my name is private paul jackson. i was born in rally, carolina, and i'm twenty-two years old.
...why are we here?
it is said that Baghdad is an old Persian word, meaning Garden of Justice. i tell you right now, there is no justice here. before i go any further, i just wanted to tell you that i am a God-fearing man, and i'm a good person. i swear to God, i'm a good person. i came here for my country. politics aside, i wanted to do good, help people. i swear to God, i'm a good man. please. believe me.
i don't know how it happened. it seems like a blur to me. i don't know why it happened. i don't know how God could let this happen. it was almost the end of my watch. the car was not coming fast. it was a simple car, small and white. we were there to protect people. all i wanted to do was protect people! i was in charge at the time but i didn't give the order to fire. i didn't! i don't know how it happened. please, believe me. i yelled over the bulletfire. they couldn't hear me.
i yelled and i yelled... STOP! CEASE FIRE! STOP! for the love of God....
we didn't stop until we ran out.
when i walked up to the window, both bodies were riddled so badly with bullets that their skulls collapsed. but that was not horrifying to me. as i looked in the back, i saw that the two passengers in the front were an iraqi man and his wife, and somehow, their five children in the back survived, drenched in their blood. they emerged from the car with pieces of their parents stuck all over their small bodies. the oldest child couldn't have been more than nine years old. the children, now orphans, were screaming, crying, terrified. they fell to their knees shrieking. with blood dripping from their hands and faces, it seemed as if they were crying out the essence of their parents. there were four girls, yelling at us, screaming at us, and all we could do was stand there, some of us looking up to the sky, and some of us with our heads in our hands. as i looked towards the fifth child, he stood there, still, not moving, barely even breathing. his hands were together, calm. he wasn't screaming, he wasn't crying, but he had this look of intruige on his face. i looked down, and i saw blood on my boots. not a drop of it american, all of it innocent. when i looked back up again, i saw the boy looking at me, devouring me with his eyes, memorizing me with his mind. every curve of my nose, every freckle on my face, he would never forget. this face that he had formed - my face - was the face of american justice to him. the embodiment of death. this is how hate begins. i swear to God, i'm a good man. please, believe me. please. my dad raised me right, my mom raised me right. it's not their fault. nobody's fault. please believe me. i never meant this to happen. please, God... i never wanted this to happen. i have dreams at night, all ending with that little boy's face, staring at me. please God, make it go away. i just wanted to help. why are we here? is it for justice? for freedom? for killing?
it is said that baghdad means garden of justice.
now i know why god let that happen that day.
god left baghdad a long time ago.
why are we here?
because there was, and there wasn't, a city of baghdad.
the most horrifying thing about this isn't me; i'm not real. it isn't my nightmares; they aren't real. it isn't even my feelings; they aren't real. the most horrifying thing about this is that nothing is real but the story itself.
- written by Sina Kashanizadeh.
