reflecting on iraq
sharon christian
 
 					
					
I sit impatiently waiting for my car’s oil change. An hour and half wait at the dealership-is my reward for being one of thousands of people to switch over to Chevy. To make the best of my time, I decide to read a little. Glancing at the selection of open tables, I notice a quiet spot standing out on the right side of the dealership's café. The cafe boasts a 1950s theme – black and white checkered square floor, glistening cherry red seats, and an oversized jukebox playing a musical variety.  
An older woman tries to keep up with customers' orders at the coffee bar. While she prepares my Chai latte espresso, I wondered if it might taste as good as the green beans in Iraq. Before I can pick up my latte at the counter, she rushes to hand me a tall plastic cup filled with a dark almond color liquid. Lightly sipping the concoction, my taste buds feel betrayed by an extremely bitter concoction that lacks sweetness.  
Despite my disappointment in having to wait for my car and in my latte not meeting my expectations, having the extra reading time in the dealership is nice. 
“Say ma’am, how long have you been in the service?” asks a gentleman sitting two tables down from me. An elderly man, he is probably from somewhere in the cold north. Tucson has undoubtedly been selected for its lack of rain and almost year-round warmth.
“Seventeen years, sir,” I reply, hoping the conversation will not last too long.
“Well I was in the Navy, had been a petty officer, but then I went all the way up to… …say what rank are you?”
“I’m a Master Sergeant.”
“Wow, a Master Sergeant! That’s great and I think it’s great that you gals are in the service now. When I was in we didn’t have a lot of women. The women that served were mostly nurses and they didn’t get a lot of respect. Now a days you get a lot more respect,” he went on to say. 
I nod my head in agreement, and listen to him for a few minutes longer, until an attendant walks in and declares his car ready. He turns back to me, waves a warm good-bye. “Okay,” he smiles. “Well thank you for what you do and you take care.”
I nod, smile, and wave, and I consider his words: “women in the military.” 
My thoughts are interrupted as another gentleman walks in and sits at the table next to mine.
“How are you, Sarge?” The question is asked with a voice that declares he has served time in the military.
“Fine, thank-you,” I reply with my voice, the voice that belongs to me, not voice of the Sergeant who serves in the Air Force. As politely as possible, I lift my book to continue reading. His body language suggests he wants to say more. But wanting to enclose myself into my own world, I cement my eyes onto the words in my book, effectively building a wall between his table and mine.
This is the irony of my situation. For five years, I instructed at a leadership school and didn’t deploy. For those five years, I listened to people say, “Thank you,” and “You’re doing a good job,” and “Wow, you’re a woman!” And, for those five years, it was easy to accept the comments without reflecting upon anything I had done or had sacrificed to receive that precious Thank You. Not so easy now, after having served in Iraq and lived through the sacrifices I could only imagine before deploying. 
“Love the boots,” a dirty blonde-haired lady remarks. She wears a black and white floral print dress that falls to her ankles. “Well, aren’t you hot in those suits?” she asks about my military work uniform. 
 “You get used to it,” I answer.
“That’s what my son says. He’s Army, stationed in Washington,” she answers, smiling. Her eyes twinkle when mentioning her son. Behind the twinkle, a hint of worry plays.
“Well, he says he’s going to make it a career. It’s his life now he tells me. Well, nice talking to you,” she says while picking up her order and walking out the door.  
Reading isn’t possible. My thoughts drift to earlier comments. Man or woman, so much is missed during deployments. A “Thank you” from a stranger reminds me of this truth. Hot? Tucson, Arizona is definitely hot, but it’s not like Hellish Hot. 
Hell’s heat must feel like being packed into a C-130 in Iraq, middle of June, with helmet, flak vest, and weapons clinging to your body, with seventy-one other bodies waiting desperately to get home.

***

"Amy, mind if we stop at the hospital? I have to stop by the pharmacy."
"Sure, no problem."
Chattering like two schoolgirls far from Iraq, we entered the hospital, and walked down the long corridor. We continued our lively conversation, until we turned the corner into the pharmacy. Seeing an Iraqi family, we fell silent. The family sat quietly, except for a young girl, perhaps eight-years-old, who sat crying in her mother’s lap. The mother spoke softly, trying to console the girl, but a sense of helplessness seemed to trickle through her body. The grandmother seemed to have suffered a wound on the side of her left face. The wound was bandaged, but this didn’t seem to ease the pain.  The father appeared lethargic; much of his strength seemed exhausted while examining us. He wore black slacks and a baby blue, collared shirt. His hair was dark black; his eyes, pale blue. The mother and grandmother wore the traditional black abayas (long black dress) and hijab (headscarf). The girl wore a simple dress any little girl might adore. Smiling reassuringly to the family, I prayed for their health and wondered what had caused their pain. A mortar? Gunfire? Or simply natural causes as any other family might experience? But this family, I know, is not like other families I know; they suffer constant battles.    
While driving back to work, we rode along the exterior of the base, delineated by a ten-foot high fence separating us from Iraqis. Outside the fence, farmers casually tended their crops, mostly by hand. Surprisingly, the area was green and alive with vegetation, unlike the base, which lacked foliage, as if everything living had been purposely stripped from the area. Palm trees adorned the far side of the field, evoking a sense of tropical paradise. It's no surprise this area should feel tropic, surrounded as it is by the Euphrates and the Tigris River. Nearby, a few children tried desperately to ride a badly beaten bike along a dirt road. They saw us watching and waived eagerly. We waived back with enthusiasm.  

***

“Ma’am.” Your vehicle’s ready.” 
“Oh…okay, thank-you,” I reply.
“No. Thank you, ma’am, for what you do."
“With pleasure,” I reply.
I walk out of the café, book in hand, remembering the Iraqi children and reflecting upon all the "thank yous" I’ve received this morning. And I recall my youngest child’s questions before I deployed to Iraq, "Why do you have to leave?"  
One can respond in several ways: It's my job; it's my turn.
I've never answered in that manner. 
Rather, I respond:
"You see, Paige, the truth is, not all children have a school like you and not all children feel safe at night. So, I have to help them reach that possibility some day. Do you understand?” 
She smiles, we lock hands, with pleasure.
I always, and still do, mourn the time I lost with my own children while I was deployed. What mother wouldn't? Yet, I’m thankful to be a part of something greater for all the children in the world. 




Sharon Christian is from Warner Robins, GA.  She graduated from Warner Robins High school in 1991, and entered the Air Force in October 1992.  She lives in Tucson, Arizona with her husband John, and two children Kyle and Paige, along with two beagles, Brillo and Mila, and one famous Maltese, Boots.   Thus, life is always busy in the Christian household.
When life permits, her hobbies are reading, cooking, watching Food Network, and finally earning her English B.A. with University of Maryland University College this December.  Her decision to earn an English degree has much to do with her love of reading, rather than the strong desire to make lots of money.  Although anyone wishing to rid themselves of any funds should seek Sharon’s attention—she claims she’s always willing to assist.
Sharon is serving as the Commandant for Davis Monthan Airman Leadership School located on Davis Monthan Air Force Base.  However, it’s her recent deployment from Nov 2009-June 2010 to Iraq that spurred her thoughts to write this story.  She says, “So many things are happening over there, it’s important people know our presence is not just a job, but a way to improve people’s lives.  Everyone deserves to raise their children in a safe place.  In a small way, this is how I felt I contributed to that effort, by simply being there, supporting our military forces.”

Sharon (L) with others at work in Balad Airbase, Iraq