US Army Soldiers take cover after hearing small arms fire in the distance in Mosul, Iraq, January 17, 2008. (Spc Kieran Cuddihy/US Army)
In retrospect, a decade or two feels like a lifetime. I am a monarch weary of his rule, seeking solace in the elusive peace.
The war, an unwelcome specter, haunts my days and nights, tightening its grip with each passing moment.
The acrid tang of burning refuse, a visceral reminder of those desolate days, seeps into my senses, drawing me back to a hell from which I desperately try to escape.
Mosul, a crucible of despair, is imprinted on my memory.
A shoeless man and his daughter leave ISIS-controlled Mosul, making their way to the safety of Iraqi special forces. Image Credit: The Atlantic
The sun, a malevolent force, beats down on me as I navigate a world fraught with danger. My weapon, a cold, metallic companion, is never far from me. The chaos of Guns N’ Roses, a desperate attempt at normalcy, clashes with the harsh reality that surrounds me.
Writing has become my haven, a cathartic process for expelling the demons that haunt me. The amber glow of Scotch provides a brief respite, blurring the sharp edges of memory.
Laughter, once a familiar sound, is now a distant echo. The horrors of war have eclipsed the joys of life, leaving behind a barren landscape of the mind.
Even the mundane, the seemingly insignificant details, carry the weight of trauma. The feel of a worn couch, the comfort of television, the familiar sting of nicotine – all are tinted with the hues of my past.
In retrospect, a decade or two feels like a lifetime. I am a monarch weary of his rule, seeking solace in the elusive peace.
The war, an unwelcome specter, haunts my days and nights, tightening its grip with each passing moment.
The acrid tang of burning refuse, a visceral reminder of those desolate days, seeps into my senses, drawing me back to a hell from which I desperately try to escape.
Mosul, a crucible of despair, is imprinted on my memory.
A shoeless man and his daughter leave ISIS-controlled Mosul, making their way to the safety of Iraqi special forces. Image Credit: The Atlantic
The sun, a malevolent force, beats down on me as I navigate a world fraught with danger. My weapon, a cold, metallic companion, is never far from me. The chaos of Guns N’ Roses, a desperate attempt at normalcy, clashes with the harsh reality that surrounds me.
Writing has become my haven, a cathartic process for expelling the demons that haunt me. The amber glow of Scotch provides a brief respite, blurring the sharp edges of memory.
Laughter, once a familiar sound, is now a distant echo. The horrors of war have eclipsed the joys of life, leaving behind a barren landscape of the mind.
Even the mundane, the seemingly insignificant details, carry the weight of trauma. The feel of a worn couch, the comfort of television, the familiar sting of nicotine – all are tinted with the hues of my past.
The reality of war: An Iraqi SF soldier shoots an ISIS suicide bomber dead in the streets of Mosul. Image Credit: The Atlantic
The specter of generational trauma looms large. Born at the twilight of one conflict, I fear for the fate of those yet to come.
The thought of my children enduring the horrors I’ve witnessed is unbearable. To shield them from this fate, I’ve made a solemn vow: to remain childless.
In the quiet of the night, as the world sleeps, I am a prisoner of my own mind. Haunted by shadows and echoes, I search for a way to reconcile the man I was with the man I am.
The road to healing remains long and difficult, but with each word I write, I get closer to redemption.
Stringer Dan, a former SOFREP contributor, wrote and published this story in August 2013. His original work can be found here.
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