My air conditioning unit was blowing out air at 44 degrees Celsius, and though I'm not from Europe I knew what that temperature meant. Hot. The wind still left it's foot print of gritty sand on my face and neck as it clung to the cool sweat that slowly crept down from the innards of my helmet. One thing was different today though, which made things seem a little less mundane. It's not the typical smog laden, dust ridden skyline that normally is. I can see a lot further, and more clearly.
It was the clearest day yet, while on force pro, and the view is actually kind of amazing. To think that I'm in the cradle of civilization, and have a good view of it is something I'll probably be able to be thankful for the rest of my life.
As I looked across the ancient city of Baghdad, I could see the new buildings and shapes that had always been under the cover of the dust, smog, smoke, bombings, sewage, night, and any other things that would inhibit such view.
Across the skyline of the city, I could see the indigenous architecture of Mosque domes and their parapets reaching to the sky as if they were morning glories yearning for the sun's touch. The beige colored bricks of buildings, the color of ancient mortar, only broken ever so often by the green of Palm, Olive, and Eucalyptus trees. And though the architecture is very primitive, the brick work on every building is certainly not an eye sore.
The parapet flying the Muslim Black flag representing Martyrdom, has some gorgeous brick work. It's infused with an emerald green in a wonderful style that doesn't really remind me of the Land of Oz, but at least has made me reference it.
The occasional high-rise building never seems to yearn past four stories tall, except for the ones that the far lengths of my vision, silhouetted against the horizon. I scan from right to left, for security reasons, but my eyes play a game with the vibrant and varied colors I never expected to see, and even think are somewhat abnormal to find in this desert environment. From the blue water of the water of the Army Canal, my eyes catch the red black and white of a flag whipping in the wind, begging for my attention. I see the bright gleam from the windshields of different autos as they pass by on the hot, dark black asphalt of old Highway 5, the most historic, and possibly oldest road in Iraq.
My eyes continue past the metal ants that move to and fro on the road, and focus on the green of a soccer field, which is a rariety to not find one purely of dirt here. The skyline appears next to catch my visions attention, and I see the high-rises of buildings scattered towards downtown. My fingers on my non-writing hand try and keep a count of them but not nearly all of the even are able to rise to full attention.
The process with my left hand repeats as I start to count the one thing that has ruined all of this, another man-made object. The tall, skinny-red-white is the only competition to the parapets, the high-rises that's aren't even tall enough to bungee jump off of. The cell phone towers break up the beauty of the simplicity, the decadence, the old allure of this place. They somehow break the serenity of it all. Poking through. Standing out. Ugly. An infection, a new disease in an old body. A new technology to an old world.
I ignore them the best I can, focusing more on the palm trees, and the Iraqis who are dumping drums of anti-freeze onto the ground. The dogs who are fighting in packs, and the direction of audible gun shots, because these things all seem more appropriate to this land then cell phone towers. I didn't let them ruin my day, I kept looking at the expansive horizon I hadn't viewed before. Even in ugly horrible Iraq, I can think that I might have a good story to tell to the grand kids.
It behooves every man who values liberty of conscience for himself, to resist invasions of it in the case of others: or their case may, by change of circumstances, become his own- Thomas Jefferson.
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