They say when it rains it Iraq, it rains mud. I can see where people come to that assumption. The sky over southern Iraq defers from the partly cloudy, white cloud covered sky in the states. When I look at the Iraqi horizon, whether in mid-afternoon or near dusk, a thin layer of dust and dirt cloud my view. It’s as if there is a thin blanket of brown smog where the lower part of the sky should be. And the average house wife would be quite amused to find that instead of a thin layer of grey, clumpy dust settling over furniture and possessions in a matter of days, the dust here is a fine brown.
Settling into a routine here in Iraq is the first battle to conquer when one arrives here. However, one struggles with realizing that this base is not little America, though it seems that way at times with all the soldiers and airmen walking around. Sometimes I have to force myself to remember I’m in Iraq; that I’m in an Arab, Middle East country. For example, the other day I was walking to our base entertainment center when I saw a medium size truck drive to some nearby tents. It looked like a miniature dump truck. Then I saw a group of Arab men get out of the back of the truck and start to pile sandbags unto the sides of a tent. There was no doubt in my mind that these men were hired Iraqi nationals and were clearly supervised by U.S. troops. However, I couldn’t help but stare at the 6 or 7 men who got out of the truck wearing turbans on their heads. I forced myself to look away toward my destination and did not look elsewhere until I got to the entertainment center. In that moment I asked myself “Why should I stare? I’m in their country, not mine.”
Sometimes it’s difficult for one to adapt to change, especially when you find yourself thousands of miles from home in a foreign, Middle Eastern country. Unfortunately, I’m one of those people.