The un embed... or so I thought
Call it the rules—did you know soldiers are not allowed to smoke and walk at the same time? —or perhaps the fact that I had to watch an otherwise reasonable young man consume first a family-sized jar of mayonnaise, puke, and then join in on an economy sized mustard chugging contest. Or maybe just the closer than close monitoring of every word I wrote on my blog (wondering why there are no posts?), in articles and soon I wondered if in emails as well. Then I got a sniff of freedom. I escaped for two days into the arms of the Al Hamra hotel in downtown Baghdad and visited with an old colleague. I got in a few real conversations with real live Iraqis, including Nadeem and Yazin, from the babe squad!! slept the first night in weeks without wondering if mortars would come through my roof, and realized I couldn’t ever fully go back. In other words, I’m leaving my embed. Can’t do it. I’m out – at least for a while. I mean, I’m critical enough without having to edit my own words and I’ll say it again: anyone who says the embed experience doesn’t affect one’s work is flat. out. lying. Doesn’t mean the work isn’t good, important or done with integrity; just means it’s affected.
Plus, I have been neglectful, I admit it, and for reasons I can’t really go into right now. But I’m going to be more communicative from here on out because I suppose you’d like to hear a thing or two about Iraq. Yeah, and so would I. In fact, I’m so curious about what’s happening in this country, leaving my embed during the elections is my only hope of actually getting some information. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve learned immense amounts about the embed process, about the good folks of the 515 in New Mexico, and some not so good folks; I’ve seen extraordinary military waste and lavish living and I’ve hit my head against the absurdity of rules. I’ve seen the amazing hard work of hundreds of National Guardsmen and reservists, many of whom are here against their will and at great personal sacrifice (backdoor draft? You betchya). I’m awestruck just witnessing first hand the machinations of the military machine; observing good people stuck in ridiculous situations; unit cohesion and the lack thereof; devotion to God because if it wasn’t God that kept that piece of shrapnel an inch away from my head, I don’t know what was. And then the dramas: Watching couples late at night emerge from bunkers, conexes and from behind latrines; hearing any number of personal stories, some of which will be chronicled eventually, I promise. Men strutting their stuff in the gym while women circle like vultures over roadkill; a medic center that works with pinpoint accuracy and smart folks who can call a spade a spade. I’ve enjoyed a kind of obvious protection, eating good food, having hot showers and sleeping in a comfortable bed with an endless supply of DVDs. I have even enjoyed the completely nonsensical, idiotic remarks made by kids with no thinking capacity of their own, mostly because it’s my morbid fascination to see that these thought processes actually exist (more on this to come). I’ve especially enjoyed conversations with people who are really thinking deeply about and questioning what they’re doing here and wondering if their legacy will prove beneficial to the people of Iraq. And there are a lot of those here. Many of these people are older, more thoughtful and often have served in other wars. My favorite response came from a newcomer to Iraq, a sixty something Vietnam vet and current National Guardsman from Kansas. Given the repeated comparisons between Iraq and Vietnam, I asked him if he saw similarities between the two wars and if so what they might be. He pointed his plastic fork in my face and said, “Are there similarities? Yeah, and Edwin Star said it best: ‘War! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. I’ll say it again. War! What is it good for? Ab-so-lut-ely nothing.’”
Then he put his fork down and excused himself as he left the chow hall.
On that note, here are some casual shots of my life here at Log Base Seitz, where a large signs hangs over the maintenance company doors reading, ‘Welcome to Mortaritaville.’
Two days after I posted this and was nervously arranging my departure to downtown Baghdad - the Red Zone - I got a note that I was accepted with the 10th Mountain division down the road at Camp Victory. I thought about completely erasing the post I had previously written, then decided that it is a good indicator of my extreme internal struggle and ambivalence with the embed process. I began with an embed because I wanted to see and understand the military maneuvering from the inside, but mostly because it was the only relatively safe way for a journalist to work in Iraq. I had no idea at the time that I would have NO interaction with Iraqis, that the situation here had turned so drastically away from the Iraq I discovered last year that I would be as isolated as the military itself, held prisoner inside the walls of my own making. This has been profoundly depressing for me and has impacted my work (or lack thereof) in numerous ways. And yet I want to find a way to make it work. Because of their involvement with some of the electoral process (council meetings, patrols, etc) I think the 10th MNT will offer me a kind of view I’ve been waiting to see with no success since I arrived here in December. As the elections are just over a week away I will try for far more frequent postings.
There are a few other aspects that are influencing my decision to try another embed, despite my ambivalence. During my brief time downtown, I discovered with no surprise that my old translator is working full time with someone else. He is someone I trust implicitly and trusting your Iraqi contact is essential these days. I know he would help where he could, but it would limit my desire and access to do anything outside the hotel walls. I had asked my translator to try to find another friend, Hussein, the air force pilot who took me into his home and family last year, and for whose children I had packed a bag of toys. Hussein’s email had been closed and I had no phone number that worked. We had no luck tracking him down until I read days later that he and a French journalist had just been kidnapped. I was devastated. And, though it’s not new, it made me realize just how much risk these people take to help us as journalists. yes, it is because we have become friends, but mostly because their country is destroyed and this is one of the ONLY remaining jobs around that pays anything. Other jobs include police work, whose reputation is as a kind of mafia training for shake downs of innocent and some not so innocent people. The police are trusted less than the politicians these days – and the danger to them is far greater. But again, it is a job, one of the few. So in asking friends to help me gather stories it puts their lives at risk that much more. And even when covering myself with a hat, a scarf and a full abaya, I am a western female with light skin who does not speak Arabic. I have taken the personal risk to come here and do this work, and translators are responsible for taking their risks, I know. But if anything happened to my dear friend because of his association with me, I’m not sure I could live with myself. So it is with a heavy heart but also with eagerness that I proceed to my next station. The few people I’ve already met from this unit have been wonderful.
And I guess a note about the photos because I’ve gotten a comment. I have chosen some photos for now to show the sheer absurdity of some of my days here but also because I would rather my worried friends and family see me struggle with the strangeness, say, of my first facial (yes, it was my first, and for those who know me I’m sure you got a chuckle) than the strangeness of some other things I’ve witnessed here. All in due time…
Plus, I have been neglectful, I admit it, and for reasons I can’t really go into right now. But I’m going to be more communicative from here on out because I suppose you’d like to hear a thing or two about Iraq. Yeah, and so would I. In fact, I’m so curious about what’s happening in this country, leaving my embed during the elections is my only hope of actually getting some information. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve learned immense amounts about the embed process, about the good folks of the 515 in New Mexico, and some not so good folks; I’ve seen extraordinary military waste and lavish living and I’ve hit my head against the absurdity of rules. I’ve seen the amazing hard work of hundreds of National Guardsmen and reservists, many of whom are here against their will and at great personal sacrifice (backdoor draft? You betchya). I’m awestruck just witnessing first hand the machinations of the military machine; observing good people stuck in ridiculous situations; unit cohesion and the lack thereof; devotion to God because if it wasn’t God that kept that piece of shrapnel an inch away from my head, I don’t know what was. And then the dramas: Watching couples late at night emerge from bunkers, conexes and from behind latrines; hearing any number of personal stories, some of which will be chronicled eventually, I promise. Men strutting their stuff in the gym while women circle like vultures over roadkill; a medic center that works with pinpoint accuracy and smart folks who can call a spade a spade. I’ve enjoyed a kind of obvious protection, eating good food, having hot showers and sleeping in a comfortable bed with an endless supply of DVDs. I have even enjoyed the completely nonsensical, idiotic remarks made by kids with no thinking capacity of their own, mostly because it’s my morbid fascination to see that these thought processes actually exist (more on this to come). I’ve especially enjoyed conversations with people who are really thinking deeply about and questioning what they’re doing here and wondering if their legacy will prove beneficial to the people of Iraq. And there are a lot of those here. Many of these people are older, more thoughtful and often have served in other wars. My favorite response came from a newcomer to Iraq, a sixty something Vietnam vet and current National Guardsman from Kansas. Given the repeated comparisons between Iraq and Vietnam, I asked him if he saw similarities between the two wars and if so what they might be. He pointed his plastic fork in my face and said, “Are there similarities? Yeah, and Edwin Star said it best: ‘War! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. I’ll say it again. War! What is it good for? Ab-so-lut-ely nothing.’”
Then he put his fork down and excused himself as he left the chow hall.
On that note, here are some casual shots of my life here at Log Base Seitz, where a large signs hangs over the maintenance company doors reading, ‘Welcome to Mortaritaville.’
Two days after I posted this and was nervously arranging my departure to downtown Baghdad - the Red Zone - I got a note that I was accepted with the 10th Mountain division down the road at Camp Victory. I thought about completely erasing the post I had previously written, then decided that it is a good indicator of my extreme internal struggle and ambivalence with the embed process. I began with an embed because I wanted to see and understand the military maneuvering from the inside, but mostly because it was the only relatively safe way for a journalist to work in Iraq. I had no idea at the time that I would have NO interaction with Iraqis, that the situation here had turned so drastically away from the Iraq I discovered last year that I would be as isolated as the military itself, held prisoner inside the walls of my own making. This has been profoundly depressing for me and has impacted my work (or lack thereof) in numerous ways. And yet I want to find a way to make it work. Because of their involvement with some of the electoral process (council meetings, patrols, etc) I think the 10th MNT will offer me a kind of view I’ve been waiting to see with no success since I arrived here in December. As the elections are just over a week away I will try for far more frequent postings.
There are a few other aspects that are influencing my decision to try another embed, despite my ambivalence. During my brief time downtown, I discovered with no surprise that my old translator is working full time with someone else. He is someone I trust implicitly and trusting your Iraqi contact is essential these days. I know he would help where he could, but it would limit my desire and access to do anything outside the hotel walls. I had asked my translator to try to find another friend, Hussein, the air force pilot who took me into his home and family last year, and for whose children I had packed a bag of toys. Hussein’s email had been closed and I had no phone number that worked. We had no luck tracking him down until I read days later that he and a French journalist had just been kidnapped. I was devastated. And, though it’s not new, it made me realize just how much risk these people take to help us as journalists. yes, it is because we have become friends, but mostly because their country is destroyed and this is one of the ONLY remaining jobs around that pays anything. Other jobs include police work, whose reputation is as a kind of mafia training for shake downs of innocent and some not so innocent people. The police are trusted less than the politicians these days – and the danger to them is far greater. But again, it is a job, one of the few. So in asking friends to help me gather stories it puts their lives at risk that much more. And even when covering myself with a hat, a scarf and a full abaya, I am a western female with light skin who does not speak Arabic. I have taken the personal risk to come here and do this work, and translators are responsible for taking their risks, I know. But if anything happened to my dear friend because of his association with me, I’m not sure I could live with myself. So it is with a heavy heart but also with eagerness that I proceed to my next station. The few people I’ve already met from this unit have been wonderful.
And I guess a note about the photos because I’ve gotten a comment. I have chosen some photos for now to show the sheer absurdity of some of my days here but also because I would rather my worried friends and family see me struggle with the strangeness, say, of my first facial (yes, it was my first, and for those who know me I’m sure you got a chuckle) than the strangeness of some other things I’ve witnessed here. All in due time…
posted by zpollon at 3:09 AM
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