VI - Motorcycles; Medical Clinics; Mowers

VI

Motorcycles; Medical Clinics; Mowers

oo0oo

We were walking along a street near our office and not too far from the apartment. It is called Jibek Jolu Avenue, or the Silk Road. There is a street market there which we often frequent as much for the fresh fruits and vegetables as the chance to interact with locals whom we have come to know. The man, his wife and children who always try to give us the best of their offerings; the woman a stall or two away; the young pregnant woman selling the nuts in the inside part of the market. She likes to practice her English and knows exactly what I want and how much of each item. Nuts and dried fruit are sold in bulk and in the open. They are totally unprocessed and very tasty. I mix my own trail mix – cashews, raisins, almonds and pistachios - as a late evening…well, anytime, snack.

Bishkek Bikers
We were almost at the corner where we turn to go to the apartment. There were sirens on Jebek Jolu. We waited to see what was coming; a natural voyeuristic tendency. There was a deafening roar in the distance in addition to the sirens. Within moments the police cars passed and then the large group of motor cycles. It was a rally of some sort and, but for the Kyrgyz flags and Cyrillic writing on signs, it could have been Key West during the poker run. Every shape size and make of motorcycle passed by, except perhaps Harley Davidsons. The riders were as eclectic as any group of riders I ever witnessed in the US, and they appeared to be enjoying themselves to an equal degree. I later learned that it was in fact a rally of bikers from all parts of central Asia who were gathering in Kyrgyzstan for the to-be-annual event. Motorcycle riding as an art form is not so popular in this part of the world as elsewhere. There are scooters and motorcycles in small numbers on the streets of Bishkek, but this was the first time I had seen any riders who were dressed and rode bikes which represented the true biker spirit as we know it. It was an event worth far more than the time taken to watch.

oo0oo

I have already discussed my experiences with the dental clinics here. My experience with the public dental clinic was, well, interesting, but I found the dentist to be competent. The facilities are dreadful with the typical long dark hallways lined with worn furniture on which to wait for a turn in the large room filled with ten or more dental chairs each with its own dentist. But I had a root canal at a private clinic which had more of the appearance of a dental clinic as we know them. The dental chairs were older and there is no TV or headphones to listen to your choice of music while the dentist goes about her business, but for about the equivalent of one hundred and fifty dollars, I got a root canal and crown. And it was painless.

I had some gastro-intestinal issues resulting in a painful stomach that did not let me sleep an entire night. I was able to rest by morning and stayed home. That caused the ever watchful office staff to call and inquire as to my well being. When I told the story as un-sensationally as I could, they still insisted that I should go to the doctor. Vladimir and Ermek were at the apartment in a flash. Ermek had called his aunt who worked at the public clinic as a lab technician. Vladimir drove us there. In typical Soviet fashion, the building was long, three stories with the first floor about eight steps from ground level. No ramps, no handicap entrances and no apparent elevator inside anywhere down the long dimly lit central corridor. Ermek’s aunt connected with us and told Ermek where to take me. We went to a rather neat but dated office where a man sat at a desk. A doctor. As we entered and Ermek told him our problem, he put on his lab coat and escorted us to another room where there was a younger doctor already appropriately dressed behind another desk. The room itself was off the main corridor and, like all the others, had a few pieces of old furniture; assorted chairs on which to wait, a couple of porcelain covered metal topped tables and the doctor’s desk. A patient or two came and went as did a couple of nurses with their high topped hats more reminiscent of a chef than a medical professional. The doctor began asking questions and taking notes.

One of the public medical clinics in town
A few questions, some universal doctor scrawling on pads and in notebooks, and the doctor, with all the self assurance of the world’s best physician, quickly outlined the additional information he would need to make a proper diagnosis. Within minutes we were off to get blood tests. This was Ermek’s aunt’s area. We went to her lab where, I was told to wait. The lab was a narrow room with one window at the end. A long counter ran down one side and the other had a small table with an oven and gas burner. The burner was used, as best I could tell, more for heating water for tea than anything else. In the corner near the window on another small counter top was an older looking centrifuge. The long counter was cluttered with test tubes. Some were empty others had blood in them to varying levels. After a few minutes, I was told to sit in an old chair near the window. The chair was missing one arm. I was instructed to sit so that my arm would lie on the chair’s remaining arm. The technician put the surgical tubing on my upper arm and began to look for an appropriate vessel to stick the needle. The needle was from a closed package and had a vacuum tube. I always check for such measures. After a bit of familiar poking and pressing with her finger, the technician finally called another woman who came in and within seconds expertly drew a tube full of blood from a vein in my arm. The technician then took the vacuum tube, removed the rubber stopper and poured blood into several other open tubes on a rack on the counter. On scraps of paper she wrote the necessary tests to be performed and wrapped the paper around each tube. I silently hoped that the paper would not fall off or blow away before the tests could be run.

I also had an ultra sound of my stomach. All of these tests in the public clinic are done if fairly rapid succession. I waited for the woman in before me to get up from the table and readjust her clothes. This lab was in a different building in the same complex. This particular complex of clinics is also a teaching hospital. There were numerous students from various countries, most notably, by the kumises of the women in addition to the distinct physical features of the students, India and Pakistan.

All together it was an interesting experience which I had hoped not to repeat. In a day or so we returned to get the results of the tests. Ermek took us to the same floor where the lab was located. At the end of the hall there were several tables and chairs seemingly stored or unused. On one of the tables there were several small cardboard boxes from various types of laboratory supplies. In the boxed were slips containing names of patients and lab test results. The protocol, as best as I could determine from Ermek’s actions and explanation, was find your lab results and take them for your consultation with your doctor. In order to get your results, you would pick up the stack of slips to go through them one at a time until you find the slips with your name on it. After you have your results, you proceed to the office of the doctor who ordered it to get an interpretation of it, or perhaps, but not in my case, a diagnosis.

After several minutes and after going through the stacks at least twice each, Ermek decided that my results were not there. He found his aunt to ask why that was. She, to my relief and embarrassment, had not put my results in the customary pile of results but had delivered them to the doctor. I tend to be a common person with respect for the common man and respect for the people in whose country I am living at any time, but there are times when I am secretly glad that the local people treat foreigners a bit differently than other people. They are particularly sensitive to Americans, thinking that Americans are accustomed to very special treatment. Although we never actually receive the treatment they think we do, it is certainly close to that level in situations such as this. I was grateful for the gesture.

The doctor told me everything I did not have and all about the normalcy of the tests. At some point I mentioned my high blood pressure. He immediately ordered an EKG and ultra sound of my heart, and more blood tests. And, since I did not provide the requisite urine and … other samples, he reordered those. As an American, I am accustomed to leaving my doctor’s office with a specimen bottle in plastic wrap and other appropriate specimen collection paraphernalia. Those things do not exist here. I later learned that people here tend to save certain types of jars and bottles for such contingencies. Even the pharmacies could not understand my request. I scoured the apartment until I found something suitable.

The EKG was done immediately and quickly as the line was long. The next blood tests were done by a rather unpleasant nurse who found the vein quickly, stuck the needle expertly, and then did something as she pulled the needle out that was quite painful and left me with a nice black and blue spot on the inside of my elbow for the better part of a week. The ultrasound of my heart was in a separate lab from the prior ultrasound and the cost represented my non-Kyrgyz nationality. Even then, it was very inexpensive; five hundred som or about twelve dollars. The entire costs of all the tests and clinic visits was so small that it was not even worth trying to get some sort of reimbursement from my insurances company, if that would have been possible. Twelve dollars for the older and more prominent doctor, three dollars for the EKG, and so on.

I was quickly becoming frustrated. I was still not feeling well and had not gotten any indication of what I might have. In the meantime and because I knew from prior experiences that early contact was necessary, I contacted MedEx the insurance service that will take you to a better place if you need serious treatment while in developing countries. They initially referred me to a German clinic that we discovered was no longer in business. My confidence in this company was now shaken. They then, however, referred me to another clinic which we had heard about. It is run by a woman doctor named Irina. She works for the Canadian mining company and treats all of their workers including giving them physicals before and after their tours of duty high in the Kyrgyz mountains.

I managed to get test results from all my tests, including the EKG and ultrasound of my heart. I had scheduled an appointment with Irina’s clinic and, at the suggestion of the public clinic doctor, an upper GI endoscopy to be performed at another private clinic devoted mostly to performing tests of various types. I also forwarded all the test results of the tests I had already taken to the MedEx insurance company who, after having them translated, eventually responded with their thoughts on my malady.

The endoscopy was scheduled a day after my scheduled appointment with Dr. Irina. She, as it turned out, was occupied with a dying patient so I was seen by a nice young man – a doctor also – who spoke excellent English and seemed to be knowledgeable. He looked more like a military man than doctor, dressed in green tee shirt with matching trousers folded neatly into high laced black boots. Nonetheless, he was professional in his demeanor and appeared capable in his knowledge. He recommended that I complete the endoscopy and return after.
The clinic where the test was performed was a professional and neat appearing facility. It was necessary to register and I received a patient card for perpetual use. The waiting area was modern, clean and neat. Magazines in Russian adorned the low table in front of the padded seats in the waiting area. My name was called and Julia, Olga and I went to the room where the doctor and nurse were to perform the endoscopy.

The room was small containing two chairs, a small table, an endoscope and computer and a table on which patients laid. We were definitely a crowd, but no one objected, sensitive to the fact that the language barrier itself creates additional apprehension. The nurse said very little, but the doctor seemed to be a nice sincere fellow. He outlined the procedure and, after he reviewed my other test results, the results he expected from the endoscopy.

After a few brief questions translated by Olga and Julia, I was told to open wide. The doctor sprayed an anesthetic into the back of my throat to numb the throat and calm the gag reflex. The nurse placed a plastic circular device into my mouth and told me to bite on it. This was the opening through which the endoscope was to be inserted. I was told to lay on my side and tilt my head back. The part that was missing from what would have been done in the US was the intravenous sedative, apparently considered an unnecessary luxury here.

The doctor fed the endoscope into my throat and down into my stomach. After ten or fifteen minutes of very uncomfortable probing and looking, the doctor pulled the scope out and I was finished. I think the procedure was performed competently in other respects and the doctor told me that other than several spots on my stomach wall that appeared to be healing, everything was fine. He also said that I had a kink of some sort in my small intestine as it exited my stomach, but he was able to un-kink it. Formal results would come later along with a DVD, which in actuality never was produced.

I did return for the results, I returned to Irina’s office and met with the same young doctor as well as Irina. As I said, the entire cost of this marathon of medical clinics and tests cost such a small amount that it was not worth the time to attempt to process a claim. I may have spent, including the private clinics and all the tests, one-hundred fifty dollars. Even if it was two hundred, it was a fraction of the several thousand dollars worth of medical treatment by US standards. I do not think the quality was always the same; In fact, I am disappointed by the quality of the medical care here. I had expected more from the Soviets. I wasn’t necessarily expecting the system to be at the level of Western medicine, but this was basic treatment and I felt that, in my case anyway, they did not deliver. Most of what I have seen in the former Soviet Union is not too bad. Not to the level that they professed for all those Cold War years, but not as bad as we always thought it was either.

I contacted MedEx and transferred all information to them as I received it. And, after all that, I was told that I was ok. And in fact after several tortuous weeks of visiting clinics in Bishkek, I indeed improved. I was reminded of the humorous story about cold remedies I have heard in several variations, and of which there is an exact Russian equivalent: Take the remedy for fourteen days and your cold will be cured. If you do not take the remedy, your cold will last two weeks.

oo0oo

Sharon in one of the parks
The parks in Bishkek are nothing less than plentiful and beautiful. Flowers are planted and roses tended. There are statues and fountains everywhere. The mayor proudly announced that he had repaired all fountains in the city as well as all the park benches. The lovers, most of whom have no cars, use the parks as a place to meet and court. Parents walk children in strollers, older citizens simply enjoy.

The mountains are on the south side of Bishkek and the city slowly slopes to the north. This geographic characteristic allows for the easy distribution of mountain water for irrigation to the dry city all summer. Every street is flanked by concrete troughs through which water flows at various times as determined by the city’s irrigation schedule. When driving to the mountains, the larger aqueducts can be seen along the road carrying water to the city. This system of irrigation sustains the many parks filled with trees and flowers.

Two boys racing in a fountain
The only thing that detracts from all of this beauty is the lack of mowing of the grass. The grass grows as it wishes and no one seems to be bothered by it except me. I noticed it last year when I first arrived and this spring, it was nearly unbearable. I walk past Gorky Park every morning on my way to work. It was painful. I have complained to Ermek, one of our translators, about this issue. He had no solution other than to say that they indeed do have mowers, but no one here would want to spend their energy to mow grass.

Lawn Rangers taking a break
But then, one morning in June, when the grass was actually too long to cut properly with a mower, there, in Gorky Park, were nine – nine - mowers, each one manned by a knowledgeable if not competent operator. They have returned at least once since then. I have seen this noble battalion of lawn rangers in other parts of the city and I congratulate the mayor on his sensitivity to my concerns about the parks. They really do look much better.

Until Next Connection,
Dan

Along the Silk Road - V. Politics and People

V
Politics and People

The Project, Manas and Central Asia, 2 X 2, Nooruz and the demonstration by “the opposition”, the Journalist, the Dentist, The Consultant

We never get involved in politics in these projects. After all, we are narrowly focused on rule of law and working with courts to insure that the citizens can live under rule of law rather than something more arbitrary. But that leads you back to politics you say. It is true there are no lines, but only a smudge trailing from dark to light with various shades of gray in between. Rule of Law by definition is a type of governance and also by definition a type of governance which excludes others such as monarchies and dictatorships for example. But when we arrive in a country to implement a rule of law project, certain decisions have already been made by people’s governments and we are simply insuring that the decisions are executed in a meaningful way. Or perhaps not so simply.

Although not synonymous with, but in implementation nearly so, rule of law presumes independence of the judiciary. If properly administered, independence of the judiciary can be achieved within an executive institution such as a Ministry of Justice, for example. But more often than not in this modern era, an independent judiciary presumes a separate branch of government administered and funded outside all executive and legislative institutions; similar to what we take for granted in the US. The European Union is not too subtle about its preferences in this regard for any states wanting admission into that select alliance. Even though their original members may not be so structured, the EU prefers states that have separated their judiciaries from their Ministries of Justice. This trend has bled into the former Soviet states and the Kyrgyz Republic is no exception.

In anticipation of significant funding from the US and for a variety of other good reasons, the Kyrgyz Republic separated its judiciary from its Ministry of Justice in early 2008. New judicial institutions were established and began operating in an unfamiliar but desirable environment. Enter our project.

The project which I managed in Kosovo had a slightly different experience due mainly to the point at which it entered on the scene. When we started in Kosovo the UN still controlled the judiciary and most of the government. As the project evolved, the Kosovars moved ever closer to self determination, at least as related to the United Nations control. As that inevitability approached the patriots of the fledgling republic began to debate among themselves, under the watchful eye of the UN and tender guidance of our project, how their judiciary would be structured. They selected a model that mimicked many emerging European nations where the judiciary is essentially an independent branch of government and separated from the Ministry of Justice, governed by a judicial council established for that purpose. It was an exciting time and an inimitable opportunity. I must confess in those days and as things unfolded, due to a variety of unpredictable circumstances, we did perhaps immerse ourselves a bit too far into what would otherwise be considered internal politics of the country-to-be. An overstep, perhaps, but I harbor no regrets and our result represented the will of those who would live with it, and not ours.

The Kyrgyz Republic has not been that situation. Decisions had already been made and implemented when we arrived. A number of laws and proclamations separated the judiciary with all of its related institutions from the Ministry of Justice. The new institutions and some of the old began operating with new and larger responsibilities. One of our goals is to provide assistance to these institutions as they move forward into these new and sometimes treacherous waters.

The "White House" presidential offices
It is inevitable that when institutions are separated from one body and placed independently, and when new institutions are created, the process is less than perfect. That was the experience here in the Kyrgyz Republic. The judiciary had been under the Ministry of Justice and was separated from it. That involved taking out several pieces of an existing institution and assembling them in some sort of logical arrangement to allow for the governance of courts to go forward seamlessly and efficiently. The several institutions in this case were the Court Department of the Ministry of Justice, the Judicial Training Center, and the Judicial Council.

Then another institution was added, the National Council for Justice Affairs. And, as in nearly all places, the Supreme Court looms large with undeniable influence in fact if not in law. When these bodies were reassembled outside of the executive controlled Ministry of Justice, and began operations, a number of problems arose.

The minutiae of the issues are subjects for reports and other types of treatises designed for audiences who actually have an interest in such mundane things. The details are buried in a number of legislative changes and presidential proclamations, not to mention a new constitution. In general terms, what we did glean from all of this was that there were not only gaps, inconsistencies and other normal consequences of reorganization of government, but also an incomplete separation of the judiciary from its parent executive branch. This may have been inadvertent, the result of concern that fledgling institutions would not know how to operate in a responsible manner, or simply a desire on the part of the executive to retain some control. In any event, our analysis disclosed these shortcomings and suggested that corrective measures be taken to completely sever the judiciary from the executive. The actions that we have taken are in an advisory capacity only, but to the extent we have been involved, it could be argued that we have engaged in politics. But we have not.

On a far broader scale, however, they call it geopolitics. It examines the political, economic and strategic significance of geography, where geography is defined in terms of the location, size, function, and relationships of places and resources. The geopolitics of this region are in one sense simply fascinating and another quite relevant to what the United States is doing or attempting to do in the world. When the Soviet Union broke up in the early nineties, all of the surrounding countries making up the union, the fifteen republics, all became independent. In Europe, the countries who affiliated themselves with the Soviet Union; Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungry and East Germany, all became part of the European Union and the NATO alliance. Even some of the former fifteen republics became EU and NATO members. The Russian sphere of influence was severely constricted. And in Central Asia the situation was little better. All of the “Stans” had become independent and, although still closely linked to Russia, began courting Western influences and money. More basically understood; Kazakhstan, has oil, Uzbekistan, gas, and Kyrgyzstan an airbase from which the US could supply the war in Afghanistan.

Europe would like to pipe the oil and gas from Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan to Europe. This would go through Georgia, another story with similar plot. Russia, on the other hand, would like to control all the oil and gas in the region. The US supports Europe in its effort since what is good for Europe is, in general terms, good for the US. Meanwhile Russia is feeling more and more vulnerable, especially on its western border with Europe and in delicate areas like Georgia and Ukraine. As the dust settled on Russia and they became oil rich and economically strong (recent reversal aside) they began to reassert themselves over their former sphere of influence. This reassertion has sometimes been with force. Georgia was the first major flex of muscle. The tarrying in Central America and Cuba was a clear “how do YOU like it” gesture toward the US.

Manas Air Base (Boston Globe photo)
Back in Central Asia, the Manas airbase represented a stick in Russia’s eye, Afghanistan notwithstanding. Russia also maintains an airbase here and does not pay the same level of rent as the US, but principles alone seemingly require this balance. The Kyrgyz Republic is poor and getting poorer with the global economic downturn. The President of Kyrgyzstan took a trip to Russia to negotiate both old and new loans. The Russians agreed to cancel the debt of the Republic and give them a very large new loan stretching several years into the future. As an aside during these negotiations, the Russians mentioned the irritation that the US airbase at Manas caused them. And so the announcement was made by the Kyrgyz President even before he left Moscow to return to Bishkek: The Manas US airbase would be closed in six months. A near unanimous vote of Parliament soon followed.

There is a bar near our apartment called the 2 x 2. It is one of several watering holes for expats. Many of the contractors working at the airbase and Canadians working at the gold mining operation frequent this establishment. A large rectangular bar dominates the room. Its corners are rounded facilitating continuous seating along its circumference. Booths line three walls; the front of the bar looks out through floor to ceiling glass onto the patio. The older overweight man with balding silver hair usually sits at one of the corners smoking a hookah with his drink. Glasses hang under the shelf that runs the course of the bar and holds the bottles of liquor an easy reach above for the barmaids dressed in a manner perceived to be appealing to the clientele. B. sits in his usual place to the left near the front. I often meet Randy, my friend from Iraq, there. The smoke rises to the tall ceiling and the juke box blares American songs. Most of the patrons are men in their late thirties to mid-forties, who, for a myriad of reasons known only to themselves, arrived in this remote corner of the planet. They all make good money and most have few obligations. The women are locals. Some are looking for a way out of this place; others are looking only to support themselves as best they can. Companionship for this group of freewheeling contractors is easily found, either temporary or of a more permanent nature.

I find the environment a good diversion and a place to get whatever scuttlebutt is available or of interest. Lately the talk revolves around the base closing. Decisions are many levels above this group, but when one’s livelihood is at stake, information tends to flow with a fair degree of accuracy. The scenarios offered are varied and many, but it seems there is a consensus that none of these workers are currently packing or looking too seriously for new contracts or a new place in some other part of the world. The possibilities run from negotiations continuing with the US to NATO taking over the operation. Time will disclose what the true state of affairs is. The official word remains that the base will close by end of summer.

Meanwhile, public opinion among the Kyrgyz people seems to be as varied as the rumors surrounding the closure. A sense of inevitability prevails. Most feel that the Government will do what it wants and the average person has little say. There is an opposition to the current administration, however. It is difficult to say how strong that opposition is, but rumors abounded from the time I got to Kyrgyzstan in August that by March there would be another revolution.

Kyrgyz Wrestling on Nooruz
Nooruz marks the first day of spring and the beginning of the year in the Iranian calendar. It is celebrated on the day of the astronomical vernal equinox, which usually occurs on March 21 or the previous or following day depending on where it is observed. Many Central European countries, including Kyrgyzstan, observe this holiday. The 21st of March was a Saturday this year and the weekend in Bishkek was festive. Streets were blocked, traditional games were played in the square in front of Parliament, things such as Kyrgyz wrestling. School children sang for the gathered crowd and nighttime saw a wonderful fireworks display in the central square. We were able to watch from our apartment as the mortars exploded into red and green and white sparkling balls over the top of the White House.

Nooruz celebration. Selling baloons and cotton candy
Because Nooruz fell on a Saturday, we had Monday off in official recognition of the holiday. The 24th, Tuesday, was the anniversary of the 2005 revolution that placed the current President in office. That day was also an official holiday. The much anticipated demonstration by the opposition was scheduled for Friday the 27th. Our apartment is next to Gorky Park. Gorky Park is the officially designated place for demonstrations. Taking about half a block, the park has walks around its perimeter and two paths through the center in an “X” pattern with a statue of Gorky at the center of the “X”. Benches, trees, some flowers in summer, this park, like so many in Bishkek, is a place normally frequented by lovers who occupy the benches entwined in each other’s arms or who lay on the grass talking. My office is directly down the street that runs past the park. We had a good vantage to view the activities.

Demonstration by the "opposition" in Gorky Park
The demonstration was scheduled for ten in the morning. Police were everywhere and streets blocked well before that time. By noon, a sizeable but not large crowd had gathered in front of a trailer appropriately decorated and outfitted, including amplification equipment, as a stage for speakers. The speakers tried to energize the crowd with their rhetoric and they were able to garner a few cheers and applauses, which never quite reached the level of frenzy that they had hoped to whip the crowd into. Sharon was able to watch from our apartment. I decided that it would be better for me to walk home than to have her walk to my office for lunch as was normal.
My staff was reluctant to have me walk past the demonstration for fear that it may not be safe, but because the police and military (judging from the truck parked beside our offices, two blocks from the demonstration site), were out in force, I felt quite comfortable passing the rally. On my trip back to the office after lunch, the man who usually vends along the streets was carrying his tree of pink cotton candy cones into the park. This led me to believe that the violence predicted by some and feared buy others, was not going to happen. The next revolution would have to wait for another day. A second demonstration is scheduled for April 24. We will see if things have changed by then.

The journalists were there. As would be predicted, they covered that event extensively. What is not so predictable is the extent to which they are covering the work on judicial reform that we are doing. Some media attention to our work is always expected due to the nature of the work. This happened in Kosovo and in Bangladesh. Here it seems a bit more extensive. Part of it is due to our own efforts to keep the media, and thereby the public, informed about our activities. Newly independent, the judiciary at the levels where we work is very interested to change the pervasive perception that the judiciary is extremely corrupt. The media is also interested to learn if what we and our counterparts in the Kyrgyz judiciary are doing is or will be effective to eliminate this corruption or the perception of it. Our project had been mentioned or featured numerous times in local papers and web news outlets. I have been featured on one radio program (with translator) along with a Kyrgyz Supreme Court official, and have been in several news articles.

One of the members of the Bishkek media is a woman who is very highly regarded as a journalist. She has covered our activities for her paper, one of the most read in Kyrgyzstan. In addition, she has a weekly column featuring an “international” working in Kyrgyzstan. She focuses on the person and their impressions of the country etc., and not on the activities that the person is involved in. For whatever reason, she asked to interview me for such an article. What I found interesting is her reaction when I responded to her question regarding other lawyers or judges in my family. She seemed astonished that I was the only one among my parents and ten siblings who was a lawyer. I have experienced a cast type system in Bangladesh and am aware that the ability of people to go into any type of work with any degree of education they choose is not so easy in most places. She did not express it, but it was clear that she appreciated if not envied a culture where people have such opportunity and such freedom of choice. We should guard that with all our energy and resources, it is our real strength and what is at the very heart of our society. We take it for granted and that is our greatest threat.

I went to the dentist. Well, I broke another tooth. This seems to be a ritual of some sort for me. I broke one in O’Hare airport on my way back to Kosovo. I broke one in Iraq a week before my departure and I broke one here. This one was not like the others that could be temporarily filed down and used until a better fix at home could be arranged. There was not much left and it was all filling. I had already been to the public dental clinic where free treatment on a first come first served basis is delivered in a room filled with about ten dentist chairs vintage 1955. Each person’s agony is shared with the others. I had gone on that occasion to determine what was causing my prior root canal and crown to be so sensitive to temperature. As did the dentist in Key West, the dentist at the clinic told me that the tooth seemed fine. She looked at an x-ray I had taken at a private clinic across the street from the public clinic. The quality of the picture was better at the private clinic I was told by the public clinic dentist.

It was the tooth next to the tooth I had been complaining about that broke of a sudden. That, as it turned out, was the problem tooth. The pain seemed to come from the tooth next door – the one with the crown. Ironically, a few days before I broke the tooth, Julia said that she had a tooth that bothered her and her dentist suggested that it may be another tooth and took a broader x-ray. In her case it was in fact determined that a neighboring tooth was really the problem. For me it was information discovered too late.

Hollywood Smile Dental Clinic
Julia, our finance officer, is a wonderful person and takes extremely good care of me. She says that she would want to be similarly treated in a strange land if she were ever to travel. She uses a private clinic called “Hollywood Smile.” The sparkling toothy smiling woman on the banner sign eliminates the need to read Cyrillic or Russian. The dentist, as was the case in both the public clinic and the private clinic where I had the x-ray taken, was a woman. This dentist was Julia’s dentist. She told me that the remaining small portion of tooth which remained had a crack and would inevitably break in a short time. I had already contacted Bill in Iraq, by e-mail, about his dentist in Bangkok, but even that trip appeared to be out of the question. Bill had several root canals and an implant done there. While in Bangladesh I had experience, you will recall, with the medical treatment in Bangkok and knew it to be of a high quality. This time I had little choice. Both Julia and the dentist detected my apprehension. I received multiple assurances that the procedure would be Western quality. I agreed to have the work done and paid the roughly one-hundred-fifty dollars to cover the root canal and crown. Appointments were made for the week following.

Julia did not want to bear full responsibility for translating for the dentist, not being that secure in her English, so we took Ermek one of our translators along. Ermek has been with me for all other medical and dental visits here in Bishkek. I had a two hour appointment. The dentist went about her work in a very professional manner, albeit in a chair from the 50s. She continually assured me that everything was sterile and the procedures proper. Clearly she was apprehensive working on an equally apprehensive American. She completed her work; it was painless and included a metal post and extremely well constructed temporary tooth. She was ready to send me to the woman dentist in the next room who would make the crown. She handed me the mirror and said with pride knowing that she had done an excellent job, “you see, we can do good work also.” Reassured because the ordeal was mostly over, I felt a bit embarrassed that I had, although not expressly so, questioned her abilities. It must be difficult to be here as a native to this land knowing that the developed world has perceptions that place you in an inferior position regarding your knowledge and abilities. It is also difficult being here as an American, used to the highest quality of care on earth and not knowing what to expect in these less than fully developed places.

Rick was due to arrive Easter Day, at three in the morning. At three in the afternoon I got a call from him. He seemed chipper, but he was calling from the airport where he had been detained since three in the morning. It seems that he did not have a clear page remaining in his passport on which to insert a Kyrgyzstan visa. I contacted the Embassy and within two hours received a call indicating that in all likelihood Rick would be spending the night at the airport until Monday morning when the consular section could get to the airport with extra pages for his passport. The consular representative indicated that the Kyrgyz Border police had confirmed Rick’s presence but they did not seem overly, if at all, concerned about this inconvenience. It turned out that Rick was treated badly, having been left in a cold room on a metal bench without food or water for over twelve hours. It was thirty hours from his arrival until he was finally allowed into the country and out of the airport. He got a good night’s sleep at the hotel and left the next morning, angry, dejected, and physically ill. Sometimes and in some places it is difficult just being an American.

Until Next Connection
Dan

Along the Silk Road IV - Shopping

IV

Shopping

Beta Store, Ramstore, 24 Hour Stores, Osh Bazaar, Dor Doi, Shopping Malls, “Department Store”, construction area of town, Kiosks, the underground, street vendors, Chinese mall, pharmacies

As I travel, it is always interesting to see what people buy and how it is sold to them. Generally, everywhere, the system is the same. At the top are the supermarkets and shopping malls and at the bottom the street vendors. In between the large markets which we would call flea markets, the kiosks and the smaller stores and shops. In a sense, the stage of development of a country can be gauged by the extent to which they have all levels of marketing vehicles. When we first arrived in Kosovo, there were no shopping malls or supermarkets; by the time we left they had both.

Beta Store at night - ready for Christmas
Here in Kyrgyzstan, there are all types of shopping outlets. For groceries, there are several alternatives. Most westerners and many, if not a majority, of the Kyrgyz rely on sophisticated chain stores like the Beta Store and the Ramstore, both from Turkey. There was a Ramstore in Skopie, Macedonia and I understand there is one in the Kurdish region of Iraq. The one in Bishkek is a taxi ride from my apartment and does not seem to be as busy as the Beta Store which I can walk to. Like the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company or the National Tea Company both in the US and both of which became large chain groceries (A& P and National Food Stores) the Beta stores are offshoots of the Beta Tea Company. Nearly everything can be found in the Beta Store except pork products and alcohol. As a Turkish store they adhere to the principles of Islam – no pork and no alcohol. Ramstore does have alcohol as does the 24 store. As you might expect, the 24 Hour Stores are structured like convenience stores and are located in several convenient areas of Bishkek. I find them to be closer to grocery stores than convenience stores however.

Western, or American type of groceries can be found in these stores and Beta Store makes a particular effort to stock them. Things like peanut butter and microwave popcorn are found in the Beta Store. Anything of this nature is extremely expensive by our standards. For example, a large box of Shop Rite quick oats for oatmeal cost the equivalent of six dollars. A box containing three bags of microwave popcorn, three dollars, spaghetti sauce around four dollars, and so on.
The chain stores have meat and vegetables. I find that vegetables and fruits are best bought on street markets like the one near my apartment or places like the Osh Bazaar. For meat I rely on the refrigeration, fast turn-over, and sanitary standards apparent at the Beta Store. I am sure that other outlets are equally as good, and perhaps cheaper, but I am not familiar enough to take those chances.


Entrance to Osh Bazaar
Fruits and vegetables, on the other hand, are more easily gauged as to quality and freshness. The best place is the Osh Bazaar. The Osh Bazaar is a large open air market with everything imaginable for sale. The fruit and vegetable area is filled with many vendors all ready to sell you their wares. The price is usually less than the Beta Store or the local market, but the expectation from the vendors is that you will buy more. If I only need a small amount I will go elsewhere.

The Osh Bazaar is an experience worth seeing for that fact alone. There are throngs of people and vendors of everything. At the approach to the main entrance to the Bazaar there are those who must rely on the generosity of others to survive. Elderly women sit, some with wares of questionable utility and small round baskets for money. A young mother sits on the ice with a small child, men young and old sit in wheel chairs, some deformed, others missing limbs, all hoping that shoppers will be compassionate. A blind man plays an accordion under the watchful eye of a woman, perhaps his wife; another blind man plays a komuz, the traditional three string instrument of the Kyrgyz people, a child guides him along leading him through the crowd. A woman stands in the middle of the midway selling plastic zippered carrying bags of varying sizes. Men push carts through the crowded lanes and aisles, yelling in Russian or perhaps Kyrgyz, that they are coming through. Vendors hawk, music blares from cd shops, people scurry along making paths where there are none, their best manners having been left at home. It is a busy place full of life and energy. The apparent confusion and chaos becomes more orderly with each visit.

Busy Osh Bazaar Lane
I buy cheese and butter from the dairy section of the bazaar. I would buy eggs if I had something other than a plastic bag to carry them in. For milk I rely on the Beta Store. The women will offer a taste of cheese or butter before you buy. The nut and dried fruit venders do the same, as do vendors of apples and some of the other fruits.
In other areas of the bazaar you can wind through narrow aisles and buy anything from pots and pans, to screws to clothes to electronic equipment. Some bargaining may be done, or sometimes discounts are just offered. Most importantly, the term caveat emptor applies.
Accordion player
If the flea market concept is what is sought, where bargains may be had and bargaining can be done, then Dor Doi is the place to go. The largest market in Central Asia and perhaps the world, it sprawls across acres of land to the north of Bishkek. The number four electric bus has its last stop and turn around near the entrance to Dor Doi. The bus, or trolley bus, runs on tires and is steered by a driver and is powered by an overhead wire connected to the bus by a trolley pole. The cost is five som, or a little over one dollar, each way.


Man plays the komuz guided by a young girl
The last trolley bus stop on that line is outside a vegetable market that must be traversed to get to the road that leads to the Dor Doi market. Once through the vegetable market the main part of Dor Doi is still about three blocks away but the entire distance consists of flea market type of shops. Like all the preceding shops, Dor Doi is a series of shipping containers or conex boxes. They are stacked in rows with an aisle between the rows. They are two-high, the lower box being the actual shop and the upper box for storage. There are thousands of these boxes stacked and open on the ends providing nearly unlimited shopping. The aisles have metal roofs over them so that the entire maze of containerized shopping is inside and out of the weather.

Woman selling nuts and dried fruit
Like Osh Bazaar, the Dor Doi market is divided by type of merchandise. All the clothing is in the same series of rows, the dishes and kitchen ware is in another one or two rows, and so forth. Most of the merchandise is made in China, but some purveyors boast Turkish made goods. The crowds on a weekend are nearly unbearable and vehicular traffic a tangle of near motionless cars, taxis and mini busses. The prices, however, are much more reasonable than in the shopping centers of Bishkek.

Shopping centers are of the urban type in that they are multistory buildings downtown. They are not the sprawling malls with acres of parking like we have in suburban and rural US. There are several in Bishkek, all about four stories, all containing higher quality merchandise. As anywhere, most stores are clothing stores. Designer clothiers do not have stores here, but the clothing in the shopping center stores is of that caliber. I do not shop there often. Clothes here, like many places around the world, are more expensive than in the US. Places like Bangladesh and China have very inexpensive clothes, but that is where clothes are made now.

Red Dot Centre Shopping Mall
People here, like everywhere, are conscientious about their dress. Women in particular make an effort to maintain a stylish appearance. I have noted that women in developing countries have a propensity to keep abreast of the latest fashion. Among the college age women, patent leather calf and knee length boots are commonplace with slacks or Capri pants that reveal their shapely forms. Working women are equally attentive to style and usually are dressed in a way that presents them professionally while emphasizing their best attributes. This requires that they visit the shops in the high end malls. Interestingly, they do not collect clothes to the degree women in the US do, a sign of the differences in economies, but they do spend money to insure that they always look their best, even if they must wear the same outfit several times during the week. The men are not to be ignored. The men in my office, for example, are very much attuned to fashion when dressed for a meeting. They often dress more casually for work in the office. Winter brings out very fine coats with fur hats or felt ivy hats, and the occasional traditional Kyrgyz tall white felt hat.

People here do not make as much money as most people in the US, and as a result they have different spending habits. While we tend to buy lots of things, people here buy a few things but always, where possible, buy quality. They are well aware that the quality of the Chinese merchandise sold at the Osh Bazaar and Dor Doi is less than what is available in the better stores (likely also made in China) but they will try to buy the better quality if they can; and they will get maximum use from the item.

Zum (Name on top corner)
There are other options for shopping. There is a “department store” for example. It is called Zum. Zum is located in the main business area of Bishkek and is in a five story building. Each floor is a separate department – sort of. The main floor for example, is primarily mobile phones. The floor is covered with cubicles of independent mobile phone vendors. And so it is on the upper floors. Each department consists of numerous independent vendors who rent cubicles to sell their products. I once bought a blender there. I visited half dozen or more vendors of small appliances, comparing the price of the same make and brand of blender to find the best deal. The vendors closest to the escalators tend to have the highest prices while the vendors toward the far walls tend to have better prices. This isn’t always true, and each of the shops will offer a small discount.

Riding escalator to main floor of Zum

Another interesting anomaly of Zum is the woman who sits at the top of the escalators on each of the floors. The up and down escalators are side by side in Zum and in between the two automatic stairs sits a woman watching … something, but I am not sure what. I am equally uncertain whether this is a carryover from Soviet days or if there is some legitimate function for these four or five women stationed strategically throughout the store.

Zum is a busy place nearly every day because of the variety of merchandise available in one location. There is no hardware or construction department, however. For these materials, there is a section of Bishkek where all the vendors of construction materials purvey their wares. This area is situated between two of the busier streets in Bishkek. The anticipated result is an inordinate accumulation of trucks, vans and cars in one area during the busiest part of the day. It generally does not bother us except when we go to Bishkek City Court or the Court Department which are located in a building very near. Although I have no need for these materials, interest caused me to wander through the maze of vendors with Ermek one day. Hardware stores have always provided a fascination for me. Seeing barrels of nails and boxes of screws and bolts, and tools for various purposes, and wooden doors, and windows, and tile, provides a bit of tranquility in an otherwise hectic existence. It is not Home Depot or Lowe’s but in a lot of ways it is better. The individual shopkeeper has not left the developing world.


Kiosks
Even where there are not large buildings housing the small vendors, entrepreneurs have found ways to survive. In Bishkek, as was the case in Kosovo and so many other developing countries, kiosks line many of the sidewalks and streets of the city. In Kosovo, in an effort to show that laws were being enforced, the city of Pristina removed all the kiosks from the streets. The illegally built apartment and office buildings still stood, but the kiosks were removed.

Bishkek has not taken this Draconian action. Kiosks are alive and well. They sell chewing gum, newspapers, candy, cigarettes, matches (one som per box), nail clippers, key chains, pens and pencils, lighters and any number of other odds and ends. There are also many that serve as convenience stores selling fruits vegetables, milk, water, liquor, bread and many other grocery items.


Entrance to the underground. (Note sign)
One kiosk near my home opened recently and is large enough to hold several customers at once. I have been in the store when there have been as many as five or six people with room to spare. Most kiosks are much smaller and many do not allow customers inside, they only sell from a window. My new little neighborhood store has been so successful with its variety and good prices that another smaller kiosk fifty meters up the street has closed and been removed. Removal of most of these small metal buildings is a matter of loading it onto a truck and carrying it to a new location.


Shops selling Valentines in the underground
One of the more interesting places for retail shops is what I call the underground. The Soviets – in this case the Russians – are fond of tunnels through buildings into courtyards and of underground pedestrian crossings for busy streets. These are underground tunnels that allow pedestrians to cross streets safely and even allow pedestrians to cross to diagonal corners. They are interesting and functional. Steps at each corner take pedestrians to one or more tunnels that cross under the intersections. These tunnels are lined with small shops about two meters deep and three meters wide. They sell everything from cards to paper products, hair care products, copies, computer time, toys, nearly any type of item that we would have been found in the old “five and dime” stores can be found in the underground shops. There is one underground I cross frequently. It has a key maker on the steps leading down. Women also frequently beg on the steps. Usually the man with the deformed arms sits on the floor with his back to one of the pillars drawing pencil portraits with his bare feet. His money basket is in front of him and pictures lie on the concrete floor around him. One foot holds his paper and one draws. The pictures are very well done.

Street vendors in front of 24 hour store (yes cow hooves)
I usually exit on the stairs to the 24 hour store. At that juncture, there are numerous street vendors. These are mostly women sitting with various types of fruits and vegetables arranged around them. Once emptied and inverted, the crates and boxes used to transport the items to the location become the tables for display and a seat on which to rest through the long day. Street vendors are the bottom rung on the merchandising ladder. They are in various locations and sell many different items. The woman on my walk to work meticulously arranges her umbrella over her small folding table holding gum and candy. She is at the corner were one of the many universities is located. When the weather is bad she will add an additional plastic sheet on top of her umbrella.

Not far from my apartment there is market where there are numerous street vendors, some with fairly permanent tables. These vendors sell primarily fruit and vegetables. I have come to know one of the vendors who always makes sure I get the best of his produce. He speaks no English, but his sons speak a little. There are women selling apples and berries, in season. A man sells apples from the open trunk of an old Lada. One woman sits on a small stool on the sidewalk selling honey from an even smaller table in front of her. A kiosk sells bread. Another mostly drinks.

In every country I have been, there are certain places that are unique to that particular locality. In Bishkek everyone seems to know the Chinese mall. It is a mall containing three floors, not very large, but unique in the fact that all the vendors are Chinese. It is around the corner from one of the seedy hotel casinos in the city and not too far from my apartment. The basement floor is dedicated to furniture; the upper floor clothes. The main floor is where I normally spend time and money. There is a Chinese grocery that has every kind of Chinese ingredient necessary for any Chinese dish. It is the only place in Bishkek where I have been able to find celery. They have an assortment of teas, the extent and quality of which cannot be found elsewhere. Next to the Chinese grocery is a restaurant supply store where kitchen utensils of all description are sold. Dor Doi has an entire lane of dishes and kitchen supplies, but without going through that ordeal, this Chinese mall has an excellent variety closer to home, and without the hassle.

I have already discussed pharmacies, but no discussion of shopping can be complete without a discussion of pharmacies. The pharmacies here are like the ones we used in Kosovo. These are well supplied shops where prescriptions are to give instruction to the pharmacist, not to allow them to sell the drugs. If you know what you need, simply ask. If they stock it you can buy it. I can purchase my blood pressure medicine for a fraction of the cost in the US. If I buy Russian made pills instead of European made tablets, the cost is dramatically cheaper. There are a few large pharmacies, but most are very small shops with glass partitions allowing a vast display of the many medicines and medical related products. Somewhere in the glass, always easily found, is a window where orders are given to the pharmacist. As with nearly all the small entrepreneurial businesses, these pharmaceutical shops are large enough for half dozen people at a time, no more. As an English speaker who not only does not know Russian, but also can make out very little of the Cyrillic alphabet, I am forced to write the generic name of a drug on a slip of paper and pass it through the window to the pharmacist. She (usually a woman) then decides if she has that particular product. Usually they have any drug we commonly use in the US, only much cheaper. To insure I have the correct medicine, I take what I have purchased to the office and have Jyldyz tell me what it says on the box. I have learned to read the Cyrillic Russian name of a couple of the drugs I need.

Shopping is an adventure here. Sometimes it is no different than shopping in the US, but at other times, it is a total departure from our experiences. Particularly challenging for me is dealing in a language I do not understand with people who do not understand my language. I point, use gestures and pantomime. It is like playing a parlor game. There are times when I am told the price which I do not understand and the person does not have a calculator to display the amount for me, I simply hold out my folded bills and hand them to the vendor. They have thus far been totally honest and taken only what they deserve. I am very seldom frustrated by this. It is somewhat of a cultural artifact; watching both how the people with whom I am dealing react, as well as how I deal with the situation. People of all cultures are generally honest, good hearted and hard working. They want the same things we do; a good life where they can feed their families, a warm dwelling, a picnic by a stream, a hike in the mountains, or simply a day of rest. I wonder why we fight each other and cast aspersions and hate; I really do wonder….

Until the Next Connection,
Dan

On My Time in Iraq

On my Time in Iraq

I was listening to CNN November 2, 2008, and they were reporting from Times Square on an event for veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. They talked with one fellow who was in the fight in Fallujah in Iraq, the major battle that ultimately resulted in the city being retaken by the marines. This particular veteran received the Silver Star and Bronze Star and has been nominated for the Congressional Medal of Honor for his actions in that battle. He said that veterans will never be the same as a result of the war simply for having been there. Even if they “never went outside the wire [left the confines of the secure area] of the FOB [Forward Operating Base]” they will be forever effected by the experience. I thought about what he had said and related it to what I had learned from my time in Iraq. I knew that what he said was true. I also knew that there is more to waging a war and helping secure the aftermath than most people realize or want to know. It is precisely this lack of full appreciation for what is involved, a naiveté of sorts, on the part of our recent leadership that caused us to become mired in an unfortunate and complex engagement in a part of the world we really know very little about. That is when I knew that I could now and indeed must, write about my experiences in Iraq. Not just the experiences with the dangerous situations, but the overall experience of a modern war, the costs and logistics, and attempts to reconstruct a society devastated by the carnage.

There are two things that permanently affected my outlook and my psyche. The first is the unwitting waste of phenomenal amounts of money on efforts which were guaranteed to fail or at best, not survive our occupation there. On this point I can only speak with authority about the undertaking in the Rule of Law area. The second thing that has affected me is what everyone asks about and is most concerned about; the danger of being there. This was pushed more to the back of my mind but was yanked to the forefront again by the vet I listened to on CNN. I will discuss this first.

I.

The required two weeks of courses in the greater Washington D.C. area were designed to give every person deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan the very minimal of information and skills necessary to adapt to what they would be seeing once in the theatre. There was a course on first aid to give basic information on how to react to injuries that may result from an attack. These included instruction on where we would find medical supplies in the various buildings and what to do if we were not in such a place. Basic trauma response. Tourniquets, when and how to use them, writing on the persons forehead with the date and time it was applied, etc. Methods to stop various types of bleeding. Who to treat first when there were multiple injuries, including making difficult decisions on priorities. And other more ordinary first aid responses.

There was a class in recognizing situations where we might be targeted. These were designed to increase our situational awareness. We were taught what things might be unusual and how to remain alert at all times for unusual things. We were told to alter times and routes of travel to regular venues. As part of this exercise we traveled in groups to and from a location while being stalked by several police instructors who were trying to plan an attack on our vehicles. What became clear to me as a result of this exercise was that it is nearly impossible to identify such dangers if the stalkers have enough intelligence and manpower. Finally we had a defensive driving course designed to teach basic emergency driving techniques in the unlikely event that we would ever be in such circumstances.

I understood the usefulness and the necessity of the courses while taking them. Kaz, because he was coming for a short time, was excepted out of the courses and it took him a long painful week to adjust to what was happening around him. It was not that he was afraid; to the contrary, he lacked the full appreciation of the circumstances to be cautious when he needed to be. Several trips to a duck and cover bunker had a way of creating a situational awareness where one was lacking. Kaz left a different person than when he came.

Chatting with a colleague on street in Green Zone
The first months were largely quiet with only a very few incoming rockets into the Green Zone. We traveled outside the Green Zone with either private PSD (Personal Security Detail) teams or military PSD teams. They always did what we were told they would do: advise us of the route to be taken, instruct on the equipment in the vehicle, either an up-armored (armored) Suburban or an up-armored Humvee, instruct on what to do if we came under attack, etc. The units consisted of twelve armed soldiers or private PSD forces, and four armed and armored vehicles. The private PSD teams used an additional two or more scout cars which were manned by masked Iraqis often Kurds, who were armed but in soft (unarmored) vehicles. Together with all other personnel we wore helmet and flak jacket – body armor, often called hard gear or battle rattle. The flak jackets were equipped with Kevlar or metal plates in front and back and weighed around thirty or forty pounds.

Preparing for a trip to a court.

Man in uniform is an Air Force Lawyer
The trips were always intense by the very nature of the exercise. The scout cars’ job was to clear traffic. The military PSDs often used helicopters to give advice on traffic patterns etc. to the military PSDs. The scout car occupants would often exit their cars and, weapons in hand, walk through traffic moving vehicles aside so the PSD team could get through. Stopping was a critical incident. No one wanted to be sitting in traffic in such circumstances. Moving targets are more difficult to hit than stationary ones. The goal always was to keep moving. If going on the opposite side of the street, even across a median, would keep us moving, that is what they did. All in all it was a very tense and, from an Iraqi civilian’s point of view, offensive undertaking. The objective was to get us safely to our destination.

There was one place in particular that was always a concern to me as well as the PSD teams. On the street leading to Rusafa, FOB Shield and the Ministry of Interior, it was necessary to pass under an overpass where two streets intersected. It was tunnel-like and constricted. Above the entrance and exit to this underpass, the crossing street passed and was flanked by sidewalks which overlooked the street below; the one we traveled. Sometimes the PSD teams would wait outside for traffic to clear and then speed through. There was always a danger during the time that the team was waiting. It was possible to wait at a traffic circle on the trip back which had the advantage of an Iraqi policeman to stop all traffic while we waited. It also was situated in a way that allowed the vehicle with principles – us – to move even if slightly to make targeting more difficult. In those instances (and similarly in other parts of the city), the other PSD vehicles would pull alongside and protect the principles’ vehicle from the most obvious source of a threat. Nothing was perfect, but the teams were extremely well trained and cautious. They were supported by TOCs (tactical operations centers) at the Embassy or elsewhere who advised of anticipated dangers and were in radio and other contact, such as GPS, with the teams. Some teams would simple move through the underpass as fast as they could after clearing as much traffic as possible, but without stopping.

Walking to a court
We entered buildings the same way. We never got out of the vehicles ourselves. Strict instructions were that we waited for the PSD team member to open the doors. There was a procedure. The team members would get out of their vehicles and do a quick check of the area. Two would post themselves on either side of our vehicle and wait for the others to give an all clear. Only then would they open the doors for us to exit. Then they would always lead as we walked into the building. Our preference was to take our body armor off before entering buildings so as to present a more normal demeanor to our counterparts. Sometimes the PSD Team Leader would require us to remain in body armor until we reached our destination within the building. They would also enter any room we were scheduled to have a meeting and check it before allowing us to enter. Even then, there was an incident where a bomb went off and killed an international who was meeting with a judge.

There was one occasion when our interpreter Aubakr and I were meeting with some Iraqi court officials; the IT Director and one of her assistants. We had a discussion in one of the courts in a part of the city which was secure but dangerous. This area I suppose could be contrasted from neighborhoods like Sadr City where we did not go at all, although we had gone to the edge of Sadr City to visit the Judicial Training Center. But this court was in an area where conflict among the local factions often occurred as well as attacks on American military.

I had traveled with some of the PSD team before, in particular the team leader and medic, a tall black man with a distinct British accent. He wore a bandana covering what may well have been dredlocks. A British flag adorned his vest. He gave us the usual run down. "If we are incapacitated press the red button... If we have to break out of the vehicle, these are the tools.... If I am out of the vehicle and there are injuries throw out my bag .... " and so on.

In orchestrated form the vehicles moved out from our Green Zone pick-up point in a line, all of them, led by two scout vehicles - soft cars driven by masked people who speak the local tongue. The unit weaved and wound, each vehicle covering for the next with particular attention to ours. We were the principals. Sirens blared and men hung out of the chase cars with orange flags waving. Police stopped traffic and cleared paths in traffic jams. The team was tense when we had to wait in traffic congestion. A scout car passenger exited and urged cars to pull over to make a path through the stalled traffic. It was a scene right out of a plottless violent B movie.

We arrived at the court. Abu and I took our gear off before exiting. We wanted to appear to our hosts as normal as possible. Our small private army escorted us, weapons at the ready. The hallway was politely cleared by our armed companions. We met the judge, but he was not who we were there to see. After exchanging pleasantries, we proceeded to a computer room where we were joined by the IT manager for the Iraqi courts and one of her assistants. She is a woman who I came to know and fully respect for her direct firmness and pleasant smile. We had come to view a software system installed with US dollars a few years earlier. The meeting went well in certain respects and not so well in others, but we were always pleasant and always making progress. The guards stood sentry at the door.

Just as we neared an end point to the meeting our PSD team leader, head wrapped in a black scarf, entered the room holding our hard gear (PPE, personal protection equipment, helmet and vest). As unobtrusively as he could not then be, he whispered that a bomb had gone off two hundred meters away and we were leaving. The cardinal rule is that the PSD team leader is in charge - always. If he says it is time to go, then it is time to go. No arguments or last few words. We put our gear on and thanked our hosts.

This was the first time that I have been in a situation where the intensity of everyone, the PSD team in particular, was elevated several notches. As we walked down the hallway, a man tried to pass a paper to another man, possibly his lawyer, by reaching in front of us as we approached. Our armed escort pushed the man's arm back and said, "excuse us please." Always professional, but direct and authoritative we were led to the car. No stopping, no wasted motion. Once inside the cars, in practiced form, we sped from the court compound and down the streets. Within minutes we were a safe distance and the team leader briefed us as best he could. An explosion had occurred very close to the court. We had not heard it but the US military was on the scene and we needed to be quickly evacuated. After all was done and we were safely back in the Green Zone and walking back to the Embassy, carrying hard gear, as so many do in that area, it quickly became business as usual

On another occasion, we visited the Rusafa Court. Inside the building there was an open area extending up to the second floor. The staircase was located in this area. There was a balcony around above the vestibule below. As we entered, I looked up to see two members of our PSD team already stationed on the balcony. It was as though we had occupied the building. There, with long guns at the ready, bodies draped in extra clips and various other types of smaller hand held weapons, helmet secured, stood part of our team. It appeared that we had our own army of mercenaries, and in fact we did.

Tee Walls along a Baghdad Street
In order to make travel safer, nearly all streets in the Green Zone are bordered by tee walls. Tee walls are concrete wall sections with a “T” base. They are assembled like inverted “Ts” They are usually twelve feet high, about one foot thick, eight feet wide and interlock to form a solid impenetrable wall of concrete. Tee walls are even used outside the Green Zone to protect heavily traveled routes. Route Irish from the airport is tee walled for several kilometers. Much of that section is being transformed into murals by local artists. Sadr City has been divided by a long tee wall to keep insurgents confined. It is hard to get

Baghdad Street in the Red Zone the flavor of the city when so much of it is obscured behind tee walls. What is visible is not unlike any large city, with storefronts and markets. People move about in cars; a few in other modes of transport such as motor cycles. The dress is everything from western to typical Arab dress. Some women are covered in black burkes others wear western dress. Nothing looks prosperous. The results of war are everywhere.

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But that was when we moved (traveled to outside the Green Zone). When we worked in the Embassy daily and walked from our hooches to the Palace it was very tranquil for several months. Ninety percent of my time was spent in the Embassy. There may have been a few incidents of rocket attacks but very infrequently and none ever hit in the area of the Palace. The Palace itself was an imposing structure. Easily two city blocks long and two stories high. It falls somewhere between beautiful, ostentatious and garish. The ornate hand painted ceilings and door trim were works of art. The plastic crystal looking chandeliers everywhere were overkill. The building was obviously used for a combination of official business, with hallways of offices, and for official ceremonial events, with one huge ballroom and several smaller ones. All entrances were manned by the Peruvian forces hired by the contractor. The doors were all air-lock doors; that is you enter one door and get cleared by a guard before a second door is unlocked to let you pass through.

Back of Palace
All functions will move to a new purpose built Embassy down the street from the Palace, but until then the Palace serves as the American Embassy. The old American Embassy is next door to the Palace and is now a bombed out shell. The North end of the Palace is where the Ambassador’s office was located and where the military and other secure offices were located. The North end was once a huge ballroom but was divided into offices with eight foot walls for use by mostly military personnel. The ceiling is over twenty feet up. Statues line the walls about half way up the perimeter walls and everything is
ornate, except of course the temporary walls built to give office space for the Americans. Great care was taken to insure that all the alterations made by the Americans during this several year temporary occupation of the building can be undone with minimal damage to the original structure. It will be for the Iraqis to decide what to do with the building after that. My bosses were in the North end of the Palace under the section with the private boxes that overlooked the ballroom. A couple of small offices were carved out of the grand entrance area for my supervisors. Every inch of space was used.

An airlock door separated this section of the Palace from the Middle section where several conference rooms were located and where the rotunda under the big green dome of the Palace is located. Marines check people into the North end and let people move back into the rest of the Palace. There was one long hallway down the front of the Palace from the middle section to the far South end. During sandstorms, a haze could be seen if looking from one end of the hallway to the other; a reminder that the air inside was only marginally more clear than the brown fog of the outside. It was in this hallway when, during the rocket attacks of late March and April of 2008, my boss and I were walking as the “duck and cover” alarm went off advising everyone to: “duck and cover, stay away from the windows.” We had been walking and talking and simply continued until we came to a place where we would be passing windows. The rocketing of the Green Zone had been going on for several days or weeks at that time. The “all clear” had not been announced over the loud speakers yet, so we stopped and continued our discussion. Several other people were also stopped waiting for the” all clear.” A woman standing next to T. suddenly broke into tears and literally slid down the wall into a crumpled pile, sobbing on the floor. We turned and watched; there was nothing we could do. Some people came to her assistance, helped her up and escorted her away. The all clear sounded and we proceeded on.

Hooch
This was during the time when, because of the incessant and random rocket attacks, the Ambassador had ordered all personnel to remain under hard cover at all times. That meant that the housing units were abandoned and everyone was sleeping on cots in the Palace. In the daytime, people could go shower in their hooches, wearing hard gear to and from, but had to sleep and work inside the cover of the Palace. A great amount stress was created by these circumstances; living in cramped conditions on cots together with fellow employees, wearing body armor to go to meals or to shower, and rockets falling without warning.

My office was located at the far south end of the Palace, immediately south of a large room used for the Internet café for the troops and others, the library, and the Green Bean coffee shop. This is where the Ambassador and dignitaries like Condoleezza Rice would address the staff. The room from which my office was cut was once Saddam’s decision room. A large room which under American use, contained offices for perhaps as many as one hundred people. On the domed ceiling were painted horses in a large circle against a background of clouds and blue sky. These represented the Arab tribes. On the east wall was a mural of a mosque, on the west wall the famous scud missiles with flames shooting from them, flying toward Iran. We worked in a room about twenty feet by twenty five feet; ten of us, plus a conference table. Well, usually only seven or eight of us, but when the guys who were out taking a one hundred percent inventory of one of the larger contractors were in Baghdad, we had ten. It was a crowded place to be, but we were under hard cover never worrying about the rocket attacks. We had no windows, so when the duck and cover alarm went off we just kept working. Even when the rocket hit the Embassy near the entrance we normally used, maybe two hundred feet from our office, we did comment that it sounded like a direct hit, but we kept working. Within seconds K. came rushing into the office to tell us it hit right where they were standing smoking. They came in, of course, when the C-RAM (Counter Rocket, Artillery, and Mortar) went off, but it was at that location.

I should explain the systems we had for warnings. One was a simple announcement over the intercom system which extended to many parts of the Green Zone where US personnel would be residing or working. This system reacted to rockets that had already landed. You may hear an explosion and then the announcement would come across the loud speaker; “duck and cover, get away from the windows….” The C-RAM system actually would pick up the rockets on radar and give a five second warning of its impact. “Incoming, incoming. Take cover;” followed by a boom.

The rule for the dining facility (DFAC) was to drop down and get under the tables. Our particular facility had a special hard cover. Sometimes we did get down, but usually, about half of us just kept eating. I do remember a time when my two bosses and I were having dinner and a large boom was heard out the window near us. The rocket hit half a block away. We all looked at each other and, without speaking, moved in unison, albeit slowly, to get under the table.

It started Easter Sunday. There were, I think, twelve or so separate attacks with several rockets in each. I wondered if it was just the type of reminder they had been giving us on holidays such as they did on Thanksgiving. Monday there were no attacks. I reasoned that my thinking was correct. Then came Tuesday and beyond. The attacks actually coincided with al-Maliki’s assaults on Basra and Sadr City, both at that time controlled by the Madhi Army of Shiite Muslim cleric Muqtada al-Sadr. Regardless, the attacks continued daily, dawn until dark. Ten, twelve or more a day. Three, four or more rockets in each attack. The Iranian rockets were launched from people’s backyards, school yards and other innocuous places where it would be difficult for the Americans to find and retaliate against the perpetrators. In addition, they used timed detonators so that the persons setting the rockets were long gone by the time they launched. Guidance was better than random, but not precise by any measure. The LZ (Landing Zone) Washington helicopter landing site three hundred yards from the south end of the Embassy where I worked, was hit several times, leading us to believe that it was being targeted.

Ba'ath Party Headquarters from camp
Blackhawk camp, where I lived in a small compound operated by my employing agency, was literally in the parking lot of the Ba’ath Party Headquarters, now a bombed out shell. Saddam had been in the bunker under that structure during much of the initial campaign into Baghdad. A Tee wall separated our camp from the Iraqi special operations unit that used a salvaged portion of the former Ba’ath building. We learned that during the rocket attacks, an Iraqi was found on the roof of the headquarters building with antenna and radio equipment, ostensibly calling in coordinates. Targets other than the Embassy and the heliport included some Iraqi government officials’ homes along the Tigris River to the north of our camp, maybe a kilometer or so from us. I don’t know that the CSH (Combat Support Hospital) was a target, but it had several rockets fall in its parking lot or nearby. The CSH was two hundred yards from our camp. Phoenix base was also hit several times, once resulting in several military personnel being killed as they worked out in the gym.

I recall most of this time as a series of anecdotes, and perhaps my experience is best shared that way. On the Tuesday after Easter we walked to breakfast to the sight of a huge plume of billowing black smoke from behind the Embassy where the DFAC was located. The DFAC was unharmed but a warehouse behind the DFAC was hit by one of the early morning rockets we had heard from our beds. The next day one hit housing units behind the Embassy, one of which belonged to a friend of mine. He was not in it at the time. It was in these early days that one of the Embassy employees whose office was across the hall from mine, was killed in his hooch. Within a week or so there was a directive that all Mission Employees (those working in the Embassy under the greater umbrella of the Ambassador) were required to wear hard gear at all times while outside the Embassy compound and had to use the buddy system – no one walking alone. This directive also closed the Palace pool and outside MWR (morale, welfare and recreation) events. Employees were given the option to sleep in the Palace.

Gary and I had gone from the Embassy back to the camp one morning using the buddy system. He needed something and I did as well. There had been no rockets that morning. Before we could get back to the Embassy the attack started. We retreated to the duck and cover bunker in our camp. Better than most, our duck and cover bunker was equipped with benches along the sides and a light and fan. The benches were covered with dust, a testament to the lack of use of the bunker. It would be some time before the dust would settle there again. Made of concrete six inches thick and shaped like an upside-down “U” the bunkers provided cover from the blasts and flying shrapnel. Most, including ours, had short tee walls at the open ends so that all sides were fairly well covered.

We sat in rows along the sides of the bunker, facing each other, knees nearly touching, waiting for the all clear. We heard several blasts then silence. Finally the all clear sounded over the loud speakers positioned around us. Gary said he was not going back to the Embassy; without a “buddy” I could not go either. I went back to my hooch. Gary and Randy were playing Tiger Woods Golf in the MWR room on the TV there. Agnes went about her cleaning, others their own business. It was not long before another attack came; we followed the same routine scrambling to the bunker. We waited, the all clear sounded, and then another attack came. Although they had started late in the morning, there were more attacks that day than nearly any other.

We could hear them exploding around us, some near some farther away. At one point, Randy and I were sitting outside. I was smoking a cigar and drinking an aperitif in the late afternoon. The day had been a series of jaunts to the duck and cover bunker. I had my helmet near and my vest on. It was eerie when we heard the whistle of the rocket over our heads. It was as clear as if blown directly into our ears. We jumped simultaneously and ran to the bunker. Had we looked up, I am convinced we could have seen the rocket. As we entered the bunker we heard the blast. It was very close, perhaps at the CSH.

There was really no time nor reason to reflect on the happenings around us; simply react. It was not until I was sitting in Chester’s Cigar Bar at the Hotel Le Royal smoking a cigar and enjoying the last of a draft beer I had with my Caesar salad that I allowed my mind to reflect on what we had been through. Although it was then May, it was too cool to sit outside on the tenth floor veranda, but the glass could not mask the night lights of Amman as they rolled over the hills into the distance. A typical low rise sprawling Middle-eastern city of a couple million. Everything is the color of sand except those buildings painted white. The high desert of Amman reminds me a lot of Reno, Nevada.

Soft American Jazz was playing; the decor distinctively British, although the hotel post-dates that era. It was designed to make Westerners feel comfortable. Other than a man and a woman in traditional Arab dress, the man in his Dishdashah with shumagg on his head, she wore an abayah, hejab on her head with her face exposed, the rest of the patrons could as easily have been in London, New York or Chicago.

I took a long draw; I blew the smoke toward the high heavily wooded ceiling. Nibbling on a nut from the dish in front of me I reflected on the recent events back in Baghdad. The reality began to sink in. The realization of the true essence of the danger we were in crept timidly and with great hesitation to the forefront of my mind. It finally occurred to me that the difference between us and those who had been killed or injured by the incessant attacks was a matter of luck. The rockets had fallen where they were instead of where we were. We heard them, they felt them. The rockets shook the ground near us, the ragged steel shrapnel tore through their bodies. All because they were hit and we were not. They were neither more nor less a specific target than we were. I quickly decided that these were things I would not want to dwell on for long, nor in any great depth. I swept the thoughts back to where they had been safely kept until then. I crushed the last inch of cigar into the ash tray. I drained the glass of the remaining beer. The waiter came rushing to my side, obsequious in his offer to fulfill my further needs. I asked for the check, signed it, and returned to my room.

After the employee was killed in his hooch and other housing units were hit by rockets, a directive was issued requiring employees to wear hard gear at all times while outside and all employees would be required to sleep under hard cover, i.e. the Palace, and no one could drive in or ride in anything other than a hard (armored) car. All movements outside the Green Zone were indefinitely cancelled. The only people allowed into the Green Zone from BIAP were essential employees. Work became whatever could be done inside the Embassy and over the computer.

Compound villa
Cots were issued to all employees and people began finding places in their offices, in the hallways anywhere they could to sleep at night. I slept one night in my office with my suite mates. The cot gave me a terrible back ache, the women in another office found it desirable or necessary to stay awake and talk and laugh half the night; all in all it was a miserable night. Gary had closed our camp in light of the Ambassador’s orders. Most of the residents of our little camp were not Embassy employees but contractors who guarded another compound we had south of the Embassy. This compound was three former homes with walled yards. These homes were the typical concrete homes of well to do Iraqis. They were in fact hard cover. We had encircled them with Tee walls and secured them with a combination of American and South African guards, all of whom lived in the Blackhawk compound. An additional contingent of Iraqi guards supplemented the efforts of the professional guards; they manned the watch towers. The problem with this compound was that it was located immediately next to a group of twelve-story apartment buildings. The compound was an easy target for potential insurgents in the apartments. As a result, we could not use it for our offices, nor could anyone from the Embassy stay overnight there. Nonetheless, Gary moved our camp to that compound and procured hard cars in which to drive back and forth. In light of the circumstances and because the employees were not Embassy employees, the Embassy security people allowed Gary to use the compound instead of our camp.

The morning following my first horrible night in the office, I prevailed on Gary to prevail on my bosses to allow me to stay at the compound. Without going into detail, an exception was made and I spent the next weeks until the restrictions were lifted, at the compound. At least there was a bed and quiet at night.

The worst time for all who worked in the Embassy was this particular time. Outside rockets were dropping randomly and without warning; inside people were living in close quarters, working and sleeping in virtually the same space. Non essential people were not allowed into the Green Zone, all travel was suspended. Nerves were raw.

******

The reaction of the various people was interesting and instructive. There were many who could not take the rocket attacks at all. K. was one. He stumbled several times, injuring himself, running from his hooch to duck and cover bunkers. Although he gave an outwardly calm expression his actions and talk made it clear that he was not doing well. He did not go outside unless he had to. He somehow got the idea that there might be an invasion of the Green Zone. He openly worried about that and looked for places in the Palace where he might hide if we were overrun. For the sake of those who are not familiar with the Green Zone, it is a secure area about two miles square. Inside there were several major US military camps, not to mention the various other coalition partner forces in other embassies. But the mind does funny things in stressful circumstances.

I began to watch carefully to note how my colleagues were reacting. I was the link between our staff in the south end and my supervisors in the north end. I recommended that K. be sent to Camp Klecker at BIAP (Baghdad International Air Port) until he left for leave or the rocket attacks stopped. I approached him with that option and he gave it some consideration but decided in the end to wait until he left on R&R.

On one of the days we were stuck in the camp going in and out of the duck and cover bunker, and when several hooches behind the Embassy were hit, without injury, Alex showed up at our camp with a back pack. Alex was a Romanian-American and a friend of Randy’s. He wanted a place to stay, he did not want to stay behind the Embassy in his own hooch. I suppose he thought he was better off with us. Gary was not happy, but Randy obliged Alex.

The game of choice on the Play Station or whatever other make of TV computer game player it may have been, was Tiger Woods Golf. Tiger Woods Golf was actually a pleasant distraction. I didn’t play, but Randy was expert and Gary was close, so was Piedt. It was entertaining to watch them play. Gary could not beat Randy and that frustrated his retired Marine “Gunny” Sergeant ego greatly. They played for hours at a time. They played in the MWR room. On one occasion, Gary and Piedt were playing while several of us watched. I was on the couch sitting on the end closest the door. Randy was on a chair at the opposite end of the couch and furthest from the door. The C-Ram went off and we all got up to move to the duck and cover bunker. Somehow, Randy made his way out the door before me even though I was closer. The story grew with each telling by Gary until it became something like; “The judge wasn’t moving fast enough so Randy knocked him down and ran right over top of him. The judge had footprints on his back.” It surfaced at every barbeque after the attacks stopped and Gary never tired of telling it – and embellishing it.

Alex brought another game to the camp when he arrived for his several days stay. It was some sort of G-I Joe game with guns and bombs going off. I said, “there isn’t enough of that outside?” I don’t like those games anyway and certainly not in the circumstances we found ourselves. I left Alex and Piedt to their play. Shortly after that conversation, a rocket blast was heard and we all headed for the duck and cover bunker. Within seconds, a couple of additional rounds hit. About that time, Piedt and Alex came running into the bunker. They were laughing. They said they were not sure the sounds were the game or from rockets outside.

John worked in the TOC. He was an extremely nice guy and conscientious. He had been in Iraq for two years with the military, first during the original invasion, then for a year at a later time. He saw a lot of action in the early years of the war. He had worked in his position in the TOC for a year or so, making his tenure in Iraq over three years. He was an example of how people can be in those environments too long. John jumped at every sound. If the truck dropped the dumpster (which it did often) he started for the duck and cover bunker. If a rocket landed no matter what time of night, he was in the bunker. Everybody in the camp knew he was too edgy and so did he. We often said, “John, why don’t you go home?” I surmise that when people have been in a dangerous situation for so long without injury, they begin to consciously or sub-consciously believe that their luck may be running out. It is hard for me to know what brings on this reaction after someone has endured for so long, but it is a real phenomenon. It is part of what the vet was talking about in Times Square in early November. Within a month or so John did make the decision to go home for good.

Agnes cleaned the camp and our hooches. She was Filipino. Kobis was a security guard and former South African Policeman. Agnes was noticeably frightened every time we huddled in the bunker. On one occasion, rockets had hit to the north of us. The prior attack had hit to the south. Kobis was sitting in the bunker with the rest of us and decided to analyze the attacks. “That hit to the north.” He said. “The other one hit to the south. They are triangulating us.” As he talked Agnes’ eyes grew larger and larger. Gary not so subtly asked Kobis to stop.

I was awakened by the solid, heavy, sharp and distinctive sound of a rocket exploding nearby. Then came another; it was 6:30 in the morning on my day off. As I lay in my warm bed, I debated whether to crawl under its somewhat secure metal plate form or just stay where I was and hope for the best. Within a few minutes I could hear the sirens and the all clear. I rolled over. Since my normal awakening time was 6:00. I wondered if I would be able to fall back asleep. I thought that I might just as well start the day. But I wanted to catch up a bit on sleep. I turned a few more times under the covers. Then the sirens came again, and the voice over the loud speaker somewhere outside, "duck and cover! Duck and cover!" Within a few moments another boom, and another, and another. I got up. No sense in delaying it any longer. I turned on my computer. "All clear. All clear." The muffled voice declared. I turned on the light by the coffee maker. Boom! Boom! A belated; "duck and cover! Duck and cover!" I started the coffee then sat at my computer. More booms, some close, some in the distant. For an hour maybe more it kept going. I decided that I may as well relax. If the unlikely event of a direct hit on my hooch happened, then it would surely be my time to go. A fatalistic attitude I suppose, but I never had the feeling that I would die in Iraq. I was pretty confident in that.

Belief in ultimate survival does little to quell the effects that the experience has on the psyche from being in such uncertain and therefore stressful circumstances. I was home on R&R in a Best Buy with Sharon and our son Patrick. The people in the audio section were trying out the speakers, and of course, as with all people of that age and inclination, they wanted to hear the base. The base speakers could be heard everywhere in the store as a boom, boom. Then it would stop until the next person listened. Boom, Boom. I asked Sharon if she noticed. She didn’t. My ears were tuned into those sounds. I knew they were not rockets, after all I was in the US at Best Buy, but my experience made it impossible to not notice all such sounds and identify them in an instant. We began to be able to recognize a rocket from the sound of the dumpster being dropped, but also a rocket from a car bomb; a rocket that hit outside the Green Zone or fell short. It just happens. And all of this is what the vet in Times Square was talking about and trying to get people to understand. Things that happen in war stay for a long time. I am fortunate to have only been working there a short time in a relatively secure setting. It has happened in all wars and is a reason we should avoid wars at all costs. The toll in human suffering is far too extensive and great.

Part II. must wait,
Until the Next Connection,
Dan