The Emerald City
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: Jun 16, 2003 at 10:56 PM
Subject: melting! (the Green Zone hit 108°)
Laura darling,
I stopped carrying my gun today. To be honest, we don’t really need them. It’s like we’re all inventing our adventure—crawling through the Baghdad gardens like the seeds are mines, like the bruised pears might blow our damn legs off. Wolf still carries his M-9 on the boulevard, belting it to cargos like his comic book idols. (The nerds in the Coalition Provisional Authority are keen on the war glory stuff.) I’m no wannabe soldier, though; I don’t have to tell you that. Not joining the Army is just about the best decision I ever made. I stopped romanticizing this place long before the juniper trees blossomed and they reopened the Green Zone swimming pool. I eat Afghan bananas in an office in a palace in a peace zone for God’s sake. Outside, it’s just a bunch of bodies slamming against stones, lurking in desert hidey-holes until their human fuses explode.
I’ve been thinking a lot about you, if that means anything. There’s this river here, Laura, this river that bends through the irony of Saddam’s old statues and monuments and other marble tyrannies. The Arabs call it “Dijla” but every Bible reader east of Persia knows it’s the Tigris—pouring through the sand straight from Mesopotamia. Probably the first thing to get a name when Civilization started pointing and writing. Well when it’s hot and the guards don’t have a captain around, they let some of us down to sit on the blast walls by its bank. Wolf and Michael bring beers and laugh about the Texans or talk about college. But when I look at water, I think of New Hampshire. The way you smelled like blueberries and pine when we’d sit on that dock.
I’m so self-indulgent, Laura! But I suppose you’re used to forgiving my poetry. God knows the soldiers would crack up if they read this. It’s funny enough that a skinny architect ended up redistricting Iraq. But it’s nice doing something that (theoretically) helps the world. I was sick of designing parking lots and industrial boringness. But you know that.
Truth is I don’t know what to say, really. The Green Zone’s hardly exciting these days, especially not for us civilian office slaves contracting for the CPA. Perhaps I should just pretend to be your lost lieutenant, sniping terrorists with your picture at my breast.
Mostly, we just battle time. Sweating through zip-off pants and moving like moths to the air-conditioned pockets of this place. They finally moved my department out of the hotel offices and inside occupation headquarters in Saddam’s old palace. (Now it’s all diplomats and policy snobs.) I’m still living in that trailer, though. But despite the heat, it’s not so bad. I’ve set up this shelf and managed to buy a coffee maker off a friend who works in the kitchen. There’s a Pleasantville quality about it all—the matching trailers lined up with manicured grass and palm trees. Even the roads are surreal—Hummers driving at slow-motion speed, obeying the zone’s 35 mph cap.
My work’s the same. I’ve officially been promoted to Deputy Secretary of Housing Reconstruction and Redistribution, but titles don’t mean much around here. I’ll finally have my own translator though (thank God). I think the Iraqis are starting to realize the permanence of things. Last week, Wolf and I checked on the Shi’as we moved into one of the In-Zone complexes and hardly any families had unpacked. This woman boiled chickpeas on a suitcase counter, forbidding her children to unzip their duffel bags. She was just stirring this pot, stirring and stirring and shaking her head. Wolf gave the kids Tootsie Rolls, but she threw them back at him. I looked her file up later and it said her husband died in the bombing.
These people don’t get it, Laura. They don’t get that our trailers won’t leave come September. Then again, I’m not sure the CPA really gets this either. I’m starting to think we’re here for the long run. Which is hard when I tend to garrulous musings on blueberries and pine.
Look, Laura, I’m sorry if this is weird. I know we said we’d leave things ambiguous—but when you didn’t show up at my good-bye party, I wasn’t sure what to think. If you want me to stop writing, I will. Really, I will. Just know that I’m thinking about you. Know you’re my tether outside these walls.
Is Manhattan hot? Have the Japanese invaded or is it still too early in the summer? I’d tell you more about this strange country if I could, but I’m caged up. They’ve built us this greenhouse and won’t let us out.
Anyway, my fan died, so I should probably sleep before I melt. I swear this whole desert’s going to melt into glass by August. But don’t worry about me, Laura, really don’t. It’s safer than the city in here, I promise.
Your long lost soldier CPA officer, Will
*
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: Jun 24, 2003 at 12:39 PM
Subject: greetings from kebab-land
Laura!
I’m eating a kebab right now and it’s raining outside. This juxtaposition is just about the best thing to happen all month. CPA turned the palace ballroom into a chow hall, so I’m writing to you from quite the elegant milieu. My romanticism pees itself in places like this—you know how I get around high ceilings. I picture Saddam and his sons roaming the naves at some dance. Perhaps stopping at this very spot to smooth out a beard or straighten a robe. We joke that the ghosts of Husseins haunt the hallways at night, creeping out once they lock the marble doors at nine.
I’m in a great mood, Laura. Perhaps the best since I arrived. I was worried when you didn’t reply last week that you weren’t going to, so when I saw your name in my inbox this morning, I was ecstatic. I know you said not to talk about it, but I’m glad we’re staying in contact like this. I miss you, and having someone on the outside is more important than you can imagine.
There’s other good news: they assigned me my translator last week and I finally feel like I’ll be able to get some work done. Relocating Iraqi families is hard enough without memorized Arabic phrases and awkward insertions of ana asif, ana asif, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Her name’s Haaya and she’s amazing. Her dad was an official of the Iraqi Ba’ath party in the 80’s, but her mom’s “a soviet.” When she was twelve, government men killed her father and brothers while she watched from upstairs—punishment for siding with Kuwait. After that she lived in Russia—but two months out of Moscow University and she’s back in the desert—whispering English into turban-less ears.
She doesn’t wear a hijab or burka or even long sleeves. She just glides through the palms like she grew them, moves through the palace like it’s hers. I didn’t even know how much I needed her until she appeared. I can speak now. I can hear now. I can talk to the slum men and the landlords and the vendors selling pita—hear their housing concerns without consulting ten dictionaries. It’s just nice having someone to talk to outside the confines of my keyboard. Wolf and Michael are great, but they know more about post-conflict reconstruction policy than anything else (except maybe combat video games).
Haaya studied art history, so we indulge in humanities stuff together. She explained about the buildings and statues and I explained about the designs. Did you know that before the Ottomans, mosques had no ceilings? I like that. It seems more natural to pray in the open air. Haaya prays five times a day despite her bare arms. She has this little mat in her backpack and just excuses herself from meetings. Last night we went to the orange trees and watched the Helipad landings. (She knows the guard who minds the orchard.) I told her about you while we peeled citrus rinds. You’d like each other, I think.
Arghgfljshdfg, Laura! There are so many places I still want to go, so many things I still want to do! Leaving the world of corporations and nine-to-fives has inspired this sort of na?ve expeditionism in me. (My computer’s telling me that’s not a word, but I swear it is.) Have you ever been to Asia? I think we should go to Asia. Asia or Africa. Remember when we used to talk about going on a trip? It was a while ago, but still. I know we agreed not to talk about the future, but they’re going to let us out of here eventually. Maybe the US will invade India and we can eat kebabs in their castles. :)
In a strange way, I feel guilty being cheerful. Look at me, eating fruit as I watch the soldiers land and walk single file from their high school hallways to concrete labyrinths and exploding highways. (I know we didn’t look that young at 19.) There’s a rumor around here that GIs have been leaving their trackers in trashcans while they sleep away their duty parked in fields. The army’s a mess and the government knows it. The CPA’s trying to do as much as we can via remote control—peering over the Green Zone walls. Haaya was the one who got me thinking. Realizing that our impact could double if they’d actually let us see Iraq.
Oh God, the CPA leadership must have mastered telepathy—Paul Bremer is walking over with his lunch. (You’ve probably read about it in the news, but he’s been top dog around here since May.) Time to pretend I’m analyzing zoning plans! Take care! I miss you! Tell me more about your job, Laura, your last message was so short!
Thinking of you,
Will