War Withdrawal: Part Three

When you open your eyes, you're on your back on the flight deck of the USS Trenton. You haven't been sleeping because you can't. It is the middle of the night on Friday. There is no moon. Two things occupy your attention: a) the belt of stars that comprise the Milky Way stretching in an arch from horizon to horizon, b) the tightness in your stomach.

You call your family. You tell them that you are fine, relieved in fact. 1) This is partly true. Evacuation has been stressful. You've made a pact to carry pacifiers with you the next time you are evacuated from a warzone. With the immediate stress gone, you have noticed that your body is coming back to you, your physical strength is returning. There is tone to your calf muscles and shoulders after days of lugging around your backpack. In the bathroom belowdeck, you noticed that you have an even tan from the hours under the overpass sun. 2) This is partly a lie. There is something wrong, but as you're not the sort who gives ambiguous bad news without identifying the root cause and having created a portfolio of viable options for dealing with the issue, you keep your mouth shut and let the problem fester. And it does.

You have spent the day wandering the deck.

You have watched from a distance as the tension has receded with the coastline, watched as teenage Lebanese/American girls flirt with American/American navy personnel and marines...who enjoyed the hell out of it.

You have watched elderly men quip about the old days when they were soldiers and ask probing questions to the young, bored marines about the operation.

You learn that the ship you are on normally carries 274 crewmembers - today, there are almost 2000 on board. You learn that the ship is 40 ft across but lose the length as you are mentally converting ft to meters. You see it in your head as metres.

You wander the ships innards.

The screaming mothers/children/fathers have collapsed on every conceivable surface. You ask a crewmember where you should sleep, hoping that you'll be able to sleep. "Man, s***, I don't know. Look around, anywhere you know? How bout there?" He points to a dark bunk, the lowest on a stack of three. You thank him, get down on your hands and knees and crawl in. You rest your head on a pillow and find a squirming baby in its place. You start - it's pitch black, you can't see where its head is but you whisper "Sorry baby" and crawl out and wander to the kitchen.

You tried to eat the boxed lunch handed to you when you first got on, but couldn't.

You sit and try and eat the dinner - mashed potatoes from a box and processed beefstake.

You are thankful for it and could swear you are starving, but you can't eat. Something is officially wrong. Still, you push in a cookie. You have to eat, you tell yourself.

You pass out for a few minutes while watching AFTV (Armed Forces TV - closed circuit television station playing on a few sets throughout the ship). "National Treasure" is on; you have never been able to see the seams of movies to clearly. When you wake up you are watching a public service announcements made by AFTV for the troops; the spot features 1 white male soldier, 1 white female soldier, 1 black male soldier, 1 Japanese female soldier. They have perfect military teeth which they flaunt as they laugh in slow motion in a counseling circle. The spot advocates that military personnel with suicidal thoughts should see out help from 1) their onboard counselor, 2) their superior officer or 3) their fellow crewmembers in that order. The next spot is about sexual harassment and the military's policy towards sexual assault. You are almost certain this was not made for your eyes.

The spots lead into an airing of Hardball. Chris Matthews is interviewing the Washington Post Reporter from Beirut. You think of calling the WPR and telling him that you saw him on TV until you realize how dumb you sound even to you.

You get up, you find another empty bunk. You lay down. You look up. There's actually a pin up girl pinned up to baseboard above you. You have seen it all, you think. You pass out. You wake up. You look down to find a serviceman laying on the tiny empty spot between the bunks. There has been a shift change - it must be late. You hate yourself for having taken this man's bunk until you climb quietly down over him to realize that the floor is littered with navy bodies, telling tattoos of "Alabama" and other states etched into their forearms. They have all given up their beds. Now, you also have problems with this relief effort at large and struggle to find someway to tell these men "thank you". And this keeps you up.

You wander above deck. You take your belongings with you. You have seen the American for the last time hours before; then, you found him taking the same photograph that you were taking. One of a distant battleship providing escort for the Trenton under the setting son. He's happy, ready to go, ready to have his family relieved. He says he'll head to Turkey and then figure it out from there. You tell him that you're going to Cairo but feel tired when you say it. Your stomach is tight, your plans are changing.

With most people asleep, the deck dark and quiet you find yourself staring at the day-glow sticks the navy has used to outline the edge of the ship. You watch them bob. You think of the head of the little girl that lives above the internet cafe across from AUB that sticks her head out of the window when you sit outside in between blog entries. "psst" she says until you look up at her window. Down she goes in giggles.

Two men are talking: Military and Elderly. You wander over and chat with them. Elderly is press, has high powered friends from back in the day, got helicopter lifted to the deck of the Trenton hours earlier. "Really enjoyed the flight." Military is Press Officer "So, he'll be ready for you in a bit. Just have a few more logistics to figure out about boarding and such and he's all yours." Elderly (to me): "Where you headed?" Me: "I plan on heading to Cairo, and then to Pakistan to do civil society work." You are impressed with how official and worldly you sound. "So you're just wandering around, huh?" "Well, I suppose that's part of it, yes. Live, learn, all that." Elderly is smoking a cigar which he grips between his teeth when he laughs and says "Ha, who pays your mastercard bill, kid?" You are too exhausted to be jerked around; your face is stone, your tone even and you respond: "Respectfully, sir, I worked for the money for this trip and I pay my own Mastercard bill-online." Elderly and Military are quiet and for a moment you are king of the flight deck having sledgehammered Elderly's stereotype of your generation in a single sentence.

The boat slows and prepares for docking. No one knows how we will depart the ship as they've never pulled into this port before - Limmasol, Cyprus. You spend the next hour talking to every crew member you see, making a running tally of their guess at how we'll depart and giving extra points for what you perceive their level of confidence to be. You bet on the wisdom of crowds and are the 15th person to depart the vessel.

You run. Though customs. Stamped. Never breaking stride, you are tossed a sandwich and a bottle of water by a relief worker. You don't understand your hurry but you are frantic. Something is wrong.

You rush to the bus. The State Department Official overseeing the departure of evacuees has told you that you will be taken to a specially made camp on the island for Americans who will then wait 24-36 hours for a chartered flight to any one of a number of eastern seaboard states in the United States. You think of the states and are sick. You run to the bus which loads and takes you to Nicosia.

The trip takes you through all your old stomping grounds. You had completed a course in Middle East Conflict negotiation at Cyprus College only two weeks ago; then, you skipped class, aching to get on the ground. You couldn't stand to sit in chair with the world waiting so close. You're starting to realize that fate dealt you a card and you left it in Beirut.

You are determined to help something or someone; you arrive at the camp and realize that they aren't ready for you or anyone on the Trenton. Without a word to anyone, you start moving tables and computers into place with the other volunteers who are setting up the processing desk. You make a sign. You realize that in spite of your addition of the word "please" you sound exactly like the DoS officials on the truck. You find a cot in an empty room and, sick to your stomach, you pass out.

You wake up. You wander to Cyprus College. It is closed. You sit outside the window to the computer lab and steal their wireless to look up the phone number of a friend you know to be staying in a hostel. You make calls, you are being checked in. The hostel owner says: "And how long will you be staying?" "I don't know, two or three days?" "And where are you coming from?" "Beirut" "Oh, my, and how are things there?" "Tragic" "Yes" and that is that and you are checked in.

You do not leave your room for 24 hours. You read the news constantly, you cannot write, you cannot sleep and you cannot eat. You download Bowie's "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust..." and listen to it on repeat for three hours. You shower and scream and punch the wall while in there. You collapse on your bed; you ache to have a beer with Talal like having a beer with Talal would solve the world's ills. You leave, you call your mother, you tell her that you're having trouble with coming to grips with the deaths of innocent civilians, that you've been hitting things. You say the same things to friends on Google Chat minutes later. You are suddenly emoting and, again frantic. You cannot keep this under wraps anylonger. You have officially questioned why you made the decision to leave. You have no answers just a new kind of sickness over what you're about to do, what you're about to put your family through. You are not torn, now, you are crushed under diametrically opposed priorities: the feelings of your loved ones and your very principles. On Google Chat, a friend tells you to be gentle with yourself. You agree to this idea in principle, but it tastes too much like soma today to be the right course of action. "Sometimes things just suck" you read and that is the last straw.

You have been asking for days "Where is my country?" The answer has been staring at you from the other side of the mirror the entire time.

You have no idea what you're doing. Your flesh is resistant but your bones are walking you to the American Camp. Your friend is with you; you have asked her how she's been - you cannot hear a word she is saying. Your eyes are straight forward, you are trying to get control of two sizeable fears: 1) That they will say "no" : the fear of being rejected from what you are about to attempt, you are deathly afraid that there is no taking back the mistake - the horrible, horrible mistake - you have made. 2) That they will say "yes": and that you will then have to find someway somehow to explain this to the people who have been writing and calling all day to express their relief. Something will have to break soon. It is ten pm on Sunday - you haven't slept or eaten properly in days.

DoSunglasses: 'Look, we are not letting Americans - we do not - this is an evacuation operation, we're not bringing people back into Beirut"
me: "look, I'm a freelancer (blogs count as freelance, right?) - I have people that I care about in Beirut - "
DoSunglasses (who wears sunglasses at night?): "Look, I told you -
Me: "No, you look - I'm telling you that if you don't tell me how reporters and people are getting back into Beirut, I'm just going to find someone else that will so you might as well make this easy on the two of -"
MrD: "Hey, ok...ok, buddy, ok" moving close to me, calming me down, hand on shoulder and flank "OK, ok, I got you...here, why..." looking at DoSunglasses "why don't we take a quick walk - it's ok, it's ok, I've got this one. It's ok." Walk towards central command. "You're freelance?" me: "I am, among other things." MrD. "OK, look" pulling out random piece of paper from his pocket "I want you to call this number, call this man. His name is MrC. He's Greek shipping security. Do you know where Larnaca is?" me: "Yeah, yeah of course." "Look, find MrC at the Larnaca port. Tell the cabbie to just take you to the Larnaca Port. We got a few people out yesterday. Tell him MrD sent you. He'll know, he'll know what you mean." You are exasperated by the fact that you have participated in you first shady meeting with a government official and that it has gone off exactly like you've seen in the movies. You ask fate for seconds. You reconsider your ability to see the seams.

You walk back to your hostel room; you wish your friend the best. You think you hear her knock an hour later to say goodbye; you ignore this, you are packing your bags. At three in morning, you find yourself searching for airfares to from Larnaca to Cairo. You are making a backup plan, you tell yourself, incase things don't work. This exhausts you further: it is not what you want to be doing. You officially do not care. You think only and constantly about how you will word what you are about to do to your family but as you do not actually understand it yourself you can only grope at the ideas. Your head is spinning. You do not sleep until the sun comes up. You sleep for 15 minutes and you are in a cab and in a service taxi on your way to the Port. You call the WPR for advice on how to play this. He tells you that this is not a good idea "y'know, they'll think you're a spy or something - really, it's best not to mess with these things." You thank him for his advice, promptly forget it and are walking to the port entry gates.

Port guard: "We cannot let - "
Me: "MrD at the Department of State sent m-"
PG: "You are press? You have some badge?"
Me: "I'm freelance - they don't give us badges - look MrD sent me to talk with MrC"
PG: "Come in the booth" You go in the booth "Who is this?"
You know that if you speak quickly enough they will not be able to understand your American accent well enough to get all the words; you rattle off "look, my name is ____ MrD at the United States Department of State sent me to see MrC" and watch the PG scribble down "___ Department of State". A phone call is made to MrC. You are handed a visitors pass.

You are so close.

Greek Civil Security Officer: "He is, he is not here. I'm so sorry - I do not think you can - have you contacted your embassy? The procedure is to contact the embassy and they will-"
Me: "MrD sent me, I need to talk with MrC - when will he be back? Look, MrD and MrC have discussed this. Paperwork, embassies, these things take a long time - I have obligations yesterday, hence the reason why MrD sent me directly to MrC. This has all been arranged."
GCSO: "He will be gone for some time - he is sleeping for the first time in days...you could..."
Me: "...."
GCSO: "Let me...hold on one moment"

A minute later you are talking to the head of French Evacuation Operation. A slight woman, late forties, she is chainsmoking. She is wearing a black T-Shirt with the French flag on front and back and holding a clipboard loosely.

Me: "how are you?"
FEO: "Oh, I'm good. We just got another 1500 out so this is cause for some celebration I think" She is in a good mood.
Me: "So, I'm...um..have you...do you know what I'm about to ask you?"
FEO: (exhaling): "It is no problem."
Me: "It is no problem?"
FEO: "No! Of course not, no! You want to go, go! We are not like the Americans - you do what you like. You have things to do then you go. It is no problem."
Me: "Oh my God"
FEO: "And we were quick, too! Faster than almost all the other countries. We get them out fast! And it's free for them - everything in France is free. This is sometimes a problem, but for right now it is a very good thing."
Me: "...thank...you. Oh, how much do you want?"
FEO: "I just said - it's free!"
Me: "you don't want me to pay anything?"
FEO: "We are the French!"

You spring forward and hug her, taking her well off guard. To her credit, she nudges her shoulder into you and maintains her cigarette like a pro.

Leaving her you say "Oh, and...man, I'm just so sorry about the World Cup." Tears actually spring to this woman's eyes. "We were...we were winning ..and then...and then we lost...we..."

You sit outside of the Port and make the hardest phone call you have ever made in your life. And then another. And then you think for a few hours. And then you make a few more. And you feel like you're dying inside because some part of you - that last tendril that attached you to your go to security back-up, your home - has been officially cut. By you. You listen to the sounds of crying and the insults piled upon your decision making ability by others who you hold in high esteem and it seems to you that they will say anything to get you not to do what you feel that you must. To put your money where your mouth is and rise to the opportunity to help people in great need. You realize that the criticisms do not line up with your principles and do not line up with what you believe to be the tough responsibilities we all have to own up to as human beings. That is your opinion. And that is that. You are the most alone you have ever been. That is that.

Later, you will be criticised for purportedly thinking of yourself as indestructible. The overwhelming nausea that results from two heartshattering/useless conversations implant the idea into your head that your body is incredibly frail but that your goddamn stubborn character is steel. You have spent the better part of three days trying to conveniently rationalize away what you see as your moral obligation to assist those in need for the sake of those that have an emotional stake in your well being - you have been fighting yourself. You have lost.

You sit on your luggage by the boat and wait for them to board. There are some 30 others waiting with you, there, at 10 pm on Monday night. There is a small group in red jackets which read "humanitarian relief". They are Swiss. The rest are Lebanese families nervously anticipating getting home to their country, to their houses and family.

Me (to Anthony, who could not be more than 14): "You speak very good French"
A: "Thank you - French too. I just was at a basketball camp in France. Now, we are going home."
Me: "That sounds nice. Are you nervous."
A: "Nervous, no, I am not nervous. A little nervous. What are you - you are American?"
Me: "I am"
A: "Why are you going to Beirut?"
Me: "Do you know the meaning of the word 'compelled' Anthony?"
A: (question mark on his face) "Well, if you need something, you tell me. I will help you."
You love the Lebanese.

You cannot sleep on the boat. You only hear the phone calls in your head. They are getting to you, they are weakening your resolve. You still have, you can still leave, you can get up and take a taxi to the airport and fly to Mars and sit this one out. You don't move. You cannot. You read the same page of "Wittgenstein's Poker" maybe 19 times and you get up and walk. You are hungry. You try to read the French and Greek lettering on the doors in hopes of recognizing something that sounds like "kitchen" and find your way into a dining room. It is dark, there is a fridge full of beer but you are afraid to drink, to lose your focus.

Leaving the Dining Room, you bump into a short, blonde American TV producer and Tucker Carlson. They must have just come on board. TC: "We got food in there?" "Only beer, I think" He opens the door wide and exclaims "Alright, a fridge full of beer!" "SHHH!" A head pops up from one of the booths, an irritated woman has been sleeping. TC: "Jesus, OK, we'll do beers later."

TC: "I've been pretty liberal, I think...they're all so pro-Israel in the states...it's politics...that's where the campaign money all comes from...it's ridiculous...but we were in Israel yesterday...MSNBC...we're flying by the seat of our pants here...real Heart of Darkness stuff...they don't care...just get an hour of TV out there...can't even get a Blackberry."
You talk for over an hour with Tucker Carlson and the producer about life, MSNBC and reporting. You have a problem with his politics and his bravado but you are so thankful that there's someone standing in front of you who doesn't give a goddamn about anything but enjoying this entire process. This is the oddest but most welcomed relief from the strain. A call comes through. You don't answer it but the tension in your face tells Tucker something.

TC: "Who is she?"
Me: "What?"
TC: "Was it a blood relative?"
Me: "No"
TC: "You sleeping with her?"
Me: "Ah, no, it was just a friend."
TC: "Good, because unless she's one or the other then she has no right to b**** to you about your life choices."

You share a chuckle with the Cast and Crew of The Situation Room and find a place to sleep. Where you stare at the ceiling until dawn. It is Tuesday. As you pull into Beirut, you see the American Evacuation Operation in full effect. It's not too late to turn back. You are still nervous.

You run off the boat, watching Anthony and his family receive kisses from aunts and uncles. You realize that you are the only person departing that hasn't anyone waiting to pick him up. You run to the customs check point at the entrance of the port. It is busy. They do not normally do this, they say. On your visa card, under occupation, you write "humanitarian relief" and then you write "/ freelance". You are hedging your bet. When you hand the application and your passport to the security official, you slip in an extra 10,000 Lebanese pounds. You are truly hedging your bet.

You are stamped. You run to Talal's, praying it is still open. You want a beer with Talal, you want to check your email, you want to phone the relief agency that you're going to volunteer with, you want to settle, you want to sleep, you want to run run run from the pain back home that you've been a part of. You run, you burn, you sweat; you have not properly eaten or slept for days. You come around the corner to Talal's with your heart in your throat convinced that it will be closed, that you will have no one.

You look up and see the trademark jeans and wifebeater t-shirt hung on a clothesline from the balcony. He is there. You run up the stairs. The staff bursts into laughter. You are checked in. You run up to you room. You throw your things on the floor and pull off your shoes. You promise yourself that tomorrow you will a) get working with your relief agency, b) get back to actually blogging like it's your job and get your photos an inserts up and never ever write a self indulgent blog post again even though it was, admittedly, essential to the narrative but at least you could have read it over before posting it? and c) never be afraid of following through on your principles again. It's too tiring and in the end you cannot beat yourself.

You sleep. For almost two days, in fact. In the middle, you toss up two crappy blog posts while you figure out how you're going to write this one. You sleep and rise for food and sleep. You check your email and find only this from the DoS:

The U.S. Embassy advises American citizens in Lebanon that the last scheduled ship departure from Lebanon will be on Wednesday, July 26. The Embassy believes that most American citizens who wished to depart Lebanon with U.S. Government assistance have now done so. All Americans who wish to depart Lebanon and who are able to do so are strongly urged to do so. They should proceed directly to the Dbayeh Processing Center. Processing will begin on July 26 at 9:00 am. Do not wait for a call from the U.S. Embassy. Further delay is not advisable. Future assisted departures will be on an emergency case-by-case basis and such departures may not be immediate...

: and realize this is for keeps.

In the middle of the second night, you open your eyes and realize you've fallen asleep on the roof of Talal's. Two things occupy your attention: a) the stars above you which you can barely see through the light coming from the billboard also placed on the roof and b) the filling feeling of Chicken Schawarma in your stomach.