Surviving Baghdad
These mist-covered mountains
Are a home now for me
But my home is the lowlands
And always will be
Someday, you'll return to
Your valleys and your farms
And you'll no longer burn
To be brothers in arms
Through these fields of destruction
Baptisms of fire
I've witnessed your suffering
As the battle raged higher
And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms
There's so many different worlds
So many different suns
And we have just one world
But we live in different ones
Now the sun's gone to hell
The moon's riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die
But it's written in the starlight
And every line in your palm
We're fools to make war
On our brothers in arms
- Brothers in Arms, Mark Knopfler
As Memorial Day unfurls its somber colors across the nation this weekend, I am overwhelmed by profound melancholy. In my thoughts, our flag stands tall as a stark sentinel against the sky, fluttering at half-mast, its whispers of immense sacrifice drowned out by the clamor of barbecues and sales banners. Each star and stripe on this flag bears the weight of memories stained with blood and grief, tales of warriors lost not only on distant battlegrounds but also in the quiet, relentless battles within their own minds. Yet, this tapestry of sacrifice has faded into the background for most Americans. In the cacophony of sales and cookouts, the profound significance of Memorial Day has been misplaced. The stars, the stripes, and the memories they hold are reduced to mere motifs in summer merchandise sales. I have known some of these stars, these silent witnesses of valor and despair. I have seen their light extinguished too soon, their dreams left unfulfilled in the wake of a struggle that most choose to ignore amidst the day's festivities. Their stories have become the somber lullabies of my nights, their absence a void that daylight can never fill. While the rest of the country immerses itself in retail therapy and the tantalizing aroma of cookouts, I find myself submerged in a sea of memories, each wave crashing with the force of a lost friend, a lost comrade, a lost part of myself. Memorial Day has become a bitter reminder of the disconnect, a chasm that widens every year between those who genuinely remember and those who unthinkingly celebrate “good deals” on appliances. I submit those who lost their lives did not get a good deal on life. Allow me, dear reader, to clarify what I mean. Let me share an unvarnished truth about the men I served with in Baghdad in 2003.
These men, my ragtag team, my brothers in arms, are individuals I delight in lampooning with words. Yes, you read that right. I derive humor from writing about them and find joy in their absurdities and the inherent chaos of our daily lives. They would have it no other way. Black or gallows humor was our only tool helping us survive. However, please do not mistake this lighthearted banter as a sign of disrespect. Quite the contrary, I entrusted these men, these fools, these misfits, and these idiots, with my life. In the most unforgiving circumstances, amid chaos and danger, I knew they would shield me from a bullet if it came to that. And they were assured of my unwavering commitment to them, even if it cost me my life. This is no exaggeration but a reflection of our lived reality on the perilous streets of Baghdad. One thing I realized from analyzing my years of service, particularly in those trying times, was the genesis of my Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). It did not arise from an isolated incident, a single episode of danger. Rather PTSD, in my case, was born from an unceasing cycle of life-threatening situations without the scope for protection, the ability to defend or retaliate, and any viable means of escape. All I could do was confront danger and carry out my mission, offering silent, metaphorical defiance in the face of an imminent threat - a quiet "fuck you" to death.
Living in the lowest two levels of Maslow’s hierarchy, first in Afghanistan and then yet again in Iraq, was what it was like. Afghanistan was a country destroyed by incessant and decades-long wars. On the other hand, Baghdad was a city wretched in all its glory, somehow reminded me of a grotesque offspring of a post-apocalyptic Miami that had sadistically violated Paris. Despite the American invasion tearing through the city's fabric, locals clung to their routines, a testament to their resilience. Narrow roads became clogged with traffic, while automatic gunfire and explosions served as grim punctuation marks in the cacophony of city life. Amidst the blaring car horns, fervent vendors peddling their escapes from reality, and conversations rising above the city's noise, one could momentarily forget the precariousness of our situation.
As American soldiers, we were unwelcome strangers in this land, navigating the streets in civilian attire, almost unarmed and unarmored. My M9 pistol, which I considered nothing more than a noisemaker, securely nestled against my back, was my only solace, hidden from prying eyes. Displaying a holster would make us even bigger targets as Americans—a risky proposition. Attempting to conceal it under layers of clothing would make us arrogantly naive Americans (no redundancy intended). Our intention was not to exhibit stupidity or arrogance. We had a mission: to gather valuable intelligence from the locals. Our meetings took place in the most inconspicuous locations—Baghdad restaurants, dingy hotel rooms, bustling cafes, teeming streets, and other obscure public spots scattered throughout the city. Some meetings were scheduled in advance; others were fortuitous encounters bearing critical information. My role demanded rapid adaptability, extracting as much intelligence as possible within the shortest time frame. Unpredictability was our constant companion, with contacts sometimes failing to show up or bringing unsolicited 'friends' despite explicit instructions to come alone.
We despised surprises. In the volatile tapestry of Baghdad, surprises often meant increased danger and, in some cases, death.
On occasions, I found myself pulling security in a hotel lobby with my 9mm on the ready or sometimes shepherding my contacts past our jittery security if we were meeting within the Green Zone, like that day at the Arbataash Tamuz bridge (the 14th of July bridge) when a firefight erupted nearby, the ominous rat-tat-tat echoing uncomfortably close and getting closer. In response, my mind, now well-numbed by constant exposure to danger, casually glanced at my digital Ricoh watch, and I offered a calming smile to the nervous, trigger-happy soldiers. Suckers. They were new to this, eager to be the heroes of a Hollywood war movie. I did not want them to shoot my man. Their naïveté, jittery demeanor, and readiness to open fire at anything remotely suspicious, even at my contact merely due to his brown skin—a skin color I shared with him—amused me. Still, I had to ensure my contacts were not mowed down trying to come and help us.
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Among us, we had a unique mix of individuals—the Army's Long Range Reconnaissance and Surveillance (LRRS) men, highly trained physical specimens who, in the absence of LRRS-related tasks, provided additional security for us intelligence gatherers. When not occupied with their duties, they could be found charming the ladies over drinks or exercising with an intensity that could make a seasoned gym-goer despair. These LRRS men were a peculiar sight, parading in their 'ranger panties,' running shorts so tiny that they left little to the imagination. The only redeeming quality of their display was the distraction it provided—the women ogling the exercising men and us enjoying the spectacle of the women enjoying the spectacle offered by the ranger panties. Then there were the Brits, a boisterous bunch with an insouciant disregard for rank or hierarchy. Amidst the horrors of our circumstances, their carefree demeanor was both unsettling and amusing. They seemed so at home in a foreign land, quickly asserting dominance over unfamiliar brown people. I wonder how they did that. Regardless, their redeeming qualities lay in their habit of relentlessly mocking all non-Brits and their unending love for tea. Our team also comprised Iraqi-American interpreters, an intriguing blend of slick Italian mobster charm and James Bond-like charisma, which they hoped would somehow disguise their advancing age. Strangely, they all answered to the nickname 'Sam' or 'Sammy,' as if all other Americanized names were off-limits. We joked that if someone were to yell "SAM!" in the middle of the night, a horde of Sams would suddenly materialize. Lastly, I was a bookish Indian immigrant, often mistaken by Iraqis for a Kurd, who had traded a tranquil life for the thrilling unpredictability of being a U.S. Army Military Intelligence soldier.
I found a peculiar comfort with the Brits, perhaps afflicted by a lingering case of post-colonial Stockholm syndrome. In the relative safety of our living space, we spent our time writing intelligence reports, strolling to the small chow trailer for a midnight breakfast, sleeping through loud and perilously random mortar attacks, and sending local teenagers on errands to fetch Iraqi alcohol and street food. On one occasion, these kids returned with bottles of 'Industrial Whiskey.' Its contents could easily have lubricated vehicle transmissions, but it was alcoholic, and we weren't picky. However, life was not solely filled with relaxation and mirthful whiskey drinking. In our leisure time, we diligently practiced our responses to potential threats. We meticulously cleaned our weapons, honed our skills in firing them from moving vehicles and at targets on an impromptu range, and fine-tuned our actions to optimize the efficiency and range of our firearms.
We rehearsed reactions to every conceivable scenario: if our vehicle was disabled, if we were pinned down by gunfire, if one of us was ejected from the vehicle, or if we had to fight toward our wounded to carry them out or leave them until we could get reinforcements. The bottom line, we were prepared to confront our fate head-on, to kill or be killed. The toll of these intense drills transformed us and made us unrecognizable during our ventures onto the city streets. We were constantly aware of the potential losses that could arise from any of our excursions. Our training took over as we did down-and-dirty Threat and Vulnerability Analyses (TVA) of our situations. We operated like a well-oiled machine, each knowing their role and trusting the others to fulfill theirs. My M9 pistol felt like an extension of my hand, and my senses heightened to the slightest disturbance. Every breath synchronized with the barely audible hum of the city under siege, my heart pounding in unison with the distant drumming of gunfire. But we were prepared because we knew that regret and 'what-ifs' were not welcome when our time came.
To avoid violence as much as possible, we drove like madmen on the streets, for slowing down meant getting picked off one by one from the highrises. Without hesitation, we would ram cars stopped ahead of us in traffic jams to make room. Stopping meant death. At intersections, if we had more than one vehicle (we went out with a maximum of three SUVs on good days), we would block the intersection with guns poking out of every window to empty the intersection of local traffic as our vehicles raced by. They would do the same for us at the next intersection. We would change lanes under bridges to avoid coming out the same lane we went in - so that no one on top could throw a brick or bomb into our windshield; we drove the wrong way up one-way streets, drove on sidewalks, and off-roaded where we could, with the sole goal of getting to our destination as quickly as we could. Minimize time exposed. Minimize time exposed. Minimize time exposed. That had become a mantra worth repeating as we frequently commuted along the most dangerous roads in the world.
The idiosyncrasies of our motley crew were a sight to behold, even within the relatively stable confines of the Green Zone. But let me assure you, in this war-ravaged landscape, these seemingly incongruous traits melded into a unique rhythm of survival, a harmony of dissonant notes that somehow created a hauntingly beautiful melody. I recall debates about whether Industrial Whiskey was whiskey or some form of automotive fluid or questioning the authenticity of the meat of the last burger we devoured at a local restaurant.
We ridiculed the habit of Iraqi burger vendors inserting french fries into the sandwich itself, deeming it peculiar. I remember our laughter echoing through the camp as the LRRS men flexed their muscles in their preposterous ranger panties and the whispered excitement of the women watching them, their eyes brimming with delight. And I remember the unspoken camaraderie, the bond that linked us all, transcending our cultural and individual disparities. Yet, amidst all the camaraderie and shared laughter, the harsh reality of our situation was never far from our minds. Even amid our lighthearted banter, the echoes of distant gunfire and the incessant mortar attacks were a stark reminder of where we were. With each passing day, with each mission, the probability of our survival significantly dwindled. It was an unspoken truth we all acknowledged but never voiced. This perpetual dance with death molded us into hardened individuals who had matter-of-factly accepted that our next mission was probably our last.
As I share these fragments of my time in Baghdad, I implore you to grasp the gravity of our circumstances and the tangible consequences of our choices. We were a band of brothers, thrust together by circumstance, united by a shared sense of duty. Yes, we were unconventional, a group that could be perceived as ludicrous, even foolhardy. However, amidst the chaos of Baghdad in 2003, we discovered a strange yet comforting order. The humdrum of city life, our unpredictable missions, the constant danger, and the hilarious, often insane interludes constituted our existence. While our methods may have appeared eccentric to outsiders, they were the coping mechanisms that allowed us to persist against all odds. Through the war-ravaged streets of Baghdad, under the vigilant gaze of potential threats, amidst the laughter, fear, chaos, and absurdity, we clung to our sanity, our humanity, and, above all, our lives. As I reflect upon those times, I cherish this ragtag team, this peculiar band of brothers who stood by one another, ready to take a bullet if necessary. I wouldn't have had it any other way. This dear reader, was my reality in 2003 on the treacherous streets of Baghdad. It was the most arduous yet enriching experience of my life. We laughed, fought, faced death, and lived through it all together. And despite the brutal nature of our mission, I cling to these memories, these stories. They testify to human resilience, the strength of brotherhood, and the determination to fulfill one's duty against all odds.
In writing this blog, dear readers, I am trying to make my accidental survival through Afghanistan and Iraq worth it. This is me trying to meet the high bar set by those before me by those who did not survive their combat zone deployments to Baghdad, Afghanistan, or elsewhere in the many wars our cowardly politicians decided to send us. This is an homage to all those who came home broken, much like me but decided to end their lives rather than continue living in the hells that followed them back.
As I am more of a soldier than a philosopher, I will turn to the Greatest Philosopher, Lord Krishna, for guidance instead. Krishna reminds us:
न जायते म्रियते वा कदाचि
नायं भूत्वा भविता वा न भूय: |
अजो नित्य: शाश्वतोऽयं पुराणो
न हन्यते हन्यमाने शरीरे || 20||
"The soul is neither born, nor does it ever die; nor having once existed, does it ever cease to be. The soul is without birth, eternal, immortal, and ageless. It is not destroyed when the body is destroyed." (Bhagavad Gita, 2.20.)
In this verse, we find solace and inspiration, reminding us that though our fallen heroes may have left this earthly realm, their spirit lives on eternally. Their bodies may have been laid to rest, but their souls, undying and undefeated, continue to inspire and guide us. Let us rise, not just on this Memorial Day, but every day, with unwavering determination, embracing the values for which they fought and sacrificed. May their indomitable spirit infuse our actions, motivating us to strive for a world that cherishes and upholds the freedom they valiantly defended. In the face of life's challenges, let us carry their memory as a beacon of resilience, reminding us that within each of us lies the potential for greatness and the power to make a positive difference. Finally, I wish to remind you that real people are behind every headline, news report, and war story—individuals with their own narratives, struggles, triumphs, and quirks. These are their stories. We were not merely soldiers but humans, men, and women thrust into extraordinary circumstances, striving to survive, serve, and become part of something greater than ourselves. My time in Baghdad in 2003 shaped me into the person I am today—transformed me for better or worse, molded me, and fostered an appreciation for the precious gift of life. And for that, I wouldn't change a thing. Well, perhaps the whiskey. I would change that.
