Thunder in the City of Sunnis

It was early spring. The cooler weather was transitioning, and with it, came an unusual system, bringing rain and violent, vicious thunderstorms unlike anything I'd ever seen. About forty of us were hunkered down at a forward outpost. "The Train Station." An old rail depot at the northernmost part of the city. Before the urban sprawl turned to farmland. It was what I had imagined the desert to be like. A wasteland, littered with small homesteads of goat farmers and sheep herders. My ancestors would've gotten along well with these people.

We were exposed. Our sleeping quarters consisted of rows of cots hastily put together under a metal outcropping. We were encompassed by Hesco barriers and the bullet riddled walls of the depot. The barriers blocked the rain from soaking us, but beyond them, we could see that the sky was cracked wide open.

It reminded me of when I was about five years old, when Hurricane Bob landed directly on Rhode Island. The radio and news stations warned us of something fierce. Deadly, even. The anxiety in my home was transferred into productivity from the adults. My dad spent hours boarding up windows. My mother gathered candles and ensured all the flashlights had fresh batteries. I sat in the living room, my favorite spot, waiting for the storm to bear down on us. The huge picture window, one of my favorite viewing ports into the backyard, was blocked by an extra-large piece of plywood. When Bob made landfall, this view to the outside world was obscured. Wind and rain battered the house. I could only imagine how the trees bowed and bent, how shingles flew off the roof and across the lawn. The power was lost, but we were safe.

But in Iraq, there was no plywood on the picture window. I slept through the early part of the storm, dreaming about a call to prayer sucking me into the basement of a mosque. Do mosques even have basements? Or would I be disappointed to learn that they do not, like the Alamo.

A Marine refits at the train station.

"Go to Hell. Go to Hell. Burn in Hell. Burn in Hell." The Arabic voice in my dream was translated. It was a punishment. The mosque's basement was filled with magma, columns of flames, and scorched bodies.

The full force of that storm finally woke me up. It was the beginning of the deployment, and I was scared. As the night sky exploded, bight flashes of blue illuminated the world around us. Only brief images of the waking world, then a sudden return to night. A strobe effect occurred, and it was overwhelmingly intense, like staring into the lighting rig at my first concert - Roger Waters. The rolling thunder was overwhelming. It shook the entire planet. I looked around and noticed everyone staring at the spectacle. Conversations were futile, as they would be drowned out by the bursts of thunder. As reality sank in, an epiphany dropped into my lap:

In 2018, the train station resumed normal service, with its first trip to Baghdad in years.

I am in the storm. I came here on my own free will. This time and place are violent. It may take me. My limbs. My values. My life.  But it will pass.

It turned out to be the perfect analogy for our deployment. Intense. Vehement. But, moving. Passing. If we stood still and stared, we'd lose focus on the mission: survival. Don't get distracted. By the explosions. The flashes. The rumbling Earth. By the lives that appear and disappear with the strobe effect.

It will pass.

And on the other side, I can breathe again. Like before, in the living room, during Hurricane Bob. Feeling safe among the storms. Feeling welcome in the face of insanity, brutality, and immorality.

We watched the storm park itself on top of us. The thunder was practically continuous. Like a mass of trains arriving at the train depot. Like rolling machine gun fire and artillery strikes.

This post was created during a writing workshop with Miguel Rivera. Sponsored by Returning Soldiers Speak.