Hunched behind a loaded machine gun cruising down an Iraqi highway and the idea jumps in my head that I have no idea what I’m doing here. I’m not talking about how to operate a weapon or pull a trigger. I’m so lost when it comes to the consequences of my actions on the people of this country.
I haven’t been fired upon nor attacked in any way shape or form by anyone in this country, and while I would not hesitate to take the life of someone who shows even the slightest bit of aggression to me or my fellow soldiers, I wonder how the people who live here feel. I wonder what it’s like for them to stand on the highway and wave to wave after wave of heavily armed convoys passing by. Or what they feel when they find themselves beneath the crosshairs of loaded weapons, regardless of who they are.
Rolling down that highway the sun was setting, and the sky was beautiful. The baby blue atmosphere switched to a soft cotton candy pink while we drove past a field of children playing soccer. Shrouded in so much dust I didn’t see a ball, they couldn’t have been more than ten years old. They played like wild champions, shoeless in their impoverished skill. And I watched them all under the protection of a loaded weapon, scanning their skills for threats.
Further along, and everywhere on the highways are groups of crouching men, full gasoline cans next to them. The smell of petrol washed over me and I wondered if the gasoline was stolen, and if that was their only source of income. Most of the men don’t wave or acknowledge me, they only look through the convoy as if we don’t exist– we will never stop for the wares they peddle and because of that they will never care for us. I saw their facial features in distinction when we passed by - I pointed the weapon at them just in case.
An overpass approached and the sky turned to a flattened blood red grapefruit looming above me. The overpass was crowded with Iraqi Police, or Iraqi Army. I don’t care to make a distinction between them; they are all Iraqi to me. Somewhere nearby a pile of trash or waste was burning, and the air was thick with the scent. The smells driving around are as varied as a spice market. The air smells of waste infused peanuts, hot cooking oil, and burning rubber. It smells like a wasteland. These men of the law we passed by, I bared my teeth at them with my weapon – I don’t trust them, but I have to trust them to take control of their own country. Some glare, some nod, and some cat call. It’s always mixed and never bothers me.
Men, women, children, soldiers, and police. I point a loaded weapon at all of them every time I get behind the turret. It isn’t the act that bothers me; what bothers me is that the act doesn’t bother me. As I said, I would not hesitate to kill, but I can’t help wondering how jaded or numb the people on the other side of the weapon have become. I wonder what they think of me, if they think of me at all.
Do the civilians who pass under my barrel hate me for doing my job? Do they think me as stupid, foolish for holding them hostage even for the slightest of moments as I scan my sector? Would they understand that my government has decided it’s in their best interest to be an occupied country? Or am I wrong about this, and do they not care at all?
I’ll never know those answers. But I’m sure the questions will continue to plague me.
*Update – The other day, or was it this morning, I sat with the vehicle stopped in traffic, a bus full of people traveling in the other direction stopped next to me. Less than six feet away, and my weapon pointed at their faces. More than a minute of that I couldn’t take, and turned my turret away. If I were them, I would have taken a picture. I must have looked completely unsure of everything.
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