Christmas in Baghdad

(Yes - there will be new posts up this weekend, but for now we're continuing our Mudville Christmas reruns. This one was actually first posted last February, but I think it belongs here...)

What tales we'll tell
When that time comes
When tales can be told...

Looking back at Mrs G's logo collection reminded me of that quote from the Christmas poem here at Mudville. The reference was to the fact that security issues prevent me from writing much about what goes on here at my location. For instance, one day I disciplined some of my troops poorly, and they went out and targeted and killed 12 journalists. That was sure embarrassing! Fortunately my many friends in the blogosphere will make sure no one ever knows.

Or Christmas day itself - so much went on during that one day that I'm sure I could write a book about those 24 hours. For starters, the worst weather of the year. A cold rain, flooded ground, mud everywhere, missions cancelled, you name it. But as miserable as I was I saw something that reminded me that someone always has it worse. I'd just donned my armor and started for the DFAC. As I splashed past the porta potties I noticed the smell. The team of civilian third country nationals was busy cleaning them, even on Christmas day in the rain. Off to the side stood the escort for the workers. His sole purpose in life was to ensure the guys cleaning the porta potties didn't get up to any "funny business" and plant bombs or steal anything during performance of their doodies duties.

As I walked past the escort, I considered saying one of the following things to him:

"Merry Christmas"

"Hey, this is a Christmas you'll tell your grandchildren about - the year you helped free Iraq!"

or

"Son, if you move over to this side (pointing) you'll notice the wind won't blow in your face off the porta potties any more"

In the end I said nothing, just moved on. Sometimes there's nothing you can say.

A funny thing about Christmas in Baghdad. Christian, atheist, or other, most folks who grow up in America consider Christmas a great family holiday, a chance to reunite and share gifts and catch up with the widespread relatives. Missing this aspect of the day turned many folks sour - but not those who saw the day primarily as a celebration of the birth of Jesus. In other words, those who knew the real purpose of Christmas actually enjoyed the holiday, while those for whom it was a secular event were rather morose and withdrawn and distinctly more unhappy on the day. Stated differently, the farther from the " real meaning of Christmas" you stood, the more the holiday depressed you - those for whom it meant the least were hit the worst by the day.

It's been a few years [ed note - it's been a few decades] since the childlike "magic of Christmas" left me behind. By that I mean the wonder of waking up to a pile of toys under the tree after a night of restless sleep. Would Santa come? Would he? And sure enough, the morning came and he'd been to my house. Relief was followed by euphoria, fun was had by all.

Strangely enough, I did have a day like that, a day that recaptured that part of Christmas - but it wasn't Christmas day. It was Sunday the 30th of January, of course. Having gone to bed reasonably sure that my assumptions were right - that we'd knocked the insurgency down to the point they would be ineffective, and that the people of Iraq desired freedom, it was nonetheless a relief to see it happen as expected. Euphoria followed. It was days later that I recognized the feeling for what it was. Christmas in Baghdad.

Here's to many such days to come.

(Original post: 2005-02-08 17:01:56)