Reality of Fear

As I sit here in Saddam's old Presidential Palace, it is fairly easy to forget that I am in a warzone. This palace is amazing. And it's not just the inside of the palace that's fairly nice. The IZ is somewhat of an oasis in the desert, with lots of palm trees and even a pool behind the palace. There is a lot of dust, and the daily sounds of war can be heard - sometimes in the distance, and sometimes close enough to be pretty scary. But for the most part, I think I could live here for a while and be pretty comfortable.

But that blast this morning, it cost someone, maybe lots of someones, their very life. It's easy to ignore the real meaning of that loud boom when I am safe and surrounded by concrete T-walls and a bunch of tough soldiers and marines. That blast was nothing to me because it wasn't close enough to scare me as I sip my latte and eat my Special-K. But that blast changed someone's life forever. There is a family in this city for whom September 8, 2007 will forever be engraved on their hearts as the day they lost that one they loved.

I've written a little about the dangers I face here, and some of my fearful moments as I spend 10-15 minutes riding through the red zone under heavy guard in armored vehicle. And then I remind myself that there are children who LIVE in the red zone - families who are trying to make it in the city of their birth, hoping that today will not be the day when they meet death.

I heard a story last night, one that made me grieve for the terror, the confusion, and the utter sadness that has come to this land through the quest of a few men - men who terrorize their own people in the name of Allah - to have worldly power at the cost of innocent lives.

Somewhere outside of Fallujah, a Marine saw a man digging a hole in the ground on the side of the road. This Marine had lost buddies to roadside bombs, so it would be understandable if he reacted with less restraint than he did. He could have avoided risking his own life, and simply shot the man who was digging what most would assume was a hole for an IED. But instead, as I believe and hope that most of our soldiers and marines would do, he took the high road - the one that led him into what could have been his own death. He took an Iraqi interpreter and walked out to a man who appeared to be planting an IED.

Through the interpreter, the Marine found out that this Iraqi husband and father was out in the middle of the night with his shovel because the sewer line in his house was backed up. He was trying to take care of his family. The Marine called for a detachment of his men, armed with shovels, to help with the digging, and the sewage system was working before the sun was up. Thanks to insurgents who have made it impossible to recognize the enemy, this Iraqi man could have been killed. But thanks to an American Marine who risked his own life and went the extra mile, an Iraqi man went home a hero in the eyes of his family.

The soldier who told me this story began to swell with emotion, his eyes turning red and rimming with tears at the thought of what could have so easily happened that night. I am moved by the compassion of this man - this soldier - who wants more than anything for the people or Iraq to live in freedom and not in fear. And I am once again moved by the compassion and selflessness of our Marines and soldiers.

A Marine COl who has spent over two years in this conflict and now trains Iraqi soldiers told me there are two messages he'd like to send to whomever will listen:

1. We have to finish this war for the Iraqi people. Whether the past was handled perfectly or not, we must look forward and ensure that, when we leave this place, it is a place where people can LIVE without fear.

2. "I don't want my 11-year-old boy finishing this war for me, and that's what will happen if we leave without finishing what we've started."