ask if the song is that powerful? He replies “No, she was friends with his mother, she is dead now.” Unsure how to reply in either English or Arabic, I retreat into silence.
Eventually I make an exit, the team has finished up our days work outside and I have intruded long enough. For a few hours, in a tiny portion of the city, for a very few people, life has been perfectly normal.
Three days into month six and the urge to count is starting to take over. We are almost at the half way mark, or at least hope so. The three month extension does not appear to affect us, but we are all painfully aware that the shelf life on truth in Iraq is measured in hours. Three of the team have already gone on leave and returned, the fourth is home now and everyone is teasing SFC K about having a bag already packed for his upcoming departure. My turn is still months away. Too early to count that yet. Statistically, month five to seven are the worst. That is when the guard comes down and complacency sets in. At this point we have done most of the things we are likely to be asked to do. The excitement of the first few months wears off as tasks become routine and new places become old stomping grounds. That which was easy to fix has been done. That which is difficult is often really difficult.
Most of the team has started to get orders for follow on assignments. The mind naturally drifts to planning events that can not yet be influenced. It is still early enough to count off birthdays and holidays missed, and not yet far enough along to start planning the ones yet to come. The heat makes it worse. A few merciful hours in the morning or late at night bring folks out to socialize on their stoops. But the heat of the day is exhausting mentally and physically. After a day of patrolling or meetings it is hard not to wish for anything more than to disappear into an air conditioned cocoon. All the music starts sounding the same. The names of the insurgents start running together. DVDs start moving back to the top of the play list as reruns. Another District Area Council meeting, another complaint about power.
There are days where I feel like the crew of a becalmed ship. The classic movie scene with everyone sprawled out on deck with tongues dragging over blistered lips. Sun beating down, and the hero pacing because he has some place else he really needs to be.
But, we are making progress even if the wind does not always seem to be in our favor. We escorted Dr Chalabi, a prominent political figure on a walking tour of Haifa street the other day. While it is starting to seem commonplace to us, it is still pretty remarkable to have him stroll through about two and a half kilometers of back streets and markets. Film crews documented his tour and his conversations with shop owners and citizens. Those alleys were deserted a few short months ago. The main street is now lit by solar powered street lights, a very visible sign of change. A local paper back in Texas where our US brigade is stationed in Texas ran a story about the improvements. The headline recalled the streets former nickname: Purple Heart Boulevard.
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and the enemy still makes his evil presence felt. So we remain vigilant and wait for a sail to rustle or the music to strike up, letting us know that something more exciting is ahead.
