Chapter 29- Half A World Away

Afghanistan flag, American flag, United States Marine Corps flag

Please read the beginning of this story as shown within the “Afghanistan Story” tab above.

Afghanistan, June 2010, AUP Station in the Town of Delaram

My heart changed after I saw those men and the torture they had experienced in the name of…War? Oil? Family? Religion? Unbridled hate? Mental illness? It made no sense to me.

When I joined the Marine Corps, everyone in my hometown was stunned. I grew up as a peace-loving hippie. I wore flowy skirts and a bell anklet that jingled when I stepped. I sang in the church choir, played the flute (and oboe and piccolo) in the marching band, was in Latin Club, and attempted to play soccer. I listened to music and read my heart out. To the typical outsider, I was just a normal Georgian country girl.

However, to people who truly knew me, I was severely…unhappy. My family wasn’t fantastic. I grew up with alcoholic parents and a father who was an emotional abuser who wasn’t afraid to hit me. I attempted suicide when I was 16 and ended up in the ICU for a few days before being sent to a mental hospital for the mandated 72 hours. My church had rescinded their offer for me to be the youth elder, and people would avoid me in the hallways at school. A year of therapy later, my boyfriend would be murdered after a fight we had and I would only be able to remember the last thing I said to him; “I hate you.” I had to leave my hometown.

Everyone said I couldn’t be a Marine, that I wasn’t strong enough, or hard enough. I forged my mother’s signature when I was 17 and graduated high school early. While everyone in my class walked across the stage and got their high school diploma, I was leading Marines in communications school. And I was great. I was proving everyone wrong.

In Afghanistan, less than two years after my high school graduation, I was seeing the ruins of men who had probably never driven a five-speed recklessly through the country-side, who had never gone streaking on their high school football field, who had never picked honeysuckle from the vine and sucked its sweet juices from the flower.  I didn’t know what it was like to grow up in a land of sand and sweat. I knew nothing of them but what the insides of their elbows looked like. But I know they felt the same fear that I did. I know they felt pain. And I know that my disgust with the human race, to include myself, would only grow.

I’m not sure what happened when I walked back inside the compound. I probably wandered back to the cot that held my pack and unhooked my flak. I’m sure I grabbed water and maybe some food since I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Maybe I talked to Virkler about the men. I don’t know. I was so inside my own head, seeing the men’s screaming eyes and broken bodies, so that I was just going through the motions. I was trying to contemplate the circumstances of death and…why. This was no longer training. It was no longer something I heard about as tales from seasoned Marines. The war was real now.

I wanted to throw up. I wanted to run. I wanted to be held. I wanted to cry and hold their broken bodies.

And I wanted to kill. I wanted to use my thumbs and poke into the eye sockets of the men who murdered the innocent civilians. I wanted to see their eyes ripped out of their sockets while they screamed and know that I did it and that they felt pain for what they did. An eye for an eye makes the world blind? I didn’t fucking care. I was reduced to same as primal hate that caused those murderers to kill.

When Sgt. P said we were going to conduct a night patrol within an hour, I was ready.

Continue Reading In Chapter 30…

4 thoughts on “Chapter 29- Half A World Away

  1. Your best so far.

    I can understand your feelings.

    Imagine what the American GIs felt when in 1945 they liberated Buchenwald and Dachau extermination camps. Thousands of skin and bone corpses that the Nazis did not have the time to cremate. Hundreds barely alive from diseases and malnutrition. Hundreds of thousands killed…if not millions…

    As the great writer Elie Wiesel said, himself a camp survivor, G’od did not die in Auschwitz. The Christian culture did.

    Those same people rebuilt their lives, fought for their lives and helped create a fantastic country… but I can tell you… visiting Yad Vashem – the Holocaust Museum in the Jerusalem hills is not an easy endeavor …

    It is hard as it would be to the families of those killed and tortured that you described except in a much greater magnitude.

    And is exactly as you described so well….Why? What for? …

    It is hard to grasp the enormity of it… in my case… Just for being of a different religion? I grew up (as probably all of my generation) without a decent answer and with the constant fear of repetition… like in 67 and 73.

    Anger is probably the strongest feeling that kept me going on difficult days…

    What the paratroopers vow in their graduation in Masada till this day: Never Again!

    Sorry… I know not all but maybe a little bit what you felt and needed to share.

    All the best.

    ________________________________
    De: Bamboo and Bananas
    Enviado: sábado, 1 de julho de 2017 03:10
    Para: musattiroberto@hotmail.com
    Assunto: [New post] Chapter 24- Half A World Away

    bambooandbananas posted: “Please read the beginning of this story as shown within the “Afghanistan Story” tab above. Afghanistan, June 2010, AUP Station in the Town of Delaram My heart changed after I saw those men and the torture they had experienced in the name of…War? Oil? “

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