At times I miss the feeling of being totally free — the natural high I felt from the moment we landed in Ft. Bragg after 18 months of activation and 11 months in Iraq, when my feet finally touched American soil. For at least a year after that, I was walking on a cloud. The everyday stress of life didn’t seem to exist. I felt completely free.

But then, slowly, the drama of everyday living started to slip back in. Now, when I begin to feel stressed or that I am missing out on something, I often flip through the pages of my journal and am reminded of how minor today’s worries and complaints are. There are certain entries that take me back to moments of fear, insecurity and frustration. I have turned these memories into a source of appreciation for the life I have now.

The following is a single journal entry recorded on June 24, 2004, slightly edited for this page. The events and emotions were recorded about an hour and a half after the actual explosions from my office at Mosul City Hall. All conversations with the Iraqis were documented as we were speaking. The photographs accompanying the entry were taken from my camera, as well as the camera of a fellow soldier from the 445th Civil Affairs Battalion the day of the attack.

The entry serves as a grim reminder that freedom is not free, and that the freedoms we enjoy every day should not be taken for granted.

24 June 2004

“It’s clear that this is the worst day since the collapse of the former regime.” Those were the words that just came out of Manhel’s mouth as he sat in the major’s office, his face a mix of sadness and frustration. “Even if the police try to retaliate they will not be able to do any worse than what has just happened.” Manhel is an older man, he is one of our Iraqi translators.

City Hall two hours earlier:

0910: Sitting in my office at City Hall drinking coffee, checking e-mail, suddenly all of the windows in the building rattle. Along with the rattling is the loudest explosion I have heard to date. The explosion, I quickly learn, was at Sheik Fatah Police Station.

Heart racing, I think to myself, “Here we go, intelligence has been saying the attacks will increase.” We grab our kevlars, weapons, vests, and the radio, and rush to the roof. The black smoke from the blast — 800 meters south of City Hall — filled the sky for at least 20 minutes. The smoke was so thick it seemed you could grab it in handfuls. S.F.C. Butler and Maj. Svelan stood at the edge of the roof, weapons in hand, waiting for the next move. Should the attack move closer, they were ready.

Smoke
Smoke billowing from the attack on Sheik Fatah
police station from the rooftop of Mosul City Hall.

0920: Perched on the roof, sweating under the blazing sun and monitoring the radio, I looked up and saw another massive cloud of smoke to the west. Pointing, I yelled, “There’s another one.” Three seconds later, BOOM … the sound of the blast, again the building shook.

I called Olympia Main and reported that the second explosion was near the Al Waqas police station, 600 meters west of City Hall.

Less then 30 minutes later another car bomb went off east of City Hall at the “Old Police Academy.” Numerous Iraqi police trainees were inside. It is hard to imagine the number that might be dead. I wonder how close the next bomb will be.

Soldiers
Room

Top, Iraqi police at an academy training session.
Inside the Al Waqas Police Station after explosion.

About 20 minutes after the third explosion we moved back inside City Hall to gather information on the civilian injuries and deaths. I grabbed my computer and started to document everything, including brief conversations with U.S. officers and Iraqi employees.

Maj. Svelan gives the initial update: 20 Iraqis killed from first I.E.D. (Improvised explosive device). 15 ft. Crater… five civilian cars blew up … at least four civilians in each car. The numbers have not been released from the last two explosions.

Building
Building
Wreckage of Sheik Fatah Police Station after the attack,
top, and the scene of the car bomb.

I race down to the governor’s office to relay the information we have obtained.

Governor Kashmoula sits slumped in his chair, chain smoking, still holding himself together. Breaking the silence he finally states: “How can we stay calm when our own citizens are burning? From now on there will be a new curfew: 9 p.m. to 6 a.m. If people don’t stop at the checkpoints, they will be shot.”

It hits me as I return to our office that with the new curfew, the so called freedom we are fighting for is slipping farther away.

Salah, the Christian “office greeter” from Kara Kosh enters.

“Welcome Salah. How are you feeling?” I ask.

He responds in his broken English. “I feel nothing. We knew this will happen, sure, will happen. I think this will not affect our futures. Bad guys will always be bad guys. I think this is the end of them, maybe two months, three months. They have got nothing, nothing at all, they will stop. This is the act of criminals. If they truly want to help this country they need to do something else. They have no religion. They are like animals, following a bad leader doing only what they are told. If I could get one of them I would show them what he did and he too would die as did the people he killed today. An eye for and eye. Why? I would ask, Why? How do you justify this action?”

Salah sighs, thinking for a moment.

“The future will be better,” he says. “At least we have freedom. We have to pay for freedom, it costs and it may cost lives, it may cost all things … but it’s worth it. Freedom is not free.”

Salah gives a crooked grin, then says, “Things are much better now than even a year ago. We have freedom to speak, to speak our minds on any subject. God gives us freedom; he gave Adam the freedom. This freedom was meant to be continued but we have imprisoned ourselves. The enemy is within us. We are our own enemy and only we can escape our own prison by thinking good and positive about life. Our regions are always putting the small walls around themselves. They are selfish and want to control more than their own lives. A bad self always wants to control, give orders. This thought comes from the east; those from the west have the freedom and know the life. Here we continue to dig our own jail.”

Dr. Huneen Al Qado, a predominant Shia Provincial Council Member, frantically enters the office.

“Demonstration coming — you should bomb them,” says Dr. Al Qado. You have to deal with them harshly … believe me … Bomb them, bomb them! They are criminals, against the Iraqi people. Please Bomb them.”

“I agree that they are bad people, but I think the Iraqi Security has the situation under control,” responds Maj. Svelan.

“I don’t think the Iraqis have control. Please take care of yourself,” Dr. Al Qado replies.

Noaman, another Iraqi interpreter enters the office.

“Sandi,” Noaman asks me, “where have you been? Oh, you’re writing. What are you writing?”

“Just about what happened today. Where have you been? I wanted to talk to you,” I say to him.

“The day is full of excitement. Don’t you like excitement?” he replies.

When I think of excitement I think of a roller coaster ride, winning a raffle, or sliding down a waterfall, not watching building blow up, or hearing of innocent people being killed. “No, not this kind, “ I say, still reflecting on what is considered exciting. “How are you feeling? How did you feel when you heard the first explosion, then the second so soon after?”

“I think I get used to such sounds.”

“Yes,” I say, knowing exactly what he means. “But what do you feel?” His response is only a blank stare. “Sadness, frustration, remorse, anger?” I prompt.

“All of these,” he says. “It is a big game. We are all waiting for the results.”

“When do you think the end will come?” I ask him.

“After a long time maybe.”

Uncomfortable with the conversation, Noaman walks away.

Finally back at Camp Freedom.

Maj. Svelan called and said he needed to talk to S.F.C. Butler and me. I went to the palace right away. We sat on the couch in the lobby of Saddam’s palace as the major looked at us and said, “Jools died today. He was shot in the head on a convoy back from Hell’s Gate.”(Jools was a member of our Global security team. He had just returned from leave about a week ago to finish the last week of his contract. I heard that his wife did not want him to come back, but for his team he wanted to finish his obligation. He was slotted to fly home for good tomorrow. He is survived by his wife and a six-year-old son, Matthew.)

We all sat silent for a minute. I tried to hold back the tears; tears of frustration, of remembrance, of stress and loss of hope for an entire nation in one day. Despite my effort the tears flowed. Maj Svelan apologized and said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have said it like that. I should have thought about it longer.”

I said, “No, that was fine. I just didn’t think the day could get any worse.”