This, I Believe, Is War

I never understood freedom, even after having fought in a war. I know what democracy is and I don’t like to think of it: I get depressed. I like to think that I freed someone or something in Iraq, but I really don’t know, or care. I have everything I wanted since coming home in 2004: my car, my girl, my golf. But I feel that it’s all still one big dream, just like how it was in Iraq. For me, the war has been removed by land and oceans. Some things weren’t removed, of course, and it’s those things that I like to think spark my thoughts about freedom. We used to do all sorts of stuff over there: imprison innocent Hodgies, torture the free and young, kill bystanders or unfortunate souls who happened to be in the way that day. None of us wanted it that way, but deep down inside, no one wanted to stop it. We were evolving racists.

Before I stepped foot into country I had a better sense of what freedom and democracy was then than I do now. I was taught the meaning behind the stars and stripes; and even resented the English on a certain level because of what happened in 1776, not 1775 when my Marine Corps came alive. I had a lot of feelings that I really never felt or knew how to feel. I think it was when I saw the disgraced look on the faces of our prisoners, and how they swayed their heads in disgust while I took snapshots of their dead, that made me feel guilty for invading a country and wanting to kill Iraqis. But then they killed one of us and my hatred only grew. And it wasn’t the vengeful kind of hatred you read about or see in movies, but the kind of hatred that turns against you when you decide to go about hating an entire country and its religion.

It was easy to hate in war because they weren’t like us; we even hated their dogs, to the point that we drowned puppies with bricks tied around their necks. When pointing rifles at children to keep them away wouldn’t work, we’d shoot in the air and watch them scatter, throw rotten food at them, or toss them in the big river that we all came from. We all felt different things at different times, but we were all still the same—we’re all the same but different. One feeling I’ll never forget was the utter terror and fear that was present everyday, that death was not in our control and could only be felt how animals feel tremors before earthquakes.

Now I’m home and the war is not over. I look fine and can crack a joke like anyone else. But inside is where the damage is—the burning oilfields and dried crackled skin human flesh gives off after a bombardment, crying women and angry fathers, Me. This I believe is war.