Not a holiday but a reflection day...

It is another Thanksgiving away from home but this one is by far the most difficult one ever. I tried to get involved in the Thanksgiving preparations so I would not dismiss the day from my mind yet, but it is not the same when I am not with my family. We prepared some turkey breasts, ham, and smoked beef with all the traditional plates served during the festivities making it bearable for a minute or two but my eyes filled with tears as soon as we started the prayer. The Chaplain asked us to think of past Thanksgivings and my mind could not stray away from imagines of my children sitting at the dinner table waiting to get their turkey and looking forward for their desert—probably bought at the store because their poor mother can cook up a storm but cannot bake to save her life.

I sat there and pondered on the things that I am thankful for and the things that I should be thankful for. I am thankful to be alive, I am thankful that I have three beautiful wonderful children that will bring nothing but great things into this world. I am thankful to have a family that misses me and has not forgotten me. I am thankful to have friends that have shown me the true meaning of friendship and I am thankful that at least once in my life I have known the true meaning of being in love and all the sacrifices, joy and greatness that it encompasses.

I am thankful that my parents are alive and that my siblings— and I—are better than they were a few years ago. I am grateful that I have learn to learn the lessons life has tried to teach me and I am grateful that my journey will continue to test me, challenge me, and teach me from the mistakes that I might make. I am grateful to be alive and I am grateful I am not made of stone.

I could continue to write all the things I am grateful for but I think that all I need to say it that I am grateful…

The Fakeness Of It All...

I despise many things about people’s characters but for now I am going to stick this one; I really dislike people that are phony, not genuine, false, fake, bogus an imitation of who they think people would like to see. I find it entertaining and sad that some people write emails, posts blogs or make comments on websites using words—incorrectly—they do not usually use in daily conversations because they want to pretend to be intelligent but failing miserable at it. Here in Iraq, dealing with this “army,” I am constantly reminded of the pretending game because the real advancement of this mission—as it was presented to me back in the U.S.—is far from being accomplished but some are still pretending that there is real progress being made. For the sake of my principles, I will adhere to write this post in the most colloquial idiom possible in an effort to assure my AUDIENCE—all one or two of you—the comprehension of the opinions contained in this entry….

HA HA HA! Did you like that?...Yeah, I might be trying to sound smarter. I have to take advantage of the occasion since my accent cannot ruin my pronunciation… 

Anyway, I have already started talking about the challenges that we faced here by attempting to establish some kind of standards within the Iraqi Army. Nevertheless, our efforts continue to be somewhat ignored by the people that we are trying to help. Here is the continuation of things that have changed my attitude tremendously.

• False Pretenses

As I stated above, I truly enjoy seeing things and people for who they are and what they are. The line between who people are and who they want to be is very blurred here. We are put in a position here where we do not really know who is friend and who is foe. Appearances are a constant here; there is no reality or accurate way to know and trust any of the people that we are working with. We could be teaching techniques to somebody that in turn will teach it to our enemies.

Still, in the grand scheme of this wartime political facade, once in while we get to see firsthand how important it is to be always on guard. We recently had to fired three of our interpreters; two of them for not passing their background check and another one for being borderline belligerent. In the aftermath of it all, the thought of “sleeping with the enemy”—literally—could not exit my thick skull. The most alarming factor is that those interpreters had been working with the other teams that preceded us but they somehow fell through the cracks. How did that happen? Another thing that caught my attention is the fallible perception the Iraqis have about their country, our Country and where their support money is coming from.

From time to time, I can see the other side of the Iraqis opinion. At times, they are fed up and their true colors come shining through like lighting. For example, it is customary for the Iraqis to ask continuously for things from the Americans. I have encountered situations in which I am uncomfortable because I have had to reject their petitions. The requests range from personal hygiene products from the PX—i.e. a shampoo or a deodorant—to Gerbers, electronics and Lord knows what else. I had to explain to the MAJ I work with that the U.S. government does not supply those things and we would have to pay for them out of our own pockets but they conveniently forget about that conversation by the next time they need something else.

So, although the Iraqi army gets funded by our tax dollars and receives money to buy what is necessary, their codependency has made that money unaccountable for—there goes that accountability word again—hence making us soldiers subject to request after request for anything and everything they deemed is necessary to them. On the other side though, if you ask any of the Iraqis, they are convinced that they are a rich country and that the U.S. is only giving them the money that we are getting off the oil exported from Iraq. Please, look it up and you will understand my frustration but the most important concept here is the phony pretense of their autonomy and our implicit—and apparently resentful—benefit from being their natural resources.

Those are the products of false pretenses…

Getting close to the fire…

It was a crazy Friday this past one, we traveled to the American base and we encountered some unexpected events while there. First things first…

We were tasked with picking up some interpreters soon after arriving at the FOB, after dropping off the extra people in our vehicle we headed to the place where we—Bo and I—were instructed to go. On our way there Bo started screaming to stop the vehicle while simultaneously a large amount of smoke was taken over the inside of the vehicle. I tried to stay calm while I pulled over and jumped out of the vehicle. It is funny the things that you forget when you are stressed out…I had to go back in to turn the damn thing off and then we had to pull all the ammunition out of it since the smoke was coming out the same vicinity.

We were throwing things all over the road…I couldn't pick up the cans of belts for our machine guns—I later remembered that they were tied down—so I was literally pulling the belts out and swinging them out on the road; Bo had enough visibility and sense to untie them. I inhaled a large amount of smoke and developed an instant headache accompanied with an annoying cough but the fire stopped when we turn the vehicle off. It was an electrical fire that cooked off in the back side of our HMMV and ran to the battery—located under one of the seats inside of the vehicle—through a wire that had its insulation burnt off.

I cannot even begin to tell you all the things that ran through my head at the time. From the "what if" to "how could I not noticed something was wrong?" Needless to say, it was a long day in the FOB waiting to have our vehicle repaired along with all our communication systems. I truly believe that God was watching over us. The fact that the fire ran by the seat without setting it on fire, and the fact that it was very close to the gas tank made me truly appreciate being able to walk out of there with only a headache and a little cough.

And what about mine....

When faced with the with the possiblity of serving in Iraq--even if only for 90 days--some have asked, "Who will take are of my children when I am dead or wounded?" I was too thinking the same thing and suddenly I wondered...who will take care of mine? Would anybody offer any help to my husband if he is left with three boys and no mom? Does anybody care?....Are they as important to the leaders of our country as their own children? Judge for yourself and tell me if my life is less worthy than those that make more money than me...

Hello Diplomats! Welcome to our world!!!!

Hello, Hello, Mr. Diplomat! Welcome to Iraq--you know that place that we happened to have 150,000+ soldiers fighting for something they may or may not believe in....yes! that one...welcome!

Yes, the war that has been going on for the past 4 years “over there” (Iraq, here for me) so you won’t have to fight it—or care about it—“over here” (the U.S.) has finally caught up with you. I have to say that out of the many decisions made by the administration this one really tickled my belly and made me smile...thank you, thank you. This is the situation, in a nutshell; the civilian jobs at the Iraq embassy and the green zone have been filled by volunteer diplomats from DC. Now, after experiencing a shortage of volunteers to fill the positions here in Iraq, the Secretary of State—Condolezza Rice—has announced that the positions leftover after volunteers are accepted were going be fulfilled by other “selectees”—in a non-voluntary manner. Oh my goodness!!! The diplomats are outraged!!! Who will raise their children if there are dead or wounded? I can tell you who….

Your children can be raised by the same kind of people that are raising thousands of children in the United States of America whom have lost their mother or father in this war. That’s who!!! How dare some paper pusher to speak of the worthiness of his life as if it is much more relevant and cherished than that of our American Soldiers, Marines, Sailors and Airmen. Anyone who knows me well can imagine the choice of words I have for these people but I will refrain from the profanity in this blog…

To make their ignorance more apparent, they preceded the previous query with: “It is one thing if someone believes in what is going on over there and volunteers, […] but it is another thing to send someone over there on a forced assignment. And I'm sorry, but basically that is a potential death sentence and you know it. […]”

Bravo! What a brilliant deduction, too bad that it really does not apply to those that are working for the government and—as the soldiers do—have promise to defend the nation and be loyal to it, therefore,…you can assume that you have volunteered just like all the service members that have sworn to protect the constitution and defend our nation agreeing or disagreeing, believing or doubting…feel our pain Mr. Diplomat and welcome to our world.

This is the problem with this war…people in the U.S. are too focused on Britney Spears, Lindsey Lohan and who was kick out of Dancing with the Stars. Our society has inferred that prancing around a stage is more prestigious and important than to be of service of your country or at least have the responsibility to serve society with something of substance and not only for entertainment. What is wrong with us? Who talks about the soldiers that are sacrificing their lives? Who cares? Who carries the burden of this war?

People do not hear about the soldiers that have died and they sure do not know the aftermath of their death. They do not know what the families go through, how they cope—if they do—with the loss of a key member of their family. People just do not know and it does not seem like they care. Diplomats in the white house care about the uncertain future of their families but for the past four years thought that it was suitable for the military families to undergo the risk.

It is about time that the war starts to reach home for some people. I do not think that it is fair for my children to have to deal with the absence of their mother while some able men or women carry on their support for the war from their living room chair. If we are all in this together, then we have to all be in it! Say it like it is; these are the sacrifices of the few so the many can enjoy life as if freedom is free. …Talk about phonies

Click here to read the whole article and click here to read a related article.

A little less about work, a little more about me...

Before I continue with my tantrum about my job, I want to let you in some of the things I have been reflecting on lately. During the last few months I have realized that I am not the social butterfly I thought I was. I suddenly recognize that I am nicer than I thought I was and that I have developed an annoying habit of pleasing people even against my instinct because I do not want to hurt people’s feelings. I remember that not so long ago I was telling myself that I must be myself and let people accept me for who I am but I think those words did not sink in until now.

Even since 1997 I have made a tradition of purifying my soul during the month of October. This is the time when I have made the hardest decisions in my life but at the same time I have cleanse my aura from all the toxic relationships, friendships and bad habits that have kept me anchored. October just passed by yesterday and it was another exciting month of self awareness and discovery for Vanessa.

The most important thing that I pondered on during this month is to distinguish between the people that are my friends, my family, my loved ones and those who are acquaintances, relatives and people that I know or used to know. Being in this environment where I am forced to befriend the people around me—since there are no others to talk to—makes me rebel against the notion of being pleasant, proper and approachable. It almost pushes you to tolerate things that you would not tolerate under normal circumstances.

Overall, it was a painful and translucent month for me. The truth sometimes hurts but at the end, the truth is all that matters and it really set me free; free from the ball and chains that I tie to myself because I think it is the best way to get by. I am ready….

Making a change???

It has been a long two months without writing anything here, or anywhere for that matter. Many things have happened and my attitude has changed dramatically since the last time I wrote here. Being in this environment makes one wonder about the future and if we will ever collect the fruit of our efforts.

About my efforts…

I have worked relentlessly to make a difference and for once in my life I can say that I do not think I am making a difference here. The people that we work for seem to agree with what we suggest, nod their heads and continue to do things the way that they see fit which 97% of the time is the wrong way to do business. I will spend the next few posts explaining some of the things that have drove me to think differently. Here is the first one:

• Accountability
  I do not think there is a word in the Iraqi language equivalent to accountability and if there is one--or maybe two--they have made their best to forget the significance of it. Property here comes and goes without ever being accounted for hence there is no accurate estimate of what we do or do not have in the regiment. For example…
  
  Let’s say that we had a few new Chevy pickup trucks within the regiment and they were dispersed equally to the different companies for the commander’s use. Then, let’s say that two of those trucks disappear from the area, what you think would be one of the first questions made to the people who signed for those trucks—the responsible party as we call them in our country.
  
  Under my command, one the first things asked would be: What is the serial number of the trucks unaccounted for? Well, apparently that would be a much too difficult question to answer around here because—as I heard from one of the commanders here—why keep serial numbers? If you have 5 donkeys, then you have 5 donkeys,…it does not matter which donkey you have…
  
  Fabulous! So, in the case presented above, there is no precise way to identify those vehicles because they just do not keep track of serial numbers. I guess it will be quite a circus to go out to town and look at every Chevy truck that drives by--friend or foe; that is the Iraqi way. So, you would think that would be a story that would deter them from not keeping all the information they would need in case of the disappearance of equipment, right? Oh no!!!
  
  I spent a whole hour with the commander I work with trying to explain why we should have 100% inventory of all property—equipment--in the company. At the end of the conversation he was still not convinced that it was necessary and I resolved to make him do it against his will. The problem is that because he does not see the purpose, he will not continue to do it on his own and the result will be the vanishing of—yet—more equipment that has been financed by the US government and consequently by yours and mine tax dollars….

Would that make you lose the enthusiasm of being here?

"What's Up?"

“[Thirty four] years and my life is still; trying to get up that great big hill of hope for a destination. I realized quickly when I knew I should, that the world was made up of this brotherhood of man for whatever that means. And so I cry sometimes when I'm lying in bed Just to get it all out what's in my head and I, I am feeling a little peculiar. And so I wake in the morning and I step outside and I take a deep breath and I get real high (on oxygen) and I scream from the top of my lungs, What's going on? And I try, oh my god do I try; I try all the time, in this institution. And I pray, oh my god do I pray; I pray every single day, for a revolution.”

How can I sum my current life any better? Thank goodness for “4 Non Blondes” and their song. It really depicts what I am feeling over here. Feeling like I am standing in a black hole where nothing moves, nothing happens while everybody that I care about moves on with their lives without me. My life here is stagnating; there are no real joys but to look forward to an email or a letter on mail day. I have stopped reading, stopped writing and I lie to myself all the time by saying that everything is alright. How can I be? I live in constant uncertainty, nothing is guaranteed and I cannot count on having all the things I wish I had.

I often think of my children and it disturbs me to feel as if they were a distant dream. I miss them so dearly and I miss being Vanessa, the mother. I miss having tender moments with my children; the moments that have kept my sanity over so many years. Here, nobody knows that side of me; they only know CPT Hill the smart ass, the loner and the weird. I lock myself in my room and dream of my life getting better, of getting out of this place with something that would have made it worth my broken heart, something more than money. Consequently, I am enraged with my current situation. The more I think about what I am getting out of this deployment, the more I discover that change here for these people is almost impossible, it cannot be done in a year and this feeling of loss and misdirection is all in vain.

What’s the alternative? How long am I going to live in constant fear of having to sacrifice my desires again? And who the heck said that we love what we doing over here? Who did they ask? I am happy to serve my country but I am sure not happy about the mission they have sent me to do. To make a long story short, if there could be a way to make you a hopeless person in a matter of a couple of months…this is it!

A Day to Celebrate...

Eight years ago, in front of the JFK memorial in Dallas, TX, a 26 year old woman—I—celebrated the 34th birthday of the man that would become the father of her children. I have spent a wonderful time with “the guy with the great tan and the pretty blue eyes,” and for his birthday I gave him the biggest birthday present that I have ever given to him; telling him that I was carrying his baby. There are only a few true significant moments in life and this one was one of them. I told him that I was going to take a picture of him in front of the memorial and while I held the camera I said, “Smile, I am pregnant!” and snap the shot of this face right after the news.

It has been eight years since that day but the magic of that moment will always remain. Ever since then, Trace has always put his role as a father is front of any other variables in our lives. He has given more and sacrificed more than any man I know for the sake of his children and for me. Today honey, I want to thank you for being a wonderful father to your three sons. I want to thank you for being there for and for having faith in my goals and my decisions.

There is not much I can write without being too personal when it comes to you, so I am going to leave it for your personal email but know that I am thinking about you here in Iraq and I hope you have a Happy Birthday with the boys. I love you.

A Day of Remembrance…

Almost fifteen years ago, I met a young man so unusual, so kind and so understanding that people could not helpbut to like him. He had reddish hair, very fair skin and eyes so bright they sometimes seem to be fluorescent spots in his face. He loved Jimmy Hendrix, Pink Floyd and “The Dead.” He worn cut off jeans, a t-shirt and Birkenstocks even in the coldest day of the winter. He walked into every new age and hippie store he found along the way and philosophized about the nature of man, destiny and his own life. Underneath his quietness, he constantly fought to survive, he fought to let go of events that left deep wounds in his soul.

He was the kind of person that you cannot stay be mad with, the kind of person that are here for a short time but leave something extraordinary behind. I saw his happiest day and I saw some of his saddest days. I shared a lot of life with him and I learned a lot about life from him. He was one of the few that accepted my mistakes, my shortcomings and never gave up on me.

He was so confident in my strength and ability to make it that he entrusted me with his greatest possession. He was so selfless, he saw in Trace the qualities of a man that could protect and love the only thing of absolute significance to him in this world, his own son. His extraordinary gifts to us was his ability to forgive and forget, to be humble even when it hurts your heart and to do what you think if best for those you love.

At the end, in May 8, 2002—at the age of 27—he lost his fight against life but his memory will always remain and his legacy lives on with us. Today, he would have been 33 years old. The more I think about it, the more I know that he also would have been disgusted with the war and all the devious things happening in our country right now. This short blog post is for you, John C. Fitch because we have never met another person like you. Thank you for given me the greatest thing you could have given to anybody, thank you for our Kabral. Our home never forgets you…

On and On About "My Island"...

It has been a very insightful week for me. I feel that my senses and my thoughts are more profound than before; life has a different meaning to me now. Changes—although somewhat daunting for some—are refreshing to me. I enjoy identifying weaknesses and things that limit my development. I always look at ways of reinventing myself, my life and discarding everything that is toxic and obstructive. With that being said, this deployment is helping define who I am, what I want and—most importantly—that I do not have to be intimidated about expressing my opinion; whoever is going to like or love me will do without me trying to accommodate my life into theirs.

All this soul searching has led me to think of my upbringing and the lessons I have learned over the past 34 years of life here on “my” world. Simultaneously, I think of “My Dear Island” and the way in which they are struggling to support a country that grants them citizenship, financial benefits while their vote holds no weight in Washington DC. Trace sent me an article that sums up the hazy duality of the Island’s perspective towards the war. As in the US—where the issue of the war has made many moderates side with the Democrats—in Puerto Rico, the war is making many of its public side with the Puerto Rican Independence Party (PIP). The tiresome lack of progress, refusal to establish timelines and the increased amount of dead soldiers fighting for a war that continues to blur the reasoning of a people who have shown patriotism and loyalty to the US in previous conflicts is taking its toll in Puerto Rico.

The Pentagon has released the names of 37 Puerto Rican hostile deaths –three of which were females—in both Afghanistan and Iraq; these do not include the number of non-hostile deaths. I tried insatiably to find the numbers myself but my efforts were fruitless. I only discovered that there were 652 non-hostile deaths reported to the US including the number of Puerto Ricans as well—as they did when reporting the number of female fatalities. I learned that there have been 178 wounded Puerto Ricans—as reported by the Pentagon—although the numbers are being challenged due to the common practice of including the numbers with those of the US. Some also argue about the relevance of first generation Puerto Ricans living in the US or ones that have simply moved here, resolved to join the military and then lost their lives. The argument infers the reported number of deaths for Puerto Ricans should be higher.

While researching information for this post, I ran into an interesting article about the first Army nurse to die since Vietnam. What made it interesting is that CPT Maria I. Ortiz was Puerto Rican; she was born in New Jersey but her parents moved back to Puerto Rico where in 1991 she enlisted the US Army Reserve—I guess she grants validity to the argument previously discussed. Her story was very familiar—going active duty in 1993, being commissioned in 1999—which ingnited a spark of curiosity about exactly how publicized was the first death of an Army nurse since Vietnam. I found one article in the Washington Post and the rest were blog spaces and less read news sources like: Intel Dump, Patriot Guard Riders, Journal-News, MEDCOM Now, State of New Jersey website, Nurse POV, Outside the Beltway, Heroes Memorial, A commanders blog from Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Mail Call! Supporting the Troops, A Soldier’s Perspective, and Military.com. There was no mention of her in the New York Times, or other major news providers.

During my quest to find out if anybody noticed what I have, I found an article that relieved some of the disenchantment I was experiencing at the time. The article tells the story of a—near nine month old—baby girl who was found in a mound of trash named Fatima and who is under the care of CPT Ortiz co-workers. Of course, a military newspaper, distributed to military personnel— and contractors—that are serving in Iraq and Afghanistan wrote it. Despite the fact that the real world—still— do not seem to hear or care about these events, I am—still—adamant to reveal the little stories to as many people as I can.

At the end, “my people” are protesting the war—disapproval rate of around 75%--as the mainland concurrently protest it. Still, there are many, MANY, that volunteer to serve in a war they may not approve of but they recognize the need to fulfill their duties. They give everything they can give and their efforts provoke waves of un-selfish acts inspired by the very person that worked to make a difference in a world of constant disappointment. While we hear about how many Puerto Ricans are opting out of US military life, we seldom hear about the ones that gave it all and paid the ultimate price for a country where they DO NOT have a vote for the type of government that will rule them or a say on the wars they will fight.

It is just another day...

Living, eating, and breathing everything that is foreign to me has made me question if I am aware of what is familiar anymore. The days under this inextinguishable heat are long, boring, and depressing to say the least. The nights are lonely, quiet, and incredibly long. I spend most nights sitting in my bed, think about sleeping but not sleeping at all. I watch the clock run as the night becomes day and I am still sitting in my bed. The little things,… the little things are getting to me at night. I roll and roll in bed, I talk to myself, I read books, and I think of all the things that I want to happen; still no serenity. It is grueling to have this much time in my hands.

I usually find pleasure in the little things and make the best out any situation; not now…not today, I am unable to cope right now. I need a safe place for my heart and my mind; I need some kind of comfort. I look forward for mail call; it makes me feel loved, remembered and worthy. I know it sounds so weird to say that a simple piece of mail makes me feel worthy but it does. While I sit here, I cannot help but to think that I am out of the picture while the life I used to be part of continues without me. When I get an email, a letter, a package…my heart rejoice and I am reminded my life continues without me but it will be there for me when I get back.

Fire in the sky...

Last Saturday, July 28th 2007, I was sitting around watching TV, having my usual sleeping problems and then I heard a big boom. A few of us ran outside, climbed to the roof to see what was going on, and there we saw the sky lighten up in the horizon at the nearby American FOB. Apparently, the FOB had a mortar attack close to their Ammunition Holding Area. I sat down on the roof of our building while I had an eerie feeling taken over me and making my skin crawl with hopelessness.

The FOB is so close that—from the roof—we could even see the lights of the emergency vehicles that were going to the area. The fire in the sky was bright; it almost looked as if the sun was going to rise from the FOB itself. I have never seen anything like it thus my amazement was uncanny and the realization that I am in Iraq, in the war zone, vulnerable to the enemy, sank into my cerebral matter with the speed of light.

After watching the light display and wishing that there were no casualties—since it was 2 am—I went back to the TV. The stations were broadcasting an emergency message at the bottom of the screen telling people to take cover; WOW!!! Take cover!!! I had only seen those messages ran for hurricanes and tornados. Now, I read them to know if I have to take cover from a mortar attack.

Do not get me wrong, the base we are in is fairly safe, but this is war…nothing is safe. That is the lesson I took away from that night; never let your guard down because as comfortable as you are, you are still in the middle of the war.

Trace asked me if I am going to be ok when I come back home from the war, my response is still the same; I do not know. I do not know what other things I am going to witness while I am here. I do not know how close I am going to be to the next attack. I do not know if I have to help respond to an attack. I do not know if I have to see people hurt, scream in agonizing pain or even die. I do not know if I will not get to see any of that, therefore I do not know how I am going to be when I get back.

Groundhog Day...

It has been a long time since I written here in this blog. A lot has happen but nothing has happened. I have gotten into my routine, which seems to consist on getting up, going to see my counterpart, give the usual greetings, drink chi and find something that needs attention. There is always something that needs to be done or addressed but it is difficult to actually find the underlying cause of things and make a difference.

We are having trouble with the power and spent a few days with it gone for most of the day. It was utterly annoying. The heat was creeping into our rooms and there was no escaping it. I just decided to sleep most of the time during the day but then I developed a weird kind of insomnia that I am still trying to shake off.

Trace and the kids went on vacation to California and had a great time. I wish I would have been there but the Army seems to need me more at this time. It is amazing the little things that I have learned to appreciate while being here, i.e. I would give anything to be there and change all the crappy diapers Vance had because at least I would be there.

Life here is like Groundhog Day every day, it seems like I am living the same day repeatedly. I have been deployed for two months now and it feels like I have been here forever. Once the workday is over there is absolutely nothing to do but to listen to music, play cards or watch movies. I cannot go and run by myself so that’s out of the question and any of you that has ran with me before know that it is not fun to run with me.

I have been reading a book name “Lucky” from Alice Seabold. It is a good book and it has me hooked. Besides that…nothing going on here. The news back home are still the same, I watch the news in disbelief; how can they forget about us like that? There is so much going on here, so many stories, so many successes and failures but I still see that the coverage is minimal. It is too sad but then again, out of sight, out of mind, right. Isn’t that the effect they were aiming for? "We" fight the war there so they can forget about it here--meaning the mainland. Well, as Borat would say: “Great success!!!” I think they have achieved it.

I hope that this post find everyone of you in good health and that you are enjoying the summer. Remember to write and to keep me in your thoughts. I miss being home…

Some important Information...

Because of the difficulties we encounter by not being inside an American FOB, I have signed our team to be sponsored by the Any Soldier organization. This organization sends care packages to soldiers deployed around the globe. They work on donations and yes, you can volunteer to sponsor a soldier or a unit. Please visit their website by clicking on the hyperlink above if you wish to volunteer. You will find our team under my name if you wish to send something this way.Click here and it will re-direct you to the web page. Thank you.

Happy 4th Of July

Happy 4th of July! We began to celebrate our American holiday by not going to work today. The cooks from the other teams together with our cook spent all day cooking a 4th of July feast for us. It was nice to relax for one day and not have to get up to go to work. At nighttime, as I watch the silly fireworks display we had, I started to think about what this day really means to our country. Funny, I never really thought about it in such an appreciative way; to me it was just another day off to see fireworks and go camping with my family and friends—not mentioning a reminder of my anniversary. I began to try to define what freedom, independence, and democracy meant for me. Almost inevitably, I wondered what it meant for the Iraqi people whilst a couple of stories invaded my head making me change what I thought was a solid view on what freedom really means….

Excerpts from my journal:
“…The TV is always on in their office and this time, instead of a movie or an American show, we were watching the trial of—whom they call—Chemical Ali. He was one of Saddam Hussein’s officers who gain the nickname of Chemical Ali because he was behind most of the chemical attacks against the Kurds and other misfortunate people.

While watching the trial, our interpreter, David, started to tell me that Chemical Ali killed his father and a lot of his family. He said that his family used to live in the countryside north of Kirkuk and they were told they had to move to the city so they packed up and started their journey. Once there, they were separated into the ones that were farmers, the ones that were businesspersons, and so far and so on. After they were separated, they were all gassed, or buried alive…women, children, and old people. He said that only a few skilled people were left alive to serve the Saddam regime. He was happy to see that Chemical Ali was being hung. MAJ Hood was happy also, he said that Ali deserved to die because he was a bad man and he tortured many people....”

“…It was then that I met Miguel, one of the permanent interpreters assigned to us. As he mopped the kitchen floor, he introduced himself to me and we began to talk about his background.”

Miguel was born and raised in Iraq, he lived in Baghdad when the war started. He graduated the University when he was 21 with an Electronic Engineering Bachelors Degree following the footsteps of his siblings who are also engineers. His parents taught all the children to speak English and that is how, after the war started, Miguel started working with coalition forces as an interpreter. His loyalty to the coalition forces put his life in danger and he became a wanted man in Baghdad so the Army transferred him to Tikrit to protect him from assassination but word got around and shortly after his transfer, he was a wanted man in Tikrit also.

Finally, he moved to Kirkuk to work in K-1 with as an interpreter to the MTR (Motor Truck Regiment). Less than a year ago, while he was coming back from his vacation—what we US soldiers know as leave—he was shot and wounded on his left leg. Again, word traveled about his transfer and he now has a $20,000 bounty on his head.

I asked Miguel what he thought about it and if he ever thought about quitting to which he answer: ‘I do not care about the bounty because I believe in what I am doing and I am not going to quit. They can keep looking for me. 'I was blown away by the response I could only tell him: ‘Thank you, I appreciate what you do'.

Walking back to my room, I thought about the two stories I heard today from both interpreters and I wonder if I would be so courageous and dedicated to a cause—or the hope for better days—to put my life in danger every day. How much would I put on the line for what I believe in?

These are the stories that make you wish that what we have done here will eventually work. This is the other side of the story, the side that makes you think harder about human life because it is right in your face and there is no way to evade it. These are the times when, regardless of what I feel about the web that we have weaved here, I pray for these people to find peace someday, I pray for their children to grow up in a place when they can play without seeing the carnage of war; I pray for their freedom. I do not think that any human being deserves to live a life of hardship, not one... "

“…While we were there, I started talking to David about the government system and I told him that I had hope to which he responded: ‘I do not have hope for the future, it has always been the same and it is going to stay the same. I just think about today and what I can do to make it through.’

His thought process floored me, but after talking to him, LT Kaiser, and MAJ Hood for a while, I understood how they felt. They feel that the government is not established to help the people but to benefit their own agenda. They hope that it will get better but they do not see it happening and so, not to have hope for the future protect them from disappointment. David told me that most people do not understand what they are going through as a country. This was most of our conversation:

• David—what our country needs is not help, we need people to sympathize with us to see us as human beings and be our friends.


• Me- Do you mean that if the world sees Iraq in a different light the common people will be empowered
  
• David—yeah, they need to feel part of something and this government is not doing it. The government changes too much to make any progress.


• Me—I hope that things get better for you and your country.


• Lt Kaiser—Do you think that you would come back to Iraq if things get better?—he asked me.


• Me—It would be nice to be able to bring my kids here someday and show them where I worked and who I worked with. It would be great if they would get to see something very differenthad than what I showed them in the pictures from this tour, better.


• David—I do not think that we will see change soon. Things are very dangerous out there. My kids do not even want to go to school because they are scared of IEDs, they cannot even get a fair, peaceful education.


• Me—I cannot even imagine…


• David—…we have to wait in line for hours to get gas, what we get for cars here are the left over or stolen from Europe; they are trash and they break down all the time. But, we have to deal with what we have because we do not make enough money to get anything better.


• Me—what do people do for jobs.


• David—I have an electronic engineering degree and education degree but I cannot find a job and the best that I can do is to take this job so I can support my family. I should have a good job maybe to help government with the reconstruction of the country but I there is nothing.


• Me—I really do hope that things change and that your kids and you family get to see better, peaceful days.


• David--Inshallah (phonetic spelling not grammatically accurate)--meaning "God Willing"

I do not even talk about my house, what I have at home because it makes me feel so guilty. I am such a brat. How can I be so self-centered? There is a different feeling now when I look at what I have and sleeping in a crappy place for a few weeks means nothing now because I know that this is temporary while it is not temporary for them. "

This a before and after picture of our kitchen...

K-1, Our New Home...

My first convoy outside of the American compound was finally to move to the Iraqi Base we will call home for the next year. As soon as we cross the barriers that zigzag out of the gate, we ran into a small village. The first Iraqi civilians I saw outside of the gate were children. Two children walking up a field; one must have been close to eleven or twelve years old while the other looked barely five. The clothes, discolored and raggedy; their limbs looked fragile but they skipped through the field as if that was their playground.

Continuing our drive through the village, we saw more children on the side of the road, walking and waving goodbye to the military vehicles with huge smiles on their faces. I looked to my left and I saw four kids standing on a block, one of them close to 5 or 6 years old and completely naked from head to toe. My heart broke, my tears jumped out of my eyes. I thought of my own children and how lucky they are and how I wish that they understand that there are children in the world that walk around naked for lack of clothes or because they know no better. I could see their naïve look, the humble look of poverty written in every wave, every smile.

There were many people outside their houses, they seemed to be accustomed to see convoys drive through their areas and they did not seem hostile in any way. The most amazing pictures are permanently engraved in my heart. Regardless of how many bad people we encounter here--and there are some out there--I vow not to forget that there is also good here. I will not forget that there are also people that are trying to live a normal live, that want to farm, love their family and walk their two-year-old son down the field to check the cattle as I saw a father doing today.

K-1 has a perimeter of around 7 miles and it has a small landing strip in it. The IA soldiers guard the guard towers around the perimeter. They are tasked for week and they have to sleep and eat in the towers. The jundi (soldiers) here vary in ages, some have served in the old regime and others have not.

I met my interpreter who we will call David and the 1st Company Commander who we will call MAJ Hood—I am not using his real name to protect them. MAJ Hood has been in the Army for 22 years and was part of the old regime. He has one wife, two sons and one daughter (11, 8, and 6; I believe). His family lives south of Baghdad where he commutes when he has vacations, or when he has enough days off to make the drive. He is a Shiite and he seems knowledgeable and up to date on the company’s up-tempo. He is very concerned about the soldier’s morale and understands that better equipment and better facilities will incite the jundi not to quit the army.

The company’s XO is a shorter, smaller but feisty man name LT Kaiser. He is a good XO in every sense of the word. He knows the company as well as the commander and he will fight for what he believes is right. I was impressed with him because MAJ Eidt told me he does not follow the—micromanaged—guidance of the regiment when it comes to convoys and that he will take the initiative and do whatever it takes to protect his men and bring them home safe. I like that

While in MAJ Hood’s office, we drink chi (hot sweet tea) and talk about work, family and country. They are fascinated with the fact that my husband is taking care of the kids at home while I am here in the war. They showed appreciation for my presence and assure me that I am their sister now and they will protect me as such. He has told his company jundis that they are not allowed to disrespect me in any way and if they do, he will personally take care of them.

At lunch, I always accept their invitation to go to the Iraqi DFAC because I do not want to seem like a snob. I was surprised to see that it was quite clean and the food was not that bad at all. They had rice, beans and chicken—menu I understand is quite the hit around here.

The day is quite over after lunch, they usually pray and take naps--is the hottest part of the day--while the Americans try to catch up with their reports and other work. We live in a two story concrete building with running non-potable water and a generator that gives us electricity more times than not. We all have our own rooms here and they are about 15x15--yes, they are quite big. We all air conditioners in our rooms and ceiling fans. Since we do not have immediate American support--no dinning facility (DFAC), no Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR) facility, no medical station--we have to convoy to the American FOB, 6-10 miles away (depending on the route) to get mail, supplies, a doctor consult or buy any personal needs at the PX. We have a small kitchen with a temporary cook who cooks for around 25 people and does his best at cooking with what we get for Class I--food and liquid--delivered.

The bathrooms are moldy, dirty and the plumbing breaks frequently. There are three western style toilets--only two of them work--and four easter style. We have spent countless hours cleaning the area since not everybody has the same standards of living and ours seem to be a bit higher. Katie, Sonia and I spent hours cleaning the kitchen and the result was immediately evident making it a place where you would not mind eating from.

I am finally settled in my room and put my butterfly posters on the wall, butterfly stickers all over my stuff and set my butterfly puzzle on top of my table. I have 8 Armed Forces Network (AFN) channels and Internet access from my room.

Our Journey to Kirkuk

When I was a little girl, I remember our family drives to the beach—or our drives west—and knowing when we were driving pass by the refineries. The distinct smell that emanate from it was an undesirable mix of rotten eggs and sewer water times two. Even if we had been sleeping, we instantly woke up to pinch our nose and complain about the smell.

I was dreaming about eating delicious chocolate cake and I was suddenly awaken to the same disgusting smell that hunt me so many years ago. This time though, when I woke up, I opened my eyes to find a tall wall of duffle bags in front of me and two people beside me clutching riffles as the helicopter—H60 Blackhawk—was approaching its destination. We were in the Kirkuk region of northern Iraq. When I looked out the opening in the back of the helicopter, I could see flames burning marking the sites of the refineries. I nodded my head, closed my eyes and thought about how I got there…

Early in the evening, we were told that we would fly out of Taji into the Iraqi Base in Kirkuk that we are going to be working at. We packed up—once again, as we have done the past three days—loaded the bus and headed to the flight line once again. This time, we unloaded all of our bags from the trucks so I was convinced we would finally fly that night. We sat by our bags through the night, and jumped off to grab them every time we saw a Chinook land on the airfield just to sit back down and continue to wait.

Four hours after we arrived at the airfield, we were still sitting, lying, or standing around waiting for a “bird.” Of course, guess what happened when I decided that it has been a long time, that I was hungry and that I must eat; you got it, the “bird” finally arrived. So, I hurried up and put my snacks away, ran to the bags and began a series of trips back and forth from the helicopter to put our 36 duffle bags, 9 ruck sacks, and 9 other different individual carry-on’s inside.

There was not a soul in sight at K-1, we looked but there was nobody to pick us up. After much wondering, our team leader decided to fly back to FOB Warrior—the American base—and get a bed for the night—or what was left of it. Therefore, we took off again, landed in Warrior and arranged to have a place to sleep. After it was all set and done, we were traveling from place to place for two hours. We moved our bags out of the aircraft, onto the ground, into a bus and into a tent; we prepared our nasty little beds for sleeping, used the bathroom and came outside to see the sun up and that it was time to go eat breakfast. We ate, bathed, and ended up going to bed around 0630 in the morning; it was a long day.

My First Iraqi "Friend"...

While I was walking through the gate that leads to the DFAC, I saw the young Iraqi security guard woman that mostly sits at the gate looking pretty wearing a cute rein stone necklace. I thought to myself: "she really tried to look pretty today, she would appreciate somebody to compliment her necklace." So, I did…I told her that she looked pretty and that her necklace was pretty and then continue walking into the DFAC. While I was setting my things at the table, she came in running in towards me with a clutch hand.

She reached her hand over towards me and opened it. In it, she held the rein stone necklace that she was wearing before and she was putting it in my hand. I tried not to accept it but she was considerably adamant about it and I remember that we were told not to refuse gifts from the Iraqis thus, I took the necklace and I instantly started thinking about what I was going to give her in return--something that was told to us as well.

I ran back to my room and started looking all over my bags for something to give her back that would have some meaning, not a t-shirt or a pen. I had nothing but the butterfly pin that Dave had given me in Christmas; I had no choice but to make that my return gift to her. In their culture, when you are given something, they most likely expect something back, I did not want to be the weird American that just took something from a poor female guard and was too cheap to give her something in return.

I ran--again--back to the DFAC, called her to me and gave her the pin. There was an interpreter nearby so I utilize him to explain to her that my name is Vanessa, that it means butterfly, and that she can now always remember me by looking at that pin. She was very happy, and I could see that she was surprised and bashful because she thought the pin was very nice--it was a nice pin indeed. We hugged--again-- and I told her that I was leaving that night and to take care of herself.

A couple of days later, I saw my female guard friend in the afternoon when we went to dinner. She called me and asked me how old I was. After telling her my age, she said that she was 18 years old. I could not believe that this female who I thought was my age, was only 18 years old. She looks much older than that, but all I could think of is that her life has been harder than mine has. She looked at me amazed that I was 34 years old and she called me back towards her to give me her email address and to ask me to write to her. Through all this, I was looking at her uniform shirt where she pinned the butterfly that I have given her two days ago.

After walking off, I once again commenced to pack my bags. I finished up and laid on the bed thinking about this young woman that was so impressed with me. I thought about the way that she looked at me, her childish mannerisms and how open she was to give me a hug without really knowing who I was. I felt an immeasurable amount of remorse taking over me. I speculated on her living conditions outside the gate, how her family felt about she being a guard for the Americans and if she ever faced dangerous situations because of her job. I also questioned the future, my future, her future and the future of this country. I would like to think that later on in life when she becomes a mother to beautiful Iraqi boys, she will tell them that Americans are not bad, that she does not let hate teachings get to them and that she would have our brief meeting--and other pleasant experiences--to convey to them. A sappy part of me would like to think that she will keep that butterfly forever as a my token of gratitude and respect for her culture and her traditions. I hope that in years to come she will get to see peace, freedom and happiness.

Trying to Learn the System...

June 15, 2007
In the midst of being in a place that resembles a concentration camp, I have to remember the days of the week and the dates in the month. Today is my Sammy's birthday. I could not stop thinking about it all day. I wish that I was home and that I could have spent his 7th birthday with him but I know that in his heart, he understands that it is not because I do not love him it is just because I cannot be there right now. I found out that he lost his first tooth today on his birthday, how special is that? I wish I could have been there but I got this beautiful pics to make me feel closer to home.

We had a small break in the monotony and went to Taji Depot in the other side of post. Once there, we learned about the supply system--or absence of--in the IA and we had a special trip to the maintenance shops and class IX (parts for vehicles) yard. The motor pools here (maintenance shops) look like "Billy Bob’s auto repair shop conveniently located in his back garage." The vehicles are parked randomly, the tires are piled up everywhere, the cabinets--supposed to be toolboxes--are falling apart and full of rust; it was quite a sight for us.

I was looking around and found a cable coming out of an air compressor that has been stripped, split and plugged in the outlet . I had to take a picture because I found it amazing and it showed to me that there is no safety standard. Some vehicles that have not made it in the Ministry of Defense vehicles density list, are still sitting waiting to be added so they can get the parts needed. In so many words, it is a royal mess. Cannibalization of vehicles is a common practice here and unfortunately it is not controlled thus some vehicles become so non-mission capable that they are never driven again.

In the class IX yard, the parts, boxes and piles are everywhere. You can notice that they try to have some organization to the madness but it still looks very primitive. The drive there and back was depressing to say the least. Along the way there were piles and piles of trash, broken down military vehicles and tanks and buildings that were raided, had their walls shot, their windows blown up and now sat abandoned as a bittersweet reminder of our "victorious" take over.

The Phoenix Academy Experience...

Morning came quick. I woke up a little disoriented—it seems to be norm lately for me—after a moment I realize where I was at and I ease my nerves. We are staying in a concrete building with open bay barracks. The barracks have a lock on the door and so does the bathroom facilities. Speaking of, the shower and the toilets here run with water from the Tigris River. The water was tested not long ago and found to have some bacteria that can make you have several unpleasant trips to the bathroom if drank. It also has a similar smell to sewer water when it comes out of the showerhead or faucet. Actually, the whole bathroom smells like it.

The Phoenix Academy is a 53-acre compound—forward operating base (FOB)—within a FOB. Camp Taji is adjacent to it but the Academy is actually in the 9th Division Iraqi Army compound. Some of the structures here are permanent—concrete built—but the classrooms are trailer-like pods inside of warehouses that could be removed if needed. The academy has a barbershop,—free of charge—a small weight room and cardio room, an internet café, a small dining facility,—with not the same quality of food we had in the other camps—a very small shoppette, and a laundry facility where we drop off our laundry—all of it—and we pick it up in 24 hours—free of charge. To be honest with you, if I have to pick between somebody washing my underwear or better food…I will do my own laundry.

Our schedule is now composed of classroom time. The classes are geared to help us have situational awareness and cultural awareness. I found our classes interesting although I could detect a hint of bias information that would keep a doubtful mind, either doubtful or convinced of whatever it is they are trying to convey to us. As I sit in these classes I am amazed at the amount of people that do not know anything about the history or culture of Iraq, better yet, I am amazed about how many people do not know about our own form of government. They did not know simple things like; who will take office if the president and the vice-president died? Is there even or odd numbers in the Congress and the Senate? How do we break an even vote in the Senate? What branch of government handles constitutional issues? Come on!!! I went to school in Puerto Rico until I was 19 years old and I still know the answer!

Annoyed with the silly questions, I started thinking about some events that transpired during the past week. Thinking about things that I somehow did not think about much before—and did not mention in other letters—but were crawling up in my head now as if I was supposed to notice something from them. I remembered the amount of people that stopped us, thanked us and cried for us at the airport, the somber feeling disguised with applauses that was pouring out of the people lined up by the gate to cheer us on and wish us luck.

General Patreaus, the big head honcho here, visited us today in Iraq. I have to admit that I was quite surprised when I saw him because he was not close to what I thought he would be physically. I expected a tall , vociferous man that would stand in an offensive position, talk in an offensive demeanor in order to keep the questions at the bare minimum. Instead, a considerably short man with a humble--almost grandfather-like--walk enters the room. He stood away from the podium and walked around the front of the audience to ensure that we all could hear his very low voice--which was supposed to be helped by a microphone but it was not working. He was pleasant and stopped talking to welcome all of our questions. I did not sense a propaganda tone in his speech; he was not there to try to persuade us to change our minds about things. When the briefing was over, Sonia, I asked to take a picture with him, and he was pleased to; he even put his arms around us and asked us if we were sisters.

While getting, yet another briefing, the screen suddenly started to tremble, it was an outgoing mortar shot that could be heard in the near distance, one after another one, as the helicopters flew over circulating the area. 3, 4, 5…9 shots in all were fired while we were sitting in the classroom and nobody moved a finger…wow!! We have become so accustomed that we do not even look for the nearest exit…Me, I just sat there listening to those--not so long ago unfamiliar but now--familiar sounds as I wonder: "How in the heck did I end up here."

Let us hope that this display of political violence will someday bring something decent to these people, if not…well, it will be hard not to think that it was a waste of time. Moreover, let me clarify; if this mission is successful, I will never credit the administration for it; I will credit the men and women that even against their principles came here and gave this people something that the big wigs did not show…compassion, patience and humility.

One Day in BIAP...

This place is much like a dump, there is nothing but reminders of war everywhere you look. Today, we took a bus to take us to Camp Victory. In this compound, there are several camps together—Camp Stryker, Camp Slayer, Camp Victory, Camp Liberty and of course, BIAP. Victory is the camp that most of the politicians come and visit. It has palaces, what used to be nice buildings and even a manmade lake. To me, it is a shame what we have done to this city. I look around and I could see how everything was destroyed. We drove through what used to be a zoo and now it is just a field with overgrown grass and trash. We went by a palace that was being built during the invasion and, four years later, it still have the cranes park beside it but has not been touched. I was told that palace was being built for Saddam’s children but I am not sure how true that is.

It is amazing to think that going for a tour now consist of finding a good dining facility, a nice PX and a place that sells coffee. Over in Camp Liberty, we went to the PX. We were told that it had the biggest PX around so we had to go see it…well, it is tiny but I guess that here one should be happy with almost anything. We found a Seattle’s Best Coffee and we were drinking hot coffee in 100-degree weather but as I sweat my tail off, I was enjoying the only coffee that I have had for a while. We also made it to the dining facility in Camp Victory, which was huge, lots of food but could not find sour cream, go figures!

Our night was different, to say the least, there were mortar rounds, gunshots and bomb sounds in the distance. I finally put my headphones on and went to sleep. Some of the people from our team could not sleep at all but lately I am finding out that I can fall sleep just about anywhere.

Drinking water in BIAP comes from the local river. A private company purifies and bottles the water for the soldiers to drink…there is something about that I did not completely like and so I realized that unconsciously I decreased my water drinking and drank more juices or other beverages. If not, we use little single packages of Crystal Light that we drop in the bottles to disguise the unfamiliar taste.

We staged our bags outside of our tents late evening and loaded the bus to the flight line where two Chinook helicopters were coming to pick us up. To make a long story short, we were supposed to leave at sometime before midnight but did not leave BIAP until well after it. I did not mind it at all because as I said before, I can fall sleep anywhere, so this woman, climbed on top of three duffle bags and went to sleep. Not the helicopters flying in and out not the dust blowing all over my face woke me up. I guess that is what happens when you get used to be in these conditions.
Finally, our ride arrived and we started the meticulous process We made a stop for gas before leaving—where we all had to exit the “bird”—and then we began our trip scheduled to last just over an hour. After about an hour of flying we stop again for gas—dismounted the “bird” again—and thirty minutes later we arrived in the airfield at the Iraqi Base name K-1. During the flight—and before I gave up and closed my eyes—I watched the young soldier that sits at the back hatch of the aircraft, loosely holding a mounted machine gun and looking out for possible threats. I could not help but to wonder how much has he seen from there, if he ever witnessed any attacks, and if he had used that machine gun recently.

We made a stop for gas before leaving—where we all had to exit the “bird”—and then we began our trip scheduled to last just over an hour. After about an hour of flying we stop again for gas—dismounted the “bird” again—and thirty minutes later we arrived in the airfield at the Iraqi Base name K-1. During the flight—and before I gave up and closed my eyes—I watched the young soldier that sits at the back hatch of the aircraft, loosely holding a mounted machine gun and looking out for possible threats. I could not help but to wonder how much has he seen from there, if he ever witnessed any attacks, and if he had used that machine gun recently. 

Early in the morning, we arrived at the Phoenix Academy, signed for our keys, took a shower and went to sleep. The sun was almost up but since the windows are blocked and tinted—because these were female barracks—we did not notice that it was well into daylight when we woke.

Living in and Leaving Kuwait..

We went to a range, shot some rounds down range and made sure that our weapons were working properly. We also train on foreign weapons and had the opportunity to shoot the infamous AK-47. I liked that part of the day although the wind was blowing sand everywhere and it was hard to keep the sand off your eyes. While I was at the range, I learned that some of the locals—called Badoins (Desert People)Americans call the Bedouins—go around the ranges picking up brass so they can take it and sell it somewhere else. We had one of them come and ask us for water and another couple pulled up in a Toyota pickup truck and simply ask for brass. I looked at the person that asked for water and was amazed to see that he was walking on the burning sand with sandals that are very similar to flip-flops. I also looked at their skin and noticed how burnt it was from the sun.

Another type of range consisted on preparing us to react to contact in case necessary. They have simulators through the desert and Kuwaitis that pretend to be civilian casualties. It was somewhat sunny until the winds picked up and so did the sand. There was little visibility and hotter than the day before. I cannot believe this people live here under these conditions.

The sand storm continued through the day and late into the night. The walk from the tents to the dining facility was quite a site. The sand was blowing everywhere and getting into our shirts, on our face, hair and everywhere else, it could. There was no escaping it because we HAVE to walk to the dining facility or not eat at all.

In the afternoon, we found out that we are going to fly out the next day in the early morning—some would say that is the same day indeed. We slept until almost midnight and then we put our bags outside to wait for the bus. Since we did everything so fast, we were able to go to midnight chow again—yay! The bus arrived at an hour and half later and we loaded the bus with our bags so we can take a ride back to the same place we flew in country to take a plane that would take us to Baghdad International Airport (BIAP).

We arrived at the Air Base considerably soon and the flight was schedule for three hours later, therefore, Sonia and I went to get some coffee and some pizza. At the time set for takeoff, we were loading a C130 airplane and we were packed like sardines—all 52 of us—in the little seats with our carry-on on our laps. It was, by far, the most uncomfortable flight I have ever taken in my life. It was worse than taking a flight with a fat person sitting right by you.

I listened to my iPod the whole way and even took a little nap. When it was time to land, well, all I can say is that I have never felt such big vacuum on an airplane before. We landed in BIAP around two hours after boarding the plane and we walked out to the flight line to get on a chopper to our next destination. Once we were here, they told us that we are not going to fly until the next night so we get to spend a day there in a huge compound.

Driving around the compound you can see how the coalition forces and we destroyed this place. There are a few trees—more than I expected—and it is not as sandy as I thought it was going to be. There are huge cement wall blocks—T blocks—along the road and separating the living areas—called pods—which makes everything look like something from the movie “Mad Max- Beyond the Thunder Dome.”

They took us to the tents where the transient people stay. All I have to say is that, if I thought that tent city in Camp Buehring was bad, I was wrong. This place makes Camp Buehring look like Club Eden. The tent that we are in is a dump. There are the lovely sleeping cots, and as if that is not enough for us, they have added lovely thin, old, dusty mattresses. I started itching as soon as I entered the tent. Well, at least if was steak and lobster night in the dining facility so Sonia and I went to get some chow.

My second Day in Kuwait

I finally went to sleep around 0200 in the morning and had to get up at 0600. The generators in the tents ran out of gas so they turned off during my sleep, which woke me straight up for most of my "sleeping time." It was hotter than hot in here...but I refused to get up. At 0600 we got up and went to the "bathroom" to brush our teeth, then reality slapped us in the face telling us..."you are not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy..." I mean, Vanessa. There were so many females in the bathroom you could not even walk through it without bumping on somebody.

After sneaking through to get a quick fix for our teeth, hair and face, we walked the--what seem like a mile--long way to the DFAC. I was somewhat excited to go to breakfast because it is my favorite meal—since it is almost impossible to mess it up—but I, once again, was reminded that I was not in the US anymore. The scramble eggs were powder eggs, the bacon had more 5/8 fat and 1/8 meat, the French toasts were made out of some sort of strange bread and all the milk, water, juices or liquids were from the Middle East . The chocolate milk tasted like soymilk and the regular milk was not any better.

After breakfast, we attended classes all day while fighting our sleepiness because of the jet lag. When I woke up this morning and stepped outside, I looked over to the sky and saw flying sand; I looked over to my right or left and saw flying sand; and I looked up straight forward or to the back and I saw flying sand. I can almost bet that not many of this people know the real color of the sky. It is almost impossible to see things that are far away from you. Permanent dust clouds linger around here and cover everything and every color; it even covers you. As soon as you step outside you can feel the sand sticking to your hand, face and coming inside of your mouth. If you happen to be without sunglasses, then you will have sand rubbing your eyeballs; it is awful.

The whole place smells like an old cellar, or basement that was not cleaned in years. The structures here are all temporary, save some water towers that could be more complex to move. The Burger King, Taco Bell, Star Bucks, Subway, and other food places are set on trailers and so are all the permanent party barracks and other organization buildings. The PX is a huge fiberglass siding building that looks more like an enormous garage than a store. Now I understand when somebody once said that all these bases could be removed from here in a year or less and there will not be any trace of them ever existing.

Well, tomorrow is range day, another 115 degrees day for us. We were told we will only be here for four days—instead of the 10 days, everybody else usually spends in Camp Buehring. It will be a long day but I will do my best to keep you guys informed since this will be the most exciting part of my deployment; I hope.