I finished writing my book months ago. All I need for it to be published is a title and a cover. I am competely stumped. The theme of the book is kind of the theme of the blog: how much I changed in my year in Iraq and how I used the experience to make myself a better person. Any and all suggestions are appreciated.

Valentine's Day has again come and gone and the period that follows can be the most amorously successful time of the year for all the singles of the world . . . if they only take my advice.

Why is the post-Valentine's period such a good time to begin a relationship? Isn't the romance of Valentine's Day itself enough to warrant a pre-Valentine's romantic genesis? Taking all subjective, lovey-dovey minutiae out of the picture leaves us with many logical reasons leading to my very reasonable conclusion.

In these tough economic times, I would be remiss to not begin by discussing the financial factor. Although it may be in poor taste, this is of upmost importance. According to a February 2007 survey conducted by BIGresearch, the average man spends $156.22 on his Valentine's Day date, while the average woman spends $85.08 on hers. While most people in long-term committed relationships may enjoy splurging on their partners, triple-digit Valentine's Day bills are not necessarily worth it for those in new or developing relationships.

Even if one finds no problem with being a big-spender on her or his new love, however, the pressure of what to surprise a partner with can be overwhelming. The right Valentine's gift in a young relationship can be the impetus towards a fulfilling long-term relationship, but the wrong gift can doom a relationship before it begins. Who really needs that pressure these days?

Even the most seasoned Valentine's gift-giver, however, can sometimes fall victim to the idea that good Valentine's gifts come standard. To men or women who find themselves in this scenario, a bad gift can ruin a relationship, while a good one is merely expected. By never having provided a Valentine's gift in the first place though, one can increase the just because factor exponentially by providing a gift that may not even be half as good at some random point during the year.

As a general rule, it is inadvisable to begin a relationship in the three cold, dreary winter months of December, January and February. Those months are cold and dark for a reason: they are not conducive to new beginnings and include the most relationship-pitfalls of any other three-month period.

Any relationship started in December begins with a giant elephant in the room in the form of Christmas. Should one give a Christmas gift after one week of dating? Two weeks? Three weeks? If so, how big? How thought-out? How romantic?

Following Christmas comes New Year's Eve, where a young couple has to worry about how intoxicated and/or obnoxious they are appearing to be in front of their new love interest. We all know how difficult it is to have a good time on New Year's Eve when you have the thought of your image to worry about all evening.

If you do make it to February 14, the issues of finances and the pressure of finding the right gift make a winter romance too much of a hassle. Finally, there is a twenty-five percent chance that your new boyfriend or girlfriend has a birthday in the December to February timeframe. Again, more pressure.

Take my advice and wait until after Valentine's Day to make your move on that special someone who has been catching your eye.

Remember, looking for dates just after Valentine's is like shopping the day after Christmas. While the pre-Valentine's singles are still in the Valentine's spirit and feeling particularly amorous and vulnerable, there are also bound to be a high percentage of post-Valentine's breakups.

Because you played it cool and did not desperately find someone to date just before Valentine's, you will look even more attractive when you finally decide to make your move. Trust me.

            I am not David Axelrod. While I voted for President-Elect Obama and, when asked, shared my positive feelings about the presidential candidate, I am not and never have been connected to the next President of the United States. This much appears obvious to most, but I have noticed a growing trend among the politically-petulant members of the voting bloc.....

            This is not meant to disparage those who voted for Senator John McCain as those I am speaking of are far too small to represent his voting contingent in any significant manner. This, frankly, is a knock on the state of American politics in my lifetime. ....

            I am far too young to discuss what the discourse was like in the 1970s, 1980s, or even most of the 1990s, but I know something is amiss when I see it. Americans like to think of themselves as winners in every sense of the word: in business; in war; and in values Americans are winners. America hates losers.....

            Every four years, however, roughly half the American electorate goes home feeling like losers and defeat is not something most Americans are comfortable experiencing. So, what happens? Well, some decide to extend the campaign through the next Presidency in hoping they’ll be proven right over time, pointing fingers all along the way.....

            Too many times in the months that have passed since President-Elect’s November 4 victory, I have been cornered in one way or another over the decisions, appointments, nominations, and priorities of the man I voted for last Fall as if I am accountable for the actions of our new President-to-be. ....

            Let me make something clear: on January 20, I will no longer be the Obama voter full of hope and admiration ready to defend my candidate at every turn and neither should any other Obama voter.....

            The moment President-Elect Obama becomes President Obama, everything changes. In the time that it takes the junior Senator from Illinois to recite the Oath of Office, a transformation will take place that may be difficult to see through the naked eye. In that moment, he will go from being the man as in “you da man!” to the man as in “fight the man!” ....

            While my respect for the man and the office will not change, it is important to note that now is the time for all those who voted for him to become the politically-astute electorate that President-Elect Obama said we could be. It is time for all of us to hold the new President accountable, and that is why the finger-pointing, accusatory statements, and general discontent must end.....

            I am not a member of the new President’s administration, as over 99.9% of the country are similarly not, and the only Americans who must defends themselves about the actions of the next administration are those who are members of the Obama administration.....

            There are far too many obstacles facing the President-Elect for any of us to fall asleep at the wheel while celebrating the election of the country’s first African-American president and tough times cannot be navigated through sheer faith.....

            So, in that vein, to Obama and McCain voters alike, we’re in this together. The stress and animosity that we all experienced throughout the general election must end. Let us all quit acting as proxies for political parties and instead act like Americans.....

. . . in NW Lawton. Holler at me if you're interested.

I still have the editing process to go through, but I finished writing the book I started earlier this year. If you want to skip all the details and go straight to the end, here it is:. . . One of my favorite lyrics of all time just happens to belong to a friend of mine:What's the point of living if you never learn to grow? – 8 Bit Cynics' "Time" In Baghdad, I learned to see myself in others. I learned to take the hard right and give voice to the voiceless. I found the motivation to turn my life around, get serious about school, and help people. In short, in Baghdad, I learned to grow. I am proud of my service both in Iraq and in the United States since my return. My story is one of many that have not been told, but, hopefully, publishing my story will ultimately tell the stories of others, no matter their opinion of the war in Iraq. In an election year based so much on the principle of change, I cannot help but silently chuckle at the idea of it all. While millions desperately sought change merely through their vote, I feel like none of them truly know what change is. I know change. I am change. It's not nearly as glamorous as either candidate made it seem, but, when done right, it's still the most liberating feeling in the world. As many a man has said before, life is not about the destination, but the journey. Mine has taken me to destinations I never intended to be, both literally and figuratively . . . and it's only just begun. For years, my favorite short story was F. Scott Fitzgerald's Winter Dreams, although not for the reasons most people have a favorite short story. Winter Dreams is an incredibly melancholy story of the life of Dexter Green and his pursuit of the impossibly beautiful Judy Jones. Dexter has her for a short time, never realizing how shallow and unhappy she herself is, lives an otherwise long and successful life, but ultimately admits that he has lived a life based on the pursuit of his silly winter dreams. Dexter realizes just how terribly sad his life has been . . . and I always empathized with him. Even as a young man, I read the story like a self-fulfilling prophecy and felt doomed to become Dexter Green, unhappy and regretful. I no longer feel that way, and that is the perhaps the greatest indicator of how much Baghdad and its cast of characters changed my life.

I am currently working on acknowledgments for my book. If you did anything for me during my year in Baghdad, please remind me. Even if it seems so, so, so obvious to you that I would remember you, do it. I have a terrible memory sometimes and I have plenty of people I want to thank. Justin.

Hey all.  I am looking for people in Lawton who are willing to help me distribute fliers and newsletters.  I plan on putting them inside other publications, putting them on windshields, and passing them out in person.  Any amount of your time would be appreciated.  Holler at me if you can/want to help.  Thanks a lot. 

Justin.

http://www.amazon.com/Iraqi-Familys-Inside-First-Occupation/dp/0971679509/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1215736717&sr=8-1

The Iraq War Blog, An Iraqi Family's Inside View of the First Year of the Occupation (Paperback)

This is the story of the first year of the Iraqi occupation taken from the firsthand accounts of one Iraqi family's online blog.  Amazing.

I haven't written a blog of substance in quite a while.  I want everyone to know that I haven't quit writing.  I'm writing a book (to be published in September), and that has taken up a lot of time.  I'm 140 pages into the book now and really feeling like I'm on a roll.  You can check it out here: Route Irish: Tales from the Road at the Interchange of Will and Conscience in the World's Most Dangerous City

PS I'm going to shrink down the title soon; that was just something to work with until I had settled on something more succinct.

. . . sort of.  "The Wall" is on CNN.com; check it out: http://www.ireport.com/docs/DOC-19201

http://ivaw.org/node/3043

The news of the 4,000th US death in Iraq did not come to me in any dramatic fashion like the news of 9/11, the capture of Saddam Hussein, or the date of my first deployment to Iraq had. Instead, I simply logged into my e-mail and saw it staring at me in the subject line of my most recent unread message. I was not surprised. I was not shocked. I was simply saddened to see the toll hit yet another milestone while our elected leaders in Congress await a new administration to bounce their withdrawal plans off of and the general public continues their tradition of apathy. I was saddened that it took a clean-cut, round number like 4,000 for the United States to snap out of its daze and pay attention once again to the human toll this war has wrought. Was the 4,000th death really any more tragic than the 3,999th? If 3,999 represents an arbitrary figure but 4,000 represents a milestone worthy of front-page mention, what does that say about America’s attention span?

4,000 seems so far away from the short, virtually costless war that we were promised by our Commander-in Chief five long years ago, but, even then, 4,000 doesn’t truly tell the story of what has transpired since March 19th, 2003. Numbers will never do justice to the damage this occupation has wrought upon the United States, let alone the world, but let me tell you what the number 4,000 means to me.

There are 4,000 fewer Americans alive today than five years ago due to this occupation. 4,000 families have been destroyed as sons, daughters, uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers have been lost. Death does not discriminate: from the E-7 husband and father to the 20 year old E-3, their lives, however fulfilled or just beginning, were taken. 4,000 funerals for the fallen have been conducted, not one with the presence of the Commander-in-Chief. . . 4,000 performances of "Taps" . . . 4,000 Honor Guards . . . 4,000 dates that will forever live on in the minds of the families of the taken.

To those who have served and to those who are proud to call their family members veterans, 4,000 will never be a sufficient barometer of what our nation has lost. Each notch on the casualty list represents a name, a family, and a life. I know a few of those names, as do so many of my brothers and sisters in Iraq Veterans Against the War; it is for them that we continue our oath of service today by standing up against this illegal and unethical war to prevent a 5,000th name from being added to this list. It is in that same spirit of honor and duty to each other as soldiers, sailors, and Marines that IVAW today demands full benefits for our returning veterans, including mental health counseling, so that no more names are silently lost in the bureaucracy of government-approved casualty lists. Make no mistake: those who return home and take their own lives as a result of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder are the ultimate casualties of war.

The number 4,000 says nothing about the toll this folly has had on the Iraqi people. Thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, have died. Millions have become refugees, either in their own country or in neighboring countries. Families have been ripped apart. Neighborhoods have been destroyed. National monuments and cultural landmarks have been disgraced. An entire generation of Iraqis has grown up in the shadow of occupation.

No, this news did not come to me as a shock, and it wasn’t delivered in a dramatic fashion. That almost makes it worse, however, because I saw it coming for so long and, despite all the work IVAW has put in on behalf of those who no longer have a voice, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Help IVAW prevent a 5,000th story of loss today by pledging your support and demanding an end to the occupation of Iraq.

I just got home from Springfield, Missouri, where I spoke to the Peace Network of the Ozarks.  I had never been to Springfield and had no idea what to expect.  The man coordinating the event seemed enthusiastic enough and he assured me that there would be a lot of support present, but you never know how people define support and community.  I was pleasantly surprised by what I experienced this weekend.  The turnout was not as high as it could have been in a perfect world, but it certainly was not an empty room. 

What I felt and saw in that building Saturday afternoon was a sense of community and support that I have yet to feel in Oklahoma.  I have met some amazing people in the Oklahoma anti-war community, but I have never felt as if I was a member of that community.  It is more of a feeling that I imagine exists between colleagues: we aim to achieve the same goals; we went through the same training or conscientious transformation; we sometimes work together, not quite partners but not quite competitors.  From the moment I sat down with the men and women of the PNO, I felt like I was a member of their community; we were truly partners. 

Why this hasn't been the case is a loaded question with many different answers, but I have no idea which one is even remotely correct.  In an effort to try and conceptualize what the problems could be and I how I can fix them, I am going to think out loud and brainstorm a little:

Perhaps I have not been assertive enough when it comes to gaining support for IVAW and our goals in Oklahoma.  It is entirely possible that, while the Oklahoma peace community and I genuinely share a common goal, there is something lost in translation that results in each of us doing different things and thinking we are on the same page.  It is apparent to me now that we are not on the same proverbial page.  In Springfield and other places I have been, I am simply asked, "What does IVAW need the most?  How can we help you?"  It's a very fluid communication process that results in much greater gains in those other areas of the country. 

I would like to say that the problem here is that there is a top-down communicative approach between the established peace community in Oklahoma and the new generation of IVAW members who also want to end this bloody war.  That is not the case.  I am not even included on the email listservs of the peace networks here; I have no idea what is going on.  Not that I would ever want to overstate my "importance", but I am the most active IVAW member in Oklahoma.  I am on the listservs for peace networks from the Delaware Valley to Houston to New Orleans to Vietnam Veterans Against the War.  I did not ask to be included on any of these; it was understood that I need to be in the loop if I am going to be effective in coordinating with these organizations.  So, we have established that communication is a problem.  I was going to email the head of the Oklahoma peace community about this, but I have, in the past, sent several emails that were never given a reply.  Maybe, if I can effectively communicate my disappointment and frustration with how things are being handled, we can re-establish our relationship as allies and this will all look silly when I look back on it later. 

We do have a dedicated group of anti-war activists in Oklahoma, particularly Oklahoma City.  That much is certain, and I appreciate and admire the work they have done over all the years that I was either unborn, unexposed, or uncaring.  That is why I am disappointed: I see the potential of a true partnership of OKC VFP, Peacehouse, and Oklahoma IVAW.  IVAW is conducting Winter Soldier: Iraq and Afghanistan in two weeks in the Washington DC area.  This will be a truly historic event modeled after the original Winter Soldier hearings that shed light on the criminal nature of the Vietnam War in 1971.  This is big.  With such a dedicated, entrenched peace community in Oklahoma, I had expected to have a flood of ideas coming my way as to how Oklahoma can help IVAW members publicize and attend Winter Soldier, as well as how they could turn Winter Soldier into something that Oklahoma City couldn't help but know about.  I have heard nothing.  I have emailed; still nothing.  Meanwhile, I know that the community is not sitting around on their hands.  They are doing what they genuinely believe to be what is necessary to bring about peace, but I could not disagree with their assessment of priorities more, no matter what else it is they are pursuing right now.  Winter Soldier is two weeks away.  History is two weeks away, but without a network of committed activists in Oklahoma helping publicize it, no one here will ever know what they are missing. 

I hope to have not rambled too much or spoken out of turn, but these are the honest feelings of a young, passionate, disappointed man following his heart and feeling, at times, alone on the path.

Justin C. Cliburn

I'm speaking to the Ozark Mountain Peace Network this Saturday.  Wish me luck.  Tell me what you think of the speech.  (Yes, I know some of it is copy and pasted; skip over those parts if you have to.)

In 1776, Thomas Paine wrote: "These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman."

In 1971, Vietnam Veterans Against the War exposed the criminal nature of the Vietnam War in a historic event called Winter Soldier.  They were called traitors, ingrates, malcontents, and cowards, but they were brave enough to look their accusers in the face while they made history in the spirit of Thomas Paine and the revolutionaries who founded the United States. 

In an effort to provide the public a better understanding of the war, 100 Vietnam veterans and 16 civilians gave anguished testimony in a crowded Detroit hotel lobby about the war crimes they participated in or had witnessed.  This was something that had never happened before and the media treated it as such.  Those who participated in the investigation are proud to this day of that service to their country.

I know that many of you are wondering right now how big of an event this could have been, since you have most likely never heard of it.  Don't feel bad.  I am a product of a very good public school system, and I excelled in history and government while I was in school.  I also had never heard of Winter Soldier until recently.  This is not something that the government wants to teach its students: that the Vietnam War was ended not by traitorous anti-war hippies, but by conscientious, moral-driven veterans of that criminal war.  Even now, those brave men and women are slandered.  Most recently, John Kerry was the subject of the traitor tag.  I am sure you remember the ads showing a young Kerry testifying to the pillaging of villages during the heated 2004 presidential election. 

Today, I am here to educate you about Winter Soldier: what it was (which I just did); who is participating in WS:IA; why I am participating; and how you can help to make sure that this time WS is not lost in history.

My name is Justin C. Cliburn, but the army likes to call Specialist Cliburn.  I deployed to Iraq in December 2005 as a staunch supporter of President Bush and the Iraq War and returned as an Iraq Veteran Against the War.  How I undertook this change is story longer than any of you have time to hear, but I will do my best to condense it.

 I arrived in Iraq on December 20th, 2005, and I immediately started to notice the divide between what I had thought to be true about the war and the reality of the situation.

It was our first week at Camp Anaconda and my team leader had just come back onto the base after his first "right hand ride."  A "right hand ride" consists of the replacing unit personnel riding along with the unit to gain a sense of what is going on in the AO.  Upon his return, I anxiously asked him what it was like out there.

Stephen told me he didn't want to talk about in front of the other soldiers and I didn't press him.  Later that night, he and I spoke inside his room.

"So, what's it like?"
"Man, it's not like we thought."
"How so?"

He described to me the cruel nature of the men he had ridden with that day.  They told him they usually pull over one vehicle a day and search it and told him to choose which to search.  He pointed out a small bongo truck with two men inside and the truck's gunner leapt from his sling and pointed his rifle at the men as the driver of the humvee aggressively drove towards them.

The men pulled over and appeared to be scared to death.  There was no interpreter and no way of being able to communicate effectively.  The men had large amounts of cash on them and the squad interrogated them about how they had come across the money.  Were they terrorists?  Were they trafficking for terrorists?  Through the dialogue, there was no way of knowing . . . until the two men started crawling around on hands and knees "baahing" like sheep.

The men were nothing more than sheep herders and they were terrified.  They were subsequently zip cuffed and blind folded as the squad took turns taking pictures with them.

"So, they weren't terrorists?" I asked, a glint of hope in my voice that they had done something to deserve this.

"Well, all I can say is this: if they weren't terrorists today, I guarantee they'll be terrorists tomorrow." Stephen said with a mixture of humor and sadness.

This really struck a chord with me, especially because I never perceived Stephen to be particularly sympathetic to the Iraqi plight.  If he was this upset by it, then it must have been significant. 

I was already beginning to rethink my position on the war, but I knew that my turn to right hand ride was coming up and I could make judgement on my own then.


We left the base, navigated the long, windy turns of Route Milton, and onto Main Supply Route Tampa; we were headed to Baghdad.  It was the first time I'd be in an Iraqi city, and I was nervous and excited.  As we entered the north gate of Baghdad and into the heart of the city, I was struck by the sheer normalcy of the people.  They were driving to work, walking to the market, socializing on the sidewalks, and drinking tea outside cafes.  Children were walking to school and citizens were cursing rush hour traffic.  In the middle of all this, there we were: pushing cars off the road, pointing guns at people, firing warning shots, blaring our sirens, and generally disrupting the normal nature of their day. 

I always thought my first trip into Baghdad would be greeted with applause, thumbs up, smiles, and cooperative drivers allowing me to go wherever I needed to go to defend their freedom.  On this day, I just felt guilt: guilty that I never once thought they could possibly be normal human beings with the same daily routines of Americans, and guilty that I interrupted it with sirens and intimidation.  I felt like an unwelcome visitor.

I got over the initial shock and continued to do my best to remain sane.  Not  long after that, we were moved to Camp Liberty in Baghdad and our mission changed.  Now, we were to escort military and civilian officials to Iraqi police stations and train and mentor the Iraqi police.  Our work was going to have a direct effect on the security of the country and the success of the war.  I was a little excited and hoped we could actually make a difference. 

One of our first trips to the traffic police headquarters brought me face to face with an Iraqi child collecting cans.  He had a big, dirty bag of soda cans, filthy clothes, and worn out shoes that barely protected his feet.  He was shy and apprehensive, scared and distrustful.  It took the better part of an hour to open up to us but he eventually did just that.

His name was Ali and he was about 13 years old.  Members of my squad made jokes about his shoes and he laughed nervously until they gave him $20 or so to buy new ones.  He couldn't believe it.  We left that day hoping to see him again.

Every time we would arrive at that station, I would look around for Ali.  The next time I saw him, he introduced me to his best friend, Ahmed.  Ali and Ahmed became my saving grace in Iraq.  They were all I looked forward to seeing; they were the people I felt I was truly helping, in my country or theirs. 

My time with those children reinforced my inflated idea of what we were doing there, however, and it only served to set me up for disappointment when I communicated with other Iraqis . . . Ones that weren't benefiting quite so much from our presence. 

The Walk
It was a May day like any other as we pulled into the poorly fortified Traffic Police Headquarters compound. We parked in our usual spots and the squad leader rallied us around him. He had a BOLO (Be on the lookout) list in his hand, and we were to check license plates in the adjacent parking lot against it. He needed about half the squad; I was one of them.
It was about a 100 meter walk between the parking lot and our location in north Baghdad. In our way was small market, but a crowded small market, and we made our way towards it. As we fanned out, I saw all the blustering and posturing my comrades were doing; they looked ridiculous. They were wearing body armor, a helmet, sunglasses, a pistol, and a semi-automatic assault rifle; they didn't need to intimidate anyone with their behavior. As we approached the market, I saw the Iraqis' faces; they looked apprehensive. What was going on? What was going to happen? Why do they look so angry?
"Sergeant Jackson, can I mess with somebody? Please, let me mess with somebody!" one of our junior NCOs asked our squad leader.
The squad leader said that it might not be a good idea to piss anyone off, especially when we were outnumbered and had to come here practically every day for the next nine months, never mind that it was just plain wrong. Wrong was not something that the young sergeant would have responded to however, so I don't fault the man for omitting the most obvious argument against the request.
We continued walking towards the market and I could now make eye contact with the people there: the passers by; the shop keepers; the shoppers; the old men drinking chi under a canopy . . . all of them. They looked frightened. They looked angry. They looked hopeless. I made eye contact; I smiled. "Salaam a'alaikum," I said. Some smiled back and replied "Alaikum a'salaam" in the same nervous manner that I had greeted them; others continued to stare. Activity slowed all around us; we were the center of attention.
"Hey, Sergeant Stephens. That guy's staring at you!" one said with a laugh and a smile.
"I'll kick his ass!" Stephens yelled with an exaggerated arch of his back and raise of his shoulders. Now, everyone was staring and the looks of despair and hopelessness deepened. What could anyone do? What could the man in question do? We were armed to the nines and wrapped in body armor; the staring man was in a tunic and sandals.
. . . and why wouldn't he or anyone else stare? They tolerated us at the police stations and on the roads, but this was their territory. Why were we there? This was out of the ordinary, and they had every right to wonder, every right to stare. They were scared, worried, angry.
As we made our into the market and started splitting up to search the parking lot, two old men sat at a table to my left. They were old; they looked wise. They both stared at me like they would a disappointing adult grandson: saddened; disappointed; resigned to my and their respective fates. They weren't angry; they were just sad. There was a lot of wisdom in the creases that stretched out from their old, tired, brown eyes. They had probably seen more war than I ever will, and they were tired. I gave a nervous smile, an embarrassed smile, and made my way into the parking lot.
As I looked out over the vast parking lot, the sheer lunacy of this mission hit me. Here we were, looking for ten cars in a city of five million people. It was unlikely that we'd find one of them, but it was highly likely that we had just alienated a few more Iraqis. At that moment is when I empathized with the Iraqis still staring at me from the market. I felt hopeless, saddened, disappointed, just a tad angry, and resigned to my fate: I would spend the next eight to nine months performing counter-productive missions like this one. At the end of every day, I would make a few more enemies than I killed or brought to our side. I was embarrassed and humiliated that I ever thought differently; I wanted to tell the people behind me that I was sorry for what my country had done. I was sorry we had interrupted their commerce that day.
Like a good soldier, I drove on. I continued to search; I continued to do my job, just as I would the rest of my tour. In front of me, two men were trying to push start an old rickety van. I had thought of helping them, but I was carrying the M249 SAW machine gun with no sling; there was no way I was going to set it down or ask someone to hold it so I could help. Then I heard SGT Stephens' muffled voice. "We're supposed to be winning hearts and minds, right?" Stephens sighed under his breath. I watched, shocked, as the same man who had just lobbied to "mess with somebody" slung his rifle and helped these men get that van started as I covered him from a safe distance. It was indicative of his seemingly bi-polar personality, I thought as we all met up in the rear of the parking lot.
"Any luck?"
There wasn't any, and we made our back through the parking lot, to the market, through the market, to our humvees in the police station. As I passed through the parking lot that last time, the same old men stared at me once more. Our eyes met again, and I nodded in their direction. They nodded back, and I felt like I was forgiven.
I made it back to my humvee, sweaty and slightly out of breath, and didn't think about those old, tired men again for quite some time.

I went away from that day realizing two things: one, we were not exactly the welcome liberators that we thought we were; and two, that these were still normal people who reacted to compassion and politeness.  I started to look around ask myself "Why?"  Why was I here?  Who were we helping?  I started to read anything and everything I could about foreign policy, theology in politics, democracy, and Islam.  I had not read anything on my own accord since high school, but I was now seeing a reason to educate myself, to look for answers. I decided that the only thing I could do in my year there was to treat the Iraqis as well as I could, continue to make life easier for at least Ali and Ahmed, and, through the Iraqi police we trained, make the streets safer for all of them.  It wasn't long, however, before that idea was shattered as well.

You may remember hearing about vague reports of a Shi'ite death squad being caught in Baghdad, shortly before the sectarian civil war became what it is today.  The day that CNN covered the story, I transported, catalogued, and inventoried the confiscated weapons from that death squad.  They were members of the Iraqi Highway Patrol, under the command of the station that we trained.  The next day, we returned the weapons to the station and signed them back over to the IHPs.  I felt stupid giving the weapons back to the people who were using them for the wrong reasons, like we were played like fools, but it we had no choice. 

I was no longer comforted by the positive nature of our mission; I felt like all I was doing was training the best death squads in Iraq.  It all left a bad taste in my mouth; guilt set in, even though I knew I had very little choice in the matter. 

August 24th, 2006 was a routine day for my squad in Baghdad. We had gone to Traffic Headquarters and I had gotten to visit with Ali. Business taken care of, we started to make the familiar trek back to Camp Liberty. It was a hot day, over 120 degrees, and I stood up just a little higher than usual with my sleeves unbuttoned to let the air circulate inside my body armor and clothing. It had been a good day.
Back on Route Irish, we were on the home stretch when the call came out over the radio:
"Eagle Dustoff, Eagle Dustoff, this is Red Knight 7* over"
"This is Eagle Dustoff, over"
"Eagle Dustoff, I need MEDEVAC; my gunner has been shot by a sniper."
The voice went on to recite the nine line MEDEVAC report and I marveled at how cool, calm, and collected he sounded. My squad leader plotted the grid coordinates and found that this had occurred only a couple blocks away from one of our two main destinations on Market Road.
"Cliburn, go ahead and get down; someone might be aiming at your melon right now", CPT Ray said. Sergeant Bruesch concurred and I sat down, listening intently to the radio transmissions that I couldn't turn off even if I wanted to.
Five minutes in, the voice on the radio was losing his cool.
"Have they left yet?! He's losing a lot of blood; we need that chopper now!"
In the background, you could hear other soldiers yelling, screaming, trying to find any way to save their friend's life. At one point, I swear I heard the man gurgle.
Ten minutes in, the voice on the radio was furious.
"Where's that fucking chopper!? We're losing him! He's not fucking breathing! Where the fuck are you!?"
Every minute to minute and a half the voice was back on the radio demanding to know what the hold up was. Every minute to minute and a half the other voice on the radio, a young woman's voice, tried to reassure him that the chopper was on the way from Taji. She was beginning to tire herself; I could hear it in her voice. She was just as frustrated as he was.
All the while, there I sat: sitting in the gunners hatch, listening to life's little horrors with no way to turn the channel. No one in the truck was speaking. The music was on, but no one heard it. There was just an eerie silence. All I heard was the radio transmissions; I watched as the landscape passed me by in slow motion. I didn't hear wind noise or car horns or gunfire or my own thoughts. I was only accompanied by the silence of the world passing me by, interrupted only by the screams of the voice on the radio.
At this point, I was as frustrated as I had been all year. Where the fuck was that goddamn chopper and why was it taking so long?! What if it were me? Would I be waiting that long? Would this pathetic exchange be included in the newscast if the guy dies?
I was angry, upset, frustrated, and anticipating the next transmission in this macabre play by play account. Forget about TNT, HBO, and Law and Order: THIS was drama. This was heart wrenching. Seconds seemed like hours; minutes seemed like days.
Finally, after several more non-productive transmissions where Eagle Dustoff attempted to reassure the voice, after twenty minutes and a few more frantic, screaming transmissions by the voice, the man's voice was calm again.
"Eagle Dustoff, cancel the chopper. He's dead."
. . . and that was that. The voice had gone from being the model for the consummate soldier (cool, calm, collected, professional) to more human screams and frantic pleading for help and, finally, to solemn resignation. Now, the voice was quiet.
"Eagle Dustoff: requesting recovery team. We can't drive this vehicle back; we need someone to come get the vehicle and body. Over."
"Do you have casualty's information?"
"Yes. SGT King, over."
I sat in that gunners sling in a fit of rage that I couldn't let out. I had to be a soldier; I had to keep my cool. We all did. I was so angry, I still am, about being an unwilling voyeur, forced to listen to the gruesome play by play of another soldier's life and death.
We had been told that the insurgency was in its last throes, that they were just a bunch of dead enders. No, not this day. Today, SGT King was the one in his last throes, and I was there to listen to the whole damn thing, whether I liked it or not.

A soldier's death isn't anything like the movies. There was no patriotic music; there was no feeling of purpose. It's just . . . death. I wasn't there physically; I didn't see him, but I was there.
Any sane person would have wanted to turn the channel. No one wants to hear the screams of a man losing his friend, but I couldn't turn it off. We were required to monitor that channel. Either way, it didn't take long to become emotionally invested in it; was he going to make it? I needed to know, damnit. I hung on every word until I got the final, sobering news.
My truck was the only one in the convoy monitoring that net. When we got back to base, no else had heard it, and SSG Bruesch, CPT Ray, and I didn't discuss it. I don't think we ever did.
A few days later, I felt like I had to find out more about this soldier. I felt like I had lost a friend, yet I didn't know anything but his name and rank. Looking back on it, I should have just let it go, but I didn't. Using the miracle of the Internet, I found out all I needed to know about the young man, and to this day I don't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
SGT Jeremy E. King was 23 years old. He was from Idaho, where he played high school football. He had joined the army to get out of Idaho and see the world. He was one year younger than I was, and he was dead. He sounded like any of a number of teammates I played high school football with. What irked me the most was how sanitized the news account of his death was:
A Fort Hood soldier from Idaho has died in Iraq of injuries sustained when troops came under fire during combat, the Department of Defense said Friday.
That's it? That sounds almost peaceful, maybe even heroic. I can attest that the whole thing was anything but peaceful, anything but heroic. Who am I though?  Shortly after investigating who SGT King was, I locked the memory away in my head and didn't think of it again for quite some time.

Later in the year, I had confided in my aunt that I was really getting nervous.  I told her how the violence level in Baghdad had been steadily rising and the sniper activity was higher than it had been all year.  Bodies were being found every day tortured and dumped out in the open.  I couldn't tell my immediate family this, but I had to vent my fear and frustration to someone and she was strong enough and kind enough to listen. 

So, I was surprised when she sent me a message asking what I thought of a report on CNN that said murders in Baghdad were down 50% in the past month.  I was shocked and initially didn't know what to think.   I wondered how I could feel so out of the loop when I worked there and had not seen any of this progress. It was a very unsettling feeling, and I thought about it to myself for over a week wondering if perhaps I was wrong, but the reality of the intel briefings and the gun shots and explosions I heard outside the wire told me otherwise.  After a week of wondering what was going on, I logged onto CNN.com and saw an Associated Press article stating that the Department of Defense had retracted its report.  In their original estimation of the murder rate, they had counted any and all violent killings; however, in their second one, they had classified some violent deaths in other categories and therefore could trumpet the success of the decreasing rate.  In other words, they tried to pull a fast one on the US and someone caught them.

Again, I felt betrayed.

No matter how guilty or betrayed or angry or frustrated I felt, though, I always felt better after seeing Ali and Ahmed.  Later that month, I arrived at Traffic Headquarters and immediately saw Ali running to my door.  I opened the door and bellowed "Ali!", but he didn't yell back.  He didn't smile.  He was repeating "Ahmed, Ahmed" over and over again as he made signals with his hands and booming sounds with his mouth.  Through an interpreter I learned the sobering news: Ahmed had been in an explosion.  He and his mother were at the local fuel station when a suicide bomber approached them.  His mother was killed instantly, but Ahmed, who was carrying the can of fuel, was set ablaze and lay somewhere in a Baghdad hospital, burned head to toe. 

Hospitals in Iraq will not treat someone until they have payment, and Ahmed was poor.  Ali explained that Ahmed's father was out begging for money to get his son treated, but he didn't have enough.  My squad put together what little cash we had, about $40, and gave it to Ali for Ahmed's care.

It was several days before I again got to see Ali at Traffic Headquarters and I spent the days and nights wondering about my friend.  I dreamed that I had adopted him and Ali; I dreamed that he was okay.  The next time I got to see Ali, however, I looked in his eyes and I knew: Ahmed was dead.  Ali quickly left that day to go be with Ahmed's father and I sat inside the humvee with my squad leader as we silently cried.

I had always promised to give those boys a picture album of us together, but I never got around to it.  I asked my mom back home if she would put one together for Ali and she came through in less than a week.  When I gave the album to Ali, he opened it up, saw a big, smiling picture of Ahmed, and fell to his knees and wept.

I felt so angry and helpless and started thinking about what had really killed Ahmed.  Was it the suicide bomber or was it the US letting the genie out of the bottle in a place that they have little knowledge of?  I felt guilt as an American and could not wait to go home and get away from all this.  I had come here to help people and instead I had only helped death squads operate more efficiently, angered motorists on a daily basis, been betrayed by my leadership, and lost the son I had never had.

If I had not gone home at the time I did, I just may have gone crazy.

 

I arrived home December  1^st, 2006.  After four months of heavy drinking and debates that never went anywhere, I stumbled upon the IVAW website and joined the cause.  After all that I have shared with you, it is easy to understand why I joined an organization of Iraq war veterans that calls for three things:

• Immediate withdrawal of all occupying forces in Iraq;
• Reparations for the human and structural damages Iraq has suffered, and stopping the corporate pillaging of Iraq so that their people can control their own lives and future; and
• Full benefits, adequate healthcare (including mental health), and other supports for returning servicemen and women.

So, I stand in front of you today as the South Central Regional Coordinator and Lawton-Fort Sill chapter president of Iraq Veterans Against the War to tell you about Winter Soldier: Iraq and Afghanistan.

Winter Soldier is taking place March 13-16 at the National Labor College in Silver Spring, Maryland.  Already, we have over 200 Iraq veterans registered to attend, as well as Iraqi and Afghan civilians.  Contrary to popular belief, Winter Soldier is not about war crimes and shock value.  Each veteran and victim will tell a story that, when pieced together, paint a larger picture of the reality of occupation.  In order to make this event as historic as it can be, however, we need your help.

There is a way to help for everyone.  For starters, IVAW would appreciate it if everyone here will sign the statement of support listed on the IVAW website.  There are still veterans who are trying to raise money to attend the hearings and donations of any size are a tremendous help.  Donors can conveniently donate online or they can fill out a "Support a Veteran" form, which I have with me today.  Of course, all donations are tax-deductible.  In order to make Winter Soldier something people look back on and remember, we need as many people to view the hearings as possible.  This is possible if our allies host Winter Soldier House Parties.  The hearings will be broadcast on Dish Network's Free Speech TV and streamed live online.  The IVAW website has ways for you to organize and publicize your viewing party.  We need our elected officials to pay attention to Winter Soldier and, as such, we are relying on you to write your Congressional delegation to pay attention to the troops that they say they support.  We need letters to the editor and a cry for local media to cover the event.  All of this is easy and we appreciate everything our allies do for us. 

            Something that has defined my life since I joined IVAW in April of 2007 has been Gandhi's famous quote: "Be the change you want to see in the world." Without you, without me, without hope, there will never be the change in foreign policy that we want so badly.  Thank you for your time and thank you for your support.