The following journal entry comes from a young soldier deployed in the Persian Gulf. He has shared it, anonymously, so that others will know something of what young men and women in the military are facing.

Kabron was the Village. It rested on the side of the river. The houses were made of brick, and a family lived in one house. A family could consist of 20-30 people. The houses were no bigger than our houses. Each house, or group of houses, flew a different color flag to represent the family. In the middle of the Village was a hole, and in that hole the town’s trash was thrown. It was a filthy place that smelled like feces. As we woke up the people woke up. They let the cows and dogs out of their small courtyards. The chickens began picking through the trash for food. A band of Bedouin sheepherders walked their flock through the main street of the town. A man on a camel lead the herd, and dogs marched dutifully beside the herd.

The people were timid with us. They stood inside their doorways watching us. A man came out of his house, and as soon as he saw us he turned around and went back in. There was a small girl around eight. She was watching with curiosity as we ate breakfast, and cleaned our weapons. I had a packet of charms in my pocket. I slowly approached her. She began to back off into her house. I stopped and held the candy out in my hand. Her eyes lighted up as she reached for it, and her smile was beautiful. She placed the candy in her mouth and disappeared into the house.

The little girls in Iraq were special. The boys would grow annoying as they pestered you for candy, and money. They would crowd around you and say, “Mister, Mister. Money. Give me.” It would make us so angry that sometimes we would have to push them away. They would come in large crowds. If you gave one person something you had to give them all something. It was a mob. The girls, however, while there were a few that would follow us, most would just watch with a smile on their face. They learned at a young age to express everything with their eyes and facial expressions. They had to because their beauty would be shrouded at a young age. They had character, and personality where as the boys were all the same. However, in Kabron they were new to us, and we were new to them.

An old man came out and approached us. He spoke broken English. “Is it ok for them to come out?” he asked. Our Lieutenant spoke to him and instructed the man to tell them to go about their daily lives. The man walked up and down the street calling out to the people, and like the munchkins after the wicked witch from the east was crushed by Dorothy’s house, they came out. The man came to us with his list of complaints. No water, no electricity, they can’t go to their jobs, the people were sick. The Lieutenant called me up to the road. As I came up I could hear babies crying. Men were shouting, “Doctor, doctor!” They held their kids out to me. A baby with dysentery and his belly swelled up, crying from hunger. A man with a tapeworm that wound all the way around his leg, and an infected ingrown toenail that colored his toe yellow and black; men with perennial abscesses; all things that I couldn’t treat. I told the man I was only a medic with battle dressings. He pushed me and pushed, but I couldn’t help them. I think it was then that I began to realize that I am wearing the wrong uniform. I took it hard, and hated the fact that I couldn’t help them. I was upset with the Lieutenant. He apologized.

The day went on. We sat in our positions looking down the road. The people were becoming braver and braver. They would move in closer and watch us with curiosity. Finally, a group of boys, walking arm in arm, sat down with us. The men were very affectionate with each other. They would hold hands, walk arm in arm, hang on each other, and lay in each other’s laps. When they talked to each other they would get very close and in your face. That was one thing we could never get used to.

“Michael Jackson?” One kid asked. I laughed.

“Van Dam?” “Jackie Chan?” I asked in return. He smiled and nodded. “Whoooaaa!” I screamed, doing my best impression.

He began to laugh. Before long they were bringing us tea and bread. A crowd gathered around us. We were entertaining the people.

“Ali Baba,” one kid said, pointing to his friend. I was confused. He said it again. Then it struck me. Thief. They would point the Ali Babas out to us constantly. Ali Baba was pointing at my medical bag asking me what was in it. I pulled some dressings out. Of course they were in the sterile bag and didn’t look too interesting. I unwrapped one to show him what it was. They couldn’t grasp it. I took his arm and began putting it on.

“Say, ‘Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh!’” I said to him. He looked confused. I made a sign of carrying a gun and shooting him then said “Aaaaaaaahhh!”

The boy began to cry out in imaginary pain as I over acted applying a dressing. The people began laughing and coming out of their shells. I put the bandage on his head and colored a black circle on it. I did my Jackie Chan impression. He looked like the Karate Kid, as he did it back.

We showed them pictures of loved ones. They did not see pictures that much so they were amazed when they saw the clothes we wore, and even more what the women in America wear. They laughed at me pointing out my long hair from long ago, and a flower shoved behind my ear. They made a motion of a halo over the head. We smiled to each other. “Angels,” we said blushing. We sat down and began to learn each other’s language. I became somewhat proficient in some of the greetings, and key phrases. I taught them to say “Hey dude!” They would say it whenever they saw me.

A couple of weeks later I was walking through the streets and a kid came up to me. “Hey dude,” he said, extending his hand. I recognized his soccer jersey and shook his hand. As we were running out of words to exchange I pulled out my bandana and began telling them a story my father used to tell to us. He learned it from his seminary professor, Glenn Bannerman. You fold a handkerchief into the shape of a house and tell the people that it is a house and in the house lived a mouse. The people in the house wanted the mouse on the outside of the house so they began rolling the house to push the house mouse out (roll the bandana until you get to the attic). The people decide to turn the attic inside out (turn it inside out and roll it up so that it looks like a lopsided tire). The long and short is that they find a picnic basket (you have a bandana with handles and it looks like a little picnic basket). So the people decide to go on a picnic (then you pull the sides out and it is a tail, then you fold the opposite side into a head). The people fall in love with the mouse and decide to keep it (with your finger tucked underneath it you stroke the mouse with your other hand and make it jump). The mouse jumped into the crowd and they began to smile and take turns petting the mouse as it jumped out at them. Their smiles revealed their dirty, broken, missing teeth. They were beautiful smiles.

“Michael Jackson?” one kid asked, “Disco?”

“Disco.” I said doing my best John Travolta impression. They began singing and clapping their hands. I started dancing for them. They grew louder and louder chanting, “Disco! Disco!” I let myself get carried away as the kids began dancing too. Staff Sergeant started yelling at us to break it up. The people were not used to yelling and began wondering what was wrong. Staff Sergeant is a veteran from the first Gulf War, and carried a grudge for these people.

“You are forgetting where you are, Doc! We are in a hostile area, and as soon as you turn your back on these people they will kill you. Don’t trust anyone.”

Just like that the party was over, and I was often reminded not to be friends with these people. To a degree he was right, but I think that this was the greatest medicine I could offer these people. I couldn’t heal their wounds or start the water generators. I could make them laugh and smile. Laughter is truly the greatest medicine. We all forgot that we were in danger, and they forgot about their pains. I felt in a way I was earning their trust. I felt I was in a small way opening the relationship between us. Showing them that we were good people. But I forgot that this wasn’t the mission for the Marines. I forgot that I am one of them.

I spent the rest of the day leaning up against the house catching the shade with some older men. They laid out blankets for us, and put pillows at our backs while they sat on the dirt. We tried all we could to converse, but the language barrier was too strong. They told me of the hospital and the condition of its medicine. They told us of the soldiers who beat them, and of Jessica. We tried to tell them that help was on the way soon. The palms offered shade as they served us tea and bread. The bread was like pizza crust or thick Mexican tortillas. We took pictures and everyone ran to get into it.

As we departed I found myself growing sad. I walked around shaking their hands and saying “Masalama.” Meaning goodbye. “As salam alaikum.” (Peace be upon you) and in return they would say, “Was alaikum salam.” (And also with you) It was a sad time but I feel that good first impressions were made on both sides. It was April the 2nd, a day I will never forget. I don’t think I would have seen the beauty in these people if I hadn’t spent that day in the village by the river. I felt proud and happy. I felt that we had done some good that day. For the first time I felt I had a reason for being there. When things would get rough and the people would irritate us I would remember the smiles of the children of Kabron.

We walked out of the village as the sun set over the river. It was a beautiful orange sunset with red clouds hanging over the green marshes and palm trees of the Euphrates. I felt that God was smiling on us.