Diary of a U.S. Soldier
(Smuggled out of Iraq, this letter from a soldier in the 101st Airborne Division tells of conditions in Iraq that you will not hear about in the news or from other official dispatches.)
"In the Army, you learn to live without explanation. It means you are willing to carry out orders that don’t seem to make any sense, to perform meaningless and repetitive actions, and to endure mind-numbing routine.
What was it the apostle said? 'Love compels me'? My love for the military was rooted in the belief I was doing something honorable with my life, that this was a noble calling, that it meant something, that you made a difference in the world for good. I loved my job, my country and my army. Love compelled me, so I could put up with just about anything.
But when you have been beaten down by disillusionment, so that nothing makes sense any more, when you realize the institution you serve has lost its identity, that it is hated by its master, then your love dries up, you suddenly realize your life has been robbed from you and given over to futility.
From where I stand, I see war destroying the conqueror just as much as it destroys the conquered. I see the army like a whore, used up by its paymaster, given over to debauchery, lechery and butchery in a dark night of rape. Then, when the sun rises, it is discarded, forgotten, used up, thrown onto a scrap heap of severed limbs, disfigured corpses, and charred flesh, myriad haunting images of marred humanity.
I think of my son and two daughters back in the States. What would I do if I were an Iraqi father of three? Would we get in a car, make a break for it, flee to the nearest border? If bandits got us first, all our possessions and supplies would be stolen, my wife and daughters raped, and all of us left for the vultures under the desert sun.
No, I would probably stay here and live in constant fear, quaking between lawless Iraqis and vicious U.S. occupiers. And my hatred for the bastards would grow and grow. I would hate them for looting our cultural treasurers from the museums, I would hate them for tearing up our orchards, bulldozing our ancient date palms, and robbing our livelihoods, I would hate them for refusing medical treatment for victims of their own cluster bombs.
What am I going to tell my kids about this so-called war? That Daddy did what was right for his country? Even they could see through that. Children sense when they're being lied to, though legislators don't, or pretend they don't. I shall probably say I got caught up in a situation in which I had no control, and that I tried to make the best of it.
Or perhaps I will die here, a meaningless statistic in a meaningless, stupid, and pointless war. Death is not discriminating. I have seen his black-robed sleeve sweep over the good and bad alike. I only hope I shall slip through his war unnoticed.
What will they say of me if I die? Probably they'll say I was a hero. I can see Charlene, my wife, weeping over my grave as they lay me in the earth, draped in the American flag, the new insignia of oppression and torture. Maybe I can be a hero if I can stay sane enough not to brutalize the people who are at my mercy.
Torture? Yes. I know we're torturing Iraqis in the prisons here, and we don't much care whether they're guilty or innocent. Knowing the wrong person, having the wrong person in your family, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, can get you picked up and thrown in a hole where they keep bright lights on 24 hours a day, tie you up, electrocute you, twist your body into contortions, kick you in the face, gouge your eyes, wrench your balls…Oh God, I don't even wanna think about it.
Life is precious, and the human body sacrosanct, but not in this neck of the woods, not in this God-forsaken, misery-laden, fever-vomiting, shit-stinking, Iraq, this festering pile of garbage, filth, poison, and radiation, this land of monotonous, grinding, relentless, casual horror. It amazes me what human beings can do to each other, but it amazes me more that we Americans are the ones doing it, we so-called liberators. In the name of what? Democracy? Freedom? I guess it just makes us feel powerful to hurt and injure the helpless and vulnerable. In my book that's cowardice, but in the world of Bush it’s a badge of Patriotism.
It all starts unraveling now. I see the roots of our brand of terrorism run deep, over decades, back even to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, to this latest military escapade that looks, smells, and feels a lot like Vietnam. Then, we were supposedly fighting communists, now we're chasing phantoms and illusions. Where will it all end, a nuclear holocaust? The guys in Washington are already planning for it.
Who am I, a political analyst? No, just a grunt on the front lines who sees what's happening in the back rooms, a jughead in a stinking uniform who can't get a decent shower or a peaceful shit. I'm not paid to think, at least that's what my commanding officers tell me all the time.
They sure as hell switched their own brain cells off a long time ago. Now they get drunk, get high, fuck where they can and rape where they can't. Some even with 12-year-old girls. There's no such thing as morality here. The good man does whatever he can to survive, the bad one does whatever he can to exploit other people. I have learned that good and bad come in every size, shape, color, and creed. But when the bad soldier wears a uniform that purportedly stands for good, he is the worst son of a bitch that ever walked the earth.
There were a couple of times I had young Iraqi girls at my mercy. I could have taken them to a dark place and fucked them hard and left them weeping and bleeding. In my fantasies I have done so many times. Or, in my better fantasies, Iraqi girls have lifted their burkas over their heads unprompted and brought me into their interiors with a grace so delicate, that these goddesses of the imagination have suspended for a moment the clumsy, brutal, ugly world in which we have all become trapped.
Oh God, I am aching to get some, to sink my teeth into some wet, sloppy pussy. I don't care what diseases they got. God knows, I love my wife, but surely she would understand, when I come back to her, a broken shell of man, what I had to do under such compulsion, such deprivation, such temptation. There are a few women left on my unit who have not been banged up yet, which buys them a ticket home, lucky bitches.
Oh Lord Jesus, go with me everywhere, be at my side. Walk with me in the shadow of death. Be my watchman. Tread past the landmines with me, dodge the sniper's bullet with me, evade the enemy's ambush with me. God, rescue me from every evil attack, and bring me safely to your heavenly kingdom.
Amen."
October 2003
Disclaimer:
This piece has been widely taken at face value, as a letter from an actual soldier, rather than what it really is -- a work of imagination, based on fact, and spoken through an invented character. Lest I be held up to condemnation for this, bear in mind the same technique was used to great effect by Benjamin Franklin (through the creations of Silence Dogood and Miss Polly Baker). As author Leslie Feinberg puts it: "Never underestimate the power of fiction to tell the truth."
To view the testimony of an actual soldier, see: http://www.democracynow.org/article.pl?sid=04/05/24/148212
