I walked through the terminal and passed McDonalds, and I saw the President of the United States appear before my eyes; I walked passed gate 32 and I saw Capitol Hill; I walked by Krispy Kreme, in the early morning at the dark terminal and I saw American soldiers in Iraq: I saw them in combat sacrificing their lives for a cause they believed in, which is something I admire. I walked to my gate, set my bags down, and I saw an American soldier in uniform returning from Iraq. He was tall, had army-issued glasses, complete with a buzz cut and combat boots. He walked passed the McDonalds, passed gate 32, and past Krispy Kreme and I realized he was not an illusion that he was walking in my footsteps towards our gate. The juxtaposition was striking, impressive, and intense; this American hero (to many including myself) was side by side with the icon of American pop culture.

     I wondered what was going through his head. Was he relieved to be out of combat and back in the US? Was he forever wounded by the invisible death of the war, not the actual death that eats away at the body but the invisible one that consumes the soul? Was he crying inside because his Sergeant, who left with him, was not returning beside him once more but in a box in the cockpit of another plane? He came two steps to my shoes; he looked into my eyes and gave me a nodding salute. The airport was covered in an autumn glow because the sunrise was coming in.

     The soldier came with the sun; beaming in from the window leaving a golden illumination with columns of satisfaction that generated a plethora of peace. It brought calm to the chaotic and busy airport. He sat next to me and we both stared at the ceiling, acknowledging our realities. I felt that we coexisted but on parallel planes; a parallel existence myself having seen a little life and him having seen a lot of death. A million questions that I have conjured up about the war came once more to my head.

     Although I am never timid and usually am less reserved than others, with the soldier I thought twice about bursting into his life with a big hello, and blazing out with an undesired interrogation. I thought about how he must feel towards President Bush, and how the experience must have traumatized him and changed him forever, how he probably has patriots for companions and martyrs for friends.

     I looked at him with a warm smile, deeply wishing he would be open to the obvious conversation of his experience at war, yet being careful not to overstep my boundaries. I greeted him the way I love to greet fascinating strangers. I look at him trying to make eye contact and get his attention, “Hi, I’m from Panama,” I said, and he responded brightly, “oh hello,” he said, his serious war face growing into a big smile.

     “I was wondering if I could ask you some questions,” I told him; I’m sure he’d get them or have gotten them a lot already, and some people are sensitive about the war.

     G.I.: Sure…no problem

     DH: So how was the whole experience?”

     GI: Well its war, but the media makes it out to be worst than it actually is.”

     DH: Really? [surprised] so what is it actually like?

     GI: It’s like we are playing a game, we receive orders to hit one place, then another, we don’t know why, but the enemy keeps running.

     DH: Are there any risks?

     GI: In all wars there are risks and possibilities, but probabilities depend, most soldiers don’t see that kind of action but the one’s that do, well, we’re soldiers.

     DH: So how do you feel about the new elections?

     GI: My mind is made up, and I like the way things are going

     DH: You mean that you would vote for President Bush to be re-elected

     GI: Yes, he started something and he has to finish it. Though some of the Iraqis do not like being helped or dominated, depending on your point of view, by a western power, whichever country it might be, and there are other terrorist groups that are trying to take over after Saddam, there are many Iraqis that support our efforts and are grateful for the service we have provided them with.

     DH: That’s not the impression many members of the international community have.

     GI: The media is a tricky tool; several times, we had to change location because they compromised our position.

     DH: Do you think some of the casualties have been caused by the media?

     GI: I do not have that information.

     DH: What information can you give me?

     GI: No one likes to go to war, I’m glad I have a chance to see my family and go back home, but after my leave, I’m going back, and I am prepared.

     I stood there shocked at his answer, for sure, I expected him to be holding back tears and repeating memories in his head of his companions and coworkers in combat. For sure, he was going to stare at me with a blank face, the result of the saturated emotions and trauma he had to deal with in combat. For sure, he was going to curse the war and its instigators and tell me or hint to stories of the innocents that were sacrificed to complete the missions. Yet his bright smile, wide-open eyes, and joyful disposition showed me that he was proud, he was strong, he was all right; he was a soldier. I take his picture, shake his hand, and am off to speak with the airline attendant at the desk. She informs me that this whole time, I have been sitting at the wrong gate. I spin around, wave to the soldier and dash across Atlanta airport, my destination: Gate 67.

     I am on an obstacle course in basic training, I run through the crowd, evading all of the plastic people that pop-up by surprise. I am dodging the bullets, escaping the strands of hairs, arms and luggage. Suddenly I am the soldier, racing to the top of the hill to complete the mission. My snazzy shoes become combat boots and my carry-on becomes a rifle. Suddenly a flood of soldiers in identical uniforms rush past me, and I stop and pause, I look at their faces, I look at their clothes, I look at their energy, and it all seems in tact. Few of them have scrounged eyebrows and lowered eyelids, few of them sulk and drag themselves each step. I reach my gate as I get into the line, to board the plane I meet my second soldier. Even the second soldier I met held his chest with pride and said it was… “an experience.”

     [excerpt]

     DH: I thought war was horrible thing

     GI: War is a fight for what you believe is right, that is why I am a soldier, that is why we all are soldiers. We did our duty, and now we are returning… for a while.

     DH: Would you go back

     GI: Yes, I am actually, after my leave is over.

     DH: How did they treat you over there

     GI: Pretty good.

     Flight Attendant: Boarding Section E

     DH: Well that’s me, I’m glad you came back safe soldiers. Happy Trails [a phrase I hadn’t used for years, but seemed so appropriate.]

     As I boarded my plane and passed mixed faces of many Americans, native and non, I realized that these could also be the faces of the Iraqis that want freedom, that want liberty, that want democracy and these soldiers carried it with them in their uniforms, in their guns, in their spirit. For them this was not war, it was reality, fighting for a cause, and soon they were to reap the tainted spoils of war. Without passion and struggle there is no progress, my eyes now opened saw war; a thorned rose (rose with thorns). Mission accomplished.

This article is a description of an actual conversation that occurred in July of this past summer 2004.


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