By LTC Melanie Meier
Recently I met a young specialist assigned to a Civil Affairs unit from California. His unit spends its days with the Iraqi people, conducting Civil Military Operations, such as his latest mission to deliver and set up water purification units throughout the Province. As inspector general at Camp Adder, I do not get many opportunities to leave the security of the "wire" to visit places like Amarah, which is a few kilometers east of here situated between Camp Adder and the border with Iran. However, I do meet young soldiers who spend their days outside the "wire" like the specialist from California.
So, I asked him what he was thinking as he traveled out and lived among the Iraqis.
"Scenes like this remind me of home, but in an unconventional way," he explained. "On more than one occasion, for reasons I acknowledge fully and embrace with good humor, I have been mistaken for a local national. So much so that in the middle of one particular mission, an Iraqi pointed out that if I were to wear a dishdasha (a man dress) and a yashmagh and agal (Arabic head dress) I could pass for an Iraqi."
While talking not long ago with a diverse group of men and women, he was asked his opinion about Iraq. After expressing "my hope and goodwill for Iraq and its people, I was then asked by the group, via the interpreter, which part of the Middle East I was from."
Amarah is the capitol of the Maysan Province in Iraq. In 2003, the city made a final stand as a center of resistance to Saddam Hussein. Once liberated by the British, the local residents hired diggers to unearth bodies in a mass grave Saddam's regime left twelve years before.
"For me, Iraq and the Maysan Province have a sweet and innocent sense of home. It is on many of these foreign dirt roads that I find the pieces and faces of home. Amongst the crowds of happy children, who are grateful to receive pens, paper, backpacks, and blankets I tend to see, for a split moment, the face of my young niece smiling and full of joy, like when I would hug her and she would hold me ever so tight in the warm embrace of her smiles. Then she is gone, only to reappear again in the arms of a woman veiled in black, or perhaps peaking through a slightly open iron gate, rusted and faded from green to lime, waving and cheering as we pass by. It's a beautiful thing to be able to find traces of home, love, and faith when distance and longing for a loved one grips your heart."
I am thankful that this specialist shared his thoughts and feelings with me. I feel lucky to be able to meet and serve the fine young men and women who have volunteered to join our military and come to Iraq for a mission so much bigger than themselves, and yet so very personal. Like the specialist's description of the colors that surround him.
"The ancient rhythmic colors of Arabic gold and blue, and how red and green define an essence of life that paints the walls, homes, and people of Amarah. When driving along unimproved streets and roads the town reminds me of neglected fifteen century frescos from another time, another place."
Aug 28, 2009
Aug 16, 2009
A dignified transfer
By LTC Melanie Meier
With no warning, all communication between Combined Operating Base Adder and the outside world was blocked. So after a day without the Internet or emails and no phone calls outside of the COB, I was eager to log on once the system returned. As I clicked onto my emails, the first one caught me off guard. It was from Mortuary Affairs and a "Dignified Transfer" for soldiers killed in action would occur at the installation's Ali Base Airfield, Tallil. The COB had lost someone this day and this was an opportunity to pay respect to our fallen comrade.
The ceremony would take place that evening at 9 p.m. I on the arrived on the airfield to find a single C-130 with the rear ramp down. Soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines made a human corridor in rows facing inward and leading to the ramp. As I noticed the color guard in the rear, it dawned on me that you could hear a pin drop. Everyone stood at attention and silence hung over the airfield. Then an unmarked, white truck arrived at the edge of the airfield and stopped.
In step, seven soldiers approached the truck. Two airmen opened the back and someone called the entire airfield to "present arms." As all the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines saluted, the group of seven picked up the flag-draped coffin, silently marched through the corridor and onto the C-130. As they secured the coffin tightly in place, I noticed it was the Chaplain, who stood ever present and close by.
Once our comrade was secure for his flight out of Iraq, the pall bearers and Chaplain retreated as the command to "order arms" rang over the airfield. As one, the human corridor turned away from the C-130 and marched off the airfield followed by the color guard. Although I did not know the soldier's name, the dignity of his farewell touched my heart and I will always remember him.
I was also reminded that it is still dangerous over here. Now that U.S. forces have exited the Iraqi cities, attacks may increase in some areas on military and civilians. My next door CHU (containerized housing unit) neighbor, who works with the Iraqi Army every day, tells me to consider such attacks normal. It is the insurgents' way of claiming they are chasing us out.
With no warning, all communication between Combined Operating Base Adder and the outside world was blocked. So after a day without the Internet or emails and no phone calls outside of the COB, I was eager to log on once the system returned. As I clicked onto my emails, the first one caught me off guard. It was from Mortuary Affairs and a "Dignified Transfer" for soldiers killed in action would occur at the installation's Ali Base Airfield, Tallil. The COB had lost someone this day and this was an opportunity to pay respect to our fallen comrade.
The ceremony would take place that evening at 9 p.m. I on the arrived on the airfield to find a single C-130 with the rear ramp down. Soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines made a human corridor in rows facing inward and leading to the ramp. As I noticed the color guard in the rear, it dawned on me that you could hear a pin drop. Everyone stood at attention and silence hung over the airfield. Then an unmarked, white truck arrived at the edge of the airfield and stopped.
In step, seven soldiers approached the truck. Two airmen opened the back and someone called the entire airfield to "present arms." As all the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines saluted, the group of seven picked up the flag-draped coffin, silently marched through the corridor and onto the C-130. As they secured the coffin tightly in place, I noticed it was the Chaplain, who stood ever present and close by.
Once our comrade was secure for his flight out of Iraq, the pall bearers and Chaplain retreated as the command to "order arms" rang over the airfield. As one, the human corridor turned away from the C-130 and marched off the airfield followed by the color guard. Although I did not know the soldier's name, the dignity of his farewell touched my heart and I will always remember him.
I was also reminded that it is still dangerous over here. Now that U.S. forces have exited the Iraqi cities, attacks may increase in some areas on military and civilians. My next door CHU (containerized housing unit) neighbor, who works with the Iraqi Army every day, tells me to consider such attacks normal. It is the insurgents' way of claiming they are chasing us out.
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