Dear Basrah,
I will not miss you. I will not miss your sand in my eyes, ears and knows. I will not miss your fecal matter-ridden flies, that like to go in the same places your damn sand does. I will not miss the rancid smell of garbage, burning or not, the smell of sewer or any other foul smell I have come to associate with you. I will not miss your rabid dogs or cats ridden with God only knows what diseases. I will not miss your summer weather, but I'll admit I might miss your winter weather, but only a bit. I will not miss your neighbors that party into all hours of the night, sometimes getting their confetti on our side.
I will not think of you fondly and I probably won't be able to muster up any tears when I leave you (which I hope is VERY soon). I hope that's ok. You have been a thorn in my side and I hope to never see you or your brothers again. I hope you understand, that's it's you not me.
Sincerely, Me.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
What about us?
As of right now, we should have been out of here approximately 7544 minutes ago. I would have been home today, with my hair down and a pair of blue jeans on. My family would have been reunited after our year of seperation. Iraq should have been only a memory by now... instead, it's still my reality.
For the second time this week, I have packed and unpacked my bags. Just yesterday, at 1030 in the morning, the 12 Redbulls that stayed behind to escort the remaining cargo home were told to be prepared to leave early the next morning. Our bags were to be ready to go by 1530, when we would have another meeting to plan the logistics of what would happen in the next 12 hours.
My bags were packed. I was actually starting to think I'd be leaving, something I hadn't let myself think since the last time we were delayed. I was thinking, "By this time tomorrow, I'll be on a plane." It was at that meeting we were informed that our flight had been delayed, yet again. I immediately felt my chest tighten as I searched the eyes of the man who delivered the bad news. I was pretty confident that this was a joke. This had already happened before. But it wasn't a joke, and it surely wasn't funny.
Once again, my father and I had to inform my mom that we wouldn't be coming home as scheduled. That in fact, we would miss Valentine's Day, even though my dad had been gone weeks before this holiday last year.
I'm sure my family felt pretty similar to how I feel. I feel betrayed and angry, just as I had the first time I was told that I couldn't go home. I feel hopeless and helpless. There is nothing I can change to expedite my arrival home or nothign I can do to stop this from happening again. And at the root of everything, I feel a little forgotten. Not my friends and certainly not my family. By the rest of the soldiers that left here weeks ago, and forgot that someone stayed behind so that they wouldn't have to.
While the media, and even the 34th ID themselves, continues to claim that the final wave of Redbulls are coming home tomorrow, the remaining Redbulls are stuck to wonder "What about us?" Wouldn't it be nice, as my sister said, to celebrate when ALL of the Redbulls are home?
I know that 12 doesn't seem like a huge number, especially when you compare it to the 4,000 soldiers that are home or are within in a day of being home. But that's 12 soldiers and there families and friends that are awaiting their arrival home. It's another week of life on standstill as our families hold their breath. Another couple of days of them dreading phone calls from us, because we just might inform them of yet another delay.
Please continue to keep the remaining Redbulls and their families in your thoughts and prayers.
For the second time this week, I have packed and unpacked my bags. Just yesterday, at 1030 in the morning, the 12 Redbulls that stayed behind to escort the remaining cargo home were told to be prepared to leave early the next morning. Our bags were to be ready to go by 1530, when we would have another meeting to plan the logistics of what would happen in the next 12 hours.
My bags were packed. I was actually starting to think I'd be leaving, something I hadn't let myself think since the last time we were delayed. I was thinking, "By this time tomorrow, I'll be on a plane." It was at that meeting we were informed that our flight had been delayed, yet again. I immediately felt my chest tighten as I searched the eyes of the man who delivered the bad news. I was pretty confident that this was a joke. This had already happened before. But it wasn't a joke, and it surely wasn't funny.
Once again, my father and I had to inform my mom that we wouldn't be coming home as scheduled. That in fact, we would miss Valentine's Day, even though my dad had been gone weeks before this holiday last year.
I'm sure my family felt pretty similar to how I feel. I feel betrayed and angry, just as I had the first time I was told that I couldn't go home. I feel hopeless and helpless. There is nothing I can change to expedite my arrival home or nothign I can do to stop this from happening again. And at the root of everything, I feel a little forgotten. Not my friends and certainly not my family. By the rest of the soldiers that left here weeks ago, and forgot that someone stayed behind so that they wouldn't have to.
While the media, and even the 34th ID themselves, continues to claim that the final wave of Redbulls are coming home tomorrow, the remaining Redbulls are stuck to wonder "What about us?" Wouldn't it be nice, as my sister said, to celebrate when ALL of the Redbulls are home?
I know that 12 doesn't seem like a huge number, especially when you compare it to the 4,000 soldiers that are home or are within in a day of being home. But that's 12 soldiers and there families and friends that are awaiting their arrival home. It's another week of life on standstill as our families hold their breath. Another couple of days of them dreading phone calls from us, because we just might inform them of yet another delay.
Please continue to keep the remaining Redbulls and their families in your thoughts and prayers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)