Gibberish...Final Entry

August 16, 2009

I think I’d write about nothing at all. I’d write about the clouds and how blue they make the sky look sometimes, or the curly ends of a wispy one that remind me of a dance I used to do in my head while dreaming about better days. If I could just write and write and write, this is the kind of stuff that would come out of my head. A slow song and how it makes me remember a slow dance and kiss I once had, or the thought of kisses that will never come.

Who is to say I can’t write about every picture my mind paints? I have no idea how to put thoughts together into discernable sentences and paragraphs. I don’t know what a pentameter is. But I do know how to make what I think come clearly through to someone who reads m y thoughts. What’s that called? Am I a natural born writer? Or, do I just have a natural knack for making people see my point of view? People say, “Good point,” or “I know exactly what you mean by that,” all the time. I think it’s more than just an ability to write because the actual act of writing takes a lot of time. It doesn’t flow as easily as I’d like it to. It’s only after I go back and reread everything and put final touches on what I’m trying to say that it then makes any sense. I know; maybe I am just a good story teller? If that’s true, then a story is what I should be spinning. For such a long time, actually, I have felt like there is something I’m supposed to be saying, I just haven’t ever been able to figure out what it is.

So what’s the story? I wonder sometimes if it is supposed to be a string of stories or ideas that I can put on paper and make people see something definitive. But that doesn’t feel right for some reason. It feels l like there’s something big on the horizon and all I need is the right push or muse to get it started. After all, one of the few things I learned in Writing 101 was the phrase and idea, “Write what you know.” That’s different than, “Write like you read,” which was probably the only other thing I remembered. So what the heck do I know? I know my story, but it hardly seems like one worth telling. My life has had some highs and lows but nothing that hasn’t already been done. Iraq has been big, but I don’t think my little piece of the war is significant. I have read a few stories about this war by people who have done a good job making it read like they were more important than they really were. I wouldn’t want to do that. Is there some fiction I can weave into my life and make it interesting? Maybe I should tell the human side of things all spun around the life of a Contractor? If I went for pure fictional, commercial value, I’d tell the “poor me” side of the story; either a poor Arab or Muslim, or a poor, sad American who was forced to fight the war against their will. But for some reason that doesn’t feel right either.

People do get forced to be here when they don’t want to be. I overheard two soldiers talking about it just last night. Someone had gotten almost home on the Freedom Flight and then had his orders changed at the 11^th hour. These soldiers are a real story actually, so I should probably write about them. I’d take out all the “Private Ryan” heroics and “Band of Brothers” camaraderie. Instead I’d tell the story about the American boy who is a soldier in a war he doesn’t understand, (but doesn’t care), for a country that’s in flux itself. Maybe it’s been done before…maybe not. It’s not a protest story; it’s a real story about American heroes …this time, during this war. Not WWII, but during the desert war of the Bush’s.

I have seen enough of the desert now to know it grows on you as much as it sickens you. I’m flying high over the blue Atlantic right now on my way home after 20 months of sand and sun. But even as I curse it, and curse the Middle East as a place hardly worth the sweat and blood spilled to save it, I know I’m going to miss it. I haven’t been able to put my finger on exactly what it is I will miss though. I just know something will come to me one of these days. So maybe the desert becomes like a forlorn lover to American men now. We love to hate her, or we hate to love her, I don’t think it makes a difference. Maybe it’s really just about oil like everyone says. After seeing Kuwait, (in the daylight this time), I can’t, for the life of me, imagine one single reason why we spilled American blood to save that country other than for oil. So I have a feeling I may have been a bit naïve where it came to oil and America’s part played to secure it here.

Whatever it is, I know if I could find the right story to tell I’d make a lot of money. Someone is going to swoop in and do what I am proposing. In a year, or years, or a day from now, someone is going to slide the right manuscript across a publisher’s desk and that will be all she wrote. Stone had “Platoon” and Coppola “Apocalypse Now.” Maybe “All Is Well” can tell this American’s story about longing and patriotism, and what I think it all means.

-Jim Franks

Red Museum Epilogue

February 3, 2009

After I finished my bit on the museum I came across this video clip I took as we were leaving that day. I forgot that I had taken it, and about this kid. But now that I watch it again, (after writing about the museum itself the other day), I think this kid is significant to the museum and the message I wanted to convey. Maybe my point will just fly by some because I won’t quite know how to make it. But if you watch this kid do his thing and have the same feeling I do now, in light of the torture that took place just inside the wall we were standing, then maybe I will give my friends and family more credit for their insight.

During our tour of the museum there were these two boys wandering around unattended. They were just hanging out like kids do, taking pictures, smoking cigarettes, and trying to be nuisances in standard teen fashion. They had no tour guide like we did and probably had been inside the museum walls on more than one occasion. I didn’t see them inside the red light torture houses, most of the time they were just wandering aimlessly. They were, however, climbing on the tanks and armor pieces beyond the thin rope that was marked, “Keep Off” and no one seemed to care. (I wanted to climb on one and take a picture but my sense of obedience to the rules won out on this day over my mischievous desires.) Their loud street attire was no doubt influenced by the American Hip Hop scene that created it. Like easily influenced kids everywhere, so much of who they believe they are is a reflection of what they see and hear in their Pop World. I was the same…I wore bandannas and pink Le Tigre too. But these guys stood out in this place of pain and suffering. The first time I saw them I thought about how disrespectful these “punks” were. Not only was their attire offensive to my forty year old sensibilities, but their mere presence and demeanor in this place that had invoked such emotion in me was almost enough make me act out in what would have certainly been an embarrassing show of self righteous indignation. For whatever reason, I kept my mouth shut and my opinions to myself. That is, until they approached us outside the museum as we were leaving.

It makes sense that the group of American men wearing side arms was just as loud to these boys as they were to us. There’s no real surprise in that since everywhere we go in town we get stares and fingers pointed at us. And it’s not just because I am so good looking…although I could see how that would be someone’s first assumption. But what did surprise me was how brazenly these two boys came up to our group when we were out on the curb getting ready to leave. They actually walked up to Wally, the oldest man in our group, and asked if they could take their picture with him. (Cell phones with cameras are a national craze here.) I think Wally was as surprised as the rest of us were, but he was more than willing to be a part of their day. I offered my services as camera man so both of the kids could get in the picture with Wally. When I went to hand the cell phone back to one of the boys after I snapped their photo I asked him, quite snobbishly, what he was all dressed up for. He spoke enough English to understand and without missing a beat replied, “I’m a rapper, man.” I asked them if I could take their picture and of course they were eager to show off. But as I pulled my own camera out the rapper began to prove his claims for us by sputtering out his jumbled and hilarious mix. I had to stop him mid-beat because I told him I wanted to film his performance. Of course, this made him very happy.

What you see is, in my opinion, the true result of America’s influence on these people. And I’m not just talking about his street attire or creative attempt at “Gangsta Rap.” More than that, it is this kid’s obvious belief that he can be a “Gangsta” if he chooses to be. He can spout anti-government sentiment on the street as freely as an Imam can preach the word of Allah. He can curse and smoke and dress as brazenly as he pleases. He can thumb his nose at authority and breach life’s “Keep Off” barriers all he wants. He’s open to think and speak his mind out loud. He can do the things in Iraq that were once forbidden. The government facility that we’d just left certainly would not have tolerated this boy’s appearance, much less his brazen outspoken rants. And the kid may not understand today what the price has been to give him these liberties, or who is responsible for giving them. But someday he will. And I hope when he does he will realize that it was the same America that inspired him to Hip-Hop that helped give him his liberty. On that day I hope he will appreciate being a free man.

-Jim Franks

The Red Museum

January 31, 2009

The city of Sulaymaniyah is a bustling little ode to Kurdish progress in modern day Iraq. People live their lives here and struggle to do all the things we, as Americans, take for granted in our daily lives. They work, go to school, shop, socialize, and do their best to raise their families and live a normal life. But if you want to see what life was like here when Saddam Hussein was in power and his troops occupied forts and other military installations in the city, you can go downtown to the Red Museum and get a shocking and spooky glimpse of Kurdish past.

The compound, once called Red Security, was the northern headquarters for military intelligence under Saddam Hussein. The Kurds had always been a target of Saddam because of their desire for autonomy, but after they fought with Iran against Saddam during the Iran/Iraq war in the 80’s he sought to basically exterminate the Kurds in Iraq. There was a military operation called “Anfal”, after some verse in the Quran that calls for believers to attack infidels. Anfal was really an attempt at genocide…whole villages were bulldozed out of existence, hundreds of thousands of Kurds were tortured and killed, and it culminated with the chemical bombing of the Kurdish village of Halabja where about 5000 people were killed. So in 1991, during the first gulf war, the Kurds of Sulaymaniyah rose up and attacked the Red Security compound in an attempt to overthrow it. The battle lasted for 3 days and in the end every single Iraqi inside the compound was killed. The Kurds made sure that not one was left alive.

The place is now a museum that honors all those killed and tortured under Saddam’s regime. It’s called the Red Museum apparently because of the red buildings, as it was once called Red Security. The buildings in the compound stand today the same way they did all those years ago when the place was liberated. Bullet holes pock every building in the place and are an eerie reminder of the battle that once raged in this now quiet little neighborhood. They put some old rusted out tanks and artillery pieces in the courtyard for people to look at and take pictures with. They were kinda neat to see and think that this was the outdated stuff Saddam used against America’s military might in 1991. Like bringing a knife to a gun fight basically. But all the bullet holes and rusted armor are just filler. The tour really begins when you go into the jail cells and “interrogation rooms”. I have never been in the presence of real evil before. I mean, everyone knows what it feels like to be in the middle of something that you know is bad, or has come across a person who you know isn’t moral or just. But this was very different than that feeling. I walked inside the building and a chill came over my body like I’ve never felt before. Bad and truly sinful things happened here and I could feel it in my bones.

A few of us wanted to get out of the camp on a Saturday afternoon. So we decided to go to town and get some lunch and do some shopping in the markets. One of the guys had been to the Museum before and suggested we make a stop there on our way in. It’s really a no-frills affair. There’s no fee to pay, no parking permits required, and no gift shop to milk a few extra bucks from your pocket. It’s literally right in the middle of this little residential neighborhood. If we didn't have an interpreter with us we never would have known it was a museum or a place of any significance. I guess the tall buildings pocked with a million bullet holes should be some kind of indicator, but you really can’t see them over the perimeter wall unless you happen to be looking for them. Once inside there is a tour guide that walked us around from place to place. The first place we went to was this hall filled with over 100,000 little mirror fragments and 5000 little lights. It is a hall to honor all the Kurds Saddam tortured and killed. And the 5000 lights are specifically for the people killed by the gas attack at Halabja. Then he took us through the rusted out armor yard on the way to the cells, (more like dungeons.) The first one was like the “intake” building where people were brought for initial questioning. It was pretty nondescript, just a bunch of offices. But on the walls in every office they had pictures of things from the Kurdish plight, each room’s pictures depicting a different theme. Then we went to the real “interrogation” building. As we walked in the door we were met by the site of a man hanging from a pipe on the ceiling. He was hung by his bound hands behind his back. The intent was to pull the arms out of the sockets. The “man” was a plaster statue and we would see many more scenes like this throughout the rest of the tour. The man had alligator clips attached to his ears with wires running to a small generator on a desk. And as a spooky accent to this malevolent scene they had a real recording of an interrogation playing from a hidden speaker. You could hear the interrogator speaking Arabic and someone faintly replying. It was very effective. We walked into another room and there was another little plaster scene of a Kurdish man lying on the ground with his feet tied to a long wooden pole that was being held by 2 Iraqi men. They were holding the pole up so another Iraqi man could hit the bottom of the prisoners feet with what appeared to be a 4 foot piece of rubber hose, or maybe it was a piece of electrical cord. And then the room was only lit by a low red light. The red obscured the stark white plaster appearance of the statues and from a few feet away made it all look very real. They used this red light effect to perfection in many areas of the museum. Again, it was very spooky. In another room there was another prisoner handcuffed to a low ring on a wall. The intention was to leave the man in this position for days, hunched over like this in what could only have been excruciating pain. He was positioned at the entrance to a little cell block so all the other prisoners inside could see him and be reminded of what would happen to them if they did not cooperate. In another part of the building there was a man shackled to the railing of a stairwell. From there Iraqi’s passing by on the stairs could hit and kick him at will. Again, they would be left in these positions for days on end.

I couldn't get out of that building fast enough. We saw some other holding areas during the tour. There was a cell for women and children, a few small cells with statues in them of prisoners in positions depicting different states of imprisonment, etc. But the last place our tour guide took us was down in the basement of the largest building on the compound. It was lit only by red light and truly felt like a dungeon. There were no statues there…just large photographs on every wall of dead bodies. Bodies of men and children taken out into the country side and shot en mass, bodies of people who tried to escape Halabja in trucks but couldn't outrun the wind and the deadly gas it carried. They were spilled out onto the ground around the truck that they thought would carry them to safety. There was a woman and her baby lying dead on a street in Halabja, etc. It was a very stirring end to the tour. They want all who see these pictures to remember the evil that Saddam Hussein imposed on the Kurds. I’m sorry if the pictures I have included are shocking or upsetting. But I wanted to share the entire experience and maybe give all those who read this a glimpse into not just my state of mind after seeing it, but also into what the museum really stands for. And more than any of that, I hope all who read this understand just what America has done here in Iraq and how toppling Saddam Hussein was as necessary as anything America has ever done to help rid the world of terror and spread the hope of freedom and liberty. I left the museum feeling sick and shaken. But I also felt very proud because I know now what EVIL really is and what my moral duty is, not just an American, but as a responsible member of the human race. I hope God has forgiven those responsible for the wickedness that once lived here. And I feel blessed that he has chosen to watch out for me and mine. I won’t ever forget. I hope you won’t either.

-Jim Franks

Rocket Man

December 13, 2008

Going to town in Iraq is something I didn’t think I’d ever be doing when I came here. In Baghdad, leaving the FOB was always something of a grand production. I’d have liked to visit the city and walked the streets there, but for our safety it was never allowed. I’m OK with that. But if you think about a year spent living on the FOB and only getting outside the walls of my little world there a few times it makes sense that getting out here, in Sulaymaniyah, like something akin to a rocket trip to Mars. So here I am a rocket man, and the local Kurds are Martians. I’m OK with that too.

We try to get to town weekly to do some shopping and get a decent meal. By shopping, I mean going to the Haji-Mart, (They even have a door greeter!), and getting some supplies for basic living like TP and soap, etc. But mostly we get food because the chow on the camp blows. But we also hit the downtown Sulaymaniyah street market area that makes Pike’s Place Market in Seattle look like a five cent swap meet. Thousands upon thousands of people walk the streets perusing the small shops and vender stands buying anything that the imagination can dream of. There are cell phones, underwear, fruit, chickens, phone cards, gold, drugs, (the pharmacy type), tools, blankets, shoes, cameras, and guns, to name just a few. (Yes, we even came across a little shop that had guns for sale…and a few shady guys squatting in a back street selling armaments not meant for the average Joe.) Basically, if you need it, it is there somewhere for sale. And the prices range from ridiculously cheap to incredibly overpriced. There doesn’t seem to be any kind of price standard among the shops. I look for gold every time we go and find the price per gram to be hugely varied from one shop to another. But, one economic standard does seem to be in effect…and it is that the further you get off the beaten path, or the deeper into the bowels of the market you go, it becomes easier to negotiate prices. Like a casino draws gamblers off the street by putting the noisiest, most flashy slot machines near the front door, the shops that are on the main drag display their wares in a way that beckons the passer-by to stop and look…but most certainly they will never hit that elusive jackpot. Capitalism at its finest is alive and well in Kurdistan.

So here we are, our small team of Americans wading through an ocean of Kurds, (remember not to call them Iraqi’s, even though technically they are.) Some of us wear our side arms hidden comfortably under a shirt or jacket and some of us choose to leave them behind locked in the Suburban. But none of us lets our guard down by forgetting where we are. I love this town and the vibrant pulse of the huge crowd gives me a feeling of being truly alive…but my pistol is always on my hip, just in case. On the off chance the war finds us I don’t want to be caught with my pants down. I’ve been in big crowds before but never under these strange circumstances. At Disneyland or Vegas, the thought of Mickey Mouse or the average gambler blowing themselves up really isn’t viable. So here I feel like an ounce of precaution is worth the piece of mind. I haven’t gotten the feel from the locals that I am an unwanted yet unavoidable result of the war. I would say though that just about everyone I’ve encountered is friendly and accepting of my presence. In Baghdad, death stares and the feeling of needing to keep my hands near my throat to avoid it being cut open were common…but not here. I have been elbow deep in the crowd here and never felt threatened. I think that says a lot about the Martians and their willingness to make this rocket man feel right at home.

-Jim Franks

Welcome to Kurdistan

December 7, 2008

I made it safely to Northern Iraq yet oddly have found myself in another country. Kurdistan is an area of the Middle East that covers parts of northern Iraq, north western Iran, eastern Turkey, and small pieces of Syria and Armenia. (Get your own map out…) Sulaymaniya is technically in Iraq…but don’t say that out loud around these parts. The Kurds here take offense to it, as well as offense to anything Iraqi or Arab in general. Iraqi Kurdistan is the only region that has international recognition as a federal entity. (Thank God for Wikipedia…) After the first Gulf War this area was part of the northern “No Fly Zone” and the Iraqi army pulled out of this region for good. In 1992 the Kurds here got their own local government with a president and parliament, etc. (Again…do your own Google search if you don’t get it.) They have their own army as well, called Peshmerga. I live in Camp Tow, which is on a big Peshmerga compound. From here we drive to the 8 local prisons and jails that serve as our area of advisory.

Back in the 70’s Saddam had his buddies in Russia build him some forts from which to fight and control the Kurds in this area. Two of those forts, Fort Suse, (pronounced “Soosay”), and Fort Chamchamal are now prisons. Both of these prisons are a part of the Iraqi Correctional Service, which is headquartered in Baghdad. But in a strange arrangement as I’ve ever seen, both are run and staffed completely by Kurds. There isn’t an Arab Iraqi in sight! In fact, I haven’t seen an Arab once since coming here. So, as you can imagine, the operation of these two facilities is a constant struggle; The ICS in Baghdad trying to exercise control of what is, on paper, their facilities, and the Kurds who actually operate those facilities wanting nothing to do with Baghdad or their politics. It makes our job as advisors as difficult a tightrope walk as anything I’ve ever been a part of.

The Kurds have, so far, been fantastic to work with. Their daily operation of not just the prisons, but of the entire region, is much more organized and professional than anything I saw in Baghdad. I once wrote that in Baghdad I felt most of the men would just as soon cut my throat as look at me. Those death stares are non-existent here. America has been an ally to the Kurds and these people here haven’t forgotten that. They pride themselves on keeping us, and all Americans in this area, safe. That is not to say though that they run a better prison that the Arabs down south, because so far I have to say they don’t. I work at a men’s prison here on the Peshmerga base that houses about 650 inmates. The operation is unorganized and backwards in so many ways. Basic correctional practices that are taught in C101 back home are non-existent here. And the funny thing is that these people think they have it licked! So “advising” them here is very difficult when they don’t think there is anything wrong. I guess if no one is escaping they consider it an operational success. So, needless to say, my partner and I have our jobs cut out for us.

The one major difference for me is the landscape. The city of Sulaymaniya is situated in a nice little valley that’s surrounded by mountains and rolling hills. The bland desert tan of Baghdad and Southern Iraq is replaced here by green pastures and slow, wavy pine tree covered hills. And the dust storms I’ve been used to will be replaced by a cold, snowy winter. I’m looking forward to seeing these mountains get capped with a nice white hat. I am looking forward to life here in general. Nothing has exploded, there’s no constant drone of patrolling helicopters, and the always present sound of gunfire has stopped. Baghdad was an experience I won’t ever forget. But I’m looking forward to making new, quieter memories in my new home. Welcome to Kurdistan.

-Jim Franks

Goodbye Baghdad

November 19, 2008

I’m spending my last night here on FOB Shield contemplating the past year. Tomorrow I leave for my new post up north in a place called Sulaymaniya. (“Sooly”, from here on out.) I spent the evening playing cards with my regular group, of which I am, or was, the longest standing member. I said my goodbyes to the friends I have there and then wandered lazily back to my room. It was a beautiful fall night for a walk. As I did I looked around at what has been my home for the last year and was struck with a lot of different feelings about it. I never thought I would come to think of this place as my home, but in a way that I think must be common to soldiers and contractors alike, I have done just that. So now when leaving here enroute to a new home I feel a bit sad and anxious and excited, all at the same time. The feeling is very much like the one I had when I left home last December.

So much has happened since then that I almost don’t know where to begin to categorically place it all in my head. I have seen and done so many things, and have traveled 360 degrees of the emotional spectrum as a result. Can I even try to use words to describe it all? I’ve felt thrilled, sad, challenged, lonely, spooked, sickened, surprised, accepted, respected, loved, and proud as hell...to name just a few. Back when I was debating leaving my life behind and coming here I factored personal change into the deciding equation. I had hoped this experience would help me grow as an individual and a man. And on the eve of my second departure from “home” in the last year I have to admit that examining myself for signs of that change hasn’t been easy. The experience so far has been a roller coaster of sensations, some of them painful, some of them joyful, but all of them encouraging and progressive. Self awareness isn’t something I believe I have ever accomplished. But knowing today that the last year, despite needing an “E ticket” to have ridden it out, has had a constructive outcome on me personally is the single greatest accomplishment of the entire time.

I have made so many new friends here in Baghdad, and it is them that I will miss the most. I can admit that “personable” isn’t an adjective usually used to describe me. So I know that opening myself up to the relationships I have developed here makes them all the more special. Partners like Jeff from Washington, Two Guns from the great state of Texas, and of course my old pal Mike from the Snake has made working in Baghdad an enjoyable and fulfilling experience. I was also very surprised to have found comforting friendship in a real life Army Angel from Florida. And I was even more surprised that I could learn a lot about myself from an Iraqi man who is 20 years my junior. I will miss them all very much. Some of these people I will probably never see again and that is a truly sad fact of life as a contractor in Iraq. But that loss is tempered by the positive influence they've all had on my life, and I sincerely hope that I will develop many more relationships like these over the next year.

I’m told that where I’m going the war almost doesn’t seem to exist. That’s just fine by me. Although I will miss the excitement of Baghdad…the mortars and hellfires, the sights and sounds of IED’s and sporadic gun battles, and all the other constant reminders that Toto and I aren’t in Kansas anymore, I feel in my bones that it is time for the next chapter to begin. I am eager to get to work and contribute to the mission up in “Sooly”. But it’s my future and the endless possibilities that it holds for me as an individual that encourages and excites me the most. So goodbye Baghdad, all is very well.

-Jim Franks

Direction

November 16, 2008

It’s taken me months to figure a few things out. Today is a day of realization, of self awareness, of change. Its strange how a man can think he’s searching for something and yet the whole time be just going round and round in small circles. I guess finding the truth is all that matters, no matter how long it takes. The truth today for me is that I am alone, making my way in totally uncharted waters…and I am OK.

I left home almost a year ago and thought then that I knew what I was doing. I made the plans, took the steps, and said the goodbyes. But when it came down to it all I really did was launch my little boat into a stormy sea, and the worst part was that I did it without a rudder. I kept a small life line tethered to home to keep me feeling safe and like I knew what I was doing. Truth be told, I was scared to really let go; terrified actually. But what I have wanted all along is to let go and navigate these waters all by myself. It’s why I made the decision to leave. It’s why I quit my career, left my loved ones, left my home and life behind to come and see what and who I really was. And ever since arriving I have felt strongly that this is where I was supposed to be. I’ve never had such a feeling of belonging before. The search for truth is one thing, but the self assuring knowledge that you are on the right path, in the right place, home…is just liberating. But even though I felt this way I still was very scared of the unknown. My life has been filled with so many disappointments that I never thought I could handle another one of this proportion. So I kept my life line tethered to home, to what I believed was safe. I have come to realize that I will never move forward though if I keep looking back at that life line. So with the help of fate and my very best friend…I cut it.

I put my rudder in the water for the first time in the year since I left, and control of direction is now mine. I’m still scared, but it’s what I want so I will turn and face it. Not knowing what life will hold for me feels like I am staring into a giant, black void…yet still being blinded. But I want to do it. I’m not going to look back any more, but keep my head forward and searching for the best path to my new life. I know I won’t navigate my way home until I am ready to. Right now, I am not ready. But when I make the turn for home I will get there under my own power, strong and self assured. The fear I feel is tempered with a sense of pride today. It feels good for the first time in a very long time.

-Jim Franks

Thin Air

November 11, 2008

32,998 feet somewhere over the North Atlantic, almost over Dublin, Ireland is where I write from now. I said goodbye to America for the third time in 11 months about 7 hours ago now, but I have no idea what the actual time is. These past 3 weeks has gone by as quickly, and as slowly, as I had expected. I have been to several time zones and countries during that period. So, I guess it doesn’t really matter where I am at the moment, but only that I know where I am headed….back to Baghdad.

My return to work is going to be a busy one for the first few weeks. I have been transferred to a facility in North Central Iraq called Sulaymaniya. A few months ago I asked the powers that be if I could be moved to another location. I wasn’t unhappy in Baghdad; I just felt a need for a change. I also asked the Powers if they wouldn’t mind keeping me around on mission for a while longer. My contract is quickly approaching its end and so I figured I might stick around and see some more of the country, work with some different people, do some different things, etc. I guess I have done a good job because not only did I get a 12 month extension I also got this transfer to one of, if not the best, place the mission has to offer. “Sooly” is in Kurd country and so is considered safer than Baghdad where the war seems to speak its mind at a pace lately that’s neither too loud nor too quiet. But it’s still a war just the same. But the Kurds pride themselves on keeping Americans in their care safe from the insurgent violence that still blows things and people up around Baghdad from time to time. So I will be able to work under much more affable conditions. I will travel on my own through city streets in soft skinned vehicles. I will walk among the local people in their markets and shops. I will tour the countryside during my off time and see a more mountainous landscape and climate. And I will do it all without the constant drone of my Uncle Sam’s army buzzing in my ear. It’s going to be a cold winter and cooler summer a little further north and I am looking forward to wearing a coat again. I will miss the friends I have made in Baghdad, both American and Iraqi alike. I will miss my friend and partner Fadhil. His service as my interpreter has been invaluable. But his friendship over the almost 12 months I have been here has been heartwarming and a true blessing. He is a good man.

So this trip hasn’t been without its drama either. The castle at Aljoul and the Pyramids were fantastic. And I spent 4 days on the Egyptian coast that I didn’t even mention in writing. But here at the end of my trip I have come to yet another crossroad…but of a completely different kind then that posed to me by the Cairo Policeman on my bridge over the Nile. I made a detour to Washington DC for the last 4 days to meet a woman I have been in touch with for a few months. She’s someone I felt it important enough to make the long trip over for and see if there might be more than just emails and phone calls in our future. DC is a wonderful place during the fall and I highly recommend it to everyone. We toured the Lincoln Memorial and the National Cemetery. We watched the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. We placed our hands on the Vietnam Wall and felt its odd warmth on a cool day, and took tourists pictures at the WWII Memorial. We saw the colors of fall everywhere on the National Mall and it was all romantic and beautiful. And we took a drive north to Gettysburg and spent an afternoon touring the battleground. The whole DC trip was a very nice ending to my vacation. It reminded me of the patriotic duty I want to believe I am doing in Iraq. It reminded me that even though the country is going to change under the leadership of a new president it is still simply America, home of the brave, land of the free. But, as sick fate would have it, on my last night there I found out that my old heartache, Cynthia, is getting married this weekend to the man she left me for. Yup, just 6 months after leaving me and our 4 year relationship she is going to be marrying the man she dated for 2 months before she met me. So everything about my vacation has come to an end with a sad and bitter shade of grey around it. Even though I spent the last 4 days with someone who I think genuinely could care for me I can’t tonight…from somewhere over Ireland, help but feel sad and lonely and unsure about life’s purpose and my place in it…all over again. I am left with a feeling of uncertainty and a kind of sadness about love and whether it really does ever exist. And I can’t quite explain the feeling. Did I make the right choice leaving my life behind a year ago? Have the things I’ve seen and done been worth it? What kind of life am I going to have when this all comes to an end? Isn’t love and family supposed to be enough for any man? I just don’t know…any of it, I just don’t know. All I do know is that the air is thin and it’s cold and lonely at 32,998 feet. But all is well.

-Jim Franks

90 Cents

November 1, 2008

The Egyptian Museum of Antiquities is over 170 years old. It was moved around several times before finding its current pink permanent residence in downtown Cairo…which was built in 1902. There are so many Egyptian Pharaonic, (a real word), artifacts housed there that it’s kinda mind boggling to think someone dug all of it up out of the sand where it had been buried for thousands of years. Everything from giant stone or granite statues, to the tiniest little turquoise beads…no bigger than a pin head, is on display there. I only spent about 3 hours wandering around the museum, which I’m sure wasn’t hardly enough time to experience its full effects. But I saw what I went there to see…the Mummies. I saw the mummy’s of Kings and Queens, and even their mummified royal pets. And to top it all off I saw a mummified crocodile that had been placed in the burial chamber of some important person. The thing was huge…easily 35 feet long! And in its mouth they found the mummified remains of a baby croc, (also on display.) How or why it was there I have no idea. But it was cool as hell just the same.

The one thing that steals some of the limelight from the wondrous things I’ve seen here is the way everyone has their hand out for the almighty dollar, (pound in this case.) Money is the ONLY thing that matters here. I guess that truth can be said for all the Arab places I’ve visited. But here in Cairo it’s so much more pronounced. There are common beggars on every street who ask for money without offering a thing in return. And then there are the meager workers offering a shoe shine or flowers for next to nothing in return. But most offensively are the local cops who have their grubby hands in the game too. I stood on the corner outside a coffee shop waiting for Mahmoud to pick me up the other day and watched the local police put on their dirty little lucrative show. If someone double parked, even if just for a second to drop off a passenger, a cop was right there at the window of the car hassling them until money finally exchanged hands. If a car was parked for too long in one spot a wrecker truck appeared out of nowhere and a boot was placed on the wheel so the owner couldn’t leave without first seeing the nearest flat foot. I watched a man come out of a bank to find his car had a boot on it. He looked around and found the nearest cop, (they seem to be everywhere), and got into a conversation with him. I don’t know exactly what happened but I saw the man get into his wallet and look as if he didn’t have enough money on him. So the cop had the wrecker driver take the boot off the guys car and then get in with him to zoom off down the road…I presume to go get more money. The cop sent the wrecker driver with this guy to go get more money! I stood on the corner laughing as I watched the show and was glad I wasn’t involved. That is, until I took a walk onto the bridge to get some pics of the Nile River. As I was standing there a cop came and sat down in this little shack I was next to. He looked at me and asked in broken English if I was American. I should have told him I was Canadian and maybe he would have left me alone. But I am proud, so I say, “Yes, American.” Then I tell him I am a policeman in America just to make conversation. He looked at me funny and gestured towards my beard. Apparently cops in Egypt can’t have beards. I said in America it was OK. He smiled and then put out his hand and asked me for “faloose”, or money. I was kind of expecting it, but not just a blatant hand out. I thought he would tell me it cost money to take pictures from the bridge or something, or maybe to stand near his shack. Hell, he could have charged me for having a damn beard and I would have been less incredulous. But he made no attempt to disguise what all cops in this city do so commonly. He just looked at me blankly and asked for money. So I was at my first real crossroad of this trip. Give the crooked SOB money and lose a little pride in the process. Or, tell him to get bent and maybe lose something more valuable…like my freedom. Or I could do a little dance and talk my way out of the jam I seemed to be getting into. I hadn’t seen anyone hooked up and hauled off yet, so my fantasies of an Egyptian jail and “The Midnight Express” quickly faded. And then there was just no way I was going to give this guy money for simply sticking his hand out to ask for it. I have looked stone cold, broke-dick beggars in the eye and said “La” so many times I have lost count…and each and every one of them could have surely used the money more than this servant of the people. Where was the dignity? Where was the blue-pride that I thought was universal? And most importantly…where was Indiana Jones when I needed him!? So, I decided to do a little jig, a little two-step, a disco dance of my own to get off the bridge and out of this guy’s site. I was all smiles when I started to walk away, all the while throwing every English word I could think of at this guy to confuse him. The look on his face was more resignation than objection, and he didn’t make any effort to stop me as I walked away. I could have written a good book about my experiences in that Egyptian jail though…maybe Spielberg would have made the movie.

At the museum the cops made another lasting impression on me. We were walking all over the place snapping photos, just like all the hundreds of other tourists. But we went upstairs and all of a sudden a cop comes up to me and wants to take my camera. Luckily Mahmoud was with me so he could talk to the cop and see what his problem was. They talked back and forth for a minute but I didn’t really need an interpretation of what was happening. I guess I wasn’t allowed to take pictures…all of a sudden. But as I’m putting my camera back into my pocket the cop winks at me. Son of a bitch winked at me! “Mashi”, (OK), I said with a knowing grin on my face and I got into my pocket and gave the guy a 5 pound note. (.90 cents) He was cool like the other side of the pillow then…all smiles and pointing me in the right direction. But I was kind of hot now…I know it’s only .90 cents and all, but it’s just the damn principal of it! So Mahmoud and I headed to the Mummy area, which is an extra cost to see and has signs posted all over the place, “No Photography Allowed”. So they posted it this time…OK, I was good with that. I mean, a rule is a rule and I can abide by that. So I stuffed my camera into my pocket, paid the 100 pounds, (2 pounds for Mahmoud since he is Egyptian…thieves I tell you!), and went in to see some mummies. The room was cool and dark and the mummies were all laid out in these glass cases that had little thermostats in them for climate control. It was all very impressive, as far as mummies go. But Jim’s not thinking about history anymore…forget thousand year old Kings and Queens…I am going to get my damn picture! So Mahmoud was very impressed with everything, he was all smiles and seemed pleased to be seeing his own mummified history…until I told him my plan to take a picture of one. His face went blank and he just turned away from me and walked out of the chamber. So much for my wing-man! I guess I can’t blame him really because if I got caught it’d probably have been him who got busted as the local and me just kicked out as the dumb American tourist. Well, no one got busted, no one got kicked out, and I got my 100 pound Mummy picture! When I walked out Mahmoud was looking at me with a sick stare. I just laughed at the poor guy. He is a good and honest man and I am fortunate to have him as a friend and guide in this city. But I am an American dammit, a rebel by nature, and too proud to let .90 cents just fade away into the Egyptian sunset! Who needs Indy…where’s my damn hat and whip!

-Jim Franks