The desert heat shimmered, blurring the already tense reality of our arrival in Iraq. The first entry was fraught, a tight knot of nerves in everyone’s stomach. But the initial crossing quickly faded into a constant, grinding reminder: we were not welcome. Every mile felt like an intrusion.
After days – three, maybe more – of minimal sleep and bone-jarring rides, the promise of a Forward Operating Base (FOB) was a siren song. Just get there, we thought, and maybe we could steal a few hours of rest. The journey itself, however, was a gauntlet.
Fallujah. The name hung heavy in the air. An uprising had recently shaken the city, a stark illustration of the simmering resentment. Our convoy, already on edge, took a wrong turn. A mile down the road before the commander realized the mistake. In Iraq, at that time, leaving the road was a gamble with your life. IEDs lurked, patient and deadly.
And there I was, alone in my vehicle at a traffic circle, waiting for the lumbering convoy to return. I tried to push open the canopy for some air, but it immediately snapped off its hinges, clattering to the ground. My comrades had to scramble out, risking their own safety to retrieve it. Every second felt like an eternity.
After Fallujah, the next landmark was a refuel point, and then…Baghdad. We skirted the outskirts, but even there, the scars of war were etched into the landscape. Tall buildings stood like hollowed-out skulls, providing cover for those who saw us as the enemy. We were briefed: “If you see a red flare, you’re being shot at.” As if we wouldn’t know. But lining the streets, the alleys, the spaces between buildings, were tanks, silent sentinels watching and waiting. A grim comfort, knowing their firepower was there to protect us. But it also meant something had already happened in that exact spot, something that warranted such a heavy response. The tension was palpable.
Finally, we reached FOB Taji, the last stop before our designated “home” for the next year. As we pulled in, a wave of kids lined the road, yelling and waving. For a fleeting moment, it felt…good. Until one of them jumped onto the wheels of our truck, scrambling to climb aboard, their hands reaching for anything they could grab. Food, water, gear – anything not securely fastened was fair game. No one had warned us. We’d naively thought they were welcoming us.
The next eight hours were supposed to be for mandatory rest. Showers, snacks, maybe even a few precious moments of sleep. But adrenaline coursed through our veins, a relentless current that drowned out any hope of relaxation. At least we could stretch our legs, walk around, and try to process the day.
This journey, this arrival… it was just one piece of a much larger, more fragmented puzzle. A puzzle that, years later, continues to haunt me. There is a long list of things that contributed to my PTSD, but at the time, I didn’t know how to deal with any of it. Little did I know that this was the beginning of a lifelong struggle, a constant replay of visions from the past. Even though I am no longer in Iraq, or in any of those other situations, I can still see them in my head as I try to relax at night.
More to come on how I deal with PTSD.
The Road I’ve Traveled 