Story Idea: Soldiers in the Friendly Skies, Part I

March 25, 2008 in independent journalism
Tags: Iraq soldier travel

This is the first of two accounts of conversations with U.S. soldiers who have served in Iraq and will soon be doing so again. Reflecting on the conversations, I thought that the airport might be the best place to interview soldiers about their experiences, whether they are on their way there or on their way back. Airports are by definition transitional spaces in which, it seems to me, censorship is hard to exercise, contemplative thought flourishes, and brief connection with strangers is the rule rather than the exception.

I’m in the States for about three weeks, where I’m seeing friends and family and buying a new camera and computer so that I can begin preparing a series of workshops on social media for NGOs in Lebanon that will be conducted with the support of the innovators at RootSpace, an incubator for social entrepreneurship that emphasizes leveraging technology for social change. (More on the workshops later. Once the grant is finalized, I plan to document the process here.)

I spent the first 10 days in New York and on Saturday flew to Austin, Texas, where my dad lives. It was a two-leg flight from JFK to Atlanta to Austin, and serendipitously I sat next to soldiers on both of them.

The first soldier was in the infantry and heading back to Iraq that day, back to a town called Yousufiyah in the so-called traingle of Death. A strapping six-and-a-half foot tall black man in military fatigues, he quietly took his aisle seat next to me in row 32. A few minutes later, before we took off, a diminutive white woman wandered back to offer him her seat in first class. He kindly refused.

Middle-aged white men sitting around us struck up conversation in serious tones. Asked if he was “going or coming.” “Going,” he said. “Godspeed and good luck” came back. The man sitting on the other side of me, a middle-aged black man originally from Tobago and on his way there for a visit, piggy-backed on the questions to get more details. I did the same.

The soldier, whose name was Whitney, answered all our questions quietly, seriously, directly. The only time he cracked a smile was when I asked about the ages of his three kids. Nine, three, and one month. “And I’m going to miss it all again,” he added, about the birth of the youngest, the third girl.

I wasn’t sure what he meant but in the course of our conversation, he told me that he had been in Iraq once already, which likely explained what felt to me like his fear. He was there for seven months, back home for three or four, and now was on his way back for nine more. We talked a bit about this schedule; he told me of a friend who had been in Iraq for four years. Not by choice.

He told me that they have a house now and that he set up the Internet. Do you blog, I asked? No, he said. Do they censor what you write? Yes. They didn’t used to but then some guy ruined it. They read everything, and if you have the word “bomb” in a post or an email, they’ll make a copy of it and if you so much as say the word bomb on the phone, they’ll cut the line.

I changed the subject. Who you going to vote for? Vote for? he asked. Yeah, I said, Obama? Hillary? Aw, he said, I can’t vote. What? I’m not a citizen.

He was going through the process, which is expedited he says, but still consists of a book “this thick” of paperwork. I wanted to talk more. I could have quizzed him for the rest of the flight, and maybe I should have, but as soon as there was a lull, he closed his eyes. I wanted him to rest.

I spent most of the flight thinking of the next question to ask? How to connect with him. When he woke up, I asked what he did with his free time. I study, he said. What do you study? Banking.

As we landed, I asked if they got everything they needed. No, he said. I pushed a bit further, Is the Army taking care of you? I asked. Yeah, yeah, he said, giving it good thought but no indication as to the mental catalog he was flipping through. Well, can I get your email address? I’ll send you a note and remind you who I am, and if there’s something—magazines, I don’t know—let me know.

I wasn’t being entirely altruistic. He was the first soldier I had met. He made me feel more connected to the war, and I wanted a way to preserve that. I haven’t emailed him yet but I will.

We disembarked, and he turned right. Me, left.