The phone call
last week from a 20-year old marine in Kuwait, was terse, spartan
and nonchalanty spoken:
" Our one-mile convoy to resupply the troops dug deep into Iraqi
territory. I was with my troops in the last humvee of the convoy.
I was sitting beside a young marine like me. He was holding a grenade
launcher. The humvee struck a bump on the road and in a few seconds,
a grenade exploded a near distance from our vehicle. All I could say
was: "Hey dude, that thing went off." Lucky us because the
marine was holding his weapon slightly tilted at an angle."
Another phone call April 15, 2003:
"The jet planes are still up on the skies…Rumor has it that
the war is winding down. Please don't worry about the humvee incident.
Seems to me this war is brutal. I have seen faces of civilians on
the road to Iraq. Have you ever aimed your rifle at children and old
men? I'll tell you what I feel about the war when I am home. 'Got
some video and some pics."
April 17, 2003:
"Thanks for your latest letters and packages. Please do not send
baby wipes anymore. We now could shower almost regularly at our base.
During mail time I see some of my buddies sitting down on their tent
cots without mail. I gave them some of the dried mangoes you sent.
It was a hit. They loved it. Please encourage some of my relatives
and your friends to send letters and packages - perhaps dried mangoes
- addressed to my unit. I'll see to it that my buddies get them."
+++++++++
It's spring these days - the weather unusually univiting. Lucky the
magnolia tree in our frontyard riots in blooms of pink. But it isn't
robust - almost wilting as the cold breeze lulls its branches with
a wayward bird perched on a twig - perhaps saving her songs when there
might be blue skies and sunshine. It could be anytime tomorrow or
the day after. Spring nowadays seems to creep unexpectedly like the
call of a lost love.
The expat broods about war and peace. The images of war etched in
his tired mind - images that could be far different from that of a
20-year old marine.
The days of peace marches; long hair and the "groovey" kind
of thing of making love and not war; the human chain in front of the
White House; the riots; the flawed foreign policy; the misery and
despair and the prayers for peace.
Yes, the expat knows his history. He has read the wisdom of the philosophers
and the poets and the short story writers and the journalists and
the pundits and the voices of men in the streets and the laughter
of their children.
The expats looks forward when the 20-year old marine comes marching
home. We will reread and savor the sermon on the mount.
