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

Egyptian B.S.

October 28, 2008

My driver’s name is Mahmoud and he is a friend of Amanda. He owns his own taxi but serves as Amanda’s personal driver when she needs it. (She’s kind of a snobby Britt like that. Mahmoud told me she doesn’t like to walk anywhere!) He is one of her contacts that I have been able to take advantage of here in Cairo. His little brother, Islam, (19 years old), also drives the cab and has hung out with us a few times. They are good guys and have taken a real shine to me. But really, who could blame them?

I arranged to have Mahmoud pick me up at 11am so we could go out to the pyramids. I planned to use him all day as not only my driver but my interpreter and guide as well. He is very happy to get an all day job I think because from what I can tell the taxi services are a dime a dozen and pay peanuts. I offered him 200 pounds for the day and he gladly accepted. (That’s $37 US…) On our way to Giza, where the pyramids are, he told me he’d never been to see them. He’s 28 years old and is a native of Cairo…and he’s never been to see the pyramids. I told him I wanted him to escort me in and around the park and I think he got as excited as I was. I asked him why he’d never been to see such a great national treasure and he said he just never made the time because he has been working since he was 14. I just really believe that the locals don’t think of the pyramids the same way we westerners do. I imagine the Chinese don’t see the Great Wall the same way either, likewise the French and the Eiffel Tower, Texan’s and The Alamo, etc. You get the picture

We were stopped in traffic about a mile away from the pyramids, (I could see them off in the distance), when a man came up to the car and started talking mish-mash to Mahmoud. My driver said something abruptly to him and we started to drive off. I assumed the man was trying to either get into my cab or sell something. But I didn’t expect him to jump on the trunk of the car and ride with us for about 500 yards down the road…which is just what he did. So we are rolling down the road in thick traffic at about 40 mph and I turn to look at this knucklehead riding on our trunk and I ask Mahmoud what was going on. He tells me that the guy wants to sell me a donkey or camel ride or some crap like that. He said he told the man no but obviously he is one hell of a salesman because he’s kicking back on the trunk knowing full well we have to stop eventually and “No” is just not in his vocabulary. So I told Mahmoud to pull over and as soon as we did the guy jumps off the trunk, comes over to my window and starts selling me aluminum siding, bibles, Tupperware, encyclopedias, the word according to Joseph Smith, swamp land in Florida, and God only knows what else. He gave salesmanship a whole new name! At first I was pissed off, and I speak enough Arabic to look the guy in the eye and say “No…Piss off”, but he would not back down. When I finally started to laugh he said to me with a big crooked, dirty toothed grin, “Hi-Ho Silvers, I love America!” I swear to God…he said “Hi-Ho Silvers!” I can appreciate a good sales spiel as much as anyone…so I finally let him tell me what he was selling. Turns out he was offering a horse-drawn carriage ride through the pyramids for the low-low price of 40 pounds for a 1 hour tour. That’s 40 pounds each for me and Mahmoud. 80 pounds=$14! Hell yeah I say…come in off the trunk brother, get in the back seat and lead us to it! So this guy, his name turns out to be Omar, takes us to where his little carriage is waiting. We turn right, cut across traffic back to the left, zoom down a few back alleys, and I start to pat my pockets to make sure I brought my knife. But, it turns out Omar was legit and we made it safely to where my carriage to the pyramids awaited.

Poor Mahmoud started getting really uncomfortable because the thought of paying 40 pounds for a carriage ride through the pyramids he had yet to ever see up close was just unfathomable. So I had to assure him that it was no problem and that I was very happy to have him along as not just my guide but as my friend. There is a definite clash of the classes here in Cairo. The have and have-nots have been going toe-to-toe for thousands of years I think. Mahmoud and Omar are certainly a part of the “have not” class so I had to find a delicate way of making my new friend feel comfortable with me spending money on him, (even if just peanuts), without offending his deep rooted Muslim sensibilities. Since “delicate” isn’t really something I know much about this was turning out to be as much work as him driving me around in his cab. I should be charging him!

So the Pyramids…what can I say? They were fantastic! They were more breathtakingly huge than I ever could have imagined. Later after I got home I examined the pictures I took and in some of them the giant rock mountains don’t look so big. But then in the ones where there are people or cars in the foreground they appear as they should in all their omnipresent glory. The sheer size of the project…millions of stones stacked in perfect symmetrical order, was a humbling site. This gaudy American in all his grandeur and western panache felt belittled and meaningless in the presence of what rightfully is described as one of the true wonders of the world. They are an engineering marvel like none that I shall ever see again.

After the tour of the park was done our carriage driver headed towards some Papyrus Museum that he said we “just had to see.” It dawned on me then why the ride was so cheap…because I was going to be taken to some shop and hounded to buy a local trinket from Omar’s brother or uncle. The kid driving the carriage, (not Omar), wasn’t as good a salesman as Omar because all I had to say was “La” and the kid turned the cart around and headed back to where our car was parked. The kid, (I forgot his name), was actually a good tour guide. He knew all the history of the park, where to stop for good photo ops, and knew how to make his way through the buses and camels that crowded the street that winds its way through the pyramids. So when we were done Omar was waiting for us. I gave him the 80 pounds for Mahmoud and I and then handed the kid 40 more as a tip. I think I ticked off old Omar because he looked like he expected a tip too. Here’s your tip my friend…don’t waste your bullshit on a bull-shitter next time.

-Jim Franks

20 Million People

October 25, 2008

At 40 years old a city of 20 million people shouldn’t be intimidating. I’ve been to some of the biggest places the US has to offer…LA, Houston, San Francisco, to name a few. But as my plane descended through the clouds into Cairo my eyes were greeted by one of the most amazing sites they’d ever seen. It was a city of dingy brown Legos that went on and on for as far as I could see from 10 thousand feet up. I have spent the last 10 months in Baghdad and have seen some pretty crazy things, but this shocking site gave me pause and all I could simply say was…”Wow.”

I found a flat to rent in Cairo on the Internet. I figured I should come to Egypt with an open mind and so a hotel room for 2 weeks just didn’t seem like the right move. I got lucky and stumbled upon an add for a “flat mate” placed by a British woman. She advertised half of a flat for rent or share, and I thought that getting a flat in Cairo from someone who spoke English would be a huge plus. So I emailed her but didn’t hear anything back. I thought I had missed the boat but decided to try one last time before settling on another flat owned by a local dentist. When I wrote to the Britt, (Her name turned out to be Amanda), this time she wrote back and said she had already found a flat mate. But I persisted, applying the appropriate amount of charm needed to get her to reconsider. Of course she did, (This is me we’re talking about…), and she offered me the entire 2nd floor of the flat, (4 bedrooms in all). I think she must have seen the dollar signs written on the wall because when all is said and done I will pay $950 for the 2 weeks. Now that’s American dollars…which translates into 5130 Egyptian pounds. This is cheap considering a hotel was going to cost upwards of $120 a night. Amanda hasn’t come out and told me…yet, but I imagine the entire flat doesn’t rent for more than 2000 EG a month, (which is about $400.) So she and her German flat mate are basically getting 2 months free rent thanks to the rich American. But it works out well for all parties involved because it comes out to only about $65 a night for me for a fully furnished HUGE, (my portion of the flat is easily 2000 sq ft!), flat complete with an English speaking woman and access to all her contacts, and a 22 year old German teaching student named Olga. Amanda may think she got the better of me…but I KNOW I am the one who’s getting a steal here.

So I went for a walk this evening to find the liquor store and market, aptly named The “Alpha Mart.” (Locations sought out in that exact order.) The liquor store, called “Drinkies”, is about 6 blocks away and I had to traverse some mean Cairo traffic and a crazy labyrinth of buildings, shops, hotels, etc. to get there. I think the liquor is state run here because it reminded me of the little places you find in Oregon and Idaho that are basic and have no frills. They didn’t have a big selection and the only thing I recognized was Heineken. So I said to the kid behind the counter, “Whiskey?”, and he went into the back room and got me a bottle of the only kind they had called “Auld Stag”, which is an Egyptian brand that I had never heard of. So I took it, a bottle of the local vodka, 2 bottles of white whine, (for Olga and Amanda…), and a six-pack of Heineken. The kid rang it up at just a smidge over 300 pounds. ($55) I paid him, asked him to box it up, and then headed off down the road enroute back to the market. 10 minutes later…I was lost. I jinked when I should have juked and ended up way off course…and believe me; the box of booze was getting damned heavy! But I have learned over the years never to panic and to trust my internal compass…it has yet to ever lead me astray. (Yes Courtney…you inherited that gift from your old man!) After a couple of lefts and a few rights I ended up right back at the “Alpha Mart” where I wanted to be. I checked my booze at the door and went in to buy some provisions, (The guy at the door actually took my box and gave me a numbered card…kinda like checking a coat at a fancy restaurant.) I got the usual eggs, milk, bread, booze mixers, and headed to the register. The gal rang it all up…338 pounds. No sweat, right? But when I got into my pocket I found that I only had about 200 pounds on me. I fully expected to have to leave the market with my tail between my legs and go get more money. But, not to fear …the kid bagging my stuff volunteered to escort me the one block back to the flat, pushing the cart full of my groceries all the way, carry the stuff to my front door, collect the difference in the bill, and do it all with a giant smile on his face. What a country! And did I forget to mention that the flat is on the 3^rd floor? The kid carried all my stuff, including my box-o-booze, all the way up! I was happy to give the kid a 5 pound tip after all was said and done, and he was all smiles to receive it. What a country! (5 pound tip = .92 cents!)

So I guess I could have written about the sprawl of the city, or the way that the whole thing looked like a model of stacked Legos from 10 thousand feet, or how the traffic exceeds anything I’ve ever seen, (6 lanes of traffic squeezing onto a 3 lane highway!) Don’t worry, I will, just not tonight. Instead I decided to write about the small things today that struck me. I am so happy that I chose to rent a flat rather than stay in a hotel. The “Drinkies” and “Alpha Marts” are going to make this trip to Egypt all the better. Baghdad and the war won’t invade this little corner of my world. For the next 2 weeks it’s just gonna me and 20 million people.

-Jim Franks

Jordan

October 24, 2008

Queen Aleeya Airport, Amman Jordan. I’m sitting here in the terminal waiting for my 1315 flight to Cairo and am just now starting to digest the past 2 days. I arrived here on Thursday from Baghdad for the first leg of my 3 week R&R. I’ll make my way to Cairo, Sharm Al Sheik, (on the Red Sea coast), and back to Jordan again before the vacation is over. Maybe I’ll have a few surprises for myself along the way, make some stops I hadn’t planned on, I don’t know…but I hope so.

So Jordan has been a mixed bag. The country is beautiful, the country-side that is. I stayed in a hotel in Amman that was in an upscale side of town with upscale prices. But someone forgot to tell the ownership to provide upscale amenities. I stayed there at the recommendation of other people from the mission who use a local guide while in town rather than have to ride tour buses all over to see the sites. That part was great because I got to go to Jarash and see some ancient Roman ruins and then went up to Ajloun to see a castle built by Saladin the Great to battle the crusaders. The drive through the country side was terrific. We went through some quaint little villages and I got a better feel for the local flavor than if I had taken the same trip on a tour bus. My guide, Naseem, was born and raised in Ajloun so he knew everyone and we even came across his father in the street while driving through. The soft, rolling hills are covered in a kind of pine tree I have never seen before. Maybe they are just pine trees like the pine I know from home, but they are much smaller. And then there are olive orchards….for as far as the eye can see there are olives. The hills and valleys are covered neatly in regimented rows of the small round trees. It reminded me very much of the California I grew up in with orange trees blanketing the valley as far as the eye could see. And there was a very simple feel to the way of living there in the small villages. I just happened to be going through at prayer on Friday. This is like Mass on Sunday back home. So the streets were empty and everyone in the village was at the mosque. The loud speakers billowed out the 45 minute sermon for all to hear. According to Naseem the sermon on Fridays is live. I was amazed at how long someone could go on preaching with such fervor and passion without pausing. But these are Muslims… And so after prayer the streets filled with people pouring out of the mosques. The shops opened their doors, the cars blocked the streets, and the people milled about without purpose, content in the fellowship of their neighbors.

The ancient Roman city of Jarash was as amazing as any place I’ve ever been. I was so happy to finally get to see the history I have been longing for since leaving home almost a year ago. It’s a national park so the fees and tourist trinkets kind of take away from the experience. But this was another benefit of having Naseem instead of a guided tour bus. His full time job is as a driver for the US Embassy in Amman so he has made this trip hundreds of times while escorting visiting dignitaries. So he knew the short cuts and back corners that I love. I told him up front when he asked me what I wanted to see that I’m not the kind of man who prefers a traveled road. He understood and I believe he was happy to take me off the beaten path. The ruins were amazing. The amphitheatre was acoustically engineered as well as any place I’ve ever been…and it’s over 3000 years old! I stood down in the center of the bowl and basically whispered and Naseem could hear me from way at the top where he was standing to take my picture. And when I actually spoke out loud I could hear my own voice in crystal clear stereo. It was crazy! The detail taken by the builders of the place just blew me away. Then they were having a chariot race in the track, but I wasn’t interested in the show. So I waited until it was over then went inside to get some pictures of the grandstands. We spent about 2 hours wandering around and I feel like I saw everything I went there for. Then we headed north to see the Castle at Ajloun.

The castle was really something to see. Considering it was built roughly around the same time as Jarash, (give or take a few centuries), the engineering was equal to that of the Romans without question, even if the craftsmanship wasn’t as detailed. These guys knew how to build a place that could be defended! There was a moat, arrow slits built into the stone all over the castle, towers, (or what was left of them), and catapult stands. But the best part of the battlements for me was the way the inside of the castle was designed to be compartmentalized. Each section of the keep was designed to be singularly defended. In that I mean that if the outer perimeter was breached a retreat to an inner section of the castle could be made and from there the fight could continue until they had to retreat again deeper and deeper into the castle, each step of the way closing off access as they went. Until finally a last stand could be made from the innermost section of the keep, hopefully lasting long enough for reinforcements or aid from another castle could arrive. Naseem told me there was a tunnel going all the way from the castle to the bottom of the mountain, which easily had to be 2 or 3 miles in a straight line. I assume this tunnel would be used for a final escape if need be, but no such place was advertised on the maps or brochures. Naseem said the government sealed it up so people wouldn’t wander into it and get hurt, etc. The whole place was amazing. It was a bit overwhelming, to say the least.

OK, so I said that Jordan was a mixed bag. The flip side to the amazing things I saw here is the people and their seeming distaste for foreigners. I guess I should say that this was mainly in the city because out in the countryside I got a whole different feel. But as I walked around the city near my hotel I got nothing but stares and cold shoulders. At one point I walked around a corner and came upon a little girl and her mother. The little girl looked as if she had seen a monster! She couldn’t get out of my way fast enough, all the while pointing at me and saying “Momma-momma-momma!” I tried to calm the child with a smile but had no luck. The mother wasn’t any more friendly, clutching her child and looking at me as if I was about to snatch them both up and take a big bite. I should have growled and waved my arms in the air…watch the little darling scream and cry now! But I kept my American composure, as I did everywhere I came across a cold shoulder. The men were especially rude, unless I was digging into my pocket to give them a tip. Then it was, “I love America!” But on the street a standard “man nod” greeting was met with blank expressions. Now, I did get lots of stares from women…and really, who could blame them? But I think in the Arab culture a place like Jordan, where the women are much freer than in Baghdad, the women saw this big bearded white man with curiosity more than anything else. But I did strike up a conversation with a woman at the restaurant. And when I complimented her on her beauty she smiled and thanked me seeming genuinely flattered. So based on this one gracious act maybe I will give the locals here another chance at hospitality and good manners when I come back through next time.

-Jim Franks

A Long Way Down

October 4, 2008

It’s a long way down. It seems like I've been climbing, and climbing up a steep hill and now when I look back…it’s such a long way down.

Along the way I've changed. I don’t see things the same way I did before I left. Nothing looks the same these days. But oddly, it’s OK. A man once scared of change is today at ease with it.

I've met and made friends since coming here. I don’t make friends easily, so it has come as a bit of a surprise. Life is funny like that though I guess. When you are looking for red you often will only find blue. And then you realize it was blue all along...

So with more time away on my horizon I am faced with more climbing. I can’t see the summit yet, but I know it’s up there. I’ll keep going as high as I have to. And I won’t turn to look back at the long way down.

-Jim Franks

Emotional Again

August 5, 2008

To say there is a lot going on in America now is an understatement. I don’t know if the war still leads the news reports back home, or if gas prices are king. Maybe the start of the NFL season ranks high among men aged 18-35 and Sarah Palin’s fashion sense among women of the same age group. And for the most part I have been a bit disconnected from US news lately, (not to mention my own “U.S. Life”…but that’s a different story.) So much is going on in my small circle of Baghdad that I often forget to check the Internet for news from back home. Here, Ramadan has started and fasting is all the rave. The Militia seems to be back on the move after months of silence. And talk of the Iraqi PM’s call for a US pull-out deadline just about falls on deaf ears among us Americans. But yesterday I happened to get to watch part of the Republican National Convention. And as luck would have it, I got to see the end of Sarah Palin’s address. Then today I got to see John McCain’s speech in its entirety. I was stirred by both, to say the least. Enough so that it has brought me back to the pen once again.

In Iraq men and their government are an odd and often volatile pairing. It seems every week some minister or another is being replaced, dethroned, arrested, or outright killed. The sectarian issue still plays big on the political landscape, but it seems simply that bad men are finally getting their just rewards for past bad deeds. (I hope these people are learning that no bad deed goes unpunished…but somehow I think their capacity for “learning” just doesn’t go that far.) So the people seem to take a dispassionate attitude to what their government is doing for, or too, them now. Maybe 30 years of brutal dictatorship will have that affect on the mind…I just can’t relate to it though. And it seems the American political scene, specifically the elections, is more important to the nationals I work with than the Iraqi one. I have been asked if I am going to vote for Obama, what I think of “the woman Vice President”, do I like Hillary Clinton, etc. But not one has asked me about John McCain. This has led me to realize that the US media has done their job well in successfully advertising the Left to not just the American voter, but to the global market as well. It’s a shame too because Iraqis are big on honor, (most of them are in theory anyway…), and tradition, and bravery. And who better personifies those traits in the US political landscape right now than McCain? So I have done my best to explain who my vote has always been for and why, and I tell them about the man and what I think he stands for.

For the first time in along time I’m emotional about what I’m doing here again. The feeling of belonging has always been there, but now I think I understand why. I haven’t been able to explain this feeling of purpose I have here. Lately I have felt like I have no home other than right where I am at. But after watching the future President of the United States and his running mate speak passionately about their lives and their hopes for America I have realized that what I am doing now is bigger than myself. What I am a part of is bigger than me and it feels good to give to my country and be a part of the contributing populace. There are no complaints here, no longing for something better than what I have, no wishes to emulate someone else or some other country. I am an American…and I couldn't feel more pride in pronouncing that than I do today.

McCain/Palin ’08!

-Jim Franks

Everything Changes

June 18, 2008

Time changes everything. Someone wrote that, or at least said it I’m sure. Or maybe it’s just one of those common knowledge things. Regardless, it’s true and time has had its effects on me. It’s been several months since my last writing and so much has happened I hardly know where to start. Maybe the obvious is as good a place as any. It’s long overdue though.

I went home for R&R and had a…well, fine time. It was good to see my loved ones, and we had a great time in Reno and San Francisco. But there was a part of me that didn’t feel ready to be “home”. It’s hard to explain really so I won’t try too hard to do that. I’ll just say that I felt out of place in my own home. I have to say now, with the benefit of hindsight, that I made a big mistake by not taking my entire heart and soul home with me when I left Iraq. It’s ended up costing me dearly.

Upon my return to work I was moved into a new position here in Baghdad. I am now the advisor for Rusafa 13, which is the prison’s segregation unit. I also have my old interpreter back, Fadhil, (Kevin). So far it’s been quite an experience. I admit that I don’t have as much segregation time under my belt as most guys here, but this isn’t the typical seg unit that you’d expect to find in a regular prison. So I have been able to manage with the correctional experience I have. Like all things Iraqi, this unit is just another part of what I’ve come to know as “Bizzaro World”.

We have 13 units in R13. Each one is broken into 4 individual cells. They are basically just metal conex boxes with a built-in toilet and shower. And the whole place is outside, (I’m still out in the tent complex). They have lighting and AC too so it’s not completely primitive. Right now we house 35 inmates. It’s a segregation unit for the prison, but only two of the 35 are housed there for disciplinary reasons. (Fighting) The rest are guys brought in by outside entities and are in R13 for “safekeeping”. It’s certainly the securest spot this side of the Green Zone, where the “Deck of Cards” guys are being held. I can’t say too much about who is here for security reasons, but I’ll just say that I have seen the face of the enemy…up close. My work day now is very fulfilling. I have my own office and stay working in my unit all day. As opposed to before when I was working R11 and had to roll around in my truck all day long covering two units and sharing my partner’s duties. I work directly with my warden, who is the one who got injured in the mortar attack I wrote about back around Easter time. He is a very good man and treats me with the utmost respect. His staff is a mix of regular ICO’s and some ERT who are there for security. The militia still has a grip on a large percentage of the prison’s staff, (I couldn’t say how much for certain. But if I had to guess I’d say 40% is close), so I still have to be leery of who to trust. The ERT in my unit carry AK-47’s, so a guy has got to be sure who has got his back. But for the most part they are all warming to me. I had my camera out today and was taking some photos of the unit and I snapped a few quick pics of some ICO’s. Before I knew it these guys were all gathering up and wanting me to take group photos, individuals, goofy poses, and the works! At one point I had every single ICO and ERT on duty, (accept the tower guys), standing around me taking pictures and mooching free prints from the dumb American who was “kind” enough to whip his camera out and play “Smile for the birdie.” My warden finally came out of his office to see what all the commotion was about and he made everyone laugh by telling his staff that the next time he needed to find them all in one place he was just going to have me get my camera out. He is a good boss.

Another change that’s occurred is the weather. Dare I say it is…HOT! HAF takes on a whole new meaning during the summer here. (Usually HAF is a slang term reserved for members of the fairer sex. You figure it out…) Since coming back from R&R we’ve probably not had a day under 100 degrees. And at its height the thermometer on the wall below my room, (which is in the shade), has read 120! Yes, I said 120 degrees. Even after the sun goes down it never usually falls under 80 or so. And the wind now is a real bummer. It has blown in some horrific dirt storms, that when combined with the heat makes for a real boss treat! Imagine a foggy day where you can’t see 20 feet in front of you. Now substitute dirt for moisture and you’ve got an Iraqi dirt storm. Now, imagine putting your face right next to a pizza oven door, then opening it and the blast of air that hits you isn’t just HAF, but leaves dirt in your teeth, eyes, and hair too! And instead of the smell of pepperoni wafting into your nostrils you get a nice whiff of hot butt. Yeah…that about sums that up nicely. The real spooky thing about the heat is that the Iraqi’s say it’s not even really hot yet. 120 is not hot to these people? I can’t wait to see what July and August bring.

I said before that I am back working with my original interpreter, Fadhil. He is, hands down, the best LA we have. I am lucky to have him. But while I was gone another LA, his name was Ahmed, (we called him A.M.), was dragged from his home by the militia and killed. (This was the LA I wrote about a few months ago that lied his way through several militia checkpoints just to get to work when the streets were havoc around Easter time.) Word is that they came and dragged him away and a few hours later the police came and told his family they found his dead body in the street. These guys all know what they are getting into when they take this job and work with us. Most of them do a good job hiding it from the street, but sometimes loose lips sink even the securest ships. But…and this is a big “But”, the word from the other LA’s is that Ahmed’s wife is the one who gave him up to the local militia. It seems Ahmed was in the process of leaving her and may have already been with another woman. But a few days after his death she was at the prison trying to collect his last pay check. This may not seem odd to Americans but to Arabs it is completely disrespectful. According to tradition a woman must mourn her dead husband for 90something days, (or something like that), before she can even show her face in public. She should have gone away and not have been seen again until this mourning period was over. But she came for the money and gave herself away. Anyway, he was a nice man and is missed by all of us. It’s certainly a bleak reminder that anything can happen here in Bizzaro World.

My old warden in R11, Bassam, ran into some trouble while I was gone too. 10 militia members stormed his home in the middle of the night. They terrorized him and his whole family, shot up the inside of his house, and threatened to come back and kill him if they found out he was working for the Americans. They even had photos of him at work with an “American”, (it had to be me because I was his advisor for 4 months). He had to talk his way out of it by saying he simply worked for the ICS, (and has for many years), and Americans are simply there too. I guess it worked because they didn’t kill him. But we think the militia in our prison set out to get him. Not just because there was a picture of him at the prison, but because he had been making a lot of enemies in his own unit too. He is a strict supervisor and never puts up with BS. If they miss work, he docks their pay. If they abandon their post, he docks their pay. If they are out of uniform, he docks their pay. We noticed for a few weeks leading up to my R&R that a larger than normal amount of R11 ICO’s were coming to the office and asking for transfers to other units. He, of course, would tell them no. He isn’t an unfair man, he would explain why most of the time. But the average Iraq ICO is lazy and doesn’t like it when the boss tells them to work and then docks their pay when they don’t. Hmm, imagine that…a supervisor who makes his people work? Only in Bizzaro World! So Bassam had to take an extended leave of absence from work. I have only seen him once since coming back from R&R. He is no longer the warden of R11 either. He got assigned a desk job in the central office for his own safety. When I did see him, and we had a moment alone, he shared his frustration with me. He was really upset that doing a good job and a good thing for his family and country not only cost him his position, but it nearly got him killed. I miss Bassam and hope he and his family stays safe. He has 3 daughters and 1 young son. Time surely does change everything…hopefully, in time, things will not just be better for Bassam, but for this broken country too.

-Jim Franks

Sharks In The Water

April 7, 2008

There are always helicopters buzzing around overhead. Most of the traffic is Blackhawks ferrying someone or something from point to point. And usually there are a few Apaches patrolling high cap and keeping a watchful eye on things. (And then there’s the dull drone of the Predators that fly high and out of site. But that’s another story.) The helos always fly in pairs, and they always seem to catch my attention. I wonder if they’ve gotten used to the view of Baghdad from way up there like I have gotten used to the site of them from down here. High, lazy, deliberate circles are usually the norm. But when they slow way down and appear to be looking for something in particular they take a hunters shape, lingering and waiting for their chance to kill. I’ve started to look up now and see that familiar dance and whisper to myself, “Sharks in the water…”

A few weeks ago when the mortar and rocket attacks were going in earnest the US didn't really seem to be taking an active role in quelling things. But the sharks were still up there looking. On the night we had mortars in our perimeter I was in my room and heard explosions and a gun being fired from what seemed like was right outside my building. I went out to the window to have a look and there were already several people outside standing around. They were buzzing about an Apache that had just fired a missile and went on a strafing run into Sadr City. I was bummed that I missed it, but happy as hell that we were finally shooting back. After a couple of days of mortars I was feeling pretty helpless. It felt good to know that there was an American up there patrolling with my personal well-being at heart.

Two days later we were out at our morning briefing before heading over to the prison. There were several Apache’s overhead slow rolling and trolling for trouble. I watched them intently this time because I could feel something coming…Sharks in the water. Then, all of a sudden, “Crack…whoooosh!” One fired off a hellfire missile right above our heads. I traveled for about 4 seconds before I heard the distant explosion. In my excitement I said out loud, “Hell yeah!” A few people looked at me funny, like maybe I was taking too much enjoyment in the deaths that inevitably just happened. But I didn't feel the need to explain myself to anyone. I wasn't elated at someone’s death. Rather, I was pumped that we were fighting back. That some mortar team thought fleetingly that they could set up a hasty launch and kill indiscriminately, but were surprised by American might. It felt like justice being served after the long days and nights of explosions. Is that bad? Don’t think so, but I don’t feel like I should feel guilty for feeling that way.

-Jim Franks

Incoming

March 31, 2008

It’s been a busy week since Easter Sunday. Al-Sadr and his militia decided to get themselves knee deep into trouble again. They attacked the city of Basra in full force, stepped up their attacks in Mosul, and basically shut down the streets of Baghdad with strong arm checkpoints and roving bands of thugs who let everyone know that if they were not militia and were caught out on the street they would be killed. Then there has been the daily rocket and mortar attacks on the Green Zone and other government, (Iraq), run areas of the city. Unfortunately for me, the FOB I live on is smack-dab in the middle of a government run area with the Baghdad Police College being right next door, (this FOB is actually on the grounds of what used to be housing for the police college), the Rusafa Prison and Court right across the street, and of course the various ministry buildings that surround us…Interior, Oil, Education, etc. So if this area was a giant bull’s-eye, and the center was in the 5 ring…I’d be living on or about the 4 line. Groovy huh?

They started shelling in earnest around here on Easter and it continued throughout the week. They have a definite pattern…it starts at about 5am, they break for prayer at sun-up, start again at about 830am, run and gun for most of the morning, then break again for afternoon prayer at about noonish. They get themselves situated and then kick back off again at about 330. Every day since Easter I could set my watch to this pattern. The individual attacks don’t last long though. By that I mean they don’t have mortar or rocket platoon’s set up sending a constant barrage downrange and spotters adjusting fire as they go. No, these dipstick’s will pick their spot and throw up a hasty launch, fire off a few rounds, (usually never more than 3-5), and then beat feet because they know if they stay too long in that spot ‘Ol Uncle Sam is going to make it rain shit all over their heads. It may be a few guys on foot or maybe in the back of a pick-up truck. Regardless, they are not accurate at all. But then when it’s raining bomb’s who gives a shit if the guy shooting them knows his ass from a hole in the wall, right? When you hear the “WHUUUMP” of outgoing mortars, (and believe me when I tell you they are LOUD when they launch out of those tubes!), you get your booty to some cover because you don’t want to be the guy who gets hit by Camel Joe’s lucky shot. And I’ve learned that if you can hear the launch you are OK. In these cases they usually zing over head and explode in the distance. I mean you can hear them “Ziiiing” as they fly over head. So far it had been outgoing rounds I’d heard. But this week I got my first taste of incoming. You can’t hear these babies until the BOOM of their impact sends you scrambling for cover. Some hit close and some hit far away. Some were big, (birds dropped dead out of the sky simply because of the concussion), and some were small, (rocks and small debris fell quietly on the roof of the building.) But make no mistake about it…all were a spooky reminder that I’m not in Kansas anymore.

Last Thursday we spent all day at the prison conducting business pretty much as usual. The curfew that the Iraq government has imposed on its citizens, (for their own safety), kept most of the Iraq staff at home. But we went over anyway to check up on things and make sure the men who got stuck at work, (for 6 straight days!), had what they needed. We came back home to the FOB at about 330pm, which was just in time because the shelling started hard at about 4pm. And at about 6pm 2 mortars hit the prison, killing 1 Iraq Correctional Officer and sending 1 Warden to the hospital with serious injuries. (Yeah…can you believe not one single inmate was hurt? Figure that justice out!?) Both of the rounds fell into the tent compound where I work. One fell into R-13, (our segregation unit), and one hit outside between R-11 and R-12. I work in R-11. The one that hit in R-13 impacted and detonated on a fence. It was right underneath a tower that should have been manned. But, thank Allah for Iraq laziness because it saved someone’s life this time. You can see by the pock marks in the concrete walls that this round fragmented high, and by all appearances you’d think someone got killed here. But miraculously, no one got hurt in R-13. The round that hit out by R-11, on the other hand, sent a small piece of shrapnel up into the nearby tower of R-12 and hit the officer working there. He succumbed to his wounds and died some time after. It also sent a piece of shrapnel about 200 feet away into my office. There are three little offices and mine is the middle one. The shrapnel cut right through all three offices like it was slicing through butter. I can stand on the outside of office #1 and look in through the hole and see all the way through to where it exited on the far side of office #3. And the spooky part is that it cut through my office about one foot above where my warden sits. If he or I, or anyone, would have been inside any of those offices we would certainly have been injured if not killed outright.

-Jim Franks

Easter Sunday

March 23, 2008

Easter Sunday started with a “Whump-Whump-Whump” of outgoing mortars. I could hear them being launched from somewhere close to the FOB bright and early this morning. And then a few hours later, while at work at the prison, we heard more outgoing headed for the Green Zone on the other side of the river. The prison is between Sadr City and the GZ, so the mortars and rockets always fly over our heads en route to some unknown, random explosion.

Last week all was quiet leading up to the Muslim holiday marking The Prophet Muhammad’s birthday. There wasn’t a single blast or attack that I can recall hearing. That must have been nice for the men who chose to break that peace on this Christian holiday. I wondered where the boundary was that gave them some serenity during their time of celebration. Men planned to attack and kill human beings on this, one of the holiest days of the year. They thought out, laid in wait, and then executed their plan for maximum effect. Thankfully, no one was killed in the GZ today, but not for a lack of trying.

I read an article on the Internet detailing today’s attacks. But it didn’t choose to condemn the group, or groups, responsible for taking advantage of this day of assumed world-wide peace. In fact, the MSN article I read about the attacks sounded a lot like US and Iraq forces were to blame for rattling the fragile decline in violence here. It said, “It’s feared that the recent clashes between US and Iraq forces and militiamen in Baghdad may unravel the cease-fire announced by the Shiite cleric, Muqtada al-Sadr.” And it also said, “The attacks in the Green Zone coincided with Easter services, but followed a series of clashes between U.S and Iraqi forces in neighborhoods west of the Green Zone.” It was as if al-Sadr himself isn’t to blame for the violence he and his group wreak in this city. No, it’s the US and Iraq forces that force his hand. And then I thought about the millions of Americans who would read this and say to themselves, “See…we shouldn’t be in Iraq…we’re just there asking for trouble.” The press makes my stomach turn. The Iraqis I know want peace! They want a new country, safe from tyrants and violence. They want an Iraq where their children can grow up safely, go to school, and someday vote. They want their MTV, Coca-Cola, and Levi Jeans. And most importantly, they want the US here to help them. They want me here to help them. They’ve told me they don’t ever want us to leave because when we do it will all fall apart again. They don’t blame the violence and deaths on our presence here. They know who and what is causing the instability, and they hate and fear it.

I’ll be a voice here, mostly fair, but at least trying to be balanced. I’ll tell you exactly what happened today. People here woke up to explosions. Not just Americans mind you. Thousands of Iraqis live and work in the Green Zone too. Their children may not have awoke today bright eyed and looking for a basket the Easter Bunny left for them. But at the very least, they shouldn’t have had to fear their own countrymen and raining mortars on Easter Sunday.

-Jim Franks

40

March 21, 2008

-He set my feet upon a rock

And made my footsteps firm

Many will see

Many will see and fear

I guess its fitting, or karma, or some damn cosmic thing that I am here on my 40^th birthday. As far as significance goes, this is supposed to be pretty big. I should buy a Corvette, or have an affair with a much younger woman, or maybe steal away to Vegas and do it all. But I don’t feel like that crisis is upon me now. I feel surprisingly content. My 40^th birthday in Iraq is, sorry to say, just another day in Baghdad.

I am sure everyone has noticed that I’ve fallen off the grid for the last month or so. I don’t quite know how to explain it. It’s as if my tank went bone dry and I ran out of meaningful things to say. I feel lately like I’ve lost my perspective and my voice along with it. There’s still plenty going on here worthy of conversation. But every time I sit down to write about it my laptop beats me down and wins that staring contest, and so I turn it off to show the damn thing I’m still in charge. But my fingers rest on the keys for 10 straight minutes until I finally give up trying to think about what I want to say or how I should say it. And so it has gone, until today. This morning I got a wonderful surprise from Cynthia, and through her I heard from the friends and family that truly matter…the ones that inspired me to share all of this in the first place…the people who mean the most to me. My loved ones, I thank you.

So the silly pictures of me and my life are out there for all to see. There’s no feign at pride now…not with the “Heart Shirt” picture out there on the World Wide Web for all to see. How can I inspire confidence with that photo there to remind me, (and everyone else!), of the scared boy I once was? Those pictures remind me of so many things. My brothers…we were three hellions terrorizing our mother. And my battle brother Randy… school daze. (I spelled it right…) My 20’s…did I wear those clothes and those glasses 20 years ago!? And being a young father…ah, my sweet angel Courtney. But mostly they remind me that I am here and alive today. I am the man I am now because of the boy and young man in those pictures.

I can’t help but feel like it was all set in motion years and years ago. Things tumble in and out of place over the years and the dominoes always fall just so. It doesn't always make sense to my analytical mind and that’s hard to accept. Those of you who really know me understand just how badly I need things to make sense. But maybe at 40 years old I can finally admit that life isn't always going to make sense…or more importantly, that it doesn't have to. If that goofy fat kid in the picture could make it all the way to Baghdad then maybe there really is more to all this than karma, or chance, or just cosmic fate. Maybe someone watches over me and has kept me safe and in good graces for all these years. I’m still not certain and I need to be. But here’s to hoping…and to 40 more.

-Jim Franks

Hushed Tones

March 12, 2008

It’s beautiful here at night. I can sit outside my building on the stoop tonight and see a perfect crescent moon. Stars glimmer and the wind strays soothingly through the palms. It’s clear and calm and warm out, and while I’m there I can forget that someone died today.

Someone dies every day here and the people live in fear of their own. I talk with the Iraqis I know and work with every day and they are always afraid of something. They share their meals with me, and talk about their families and how they’d like me to visit their homes. They show me pictures of their kids and I show them mine. We share work stories and speak the Universal language of Cops and Robbers. But simply mention Al Qaeda, and proud men will lower their heads and speak in hushed tones. Even in small enclosed rooms they fear the paper thin walls. I wonder if everyday Germans lived like this when Nazis were spoke of in 1940. Good men’s lives are shattered by uttering a name, like the explosion, or two, somewhere outside the wire that always ruins a good day.

-Jim Franks

Something Wicked

February 16, 2008

We all know fear. Most of us have been scared of the dark or of the boogie man, or scared at the thought of loss. Maybe we’ve been given a good start during a spooky movie or when someone’s made our heart jump via a practical joke. But it’s hard to explain fear like I’ve come to understand it here in Iraq. Believe me; I know that I do not have the market cornered on this subject over here. What I do pales in comparison to what these soldiers face every single day. But this feeling is foreign to me so I want to understand it, and hopefully by doing so I’ll be able to exist here on its terms.

2 days ago a EFP, (Explosively Formed Projectile), hit a contractor’s vehicle right outside the prison gates. It was a big armored mutha, but the shaped copper projectile cut right through it. (It wasn’t one of our vehicles) Thankfully no one was killed. I went to the motor pool to see the vehicle and get my first glimpse of what an EFP could do. My first reaction was, “Well, this isn’t so bad.” But that was because I was seeing the truck as a whole from the outside. Once I got up close and saw the real damage I got spooked. The outer shells of these trucks are a good ½ inch thick of solid steel. The projectile ripped through it and almost punched an exit hole out the other side. The inside of the truck was black and torn to shreds, there were cuts in the plastic and upholstery as well as in the metal walls marking everywhere shrapnel hit. The exposed hoses that ran throughout the interior were severed in the blast and now it looked like someone had turned loose a sack full of black twisted snakes, and the whole thing stunk of burnt oil and hydraulic fluid. And then, of course, there were stains where men had spilled out. But then the oddest scene caught my eye. Under a jump seat that was in the line of fire were several hot dog buns. The entire interior of the truck was oil spewed black, but these little pieces of bread still held their color. They were undisturbed and still in the spot where someone placed them to consume later. As I stared at them I wondered if the man sitting in that seat had placed them there, and what was going through his mind when he did it. Those stupid little buns made me think about the simplest thing…a man and his lunch, contrasted by his unsuspecting doom. Poor bastard. I hope he is OK.

As I walked away from the vehicle and headed out of the motor pool I looked back over my shoulder and the view made me shutter and I got angry. I got mad at the thought of the man who placed that bomb on the road. Someone was supposed to die. Someone went out in the dark of night and laid that bomb in the hopes it would kill a man in a horrific manner. Who thinks like that? Two men can line up across a battlefield from each other and take aim, and I get that. But the ways and means of these people makes a man stop and take stock, and it strikes fear deep in places not talked about. It’s something wicked that’s uncharted for me.

-Jim Franks

I Drew A Line

February 8, 2008

I know what love is. I have loved and have been loved by others. I know the love of a child for his mother. I know the absolute love for my own child, and I know the love of a dear friend. But if you ask anyone who knows me they’ll tell you that I am a hard man to love. I make it difficult for reasons I don’t quite understand. And if that built-in flaw weren't enough, I traveled across the world and left the few closest people to me behind to handle my life back home. And I expect their love will be there, waiting for me when I return, encouraging me while I’m gone, and sustaining me. I don’t always deserve it, but being difficult means I expect it.

It seems I know a lifetime of leaving. Strong hearts have come and gone, and I loved them all. So now I wait for the rocks to roll away like they always have. Maybe I came here to Iraq…to the bottom of the hill…to stay a step ahead. I don’t know for sure. Who ever does? But there has been one who’s stayed. I drew a line in the sand and dared her to step across and stand with me, the fool that I am. She crossed and stands steady by me now, strong, caring, and patient because she loves me.

I've always believed that behind every good man stands a great woman. So I stand in Cynthia’s shadow now. Without her there I am nothing, I am just one man wandering.

-Jim Franks

A Closer Look

February 4, 2008

After two months in the land of “my enemy” I’ve found myself really taking a closer look, and a real liking, to some of the things I see. The more I talk to these people the more I find myself amazed by their views, culture, and their ignorance. Their national and religious pride seems to really balance on a sharp edge. Their adherence to age old customs is equal parts irrational and practical, but all the while remaining oddly admirable. Thousands of years of tradition dictate their day to day living, yet they want so badly to be a part of the 21^st century and the western influence in which they kill each other to stop from spreading here.

Every day I witness something that amazes me. The other day an inmate turned up dead in one of the units. (It turned out to be natural causes.) When we got there at 9am he had already been dead 8 hours or so, yet they were just bringing him out of the tent unit. He wasn’t on a gurney or anything. He was just wrapped in a blanket and laid in the back of the ambulance on the cold metal floor. (I say ambulance with tongue in cheek because it’s really no more than a small van with a makeshift siren on top. In the states it could easily be seen hauling auto parts to a local mechanic, or ice cream through a local neighborhood.) They took him to Medical so a doctor could have a look, (No…, one hadn’t seen him yet…8 hours post mortem), and we followed to see what they had to say. We had to leave after about 15 minutes to attend to something else and when we left the body was still in the back of the van. We came back about an hour later to follow up and pulled in and found the body lying on the ground, out in the open, in the corner of the parking lot, no ambulance, or anyone who seemed to give a shit, in site. They finally came out and took the body inside after we pressed someone to do so. But even then, they just moved the body inside the door and laid it on the floor. Here’s the kicker though…someone actually told me I couldn’t take pictures of the body because it would offend their religion. Dropping the body off on the dirty pavement in the damn parking lot after 8 or 9 hours was perfectly fine, but taking a picture was offensive or disrespectful. As crazy and utterly foreign as that was, I still found the Iraqi ability to function without remorse in a framework that is utterly medieval, quite amazing.

I have learned to speak a few, simple Arabic words and phrases. And I have pretty much got the numbers down to a tee. I have been able to do this by simply making it part of my business to use their language whenever I can, and to make sure any numbers I ask for are given to me in Arabic. I know to put my hand over my heart when giving a heart-felt “hello” or “goodbye”. I know that it’s rude not to sit down when offered a chair. I’ve learned it’s insulting to refuse food or drink when it’s offered. And I know it’s customary to shake hands from the right to the left when addressing a group of men, (Not by order of importance as would be the American way.) When I do these things in front of Iraq’s they seem to become very pleased. They find it very respectful that I take the time to learn their culture. Sometimes they laugh amongst themselves at my pronunciation of a word or phrase, or they smile and beam like a school teacher who’s just helped a student understand Algebra. But my Terp always tells me afterwards that so-and-so was very impressed that I’m trying. I don’t do it for recognition, but the effect it’s having on my ability to do my job is a kind of recognition in itself. But for every man who is impressed there is an equal who hates me simply for being an American, an occupier, or an infidel. I can feel the glares from the men who I believe would just as soon see me dead as look at me. And I’m not just talking about inmates here. In fact, I think I get more looks like that from ICO’s than I do from the inmate population. They will always be respectful if I confront them with a salutation or question, but I have been around people enough to know what resentment and hate feels like when it’s silently directed at me.

And so it’s this contrast that’s got me taking a closer look. The stark differences that their culture mandates will be what ultimately keep’s these people down. I couldn’t have ever imagined a more conflicted nation of people. It’s not two sides butting heads, or this group versus that group that I mean. It’s everyone I’ve met so far and the conflict inside them. How does a man change what he can’t see need’s changing? How can he want what he seems to hate? How does he get help from those he views as helpless? This is where I live now, the land of my enemy. I’m so intrigued, and I want to take a closer look.

-Jim Franks

Weather Report

February 2, 2008

I need to dispel the belief that it’s always hot in Iraq. I guess the reports we always hear about the blistering heat here makes us believe that there isn’t a winter or a rainy season. But like everything else we hear in the states about Iraq, we have to take a step back and realize we shouldn’t believe everything we read.

The coldest it’s been since I’ve been here is probably in the low 30’s. (During the day) At night it dips down colder than that but probably no more than 10 degrees or so. And the warmest I’d say it’s been is about 60. Neither of those is drastic by Idaho standards, but for a country that’s in the middle of the desert it’s certainly not what I expect.

For the most part it’s sunny. Sometimes there’s a smattering of wispy clouds that serves as a nice contrast to the light blue sky. But the haze that seems to hang hear makes them both kind of insignificant. I heard recently that 30% of the Baghdad air is made up of fecal matter. I pray that’s not true, but by all appearances it just might be so. At night though the skies are as beautiful as any I’ve seen. There are no city lights to speak of that compete with Orion’s Belt or the Big Dipper. (But the Big Dipper is upside down for some reason…) And when a full moon comes it’s bright and beautiful and serves as a nice beacon to light up the place.

And then there’s the rain. Everywhere you go here there is dirt. Not sand, like you’d expect in the desert. But just good old fashioned dirt and the dust that comes with it. The rain only serves to make a horrible, muddy mess everywhere. The dust covering that is on everything is a very fine, almost silky one. So the water makes a soupy mud that I’ve never seen before. Imagine a 10 pound bag of flour mixed with equal parts moon dust and baby powder…and you dump it out into a huge flat bowl…and then add water and mix it up just enough to make it good and soupy. And then watch it just sit there because it has no place to drain and no way to harden or evaporate. That’s the mud here…like a semi-melted chocolate shake…and it’s everywhere! 2 days after the rain has stopped and the sun has been out, the chocolate milk mud is still spread out everywhere just waiting for you to walk in it and get all over everything. There is thick mud too, and it seems to take just as long to harden. Someone said the lack of drainage has to do with the water table here and being basically right at sea level. I don’t know, or really care. All I know is that it sucks and that I have to work in it.

The tent compound where I work is all dirt. The only concrete is for the tent’s base. Everywhere else is dirt, and when it rains or even sprinkles it creates chaos. You’d think a country that’s fat with oil and tons of rock would have the good sense to lay some asphalt? But no, not these people. And then the inmates only have sandals for there feet. So when it gets good and muddy they leave their sandals in their tents because they’ll just fall off in the mud. So these poor bastards walk around in mud up to there ankles like it’s nothing. Some of them wrap plastic bags around their feet, or a piece of cloth from an old shirt. But the majority usually just goes barefoot. Crazy.

In a few months the sun will come out in earnest. I saw a picture of a buddy here that he took last summer. He was standing next to a thermometer that was hung on a tree. It read 140 degrees! So from now on when it’s a little chilly, or the rain has made a good muck of things, I will think about that picture and the months to come. I have not doubt that by July I will be screaming for some soupy, sticky mud and the rain that caused it.

-Jim Franks GO PATRIOTS!!