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.