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I've made some friends along this two-month journey of mine. And I've made these friends in strange places. In particular, I am speaking of and to the soldiers at checkpoint 17, international zone, Baghdad, Iraq.
Checkpoint 17 boasts massive 15-foot t-walls on either side of the road and down the middle, making it look something akin to a large car wash as you enter inside and park. Sheet metal has been placed on top of these t-walls to complete that illusion. On either side of these massive walls, there are benches to sit down on and a tarp overhead to block us from the sun. It is there where we are patted down and asked to turn off our cell phones. Then we wait as the soldiers and bomb sniffing dogs examine the vehicles. Gigantic cooling fans are located just off to the right as you are invited to take a seat. It is austere yet bland, and the soldiers' tan uniforms fit right in.
There are two exceptions to the bland nature of the checkpoint. First, a massive mural entitled, "Peruanos en Iraq" (Peruvians in Iraq) impresses in both size and detail. Second, off to the left of the benches is another t-wall that a soldier has drawn on. This one showcases a portrait of Jesus holding in his arms what I presume is a soldier, his head tilted back as if injured or dying. Above this sketch, a caption reads, "Dios, perdoname" or "God, forgive me."
As you might have already surmised, these soldiers are neither Iraqi nor American, but from Latin America and Africa. The soldiers are deferential and efficient. Each day to the Al Rasheed hotel we pass through the checkpoint. The process is ordinary (if a process could be a color, it'd be beige too). Get out. Leave the bags in the car. Show your passport.
And then it starts to happen. after the first week I begin to see it: these half offers of smiles, these small words of comfort, "here you go, my friend." "No problem." "Hello, good morning." "How are you, my friend?" (Latinos always say 'my friend'). Within the second week there are several who begin asking questions. And upon discovering we are American English teachers, well! We are treated with a whole new level of openness. They are curious about us and curious about learning English. They ask questions. We answer. And we start to feel something akin to friendship.
One of the soldiers, Ricardo, carries a notebook with him. For a time he approaches me almost daily and asks me about certain words and their meanings in English. He is reading a newspaper daily. He often asks me how to say things I am at a loss for, but we negotiate possible answers until he is satisified and he scribbles my answers in his notebook. I find I look forward to the image of a soldier slinging his automatic weapon to the side, grabbing pad and pencil and shouting "teacher, teacher, how you say..."
And so we are becoming more and more familiar. In fact, one day a soldier is bold enough to call Kim "bonita," and she responds like a whip and gives him a retort.
"So do you talk that way to all the ladies?" she asks in crisp Spanish. He is embarrassed. He didn't know, he says. He is so sorry. She speaks Spanish? Her ability to respond has left him stunned and impressed. Later, each time he sees her he will treat Kim with what I can only describe as shoeshine boy courtesy. He smiles at her. He opens her door. He responds to her with a slight half bow, slightly hunched. His smile is winning and I think she gives him a look that lets him know he is off the hook, at least as long as he stays on good behavior.
And the other soldiers smile at us. Their smiles are winning and honest. Each day they venture more and increase in their boldness to talk to us. Some want to speak in English. Some speak to me in Spanish. They come one by one, like at a doctor's office, probably to ensure that the supervisor, who is at a distance, is not alarmed by our collegiality. They share stories about their own lives. They give email addresses. They ask us to stay in touch. They wonder if there is a place for them in America. Is Phoenix a good place to live? Yes, I say. It is wonderful. They light up like Christmas tree ornaments.
As you can imagine, I find myself more and more looking forward to the checkpoint. I look for Michael, the group's favorite Ugandan, to flash us his million dollar smile. I look for familiar faces and am disappointed when they are not there. I desperately want to take a picture, but realize the impossibility of such a requeest.
Two months later, on our last day through the checkpoint, I am finding it unexpectedly hard to say goodbye. These are men that leave wives and children behind for a year at a time, only to receive a short trip home before they return. They work long hard days in the long hot sun, and it seems to me that any sense of the normal, of the outside world is a welcome change to them. I feel a little guilty to leave them after such a short time. I feel like I'm one of them, in this strange way.
I think the best way I can describe it is that we had a sort of shared suffering, a bond of understanding that came from the fact that we were all strangers in a strange land. Regardless of the fact that we weren't from the same country, I always carried that sense that we were experiencing something together. We spoke of the dust and heat with disdain, we spoke of returning home to see our families. We talked of the foods we missed and what we would do upon our returns. We talked about possibilities, futures beyond the borders of the checkpoint.
In a way, it was as if the checkpoint weren't a place at all, but a place to imagine places. On a particularly hot day, one of the soldiers and I literally closed our eyes and imagined the beach. Mine was in San Diego. His was in Lima. We were anywhere but checkpoint 17.
And so we left just like that yesterday, and now I am writing in a hotel in Istanbul.
And so it was that on our last day of training, we shook hands with several of these checkpoint soldiers, then left them standing at attention, waving to us as we piled into the van and pulled away. As we bid our final goodbyes, I felt a genuine sense of loss as we watched them move out of our sights.
From within the vehicle, Kim and I both spontaneously put our fists to our hearts, an Arabic gesture we both learned while in Iraq. The soldiers returned in kind, leaving their weapons slung to their side, moving their fists toward their body, with their heads bowed slightly.
Goodbye, my friends.
I've made some friends along this two-month journey of mine. And I've made these friends in strange places. In particular, I am speaking of and to the soldiers at checkpoint 17, international zone, Baghdad, Iraq.
Checkpoint 17 boasts massive 15-foot t-walls on either side of the road and down the middle, making it look something akin to a large car wash as you enter inside and park. Sheet metal has been placed on top of these t-walls to complete that illusion. On either side of these massive walls, there are benches to sit down on and a tarp overhead to block us from the sun. It is there where we are patted down and asked to turn off our cell phones. Then we wait as the soldiers and bomb sniffing dogs examine the vehicles. Gigantic cooling fans are located just off to the right as you are invited to take a seat. It is austere yet bland, and the soldiers' tan uniforms fit right in.
There are two exceptions to the bland nature of the checkpoint. First, a massive mural entitled, "Peruanos en Iraq" (Peruvians in Iraq) impresses in both size and detail. Second, off to the left of the benches is another t-wall that a soldier has drawn on. This one showcases a portrait of Jesus holding in his arms what I presume is a soldier, his head tilted back as if injured or dying. Above this sketch, a caption reads, "Dios, perdoname" or "God, forgive me."
As you might have already surmised, these soldiers are neither Iraqi nor American, but from Latin America and Africa. The soldiers are deferential and efficient. Each day to the Al Rasheed hotel we pass through the checkpoint. The process is ordinary (if a process could be a color, it'd be beige too). Get out. Leave the bags in the car. Show your passport.
And then it starts to happen. after the first week I begin to see it: these half offers of smiles, these small words of comfort, "here you go, my friend." "No problem." "Hello, good morning." "How are you, my friend?" (Latinos always say 'my friend'). Within the second week there are several who begin asking questions. And upon discovering we are American English teachers, well! We are treated with a whole new level of openness. They are curious about us and curious about learning English. They ask questions. We answer. And we start to feel something akin to friendship.
One of the soldiers, Ricardo, carries a notebook with him. For a time he approaches me almost daily and asks me about certain words and their meanings in English. He is reading a newspaper daily. He often asks me how to say things I am at a loss for, but we negotiate possible answers until he is satisified and he scribbles my answers in his notebook. I find I look forward to the image of a soldier slinging his automatic weapon to the side, grabbing pad and pencil and shouting "teacher, teacher, how you say..."
And so we are becoming more and more familiar. In fact, one day a soldier is bold enough to call Kim "bonita," and she responds like a whip and gives him a retort.
"So do you talk that way to all the ladies?" she asks in crisp Spanish. He is embarrassed. He didn't know, he says. He is so sorry. She speaks Spanish? Her ability to respond has left him stunned and impressed. Later, each time he sees her he will treat Kim with what I can only describe as shoeshine boy courtesy. He smiles at her. He opens her door. He responds to her with a slight half bow, slightly hunched. His smile is winning and I think she gives him a look that lets him know he is off the hook, at least as long as he stays on good behavior.
And the other soldiers smile at us. Their smiles are winning and honest. Each day they venture more and increase in their boldness to talk to us. Some want to speak in English. Some speak to me in Spanish. They come one by one, like at a doctor's office, probably to ensure that the supervisor, who is at a distance, is not alarmed by our collegiality. They share stories about their own lives. They give email addresses. They ask us to stay in touch. They wonder if there is a place for them in America. Is Phoenix a good place to live? Yes, I say. It is wonderful. They light up like Christmas tree ornaments.
As you can imagine, I find myself more and more looking forward to the checkpoint. I look for Michael, the group's favorite Ugandan, to flash us his million dollar smile. I look for familiar faces and am disappointed when they are not there. I desperately want to take a picture, but realize the impossibility of such a requeest.
Two months later, on our last day through the checkpoint, I am finding it unexpectedly hard to say goodbye. These are men that leave wives and children behind for a year at a time, only to receive a short trip home before they return. They work long hard days in the long hot sun, and it seems to me that any sense of the normal, of the outside world is a welcome change to them. I feel a little guilty to leave them after such a short time. I feel like I'm one of them, in this strange way.
I think the best way I can describe it is that we had a sort of shared suffering, a bond of understanding that came from the fact that we were all strangers in a strange land. Regardless of the fact that we weren't from the same country, I always carried that sense that we were experiencing something together. We spoke of the dust and heat with disdain, we spoke of returning home to see our families. We talked of the foods we missed and what we would do upon our returns. We talked about possibilities, futures beyond the borders of the checkpoint.
In a way, it was as if the checkpoint weren't a place at all, but a place to imagine places. On a particularly hot day, one of the soldiers and I literally closed our eyes and imagined the beach. Mine was in San Diego. His was in Lima. We were anywhere but checkpoint 17.
And so we left just like that yesterday, and now I am writing in a hotel in Istanbul.
And so it was that on our last day of training, we shook hands with several of these checkpoint soldiers, then left them standing at attention, waving to us as we piled into the van and pulled away. As we bid our final goodbyes, I felt a genuine sense of loss as we watched them move out of our sights.
From within the vehicle, Kim and I both spontaneously put our fists to our hearts, an Arabic gesture we both learned while in Iraq. The soldiers returned in kind, leaving their weapons slung to their side, moving their fists toward their body, with their heads bowed slightly.
Goodbye, my friends.
