The Taji Market was at the center of the city of Taji. Taji itself was at the center of the Sunni Triangle. The Taji Market was shaped like the letter T. It had a line of garage type stores that ran along Route 1 on one side and toward the “badlands” and Fallujah on the other. The market was always very congested. The market sold all the things you would find in such places – vegetables, sheep, jewelry and clothing. There was even a garage of sorts and a restaurant that the locals thought highly of.
What made this market unique was that it had been one of the region’s leading weapons markets. This trade in weapons attracted riffraff from all over. Although the Americans confiscated the weapons and shut down the trade, the traders remained, and so did the business on a more furtive level.
Our convoys passed through this congested, troubled market on their way to our camp west of the city. Getting through the crowd was always problematic. The convoy would slow to a crawl and snake its way through the den of confusion.
This market always had a seedy sense to it. Mixed in among the local farmers, who were trying to carry on their lives, were murderers, thieves, and the occasional religious fanatic. Some of these characters peered from behind the dark mausoleum storefronts. Their eyes were liquid like a spooked horse. The hatred they expressed was intense. Our Soldiers on the “gun trucks” were at the ready. We knew we were vulnerable in this place.
Children played in the small alleys between the stores. You could tell the politics of their parents by their reaction to our convoy. Some, hidden from the judging eyes of the adults, would smile and wave. Others, infected by the poverty of consciousness, would make obscene gestures and scowl like hardened criminals.
What we had to remember as we dealt with the worst of attitudes was that they did not represent the Iraqi people. The good and bad people, as they will anywhere, will separate themselves by their behavior.
The Iraqis respected power. Our “gun trucks” brought with them a sense of legitimacy that only made since in this environment. As American Soldiers, we could not become intoxicated by power, fear, or hatred. If we did, we would simply become part of the problem. We had to remain fixed on helping the good Iraqis achieve a better life. If we were to be part of the cure, we could not succumb to the disease.
The Taji Market was at the center of the city of Taji. Taji itself was at the center of the Sunni Triangle. The Taji Market was shaped like the letter T. It had a line of garage type stores that ran along Route 1 on one side and toward the “badlands” and Fallujah on the other. The market was always very congested. The market sold all the things you would find in such places – vegetables, sheep, jewelry and clothing. There was even a garage of sorts and a restaurant that the locals thought highly of.
What made this market unique was that it had been one of the region’s leading weapons markets. This trade in weapons attracted riffraff from all over. Although the Americans confiscated the weapons and shut down the trade, the traders remained, and so did the business on a more furtive level.
Our convoys passed through this congested, troubled market on their way to our camp west of the city. Getting through the crowd was always problematic. The convoy would slow to a crawl and snake its way through the den of confusion.
This market always had a seedy sense to it. Mixed in among the local farmers, who were trying to carry on their lives, were murderers, thieves, and the occasional religious fanatic. Some of these characters peered from behind the dark mausoleum storefronts. Their eyes were liquid like a spooked horse. The hatred they expressed was intense. Our Soldiers on the “gun trucks” were at the ready. We knew we were vulnerable in this place.
Children played in the small alleys between the stores. You could tell the politics of their parents by their reaction to our convoy. Some, hidden from the judging eyes of the adults, would smile and wave. Others, infected by the poverty of consciousness, would make obscene gestures and scowl like hardened criminals.
What we had to remember as we dealt with the worst of attitudes was that they did not represent the Iraqi people. The good and bad people, as they will anywhere, will separate themselves by their behavior.
The Iraqis respected power. Our “gun trucks” brought with them a sense of legitimacy that only made since in this environment. As American Soldiers, we could not become intoxicated by power, fear, or hatred. If we did, we would simply become part of the problem. We had to remain fixed on helping the good Iraqis achieve a better life. If we were to be part of the cure, we could not succumb to the disease.
TAJI MARKET
They line the streets
in this former weapons market
and sneer defiantly at our procession
their cold dark eyes
peering from within the shadows
of market mausoleums
The children of ignorance and hatred
mimic their parents
and celebrate self-defeat
a little boy pretends to cut his own throat
another shows the bottom of his feet
a rather rotund little red faced girl
tries exhaustively to make spit
her hateful gesture made useless
by suffocating heat
Our gun trucks are poised –
calm and unafraid – our soldiers scan the streets
their weapons prepared to speak
in a language that is understood here
about power … and legitimacy
We pass through this enclave of hatred
on our way to assist peaceful villagers
Understanding the epidemic
we treat the disease
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